Religion, Consumerism and Sustainability: Paradise Lost? (Consumption and Public Life)

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Religion, Consumerism and Sustainability

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Consumption and Public Life Series Editors: Frank Trentmann and Richard Wilk Titles include:

Magnus Boström and Mikael Klintman ECO-STANDARDS, PRODUCT LABELLING AND GREEN CONSUMERISM Jacqueline Botterill CONSUMER CULTURE AND PERSONAL FINANCE Money Goes to Market Daniel Thomas Cook (editor) LIVED EXPERIENCES OF PUBLIC CONSUMPTION Encounters with Value in Marketplaces on Five Continents Nick Couldry, Sonia Livingstone and Tim Markham MEDIA CONSUMPTION AND PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT Beyond the Presumption of Attention Anne Cronin ADVERTISING, COMMERCIAL SPACES AND THE URBAN Amy E. Randall THE SOVIET DREAM WORLD OF RETAIL TRADE AND CONSUMPTION IN THE 1930s Roberta Sassatelli FITNESS CULTURE Gyms and the Commercialisation of Discipline and Fun Kate Soper, Martin Ryle and Lyn Thomas (editors) THE POLITICS AND PLEASURES OF CONSUMING DIFFERENTLY Better than Shopping Kate Soper and Frank Trentman (editors) CITIZENSHIP AND CONSUMPTION Lyn Thomas (editor) RELIGION, CONSUMERISM AND SUSTAINABILITY Paradise Lost? Harold Wilhite CONSUMPTION AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE A View from South India Consumption and Public Life Series Standing Order ISBN 978–1–4039–9983–2 (hardback) 978–1–4039–9984–9 (paperback) (outside North America only)


Mark Bevir and Frank Trentmann (editors) GOVERNANCE, CITIZENS AND CONSUMERS Agency and Resistance in Contemporary Politics

You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and one of the ISBNs quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

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Paradise Lost? Edited by

Lyn Thomas London Metropolitan University, UK

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Selection and editorial matter © Lyn Thomas 2011 Individual chapters © their respective authors 2011

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 978–0–230–57667–4 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne


All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

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For Chloë Brooks-Carter; and for my parents Betty and Arthur Thomas

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Acknowledgements

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Notes on Contributors

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Introduction Lyn Thomas

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Part I Sustaining Life: Theories and Representations of Religion and Consumerism 1 Consumerism as Theodicy: Religious and Secular Meaning Functions in Modern Society Tim Jackson and Miriam Pepper

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2 Not Exactly a Selling Point? Religion and Reality TV Nicholas Buxton

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3 Living in a Material World: Religious Commodification and Resistance Sharmina Mawani and Anjoom Mukadam

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4 Sustaining Spiritualities in Consumer Cultures Lyn Thomas

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Part II Everyday Practices of Religion and Consumption and Their Environmental Dimensions: Paradise Lost? 5 Faith in Ethical Consumption Paul Cloke, Clive Barnett, Nick Clarke and Alice Malpass 6 Islam in the Globalised World: Consumerism and Environmental Ethics in Iran Hossein Godazgar 7 Consumerism in Slovak Catholic Homes Zuzana Búriková

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Contents

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Contents

8 ‘What’s Not Spent Is Lost’: Consumption Practices of Pakistani Muslims in Britain Kaveri Harriss

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9 From the Parliament to the Market: Political Consumerism and the Fight for Sabbath Omri Shamir and Guy Ben-Porat

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Index

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First and foremost I would like to thank the contributors to this volume, who have made the book possible and most of whom remained committed to the project over a period of four years. This book emerges from a research project led by Professor Kate Soper, ‘Alternative hedonism: the theory and politics of consumption’ funded by the ESRC/AHRC Cultures of Consumption Programme (RES154250005). I would like to thank the Director, Frank Trentmann, and participants in this programme for providing a rich and stimulating research environment. I am deeply grateful to Kate for the opportunity to work with her in the development of her innovative thinking about consumerism and sustainability, for her conscientious and insightful commentaries on the Introduction and Chapter 4 of this book, and for her friendship. Thanks are also due to the anonymous reader who was enthused by the book proposal and to all at Palgrave who supported the book and assisted in the publication process. My colleagues at ISET (Institute for the Study of European Transformations, London Metropolitan University) have provided a stimulating context for research as well as humour and camaraderie; I would like to thank the Director, Mary Hickman, and my colleague Allan Williams for their support, and for three crucial ‘writing weeks’. I am very grateful to my friend, Linda Brooks, who at a moment’s notice brought her skills of precision to the preparation of the penultimate manuscript in May 2009. Finally, I would like to thank Duncan Fraser for his support and company, without which paradise would truly have been lost.


Acknowledgements

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Clive Barnett is Reader in Human Geography at the Open University in Milton Keynes, UK. He is author of Culture and Democracy (Edinburgh University Press, 2003), and co-editor of Spaces of Democracy (Sage, 2004) and Geographies of Globalisation (Sage, 2008). Guy Ben-Porat is Senior Lecturer at the Department of Public Policy and Administration in Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. He is the author of Global Liberalism, Local Populism, Peace and Conflict in Israel/ Palestine and Northern Ireland (Syracuse University Press, 2006), a coauthor of Israel Since 1980 (Cambridge University Press, 2008), and an editor of The Failure of the Middle East Peace Process? (Palgrave, 2008). His current research ‘Israeli Secularism: Sources and Resources’ examines the impact of economic and demographic changes on church-state relations in Israel and elsewhere. Zuzana Búriková is a postdoctoral research fellow at the Institute of Ethnology at the Slovak Academy of Sciences in Bratislava. She also teaches in the Division of Social Anthropology at Masaryk University in Brno. Her research interests include material culture, consumption and transnational domestic labour. Her PhD focused on shops and consumption in Slovakia. Recently, with Daniel Miller, she completed a study of the experience of Slovak au pairs and their host families in London; a book resulting from this study is planned. Nicholas Buxton is a Minor Canon of Ripon Cathedral. He was one of the participants in BBC2’s The Monastery, and has a PhD in Buddhist philosophy. Research interests include contemporary spirituality, religion and culture. He has lectured, published and broadcasted widely in these areas, and is the author of Tantalus and the Pelican: Exploring Monastic Spirituality Today (Continuum, 2009). Nick Clarke is Lecturer in Human Geography at the University of Southampton. His research focuses on geographies of identity and community, and their relationship to moral and political geographies. He has published in numerous journals and edited collections on identity and community among British citizens resident in Australia, and, mostly with colleagues, on consumption as it relates to moral philosophy and political theory. Currently, he is being funded by the Nuffield


Contributors

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Contributors xi

Paul Cloke is Professor of Geography at the University of Exeter, having previously been Professor of Human Geography at the University of Bristol. Alongside research interests in rural studies, including Founder Editorship of the Journal of Rural Studies, Paul has been actively involved in research which poses new questions about geographies of ethics. His research with Jon May and Sarah Johnsen on the geographies of serving homeless people will be published in a book entitled Swept Up Lives? by Blackwell in 2010. His research with Clive Barnett, Nick Clarke and Alice Malpass on geographies of ethical consumption will be published in a book entitled Politicising Consumption by Blackwell, also in 2010. Hossein Godazgar is currently Reader in the study of Islam and Muslims at Al-Makt-oum Institute, Dundee. Dr Godazgar has worked as a Lecturer at the University of East London, and as a Reader in Sociology at the University of Tabriz (Iran). He is the author of numerous articles and chapters in English and Persian. His most recent works include the monograph The Impact of Religious Factors on Educational Change in Iran: Islam in Policy and Islam in Practice (Edwin Mellen, 2008). He is also the guest editor of the special issue of Social Compass on Iran (2007). His current research continues in multiple modernities and is now focused on bioethics in Iran, Turkey and the UK. Kaveri Harriss is a Research Fellow at the Department of Anthropology at Sussex University. She has a PhD from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, and has worked on a number of projects in the UK and South Asia concerned with migration, gender, the life course, health and education. Her research interests focus on the impact of transnationalism on the links between migration and health. Her doctoral research was a study of the material contexts and consequences of chronic illness among Pakistanis in the UK, examining transnational household economies of production, consumption and reproduction. She is now taking her work on migration further in a postdoctoral study of East Punjabis in the UK, in which she is examining the production of transnational identities as a material practice. Tim Jackson is Professor of Sustainable Development at the University of Surrey and Director of RESOLVE, the ESRC Research group on Lifestyles, Values and Environment. Recent research interests have focused on the relationship between consumption, lifestyle, wellbeing and the environment. Tim has also pioneered the development of ‘adjusted’ national accounts


Foundation to research a history and geography of town twinning in Britain.

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Contributors

(‘green GDP’) and written extensively on the conceptual and empirical dimensions of the relationship between wellbeing, economic growth and sustainability. Since 2004 he has been Economics Commissioner on the UK Sustainable Development Commission. From 2004 to 2006 he was the sole academic representative on the UK Round Table on Sustainable Consumption. During 2007–9 he led the SDC’s Redefining Prosperity programme, and authored the recent SDC report Prosperity without Growth? – The Transition to a Sustainable Economy. In addition to his academic work, Tim is an award-winning dramatist with numerous BBC radio credits to his name. His most recent play Variations won the 2007 Grand Prix Marulić and was longlisted for the 2008 Sony awards. Alice Malpass has worked as a Research Associate at the University of Bristol since 2003, and in the Academic Unit of Primary Health Care since 2006. Her doctoral work was a social anthropological study based upon 18 months’ ethnographic fieldwork in Karnataka, South India (2000–2002). Her PhD explored changing perceptions of health and the self in relation to bio-genetic agricultural transformations in rural South India. Her more recent research within a UK Primary Care setting is in the area of mental health, including a study of Mindfulness Based Cognitive Therapy, a psychological intervention used in the treatment of anxiety and depression that draws upon the Buddhist Insight tradition. Sharmina Mawani obtained her doctorate from the Department for the Study of Religions at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. Her thesis, entitled ‘The Construction of Identities Amongst Young Adult Nizari Ismaili Muslims in Toronto and Mumbai’, investigated the centrality of the ‘ginans’ (devotional songs) in the formation of the ethno-religious identities of the Nizari Ismaili Muslims of Gujarati ancestry. Sharmina is particularly interested in the manner in which traditional religious practices are evolving in contemporary western society. At present she is a Lecturer at the Institute of Ismaili Studies, London and also holds the post of Vice-President of the Gujarat Studies Association, which she co-founded in 2005. Anjoom Mukadam is Lecturer at the Institute of Ismaili Studies, London. She received her doctorate in Sociolinguistics from the University of Reading. Her thesis is entitled ‘Gujarati Speakers in London: Age, Gender and Religion in the Construction of Identity’. The research investigated the formation of new ethnicities in two ethnolinguistic religious communities, the Nizari Ismaili Muslims and Swaminarayan Hindus, contesting the use of widely accepted terms such as ‘diaspora’ and ‘immigrant’ when used in the context of the second generation.


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Contributors xiii

Miriam Pepper is Faith Project Officer at The Climate Institute in Australia, secretary of multi-faith network the Australian Religious Response to Climate Change, and a founding member of Uniting Church ecology network Uniting Earthweb. She has a particular interest in working with faith groups on matters of ecology and social justice, and on community initiatives that challenge consumerism and relocalise production and consumption. She completed a PhD in 2007 at the University of Surrey, UK, on the topic “Christianity and Sustainable Consumption: A Social Psychological Investigation”. She has published in the International Journal of Consumer Studies, and has also written for a variety of lay publications. Omri Shamir is a PhD Candidate in the Department of Public Policy and Administration, Guilford Glazer School of Management, BenGurion University of the Negev. He was awarded the Negev Fellowship, a four year scholarship for excellent PhD Students. Currently he is working on his dissertation: ‘Political entrepreneurs, political consumerism and public policy in the global era: conceptual framework and case studies in Israel’ under the supervision of Dr Guy Ben-Porat and Prof Shlomo Mizrahi. Specifically, he is interested in the way political entrepreneurs, i.e. nongovernmental organizations, use political consumerism strategies to engender social change. His field of research also includes globalization, the relationship between religion and state in Israel and Israeli politics and society. Lyn Thomas is Deputy Director of the Institute for the Study of European Transformations at London Metropolitan University, where she previously taught French and currently teaches media and cultural studies in the Faculty of Social Sciences. Her writings include Annie Ernaux, an Introduction to the Writer and her Audience (Berg, 1999), Fans, Feminisms and ‘Quality’ Media (Routledge, 2002) and Annie Ernaux, à la première personne (Stock, 2005). She was responsible for the media study in the ESRC/AHRC ‘Cultures of Consumption’ Programme research project on ‘Alternative Hedonism and the Theory and Politics of Consumption’ and co-edited The Theory and Politics of Consuming Differently with Kate Soper and Martin Ryle (Palgrave, 2008). Her research interests include religion, spirituality and media; television and radio audiences and fan cultures; and lifestyle and reality television. She is a member of the Feminist Review Editorial Collective.


Anjoom’s current interests are in language maintenance amongst heritage language learners.

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Introduction

On 13 May 2009, BBC2’s Newsnight reported that a multinational corporation registered in London, Trafigura, had dumped large quantities of foul-smelling toxic waste around Abidjan, Ivory Coast and in nearby rural areas in August 2006. Thousands of people were taken ill, some died and pregnant women lost their babies. In one village, the fish farm which provided a major source of food and trade was poisoned and closed down, and every single inhabitant of the village was taken ill. The toxic waste was analysed by Dutch government scientists (Holland was the first country where the multinational attempted to dump the waste), and found to be highly poisonous, likely to cause long-, as well as short-term effects on health. This event exemplifies, in a horribly literal way, what Zygmunt Bauman has called ‘liquid modernity’ and Richard Sennett has analysed as ‘the new capitalism’ (Bauman 2000 Sennett 2006), a world where the global economy is driven by multinational corporations and entrepreneurs who have lost any local connections, roots or responsibilities, and where free-floating enterprises and individuals relocate wherever profit motives drive them. More stable and lasting values are replaced by constantly mutating targets, desires and identities. The story also highlights the moral bankruptcy of the world’s political classes and élites, who have failed to control and govern the exploitation of natural resources. The neoliberal regimes which have dominated the most powerful countries in the West in recent decades have allowed the market to govern, and in terms of the market, and the profit motive, all of Trafigura’s actions are explicable. In this system the populations of affluent nations, the majority of whose citizens wield some power by dint of being both consumers in the market and citizens with a vote to cast, are likely (or at least more likely) to be protected. Thus, in this


Lyn Thomas

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Lyn Thomas

instance, ‘Fortress Europe’ mobilised its highly developed infrastructure and prevented the waste from being tipped onto its shores. Where it went next was, apparently, no one’s responsibility. As Bauman has argued, those who are not participants in consumer culture are ‘rejects’, spat out by the system (Bauman 1998). This applies both within nations, and as in this case, globally. Surviving, as opposed to consuming, populations can be sacrificed; they become, in Judith Butler’s words, lives that do not count, and are not ‘grievable’ (Butler 2004). Their concentration in Africa, Asia and Latin America demonstrates how the new capitalism has deep historical and material roots in the imperial age. Despite its new branding, it can be seen as a continuation of colonialism, and of the inequalities between rich and poor, between religious traditions, between white and black, and between privileged and less privileged forms of whiteness which it fostered. This case illustrates the toxic stream running through the global flows of capital and labour which characterise the contemporary world. The production of wealth for a tiny percentage of the world’s population relies on the production of large quantities of waste, of varying degrees of toxicity. And this waste also flows, mutates and crosses borders. In one context, waste is the unwanted by-product of wealth, to be disposed of and scattered around the globe, in another it is simultaneously the means of survival and a mortal threat. Some of Trafigura’s toxic sludge was poured on to a waste tip near Abidjan where scavengers come daily to salvage whatever they can to scratch a living. Even these scraps were then rendered poisonous by the toxic outflow of new capitalism and its profit imperative (Sennett 2006). Affluent populations, although more protected, are also threatened by the quantity of frequently toxic waste which accompanies perpetual economic growth and the ever-expanding production of consumer goods. This event is far from being an isolated incident, and along with other similar occurrences, it points to many of the concerns of this book. Firstly, it raises the question of the ethics and politics of how we consume the world’s resources. The words ‘consumerism’ and ‘sustainability’ in our title reflect a concern that while consuming both natural and manufactured goods is clearly necessary to human survival and flourishing, in many contemporary societies consumerism has reached excessive proportions and become a threat both to that survival and to the planet. The term ‘consumerism’ implies that something more than ‘consumption’ is taking place, in terms of the proliferation of goods to be acquired, their symbolic value and the level of attachment to them. Previous research has pointed out how consumers are alternatively seen


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as responsible for the ills of the contemporary world and championed, represented as its new salvation (Sassatelli 2007, 2008). The ‘Trafigura’ story warns us against laying the blame for environmental destruction and social inequality wholly at the feet of the individual consumer. Much of the responsibility for the reduction of human lives to misery, and the planet to a wasteland, must lie with morally and politically unfettered multinational corporations and with the lack of commitment of political élites worldwide to social justice and environmentally friendly policies. As Crocker and Linden point out (1998), whilst a new ethics of consumption is necessary in order to evaluate how consumption habits, practices and choices may impact on our close and distant neighbours, and on values such as democracy and civil society, this cannot replace: ‘such inquiries as an ethics of population, an environmental ethics, and an ethics of employment and poverty reduction’ (p. 14), but must work in tandem with them. Governments, as Tim Jackson has argued, are struggling to combine the maintenance of macroeconomic stability currently premised on growth, and longer term social and economic goods. In the end these goals cannot be reconciled and ‘a new vision of governance’ is urgently needed (Jackson 2009, p. 11). Nonetheless, as consumers, affluent populations are implicated in the immoral practices of the profit-driven companies from which they buy. Despite extensive engagement with the nature of the subjective desires driving modern consumer culture (for example Campbell 1987, 1998, 2004), recent consumption theory has only just begun to address the ethical issues raised by the environmental and social impact of consumerism. The work of Crocker and Linden is a notable exception to this; their edited book explores the nature and patterns of consumption, mainly in the American context, from a variety of disciplinary perspectives, as well as attempting to examine and evaluate proposals for principles to distinguish good consumption from bad for ‘Americans and people in other cultures’ (p. 5). Nonetheless, further work on the ethical dimension of consumption in terms of social justice and environmental concerns from a global perspective is urgently required. As Mike Featherstone argues in the introduction to his new edition of Consumer Culture and Postmodernism: ‘In short, consumption can no longer be seen as an innocent act, but as part of the chains of interdependencies and networks which bind people together across the world in terms of consumption, production and also the accumulation of risks’ (Featherstone 2007, p. xviii). The apparently innocent purchase of a bunch of flowers to give to a friend may be complicit in exposing African farm-workers to toxic pesticides, without mentioning the


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cost to the environment of airfreighting them across the globe. Yet the answer may not be a simple boycott, which risks removing a livelihood from workers already struggling with poverty. As Crocker and Linden argue, engagement with these kinds of dilemmas, as well as those facing governments, is timely. The moral and ethical issues raised by the globalisation of consumption are addressed in this book through the optic of religion. In the face of an urgent and continuing need for a new ethics of consumption, and indeed of commerce more broadly, it is clearly important to explore how the historically rooted and widely known and practised ethical and moral belief systems represented and promulgated by world religions are responding: ‘If the human mind has created compelling and coherent visions to inspire the flourishing of civilizations for the last five thousand years, surely that same rich and diverse religious imagination will continue to activate the energies and commitments needed to sustain life on the planet’ (Tucker 2003, p. 53). In her Hsüan Hua Memorial Lecture Tucker argues that religions are now entering an ‘ecological phase’, where earlier anthropocentric tendencies are revised, and the place of human beings in the cosmos becomes the new focus: ‘The challenge for religions is both to revision our role as citizens of the universe and to reinvent our niche as members of the Earth community’ (p. 7). Part of this revisioning is the retrieval of the ecological dimension of sacred texts in an effort to emphasise those aspects of religions that are in tune with, and can contribute to, ecology movements. If, as Weber (1985) argued, Protestantism, and particularly Calvinism, were the spirit of capitalism, what kind of religious and spiritual imaginary is needed in the twenty-first century? On a more pragmatic note, Gottlieb remarks that religions which are still able to mobilise and inspire large populations have an important role to play in the environmental crisis: ‘If we are to make the necessary but extraordinarily difficult changes in the way we live, we will certainly benefit from every voice which can help motivate us’ (Gottlieb 2006, p. 9). From the perspective of secular milieus in the West this may seem improbable, but clearly when a global view is taken, religious perspectives are important in this struggle, and engaging with them is a feature of the multicultural approach which environmental movements need to build. A further reason for making connections between the role of religious and spiritual cultures and the environmental crisis stems from the spiritual dimension of environmental movements themselves. Although not necessarily participating in mainstream religions, as Gottlieb remarks, green, environmental and antiglobalisation activists and movements


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have been more inclined to develop a spiritual dimension than other liberal and leftist movements. These movements have not only pointed to the interconnectedness of social and environmental justice, developing concepts such as ‘ecojustice’, but have frequently attributed spiritual meaning to the natural world which they struggle to protect. Thus protesters against road building or deforestation may ‘re-enchant’ the threatened woods, wildernesses, fields and forests they inhabit during their protests (Letcher; St John). Letcher describes how ‘eco-pagan belief narratives’ construct an ‘enchanted world in which practitioners are engaged in a mythological struggle against corrupt modernity’ (Letcher 2006, p. 184). Ecofeminisms also often have a strong spiritual dimension (Starhawk, see www.starhawk.org). Although environmentalist activism is not necessarily rooted in spiritualities of this kind, these examples and others attest to a strong connection between spirituality and sustainability; they indicate that spiritual awareness and practice can lead to an appreciation of the interconnectedness of all life on earth, and hence to a less destructive relationship with the planet and other living beings. This is explored further in Chapter 4. Whilst a significant literature reflects academic attention to religion’s ‘ecological turn’ (see, for example, Gottlieb 2006; Kinsley 1995), and the relationship between consumerism and sustainability is also beginning to be addressed (see Harrison, Newholm and Shaw 2005; Soper, Ryle and Thomas 2008), this book is unusual in bringing together all three areas and in offering an international perspective. Crocker and Linden include Jewish, Protestant and Catholic perspectives on the ethics of consumption in a primarily American context in their 1998 volume on this subject; here the relationship between religions and spirituality, the ethics and practices of consumption and the need to find more sustainable ways of living is the focus of the whole volume, and is discussed in a global perspective, encompassing a range of cultural and religious contexts. One of the key questions addressed by this volume is the extent to which religions can be seen as powerful countercultural resources in the struggle to create new and less damaging conceptions of ‘the good life’, or whether they are themselves now so deeply implicated in consumerism and historically rooted in the pursuit of material prosperity as to be ineffective in this regard. A corollary to this is the question of whether consumerism has in effect replaced and obliterated religion in affluent societies. If this is the case, is a spiritual revival, as Tucker argues, a key element of the cultural revolution needed to make human behaviour more responsible in relation to the earth and other creatures? To varying degrees, the sacred texts of classic religions are


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associated with a long-standing and deeply felt critique of materialistic values; their adherents are called to give up material satisfactions in order to devote themselves to the life of the spirit, to forego the pleasures of this world in favour of those of the next. Onto this opposition of the market and the temple other binaries have been grafted, so that ‘North’ and ‘West’ are portrayed as secular and materialistic, ‘South’ and ‘East’ either as ‘tigers’ pursuing western-style affluence and economic growth or locked into retrospective fundamentalisms. In recent years it has become clear that these binaries and the inaccurate geographies to which they are linked cannot explain the cultural complexities of contemporary social formations, or contribute to human wellbeing and the survival of the planet. The characterisation of societies as secular or religious, as affluent or impoverished, as forward or backward looking, as economically rapacious or regressive, is called into question in a context of diversity and global movements of peoples and goods. The materiality of religion is exemplified by Inge Daniels’ research on the Japanese home. Daniels’ work shows how a culture often stereotyped in the West as driven entirely by secular commercialism is in fact imbued with beliefs in supernatural forces resulting from Japan’s rich religious heritage, where Shinto and Buddhism intersect, and are in turn influenced by Taoist thought. Daniels demonstrates how these beliefs are embedded in everyday life through material practices in the home such as the display of good luck charms on special altars or decorative alcoves at New Year (when the home is also ritually cleaned). Gifts from a local temple are displayed alongside those from local businesses, demonstrating that commerce and religion are seen as part of everyday life, rather than as operating in separate spheres. Daniels concludes that the ‘spiritual and material, the symbolic and functional’, like the people and things that embody them, are inextricably linked (Daniels 2003, p. 633). Belk et al. have also argued that the boundaries between the sacred and the secular are less clear than they used to be, with consumption increasingly acquiring ‘sacred status in our consumptionoriented and hedonistic society’ (Belk et al. 1989, p. 9.) In this collection we attempt to address this complexity in an analysis of the relationships and interconnections between religious and consumption practices and cultures, and the ways in which both are responding to (or indeed ignoring) the ecological threat posed by continuous economic growth. The book combines empirical and theoretical work in its attempt to reconceptualise the traditional opposition of spiritual and materialistic values, of religious and consumerist societies, and to explore the interplay and intersections of religious and


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consuming passions in contemporary cultures. This analysis leads to a consideration of the overlap between religious and secular responses to current consumerist society, and of the ways in which both can contribute to a new ecological consciousness, and to the adoption of less destructive and rapacious ways of life. We aim to maintain a critical analysis of these cultural phenomena, whilst avoiding the tendency to pathologise either religious or consumption practices. This book grew out of a conference held at London Metropolitan University in April 2006: ‘Countering Consumerism: Religious and Secular Responses’. Professor Kate Soper and I organised the conference as part of our research project on ‘Alternative hedonism: the theory and politics of consumption’ funded by the ESRC/AHRC Cultures of Consumption Programme. The idea behind the conference was to explore how far resistance to consumerism and support for sustainable development might figure as a common ethical outlook and ground of intellectual and spiritual solidarity both across different religious denominations and between atheists and religious believers. This book pursues this aim; like the conference, it is international and interdisciplinary, with chapters on Iran, Israel, Slovakia and Pakistani Muslims in Britain, and disciplinary perspectives including geography, anthropology, sociology, politics, religious and cultural studies. In Part 1, the focus is on the analysis of cultural representations and theorisations of religion and consumerism. Tim Jackson and Miriam Pepper open this section by asking whether in developed societies with strong secular currents (such as Western Europe) consumerism has successfully assumed some of the functions of theodicy previously ascribed to religion. If it is the case that consumerism is not only a major field for the expression of identity, but also a source of security and consolation in the face of mortality and suffering, they argue that it cannot be given up lightly, even if human and planetary survival are at stake. The chapter thus raises some of the fundamental questions to be resolved if more sustainable ways of living are to become attractive. What kind of theodicy can sustain us and the earth in the twenty-first century? In Chapter 2, Nicholas Buxton reflects on the television documentary The Monastery, arguing that despite the authenticity of the monks’ motivations and way of life, and the success of the programme, religion here becomes spectacle, and the essential purpose of monastic life is lost in its translation to media culture. Buxton raises the question, pursued later by Thomas, of the place of religion and spirituality in consumer culture: must they accept their participation in the ‘marketplaces’ of


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contemporary societies as inevitable, or on the contrary fight to preserve an outsider position and perspective? The marketing of religion is also a central concern of the argument of Chapter 3 in which Anjoom Mukadam and Sharmina Mawani focus on religions and their commodification. They discuss a range of instances where Indian religions, particularly, have provided symbols and styles for fashion items, and where religious actors themselves have created products aiming to appeal to fellow adherents. Mukadam and Mawani argue that consumer cultures in many of these instances are effectively ‘consuming’ religion, and they call for greater sensitivity and a halt to the marketisation of the sacred. The example of the American Muslim rap group, Native Deen, is, however, in their view, a more positive instance of expression of religious values in, and through, consumer cultures. Lyn Thomas’s chapter concludes Part 1 with an exploration of the relationships between spirituality, consumerism and sustainability in contemporary culture, particularly in Britain. She considers how consumer cultures present problems for the sustainability not only of the planet, but also of spiritual forms of self-enhancement, thus proposing an enhanced and extended version of the concept of sustainability, encompassing human flourishing in the broadest sense. Her conclusion points to the possibility of transitional spaces, spaces which are not entirely separate from the world and its consuming passions, but which nonetheless provide access to experiences which have the capacity to transcend and to uplift. In Part 2 of the book we move from conceptual exploration to empirical investigation of interactions between religion and consumerism in a range of locations. Part 2 analyses the precise nature of these interactions in very different contexts, exploring their differences and similarities. It also explores the issues raised in the opening chapters, relating to the psychic and social functions of religion and consumerism, and the extent to which they are merging, or interchanging. The significance of these differently articulated and overlapping cultural practices for the development of more environmentally sustainable ways of living is a focus in several chapters. Paul Cloke, Alice Malpass, Clive Barnett and Nick Clarke, for instance, investigate the positive synergy between faith and ethical consumption through their study of faith communities in and around Bristol, a large city in the rural south-west of Britain. They identify a virtuous circle where faith finds an outlet for the practice of moral commitment in buying and selling fair-trade goods, and where fair-trade benefits from the cohesion and motivation of faith-based communities. They see this as particularly


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beneficial in the context of British society, where it has been argued that communities and the social capital which they nurture and create are in decline. If Cloke and his co-writers find faith and faith-based sustainable practices thriving in the British context, where secularity is arguably a pervasive if not all-pervading force, Hossein Godazgar, on the contrary, finds strong attachment to secular and consumerist celebrations such as Valentine’s Day, in the Islamic Republic of Iran. His chapter shows how the political imposition of strict religious codes and conventions cannot effectively be enforced in the context of globalisation and particularly of global media, and how a fairly relaxed attitude to ‘forbidden’ pleasures prevails among ordinary Iranians thirty years after the Islamic revolution. However, his chapter also suggests that the flouting of strict dress codes or laws forbidding music or alcohol does not necessarily indicate the absence of piety. Godazgar concludes that neither the government’s Islamist politics, nor the population’s delight in access to the pleasures of consumer goods, is likely to raise awareness of the environmental crisis, or indeed to lead to ‘green’ policies and practices. In the small Slovakian village where she carried out her fieldwork, Búriková finds complete harmony between religious commitment and consumption, in that her respondents justify their renovation and improvement of their homes with reference to Catholicism. Although there are some parallels with Weber’s model of convergence between Protestantism and capitalist enterprise, here we have a ‘softer’, more relational version of connection between religion and wealth accumulation (Weber). Búriková observes that her respondents do not see their purchases of goods for the home as consumerist, because of Christianity’s emphasis on the home and family. Despite this, she observes a rise in spending on consumer goods, resulting in part from migration and contact with more affluent lifestyles, alongside scant awareness of environmental issues. The villagers nonetheless still grow and eat local food, and consumerism in this context does not appear to be on the scale it has reached in Western Europe. Búriková’s work illustrates the impossibility of separating religious practice from consumption in the modern world. It may also give us pause for thought on which values are exported from West to East in Europe, which are absent, and with what effects. Tucker’s ecologically aware and mobilised religions have not reached this village, yet only a small step could lead from nurturing the home, to nurturing the earth. As Harrison, Newholm and Shaw argue: ‘the basis for an ethical consumption is to be found in the morality of ordinary consumption’ (p. 21). All of the choices described by Búriková


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are ethically informed; they demonstrate only a need to link religious and ecological values. Among Pakistani migrants in East London, Harriss analyses a range of pressures to consume resulting mainly from migration and the expectations of success and wealth that it carries with it, both for those remaining at home, and those who have left. As in Búriková’s study, we find here that instead of a stark opposition of ascetic religion and materialistic culture, the family orientation and loyalty which are fundamental to religious belief, in this case Islam, are often expressed through consumption. Nonetheless, tensions are evident, between generations and between more austere and more materially oriented versions of Muslim identity. Harriss concludes that ‘ “balance” combining piety with a pragmatic ethic of material enjoyment’ is most highly valued in the culture she has studied. Her chapter illustrates the pressures as well as the pleasures of consumerism through its account of the feelings of shame and exclusion encapsulated in the phrase ‘you’re in this country and you’ve done nothing’. The West, in this case Britain, offers little to alleviate these pressures, or to suggest more environmentally aware and less socially divisive values. Shamir and Ben-Porat, on the other hand, discuss a case where religious and secular, commercial forces are opposed, through their study of the opposition of Israel’s Orthodox community to shopping on the Sabbath. They record a victory for the community, in that as a result of their protest protected areas will shelter them from exposure to shopping on the Sabbath. Some theoretical parallels can be drawn with Cloke’s and his co-authors’ discussion of the social capital and networking potential of faith communities, though the cultures discussed are profoundly different. However, Shamir and Ben-Porat conclude that the forces of secularisation and commercialisation are in the end overwhelming, and that the victory creates some small measure of protection for religious adherents, rather than a fundamental change. It is also clear that the community concerned sees consumerism as a threat to religious observance and that no connections are made with environmental issues. Nonetheless, this example of religious belief motivating consumption as a form of political intervention, like Cloke et al.’s Christian fairtraders, indicates the potential of socially cohesive religious or spiritual communities mobilising changed consumption practices as ‘a medium for moral and political action’ (Barnett, Cafaro and Newholm 2005, p. 21). Through the range of studies of diverse cultures represented in this volume, and the theoretical perspectives developed, it is clear that a ‘one


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size fits all’ version of sustainability emanating from the world’s richer nations is likely to be ineffective. Tucker argues that multidisciplinary and multireligious approaches are needed: ‘No one religious tradition or discipline will be sufficient in the search for a more comprehensive and culturally inclusive environmental ethics’ (Tucker 2003, p. 27). It is equally clear that the acquisition and exchange of material goods is a fundamental part of human wellbeing, and that consumption can satisfy many human needs for the expression of identity, and social communication. For the poorest populations, access to the most basic forms of consumption, through the provision of adequate food and clean water is the overriding concern, and must also be that of environmental movements everywhere. In affluent societies consumerism may be fulfilling deep needs for a sense of purpose and consolation in the face of mortality and suffering, as Jackson and Pepper argue here. However, it is unlikely that consumerism is performing these functions alone (see Thomas, Chapter 4 in this volume); as Paul Du Gay has argued, the performance of identity through work is now reconceptualised ‘through the language of consumer culture’, with less and less distinction between the discourses of the entrepreneurial self mobilised in the context of work and in the sphere of consumerism-oriented leisure (Du Gay 1996, p. 78). Production and consumption are no longer located in separate spheres but overlap in a social context where identity is uncertain, dislocated and the subject of a constant and restless striving. In some contexts, such as secular milieus in Western Europe, consumerism, albeit reconceived in this way, may have effectively ‘replaced’ the functions of religion in this regard, whilst in others, such as the Slovakian village described here, religion and some forms of consumption are inextricably linked, and the benefits they offer indivisible. Despite this, social orders premised on conformity, whether to norms of religious piety, or to the norms of the market, and which embrace or at least turn a blind eye to the excesses of consumerism, impose significant constraints on human flourishing. The model of consumerism as virtuous circle of desire and satisfaction, or creative self expression also, of course, implies the oppression of those excluded from it, as some of the examples discussed here attest. If one person is distinguished through their choice of lifestyle accessories, another is oppressed by their lack (Bauman 1998). Affluent populations are locked into a ‘work and spend’ spiral where despite technological revolution, leisure is severely curtailed by the interconnected need to earn and consume ever more (Bunting 2004; Schor 1998). The current global financial crisis exacerbates this syndrome, as those living on the breadline fall beneath it, and others fall


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into poverty. Even for those (still) within the circle, a sense of having too many choices, or of being unable to pay attention to what really matters, may ensue. These dissatisfactions may be at play in the rise of new forms of spirituality, and the obstinate refusal of old forms to completely die away (Heelas 2008). Religions and spiritualities which interrogate the values of the market and propose alternatives to the model of life-as quest for wealth and success, have a role to play in creating new cultures and new values. A system which ascribes supreme value to activities from which millions are excluded, which is premised on global and national inequalities, and which is so profligate in its use of environmental resources can no longer be upheld as the supreme good. The vacuum that results from this realisation provides an opportunity for other value systems, whether those of secular spiritualities, humanitarianism or religions, to emerge and mobilise in the face of the ecological crisis. This book contributes to the understanding of the role of material objects and goods in religious practice in a range of cultural contexts that is essential to new thinking about consumption, religions and their social, spiritual and psychic functions. It draws out the material nature of religion and the spiritual and moral aspirations of consumers. In bringing together these frequently opposed spheres it opens up new perspectives on contemporary societies and the ecological challenges they face. Having recognised the importance of these roles and functions, perhaps new imaginings of ways of fulfilling them that are not premised on a failing and environmentally destructive economic system may emerge. In the words of Kate Soper: we need to complement the demands for basic need satisfaction as a human ‘right’ with an altered ‘erotics of consumption’ or vision of the ‘good life’. For if it is true, as I have argued here, that the more affluent peoples of the world need to restrain their material wants if there is to be anything approaching a universal extension of basic need satisfaction, then it is surely also true that a condition of the emergence of a will to sobriety in material consumption will be the fostering of an altered conception of pleasure and enjoyment. (Soper 2007, p. 370)

References


12

Barnett, Clive, Cafaro, Philip and Newholm, Terry (2005) ‘Philosophy and Ethical Consumption’, in R. Harrison, T. Newholm and D. Shaw (eds, 2005) Bauman, Zygmunt (1998) Work, Consumerism and the New Poor Buckingham: Open University Press


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Bauman, Zygmunt (2000) Liquid Modernity Cambridge: Polity Press Belk, Russell W., Wallendorf, Melanie and Sherry Jr., John F. (1989) ‘The Sacred and the Profane in Consumer Behavior: Theodicy on the Odyssey’ Journal of Consumer Research 16, pp. 1–38 Bunting, Madeleine (2004) Willing Slaves: How the Overwork Culture is Ruling our Lives London: Harper Collins Butler, Judith (2004) Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence London and New York: Verso Campbell, C. (1987) The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism Oxford: Blackwell Campbell, C. (1998) ‘Consuming Goods and the Good of Consuming’ in D. Crocker and T. Linden (eds, 1998) Campbell, C. (2004) ‘ “I shop therefore I know that I am”: The Metaphysical Basis of Modern Consumerism’, in K. M. Ekstrom and H. Brembeck (eds) Elusive Consumption Oxford and New York: Berg Crocker, David and Linden, Toby (eds, 1998) Ethics of Consumption: The Good Life, Justice and Global Stewardship Lanham MD and Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield Daniels, Inge (2003) ‘Scooping, Raking and Beckoning Luck: Luck, Agency and the Interdependence of People and Things in Japan’ Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 9, pp. 619–33 Du Gay, Paul (1996) Consumption and Identity at Work London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Featherstone, Mike (2007; first published 1991) Consumer Culture and Postmodernism Los Angeles, London, New Delhi and Singapore: Sage Gottlieb, Roger (2006) The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press Harrison, Rob, Newholm, Terry and Shaw, Deirdre (eds, 2005) The Ethical Consumer London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Heelas, Paul (2008) Spiritualities of Life: New Age Romanticism and Consumptive Capitalism Oxford and Malden MA: Blackwell Jackson, Tim (2009) Prosperity without Growth? The Transition to a Sustainable Economy London: Sustainable Development Commission Kinsley, David (1995) Ecology and Religion: Ecological Spirituality in Cross-Cultural Perspective Englewood Cliffs NJ: Prentice Hall Letcher, Andy (2006) ‘ “There’s Bulldozers in the Fairy Garden”: Re-enchantment Narratives within British Eco-Paganism’, in L. Hume and K. McPhillips (eds) Popular Spiritualities: The Politics of Contemporary Re-enchantment London: Ashgate Sassatelli, R. (2007) Consumer Culture. History, Theory and Politics Los Angeles, London, New Delhi, Singapore: Sage Sassatelli, R. (2008) ‘Representing Consumers: Contesting Claims and Agendas’ in K. Soper, M. Ryle and L. Thomas (eds) The Theory and Politics of Consuming Differently Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Schor, Juliet (1998) ‘A New Economic Critique of Society’, in D. Crocker and T. Linden (eds, 1998) Sennett, Richard (2006) The Culture of the New Capitalism, New Haven CT: Yale University Press Soper, Kate (2007) ‘Conceptualizing needs in the Context of Consumer Politics’ Journal of Consumer Policy 29, pp. 355–72


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14

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St John, Graham (2006) ‘Reclaiming the Future at Goolengook: Going Feral and Becoming Native in Australia’, in L. Hume and K. McPhillips (eds, 2006) Tucker, Mary Evelyn with Judith Berling (2003) Worldy Wonder: Religions Enter Their Ecological Phase La Salle IL: Open Court Weber, Max (1985; first published 1904–5) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, translated by Talcott Parsons, London: Unwin Paperbacks


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Part I


Sustaining Life: Theories and Representations of Religion and Consumerism

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Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to Universitetsbiblioteket i Tromsoe - PalgraveConnect - 2011-03-05 10.1057/9780230306134 - Religion, Consumerism and Sustainability, Edited by Lyn Thomas 9780230_576674_03_cha01.indd 16

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Consumerism as Theodicy: Religious and Secular Meaning Functions in Modern Society Tim Jackson and Miriam Pepper

Prologue On Monday 24 March 1851, a young girl named Annie, not yet ten years old, clings tearfully to her mother on a sofa in a house in Kent. For some months she has been suffering from stomach cramps, headaches, dizziness and difficulties in breathing. It is clear to her parents that her health is deteriorating. So on this day in late March, her father Charles prises Annie from her mother Emma’s reluctant farewell and together with her sister Henrietta and their nurse, Fanny, they set off for Dr James Gully’s famous water cure establishment in Malvern. The journey to Malvern, rattling up the Severn Valley in a Great Western coach, is an arduous one. But her father’s trust in the water cure is supreme. Only a few months previously he himself had been a patient in Malvern. What was wrong with him is still not entirely clear; probably some kind of nervous dysfunction – something treatable by a water cure. At any rate, he is now so confident that a water cure will be effective that, having installed Annie in Malvern, Charles heads back to London to get some work done – more on the work later – leaving Annie in the care of her nurse and the good Dr Gully (Desmond and Moore 1991, p. 378). Two weeks later, he is summoned back to Malvern. Annie has taken a turn for the worse. Charles takes up vigil by Annie’s bedside and writes every day to his wife to report on the almost hourly ‘struggle between life & death’ that Annie is enduring (Burkhardt and Smith 1989, pp. 13ff.). Racked with a violent diarrhoea, losing strength by the day, writhing in agony on her sick bed, Annie occasionally makes


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pathetic attempts to sing her favourite hymns. But it is becoming obvious to everyone that she is losing the fight. By the morning of Wednesday 23 April 1851, the girl lies motionless on her bed, wasted but tranquil, as the storm clouds gathered outside. Charles sat by the window, staring into the dull grey Malvern hills, weeping quietly, waiting for the inevitable. A little time later, as her father’s biographers (Desmond and Moore 1991, pp. 383ff.) describe the scene: The wind picked up. Charles and Fanny moved closer to the bed. Annie lay still, unconscious. It was just twelve o’clock midday. Thunder began to sound, great peals far above them the mighty knell of Nature. They edged nearer and heard the breathing stop. She was dead. The story of Annie’s death is one of ordinary human tragedy. An unhappy but not uncommon tale; certainly not in the mid nineteenth century; or even today, when a child dies through poverty every three seconds and almost every single human life is crossed at some point by personal tragedy. Annie’s death also serves to illustrate the subject matter of this chapter.

Theodicy – religious and secular Theodicy is the attempt to come to terms with the existence of suffering and ‘evil’ in our lives. Sometimes described as the ‘problem of pain’ (Lewis 2002) or the ‘problem of evil’ (McGrath 1994), theodicy is the attempt to answer some of the deepest and most difficult questions human beings are faced with at some point or other in our lives. Why is it that bad things happen to good people? How could a caring God allow evil to prosper and the innocent to suffer? Where should we turn for consolation in the face of persistent injustice and inevitable human tragedy? How are we to sustain hope in the face of collective or personal loss? Theodicy, in a very personal and quite precise way, was the challenge facing Charles and Emma in the aftermath of Annie’s death. And each of them reacted differently to the challenge. When no word came from Malvern, Emma realised immediately that the struggle was over, so that by the time Charles’s letter arrived she was able to bear the knowledge ‘sweetly and gently’, crying ‘without violence ... as if it had all happened long ago’. A devout Christian, she turned to her faith for support, hoping


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to ‘attain some feeling of submission to the will of Heaven’ (Colp 1987, Litchfield 1915). For Charles Darwin (Annie’s father was also the father of the theory of evolution), the tragedy achieved an almost cosmological significance. Hours later, he was found still by the bedside, weeping inconsolably. What he later described as an ‘insufferable grief’ (Colp) served to shatter his belief in a moral and just universe and convince him of the underlying cruelty of nature. Annie’s suffering also sounded the death knell for his teetering belief in Christianity. In the wake of her death, he threw himself with ever greater fervour into his life’s work: the formulation of one of the most influential scientific theories of the last two hundred years; a theory in which suffering and cruelty became the engine of evolutionary progress (Desmond and Moore 1991, Moore 1982, pp. 384ff.); a theory in which, as some latter-day neo-Darwinists have declared, there was no longer any room for God (Silver 1998). The world after Darwin became a more secular place (Berger 1967; Herberg 1955). Religious participation declined dramatically, particularly in the Western Europe; a decline which has continued to this day. And though other parts of the world have witnessed a recent ‘desecularisation’ (Berger 1999), modern western society was left with what Jean-Paul Sartre called a ‘god-shaped hole’ in peoples’ lives. As the playwright George Bernard Shaw remarked in the preface to his ‘evolutionary play’ Back to Methuselah, the impact of Darwin’s evolution was to leave religion ‘knocked to pieces’: and where there had been God, a cause, a faith that the universe was ordered, and therefore a sense of moral responsibility as part of that order, there was now an utter void. Chaos had come again. The effect at first was exhilarating: we had the runaway child’s sense of freedom before it gets hungry and lonely and frightened. (Shaw 1921, p. 48) At stake here, once again is the question of theodicy. Sociologists of religion have shown how theodicy is central to the role of religion in providing a ‘meaning function’ in society. In particular, Peter Berger (1967) has argued that the ability to make sense of suffering, loss and secular injustice is critical to the task of ‘world maintenance’, sustaining both social structure and psychological wellbeing. This is where the plot thickens. Who provides the meaning function when God departs (or is excluded from) the fray? Interestingly, sociologists (and anthropologists) of consumption have argued that it emerges


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through consumerism itself. Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton (1981) showed how people use everyday objects to convey personal and collective meanings. Russell Belk and his colleagues (1989) revealed how material goods play a key role in processes of sacralisation and desacralisation. Grant McCracken (1990) argued that consumer goods play a vital role in the pursuit of ‘displaced’ meaning. Colin Campbell (2003b) has articulated a view in which the continual ability to pursue identity through possessions allows us to address fundamental questions about who we are. This paper explores the hypothesis that consumer society serves as a kind of secular theodicy. It is primarily a conceptual paper, drawing on a wide range of literature from the social sciences and from religious studies to explore functional similarities between religion and consumerism. We expand, in particular, on a conceptual argument set out in an earlier paper by one of us (Jackson 2002) which looked at the influence of Malthus’ ‘failed’ theodicy on the work of Darwin and on the post-Darwinian world. We have also drawn on a number of qualitative empirical studies to support and illustrate our argument, including two in which the authors have been directly involved, looking at religious and consumer attitudes and behaviours. One of these studies involved a series of ‘discussion groups’ carried out during 2005 in church congregations in the south-east of England, exploring participants’ views on consumerism and religious belief (Pepper et al. 2006); the other was a large-scale ‘deliberative forum’ carried out for the UK Sustainable Consumption Roundtable in October 2005. In summary, our argument goes something like this: the task of ‘world maintenance’ – establishing and maintaining the credibility and plausibility of the social world – is critical in any society and theodicy plays a key role in that task. Given the decline in established religion in the West, this theodicial role must be played in consumer society in some other way. Our suggestion is that the function is implicit in consumerism itself in some quite precise ways. In particular we argue that six key elements in theodicy can be found in some form within the dynamics and organisation of consumerism itself. Though interesting in itself, of course, our main aim here is not simple historical exegesis. Rather, we want to explore the implications of this state of affairs for the goal of achieving more sustainable consumption patterns. The discourse around ‘sustainable consumption’ has emerged as one of the most important policy debates of our time (Jackson 2006b), but also one of the most intractable. Specifically, we


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The constituents of theodicy The first part of our argument relies on a broadly sociological view of religion, drawn largely from the writing of Peter Berger and others (Berger 1967; Douglas 2002; Durkheim 1995; Durkheim and Mauss 1963; Weber 1993). In this view, every society is faced with the problem of constructing and maintaining its social world, or ‘nomos’. This socially-constructed framework can be thought of as the set of assumptions, understandings, rules, maxims, norms, taboos and rituals which together bring order and meaning to human lives. Religion plays several key roles in ‘world maintenance’ (Campbell 2003a). In particular it allows us to make sense of our existence in relation to a higher ‘sacred’ order (cognitive meaning). It also provides a framework for moral governance (moral meaning). Finally, by offering a transcendent reality, it allows us to confront the question of our own mortality and the loss of those we love (emotional meaning). Central to the task of world maintenance is the question of theodicy. In theological terms, theodicy was for a long time – in fact until about the time of Darwin – associated quite precisely with the need to reconcile belief in an omnipotent and benevolent God with the existence of evil and suffering in the world (Astley et al. 2002, Hick 1968). But theodicy is also an important concept in the sociology of religion and can be framed in non-theological terms. For example, Berger defined theodicy as the (religious) legitimation of ‘anomic’ phenomena – that is to say, as the attempt to defend the existing ‘nomos’ or world view against the ever-present threats to meaning that assault it. These threats arise in particular as a result of suffering, loss and our own mortality. Put differently, theodicy attempts to cope with the discrepancy between our ideals and visions and the reality of the world with which we are daily confronted. In ordinary laymen’s terms, theodicy can be construed as the attempt to ‘make sense of’ our lives. Faced with persistent injustice, the prosperity of ill-doers, the persecution of the righteous, how should we seek to live? What kind of morality are we to live by? Confronted with our own


argue that if consumerism is now playing the vital role of a secular theodicy, this intractability is probably inevitable – unless or until it is possible to negotiate alternative theodicies that lie outside the realm of the market. In the final section, we offer some tentative suggestions as to how this might be achieved.


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mortality, sometimes arbitrary suffering, the sorrow of bereavement, where should we turn for solace? How are we to protect the authority of compassion and the promise of love? Where, in short, are we to find meaning in our lives? To be effective in its role of legitimation or sense-making, a theodicy must possess certain key characteristics. Our analysis distinguishes six interrelated aspects of theodicy: justice, reward, ‘ontological security’, transcendence, consolation and eschatology. Eschatology refers, in theological studies, to the ‘study of last things’ and is generally taken to refer to theories and ideas about the completion of God’s purposes for and workings in human life, in history, and in the whole of the creation. Traditionally, it has included such topics as resurrection from the dead, judgment, heaven and hell (McGrath 1994). In secular terms, we take eschatology to refer to the broad question of ‘how things turn out in the end’. There are clear links between these different functions, and they work together as a means of legitimating anomic phenomena and defending the (sacred) world order. Together they have to demonstrate that the sacred order does not discriminate arbitrarily between different individuals and offers rewards (and punishments) in terms which are consistent with the set of moral, cognitive and emotional meanings established by the nomos (justice). A key element in maintaining this sense of justice is to ensure that some form of mechanism exists which dispenses compensations consistently in relation to ‘good’ and ‘bad’ behaviours (reward). This compensatory mechanism is challenged by two specific conditions in the real world. The first of these is the persistence – and sometimes even the flourishing – of wrongdoers. The idea that ‘evil’ may prosper is deeply disturbing to the set of moral meanings established in society. Nonetheless it can, with some effort, be legitimated within broadly secular moral codes and practices. A more intractable challenge is presented by the sometimes arbitrary incursions of suffering and loss with which we are always confronted (either individually or collectively) at some point in our lives. These ‘anomic’ phenomena (Berger 1967) have two specific forms: one is related to the loss of our loved ones; the second arises from our awareness of our own mortality. A credible theodicy must therefore offer plausible compensatory functions in the face of bereavement and suffering – consolation. It must also provide us with a working defence against the pervasive ontological


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anxiety engendered by awareness of our own mortality – ontological security (Becker 1973, Giddens 1991). Some of the compensatory mechanisms established through theodicy may operate within the constraints of this world. But the challenge of providing an entirely secular compensatory mechanism is immense, particularly in the face of personal and collective loss. Most theodicies therefore draw in part on compensatory mechanisms which operate in some other (transcendental) realm, perhaps at some future point in time (eschatology). The importance of the functions of transcendence and eschatology to theodicy is quite precisely to establish and maintain the authenticity of this other compensatory realm. Our paper is largely conceptual, but in support of our analysis we offer some qualitative evidence from religious discussion groups carried out in a recent study in the South-East of England (Pepper 2007, Pepper et al. 2006). For example, the following response from a participant in one of these groups illustrates how theodicial functions operate even on a day-to-day level for religious people: ‘You know, sometimes, something that really opened my eyes the other day driving on the M3 motorway. Traffic terrible, and my husband is not going to go this Sunday to church, or my eldest daughter baptise my grandchildren, and that makes me very, very sad, very unhappy. And on the motorway near Winchester, going past and these grey skies, a horrible time, raining. And there is this little bit of light, and there on the motorway there is a cross somewhere on a hill, and the light was shining on this cross and I was sitting down there under the rain, I have a meeting at nine o’clock, and I am sitting down there watching and this light shining on this cross and I say, yes you are there.’ Female, Roman Catholic, 50s This response suggests a number of different theodicial functions. For instance it suggests access to consolation for life’s woes. The curious other-worldly quality of the light on the cross conveys elements of transcendence; and the symbolism of the cross as a metaphor for the redemption and future salvation of ordinary sinners also evokes a kind of eschatology. Given the declining role of established religion in Europe and the anthropological evidence on the importance of religion and theodicy in world maintenance, it is an obvious question to ask: how does




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modern society maintain its world view? How does it defend itself against anomie? What structures and devices allow it to establish cognitive, moral and emotional meaning in the world? And how are these meanings legitimated in the face of suffering and loss? Up to this point, we have not explicitly defined what we mean by consumerism. One possible definition might be framed as the attempt to ‘internalise’ through the use and exchange of commodities the maintenance of a world view in which the use and exchange of commodities is the principal mechanism for social progress. At any rate, the thrust of our argument is to suggest that modern society has internalised a number of specific functions of world maintenance within its own consumerist dynamics. Since this is true of most forms of social organisation, it would not be altogether surprising if this were the case for the consumer society as well. Nonetheless, it is useful to be able to identify if and how this internalisation of world maintenance is taking place, and in particular if and how theodicy-like functions are internalised into the dynamics and organisation of consumerism itself.

Theodicial functions of consumerism At first sight, the idea that material commodities play any part in the establishment of the socially-constructed nomos is an odd one. From a functional perspective, one thinks of material goods mainly as fulfilling certain essential physical or physiological tasks in the world. Psychological and social tasks are more obviously construed in terms of less material constructs: thoughts, conversations, norms, institutions perhaps. The clue to the puzzle lies in our tendency to imbue material things with social and psychological meanings. A wealth of evidence from consumer research (Belk 1988; Dichter 1964), social psychology (Dittmar 1992), sociology (Baudrillard 1998; Bauman 2007) and anthropology (Barthes 1973; McCracken 1990; Sahlins 1976) now supports this point. And the insight is devastating. Consumer goods provide a symbolic language (Douglas and Isherwood 1979) in which we communicate continually with each other, not just about raw stuff, but about what really matters to us: family, friendship, sense of belonging, community, identity, social status, meaning and purpose in life. And this ability provides an extremely influential ‘osmosis’ between the physical and the cultural world, between material and ‘non-material’ aspects of our lives (Jackson 2006a, 2008).


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Once again, it is possible to find qualitative empirical evidence that, through this osmosis, consumer goods play a key role in the essential task of world maintenance. The following extract from one of the respondents in Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton’s delightful study (1981) on the construction of meaning through everyday domestic objects illustrates this point perfectly. The respondent, an eight-yearold North American boy, is asked by the interviewer: ‘What do all your special objects, taken together mean to you?’ He replies: ‘They make me feel like I’m part of the world.’ ‘How do they do that?’ ‘Because when I look at them, I keep my eyes on them and I think what they mean. Like I have a bank from the First National, and when I look at it I think what it means. It means money for our cities and our country, it means tax for the government. My stuffed bunny reminds me of wildlife, all the rabbits and dogs and cats. That toy animal over there reminds me of circuses and the way they train animals so they don’t get hurt. That’s what I mean. All my special things make me feel like I’m part of the world.’ The objective of the consumer, quite generally, according to anthropologist Mary Douglas (1976), is ‘to help create the social world and find a credible place in it’. The symbolic role of material commodities has been identified, by anthropologists, in every single society for which records exist. ‘The reality of the social world’, argues Berger ‘hangs on the thin thread of conversation’ (Berger 1967). And this conversation hangs in turn on the language of material goods. Material goods, in other words, are deeply implicated in the task of world construction and maintenance, in a social, as much as in a physical sense (Figure 1). The question remains: how does the consumer society address the critical question of theodicy? In particular, can we find evidence of the key functions identified in religious theodicies? In fact we find quite clear evidence from a variety of places where consumerism appears to appropriate (attribute to consumer goods) theodicy-like functions of justice, reward, ontological security, transcendence, and consolation for loss.



Justice and Reward The concept of justice is inherent in key consumerist discourses around consumer sovereignty, equal opportunity and freedom of choice.


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26


Justice

Reward Theodicy Ontological security

Tools

World maintenance

Narratives

Social cohesion

Symbols

Identity/ self-concept

‘Goods’

Subsistence

Gestures

Cultural

‘legitimation of anomic phenomena’

Social

Consolation

Psychological

Physiological

Figure 1 The role of consumption in world maintenance

Evidence of the importance of fairness is also uncovered in qualitative studies of consumer attitudes. Objections to, for example, congestion charging and increased fuel taxes centre on the regressive impacts of rising prices. In the UK Sustainable Consumption Roundtable deliberative forum, some participants thought that future generations would resent the lack of availability of cheap short-haul flights available to current generations, turning intergenerational equity discourses about climate change on their head. At the macroeconomic level, the ethos of consumerism is ‘legitimated’ by allegiance to the idea that economic growth is a ‘rising tide’ that will (eventually) ‘raise all boats’. There is also evidence that consumerism offers people reward on the basis of favourable judgements about their character and qualities. A meritocratic society heralds high consumption lifestyles and celebrity status as the pinnacle of social achievement. And the discourse around consumption as a reward for good behaviour is also evident in ethnographic studies, as the following quote illustrates (Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton 1981):


Transcendance

Tasks

‘My Cadillac has become to me a thing I deserve. I wonder if others say things. I’ve had comments: “You’re rich,” from customers. They may even resent it – I don’t care. It shows you make so much more money. It represents my right to own something associated with successful people.’


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‘But I find myself standing in the middle of a shop and actually praying, having an argument with God, I really don’t need that. No you don’t need it, but you’re allowed to treat yourself sometimes.’ Female, Roman Catholic, 20s

Ontological Security Secularisation theory links the decline in traditional religious institutions and in individual religiosity in Europe to key processes of modernisation (for example Bruce 1996, 2002). One such process concerns the role of scientific and technological development, which schools us to look first to natural (as opposed to supernatural) causal explanations for events. When problems such as illness strike, we go to science to understand the cause. Likewise, in attempting to solve or prevent the problem, we rely first upon technology, ever decreasing the scope for the ‘eruption of the divine’ into our everyday lives (Bruce 1996, pp. 47ff.). Thus, our rising material standard of living, both in terms of our reduced vulnerability to some of the threats to health and wellbeing experienced in earlier societies, as well as our changed understandings of how these threats occur, have displaced reliance on and appeal to a transcendent power for our physical security. There is a belief among religious people that material wealth may substitute for religion, and that it may also affect religious practice in insidious ways (Pepper et al. 2006): ‘The church has definitely grown quicker in societies where there’s a lot of poverty and where the greater need was, like someone said we are almost like, it’s almost things like they need to take a lot of it away from us and then maybe we’d start to really, really –’ ‘Yes I mean maybe it just slows us down or keeps us from being completely focused on the Lord and really I guess it’s like a weight that is on us, you know, but it’s hard sometimes to see.’ Females, Evangelical Protestant


Even those with religious backgrounds use the metaphor of reward to legitimate consumption behaviour, as the following response from our qualitative study of religious groups illustrates (Pepper et al. 2006):

The relationship between consumption and ontological security – the management of deep underlying uncertainties about mortality and our


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place in the world – extends beyond a simple material safety net. The role of self-identity and self-esteem is well-supported in the evidence base of the sociology of consumption (Bauman 1998; Campbell 2003b, Giddens 1991). For example, acts of consumption and material objects assist people to cope with major life transitions such as divorce and moving into a nursing home (Belk et al. 1989; McAlexander et al. 1993; Sherman and Newman 1997–8). The memories invoked by treasured possessions provide a sense of continuity to one’s identity when dealing with such changes. It is also possible that consumers perceive these possessions as tangible carriers of their memory beyond their death, thus ensuring their spiritual immortality, particularly in the hearts and minds of close others (Hirschman and LaBarbera 1990, p. 225). A particularly telling contribution to the evidence for the ontological security function of consumerism comes from terror management theory (Arndt et al. 2004), which suggests that the modern approach to dealing with deep ontological fears is built explicitly on buying, accumulating and consuming. Spending an eternity in heaven is intangible and uncertain. In contrast, ‘large piles of gold, enormous mounds of possessions, and lavish consumption are ineluctably real and symbolically indicative of immortal power’ (Solomon et al. 2003, p. 134). Indeed, a range of experimental studies show that increasing mortality salience increases materialistic tendencies (Solomon et al. 2003).

Transcendence and consolation Transcendence also runs like a current through consumer theory. From Colin Campbell’s (1987) concept of ‘hedonic dreaming’ to Russell Belk’s explorations of sacredness (Belk et al. 1989) and consumer desire (Belk et al. 2003), the evidence appears to suggest that we use commodities both to dream of higher things and sometimes quite literally to escape or get away from it all. According to Grant McCracken, in order to afford immunity to our ideals from the withering light of everyday reality, we displace them to another plane of existence. However, some form of limited access is still required to ensure that these ideals remain potent. The pursuit and acquisition of consumer goods provides a particularly effective strategy for such displacement and retrieval, and can explain in part the ‘ratcheting’ of consumption. A product, symbolising a longed-for situation, condition or lifestyle, may be possessed, but it can never actually become the ideal itself, thus opening the way for transferring ideals to ever more consumer objects, and thus, to ever


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I worked part-time jobs and saved all of my earnings to buy a secondhand car, but could never have enough money. My parents promised to buy me one for my graduation. All my friends had cars. I thought I had to have one too. Upon graduation, instead of a second-hand car, they surprised me with a brand-new one; a good model, fast... Now that I have it, it is no longer the most important thing in life for me. Maybe I got used to it. Now there is another fire awakening in me. I want a faster, better car. I have a sports car, but I’d like a Cabrio. If I have that, I might then want a plane. However, this idea of transcendence cannot entirely be construed in hedonistic or desire-like ways. A key component in the sacralisation of consumer goods is the role that this facilitates in terms of consolation. Sacred goods remind us of those we love, of dreams we hold, of our hopes for the future. For example, in this excerpt, a woman explains the significance of her most important possessions (Hirschman and LaBarbera 1990, pp. 225ff.): My most important possessions are my grandmother’s scarves and earrings... I used to watch my grandmother’s primping and knew that someday I would do those things also... When my grandmother died, I was asked the unglorified question, ‘What would I like to have?’ All I asked for were the scarves and earrings, and I was so very happy when I received them... they will always be priceless to me, because they hold the most precious memory in the world and represent a love that will never die. At a more mundane level the seemingly endless availability consoles us for the temporary nature of our lives, for our disappointments and failures. It assures us that society holds out the promise of better lives (for us and for our descendants) in the future. Many of these functions are interlinked. It is for example difficult to tell if Bush’s epoch-defining exhortation to Americans to ‘go out shopping’ in the wake of 9/11 is about terror management (a different kind of war on terror!), about sustaining the integrity and justice of the consumer world view or about consolation for the personal and collective losses people endured. (Interestingly, Freud believed that ontological security is in any case a response developed initially through anxiety


more consumption (McCracken 1990, p.110). This is illustrated by a young Turkish female respondent, cited in Belk et al. (2003):


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30


over the loss of the other.) Likewise, the idea that there might be some kind of transcendent reality is clearly a useful one in dealing with the shocks and losses inflicted by the present reality.

When it comes to eschatology, the situation is much less clear. There are clearly eschatological dimensions to modern consumer society. Not the least of these is that notions of secular progress are themselves bound up with the idea of continual consumption growth (Jackson 2004, 2009). But this notion of how things turn out in the end has the strange characteristic that there is no end. On the contrary, the underlying assumption of the prevailing consumer paradigm is of a world in which things just go on getting better in material terms. The endgame played out by consumerism is, at one level, one in which the ability to go on consuming for generation after generation is the ultimate goal. A kind of heaven on earth, if not for us, then for our descendants. Vincent Miller has argued (2003), however, that consumer desire has completely ‘derailed’ eschatology. No longer are, for example, justice and peace the aim of desire. Instead, it is desire itself that has become the object of human striving. Rather than holding open the possibility of the radical disruption of present structures by the ‘justice to come’, as the early Christians did, the future is now understood as a continuation of the incrementally changing status quo. Perhaps the oddest aspect of this continually evolving ‘final’ state is that modern society has a strongly scientific world view in which it is known with some precision that things will turn out badly in material terms in the (very) long run. In an earlier paper (2002), Jackson explored this point in more detail. The emergence in the late nineteenth century of a highly secular, scientific rationalism, understandings about the material basis of life, and visions of the ultimate ‘heat death’ of the universe led in the early twentieth century to the emergence of a philosophical ‘nihilism’ which was reinforced by two world wars and the threat of nuclear holocaust – and perhaps more recently by the imminent threat of climate change. The consumerist eschatology stands in such strong contrast to this rational world view that at first sight it seems unfathomable. But Campbell (1987, 2003b) has argued that the roots of consumerism lie in a romantic tradition that attempts to deny rationalism. Becker (1973) makes an even stronger case that humans essentially try as hard as they can to block out the deafening silence of eternity and deny mortality.


Eschatology


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The Coexistence of Conventional Religion and Consumerism In short, there is evidence that consumerism offers – and perhaps has appropriated – theodicy-like functions in our lives that were once held by religion. But there is also something of a puzzle here, raised in particular by the example of religion in the United States. The US inherited a strong puritanical discourse that has criticised consumerism (Bocock 1993, p. 117). It has also, in recent decades, witnessed a powerful religious revival. Yet it is, almost avowedly, the most consumerist nation on earth. If the theodicial functions of consumerism are in some sense a replacement for those of religion, then why do these two things coexist so strongly in North America? Why has the religious revival (and the historical puritanism) not moderated the forces of consumerism? In addressing this puzzle, we would stress that our exploration of theodicy in this chapter is as much about the intersections between more conventional religious expression and consumerism as it is about consumerism simply displacing religion. The religion of the neoconservatives is an extensively commoditised, profoundly individualistic religion which largely supports underlying secular world views – or at the very least is deeply entwined with those views. Furthermore, it is telling that an American sociology of religion uses consumerist metaphors to explain religious vitality in that country (and the lack of it in many parts of Europe). This suggests that the ideology of consumerism has colonised religion. The rational choice theory of religion (for example Innacone 1991, Stark and Bainbridge 1987, Young 1997) posits that the high levels of individual religiosity that occur in the USA are due to a deregulated, competitive and pluralistic religious market, responsive to the demand of religious consumers seeking to satisfy their theodicial needs or desires. The use of consumerist metaphors in the study of religion is not only an American phenomenon (Martikainen 2001, Scotland 2000). Vincent Miller argues (2003) that consumer culture, wherever it occurs, schools the faithful to relate to their religions as consumers, that is, to treat the values, beliefs, symbols, narratives and practices that constitute religious traditions as commodities no longer embedded in their tradition. Shorn of its depth of interconnections, religion may thus impact


The consumer eschatology in this view is a kind of anti-eschatology – a study in denial of the fear that things will ultimately turn out badly – for all of us.


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less on the practice of everyday life. This throws into question the ability of conventional religion, at least in many of its forms, to resist the onslaught of consumerism or to offer an alternative to it. Another disturbing possibility, however, is that the seductive power of the consumerist theodicy is now so great that we have developed a kind of theodicial hunger – a greed for meaning that can no longer be satisfied by conventional religious theodicy.

Theodicy beyond consumerism In summary, this chapter has martialled arguments to the effect that consumerism has appropriated at least some of the functions of theodicy through the role of consumer commodities in our lives. Whether this justifies us in saying that consumerism has a fully fledged theodicy (in the sociological sense) is less clear. A credible theodicy has to provide a coherent framework for legitimating anomic phenomena – making sense of the world in the face of arbitrary incursions of suffering and loss. In this task, the individual functions of justice, reward, consolation, transcendence, ontological security and eschatology are not simply isolated features of the framework. They must operate in a concerted way to provide effective legitimation of a ‘sacred’ order. In consumerism, this sacred order is perhaps most readily conceived as a world of hedonic dreams (Campbell 1987) facilitated by consumer goods. The legitimation of this vision proceeds through the promise that increasing material wealth is the means to achieve the good life – not only for us, but also for our children. Social progress is synonymous with expanding access to this material cornucopia. But this sacred order is still too easily compromised by internal and external shocks: inequality, social recession, economic instability, unemployment, violence, warfare, natural disaster, suffering and loss. These features of the social world persist – in spite of all our material wealth – and, if consumerism is to survive, it must have some answer to them. The theodicial functions outlined in this chapter help structure this legitimation. But if consumerism is a theodicy, in this sense, it is clearly a flawed one. Its conceptualisation of justice is tenuous, its framing and disbursement of rewards is iniquitous, it is deeply but perhaps perversely seductive in offering a rather fleeting kind of ontological security, one that needs continually to be reinforced by engaging in yet more consumption. It does provide for a form of transcendence; but the degree to which this facilitates any real hope or consolation for our losses is


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suspect. Far from creating a credible eschatology, consumerism appears to be a continuous exercise in denial of our own mortality and of the widespread suffering in the world. Nonetheless, if consumerism does operate even in a limited form as a secular theodicy, it is unlikely that it can be ‘countered’ by exhortation, religious or otherwise. Indeed, if consumption plays such a vital role in the construction and maintenance of the social world, then asking people to give up material commodities is tantamount to asking them to risk a kind of social suicide. People will resist threats to identity. They will resist threats to meaning. They will ask quite legitimate questions of the motives of the moral persuaders. And ultimately, such attempts to change consumerism will fail. At the same time, this understanding opens out clear possibilities for change. In particular, it suggests that countering consumerism must proceed in part through building credible alternative meaning structures that lie outside the realm of the market. This task demands the provision of capabilities for people to participate in society, maintain their identity, understand their place in the cosmos, and make sense of the social world – without recourse to materialism. At the heart of this strategy lies the need for a deep philosophical reengagement with the ‘problem of pain’; because ultimately, as Annie’s death reminds us, suffering and loss are part of the human condition. The death of our loved ones, our own mortality, arbitrary catastrophes, human injustice: all of these things inhabit the boundaries of our lives, and at some point or other invade them. The contemplation of suffering is profoundly distasteful to modern sensitivities. It reminds us constantly of the limitations of consumerism. Of the emptiness of consumerist lives. But it also serves to recall that there’s more at stake here: the suffering of others; persistent poverty; the extinction of species; the integrity of the global climate. The fate of this ‘disappearing world’ still hangs in the balance, alongside our own more parochial concerns. The consumerist theodicy has no genuine answers to these concerns. It is deaf and blind to the sufferings of others or the fate of the natural world. And as Kenneth Surin (1986, p. 52) has remarked, ‘a theodicy is not worth heeding if it does not allow the screams of our society to be heard’. That the consumer theodicy is deeply flawed in both ecological and social terms does not for a moment detract from its power as a strategy for the pursuit of meaning. But its evident flaws are an urgent call to devise (or recover) some other, less damaging, more sustainable alternative.




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Arndt, Jamie, Solomon, Sheldon, Kasser, Tim and Sheldon, Kennon M. (2004) ‘The Urge to Splurge: A Terror Management Account of Materialism and Consumer Behavior’ Journal of Consumer Psychology 14, pp. 198–212 Astley, Jeff, Brown, David and Loades, Ann (eds) (2002) Problems in Theology: Evil London: T & T Clark Barthes, Roland (1973) Mythologies London: Paladin Baudrillard, Jean (1998; first published 1970) The Consumer Society: Myths and Structures London: Sage Bauman, Zygmunt (1998) Work, Consumerism and the New Poor Buckingham: Open University Press Bauman, Zygmunt (2007) Consuming Life Cambridge: Polity Press Becker, Ernest (1973) The Denial of Death London: Sage Belk, Russell W. (1988) ‘Possessions and the Extended Self’ Journal of Consumer Research 15, pp.139–68 Belk, Russell W., Ger, Güliz and Askegaard, Søren (2003) ‘The Fire of Desire: A Multi-sited Inquiry into Consumer Passion’ Journal of Consumer Research 30, pp. 325–51 Belk, Russell W., Wallendorf, Melanie and Sherry Jr., John F. (1989) ‘The Sacred and the Profane in Consumer Behavior: Theodicy on the Odyssey’ Journal of Consumer Research 16, pp. 1–38 Berger, Peter (1967) The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion, Garden City New York: Doubleday Berger, Peter (1999) ‘The Desecularization of the World: A Global Overview’, in Peter Berger (ed) The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans Bocock, Robert (1993) Consumption London: Routledge Bruce, Steve (1996) Religion in the Modern World Oxford: Oxford University Press Bruce, Steve (2002) God is Dead: Explaining Secularization Oxford: Blackwell Burkhardt, Frederick and Smith, Sydney (eds) (1989) The Correspondence of Charles Darwin, vol 5 Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, cited in Desmond and Moore (1991) Campbell, Colin (1987) The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism Oxford: Blackwell Campbell, Colin (2003a) ‘A New Age Theodicy for a New Age’, in Peter Berger (ed) The De-Secularisation of the World New York: Basic Books Campbell, Colin (2003b) ‘I Shop Therefore I Know that I Am: The Metaphysical Basis of Modern Consumerism’, in Karin M. Ekström and Helene Brembeck (eds) Elusive Consumption New York: Berg Publishers Colp, Ralph (1987) ‘Charles Darwin’s “insufferable grief” ’ Free Associations 9: 7–44 Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly and Rochberg-Halton, Eugene (1981) The Meaning of Things: Domestic Symbols and the Self Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Desmond, Adrian and Moore, James (1991) Darwin London: Penguin Dichter, Ernest (1964) The Handbook of Consumer Motivations: The Psychology of Consumption New York: McGraw Hill Dittmar, Helga (1992) The Social Psychology of Material Possessions: To Have is to Be New York: St Martin’s Press


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Not Exactly a Selling Point? Religion and Reality TV Nicholas Buxton

In May 2005 BBC2 transmitted a three-part television documentary series entitled The Monastery, which featured five men living alongside a monastic community for six weeks. The stated aim of this ‘unique experiment’ was to see if there was anything about the 1500-year-old Benedictine tradition that might be relevant in the twenty-first century. The men, most of whom had never so much as set foot in a monastery before, were required to participate fully in the life of the community, almost as if they were novices. As well as attending all the religious services in the Abbey church, eating silent meals in the refectory and working in the garden, they had bible classes and received instruction in basic Christian and monastic principles: principles, we are meant to infer, somewhat at odds with contemporary societal norms. In one of the opening scenes, the Abbot sets out the agenda: We find more and more nowadays that people say to us that life is too individualistic, that their lifestyle is too materialistic, that there’s consumerism everywhere, and that they’ve got more and more of all these superficial pleasures in life and yet at a deeper level they’re not happy. We believe that what we’re offering is the answer to that dissatisfaction with life. The answer on offer turns out to be that freedom and happiness are not to be equated with the consumerist goal of being able to have and to do whatever one wants. On the contrary, in the Benedictine monastic tradition it is maintained that true freedom is, paradoxically, the offspring of obedience to something or someone other than one’s own whims and fancies: the Abbot and the rule of life, and through these, God. Furthermore, this obedience is ultimately to be


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38 Nicholas Buxton

It is love that impels them to pursue everlasting life; [therefore] They no longer live by their own judgement, giving in to their whims and appetites; rather they walk according to another’s decisions and directions. (Fry 1982, RB 5.10–12) From these brief comments we can already start to see how and why monasticism might be considered so out of place in contemporary society. In contrast to our perceived ‘right’ to self-determination, and an emphasis on freedom of choice as the highest good, the monk ‘loves not his own will nor takes pleasure in the satisfaction of his desires’ (RB 7.31), for ‘it is by this way of obedience that we go to God’ (RB 71.2). Perhaps most perversely of all, where we might normally be accustomed to perceiving a connection between love and sexual intimacy, for the monk the opposite is the case: true love is predicated on celibacy. Indeed, in another early scene in the television series, one of the brethren is asked whether or not he finds the ‘celibacy thing’ hard to come to terms with. ‘It’s not a selling point’ he admits, before explaining that ‘for the sake of something greater in the future it’s worth making a sacrifice now’. It is such notions of sacrifice, asceticism and commitment – to the ‘evangelical counsels’ of poverty, chastity and obedience – that make monasticism so profoundly countercultural in today’s world. And yet, surprisingly, it would appear that in the consumer society even monasticism can be given a media makeover. In spite of what might have seemed an unlikely subject for a reality TV show, The Monastery bore witness to the fact that monastic spirituality can be commodified and sold after all – and very successfully too. In what follows, I will argue that behind the countercultural message of The Monastery, there lies a subtle discourse of spiritual commodification – expressed in terms of a focus on self-development and personal ‘therapy’ – that actually reinforces rather than challenges the consensual narrative of the consumer society. In doing so, I am not suggesting that this was intentional, rather that it was an inevitable consequence of the way in which the nature and content of all discourse is conditioned by the mode and medium of its communication – in this case, television: a medium primarily used for entertainment. Having said that, however, and in spite of its ostensible subject being thus undermined, the programme did still manage to communicate something that was considered by many viewers to be of profound significance. After all, in


understood by the monk as an expression of love. According to the Rule of St Benedict (RB):


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the context of a contemporary western society, the monastic life really is radically countercultural, and to some extent at least, this fact was still made apparent to the TV audience.

To give them their due, the producers of The Monastery eschewed what might have been a temptation to make an exploitative programme that either ridiculed the eccentricity of monastic life, or over-sensationalised the participants’ reactions to its rigours. Instead, they created an original, intelligent and sensitive documentary series, which became a surprise hit and was widely credited with setting a new benchmark in reality TV programming. So much so, in fact, that some people within the television industry have sought to make a distinction between relatively serious output, like The Monastery, and the rash of programmes based on the increasingly ubiquitous game-show model. Consequently, alternative descriptions – such as ‘constructed documentary’ – are sometimes proposed as a substitute for the reality label. However, ‘reality TV’ has become an all-inclusive term that is currently applied to an increasingly wide range of popular factual television, including lifestyle and makeover programmes, hidden camera reportage, observational documentaries, and game-show formats – with many more variations within these broad categories. For this reason The Monastery was unanimously perceived by both the media and the viewing public as reality TV, albeit of a higher calibre. Expressing what turned out to be an almost universal consensus, Nancy Banks-Smith described it in the Guardian as ‘an unusually grown-up series’ (2005, p. 22); while in the Dublin Sunday Tribune, Olivia Doyle (2005) said it was ‘very possibly the most thought-provoking reality TV show ever made, if that’s not too much of a contradiction in terms’. The Monastery was thus held up as an example of a programme that broke the mould of a genre which, as Annette Hill (2005) has pointed out in her study of audience reception of reality TV, is commonly perceived by both viewers and critics alike as ‘trash TV’ (p. 105). The public’s positive response to the series evidently took many people by surprise, not least those who were personally involved. Worth Abbey, the monastery in question, received hundreds of letters and emails, testimony to the profound impact the programme had on people from all walks of life, irrespective of whether they were ‘believers’ or not. In the press, a number of journalists noted how taken aback they were by the force of people’s reactions. Simon Brooke even decided to


BBC2’s The Monastery


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I have met about 10 people this week all raving about a programme in which five men go to Worth Abbey [and] emerge changed. Hardened cynics and atheists have been blubbing over the show. It is a good indication of how interesting religion is to many people. (2005, p. 15) Wilson was not the only sceptical journalist forced to reassess their prejudices and preconceptions, both about religion and about television. Charlie Brooker, writing in the Guardian observed that: The Monastery isn’t just a reality show – it’s a fairly hardcore slug of religious programming masquerading as a reality show. But it’s genuinely interesting. [ ... ] The drawback is that while most reality shows encourage you to actively despise half their participants, The Monastery inspires compassion. [ ... ] Confronted with this, what’s a craven misanthrope like me supposed to do? I’m so used to automatically hating everyone I see on TV, my mind can’t process a paradigm shift like this. (2005, p. 52) From these examples, we can see that although responses to the programme were many and varied, they tended to fall into two broad categories: regarding content on the one hand, and genre on the other. Thus, there were the comments people made concerning the ostensible subject matter of the programme; that is, the monastic life itself. One of the most frequently made observations of this kind was that the monks were so patient, balanced, and normal – especially when compared with their visitors. For example, Angela Wintle, writing in the Brighton Evening Argus, notes that: At first, what strikes you is the fact that, in many ways, they are just like us – not detached or out of touch at all. But you are quickly struck by their differences too. These monks are quite different from the general ilk – men of wisdom, integrity, compassion and humour. They also showed remarkable poise in front of the cameras and possessed a knowledge and understanding which the laymen quite palpably lacked. (2005, p. 15)


spend a couple of days at Worth Abbey himself, stating in The Daily Telegraph that his curiosity had been piqued by comments such as: ‘I’m not a Christian, but I sat and watched and wept – it was so beautiful’ (2005, p. 15). Likewise, in the London Evening Standard), A. N. Wilson wrote:


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Second, many people also remarked on the nature of the programme and its relationship to the genre of reality TV. The interesting feature of these comments is that a number of reviewers seemed initially to have felt that the basic premise did not sound at all promising, and were confidently expecting to dismiss the programme as just another gimmicky reality show. As it turned out, however, they were forced to revise their prior expectations. For example, in the Sunday Express, Henry Fitzherbert (2005) wrote: ‘Who would have thought a reality TV show with an all-male cast, and the prize of inner peace rather than a cash lump sum, would prove a bigger rating hit than a show featuring semi-naked celebrities on a South Sea island?’ Similarly, and after airing the usual range of jaded preconceptions – hidden cameras, voting off the least holy contestant, ‘Big Brother with real brothers,’ and so on – Giles Smith, reviewing for the Sunday Telegraph, wrote: But bear with me: it’s not like that. If The Monastery is reality television, then it’s reality television of an unusually earnest and discursive order, asking some serious questions about retreat from the world and engagement with it, and about self-denial, spirituality and godlessness. (2005, p. 3) The Monastery was thus deemed to be a ‘success’, both in religious terms and as a piece of television. But what actually made it so successful? Was it because it succeeded in communicating something genuinely ‘spiritual’, in spite of the mixed motives of the media; or did it appeal to audiences precisely because, regardless of its ostensible subject matter, it actually presented a neatly commodified spiritual package whose underlying assumptions conformed to our unconscious consumerist expectations? As one of the five participants, and a scholar of religion, I am uniquely placed to examine these questions from a variety of different points of view. In doing so, I will contend that in order to ‘sell’ religion – with its awkwardly inexplicable reference to a divine transcendent reality – to a television audience, it must be commodified and repackaged in more easily digestible forms, such as ‘spiritual therapy,’ or a ‘detox for the soul’. As we saw from the Abbot’s comments quoted at the beginning of this chapter, The Monastery sought to present the spirituality of the monastic tradition as an antidote to the problems of modern life, specifically ‘individualism’ and ‘consumerism’. Ironically, however, The Monastery was itself a manifestation of spiritual commodification. The series was succeeded a year later by another, this time about nuns. The Convent,




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broadcast in 2006 and featuring four women ‘at crisis point in their lives’ could no longer claim to be a ‘unique experiment’, for it had an established format to follow and an explicit agenda to promote. Anyone who saw the trailers – in which it was billed as a ‘massage for the soul’ – would have been left in no doubt about the message we were meant to take home with us: monastic spirituality is another lifestyle choice, on a par with aromatherapy, reflexology, and the whole gamut of ‘new age’ spiritual therapies. Predictably, plans were made to apply the same formula to the other ‘world religions’ (source: personal communication, October 2006). This in turn implies the questionable assumption that there is a common factor in all the varied phenomena we describe as ‘religions’ that can be isolated, repackaged and sold. Admittedly, these plans were shelved once the falsity of this notion became apparent, though not before making a third series, broadcast in 2007 and called The Retreat, which focussed on an Islamic centre in Spain. Meanwhile, the franchise was exported to the United States, where it was remade by an American channel and called The Abbey. Here, the emphasis on lifecoaching was made even more explicit, as were the dramatic tensions between participants, not to mention the incongruity of broadcasting a documentary that explicitly promoted itself as anti-materialistic on a commercial channel with advertisement breaks every twelve minutes. Evidence of commodification can also be discerned in the original series, much of which dwells voyeuristically on the working out of various personal emotional issues, thus conforming to what Anita Biressi and Heather Nunn (2005) have identified as the therapeutic function of contemporary reality programming, particularly as exemplified in popular confessional talk-shows like Oprah. In The Monastery, three of the five participants contribute to or participate in personal conflicts with one another. Indeed, conflict provides the central narrative that drives the whole series. This may be an inevitable consequence of the requirement of all television – including so-called ‘serious’ programming – to conform to the demands of a medium used primarily for the purpose of entertainment. Arguments between participants, though they certainly occurred, nevertheless occupy a grossly disproportionate percentage of the three hours of the series relative to the six weeks spent at Worth Abbey. It would be unfortunate if the viewer were to conclude from this that religion is only meant for ‘other people’, in other words, those with ‘personal problems’. The ‘therapeutic’ element became even more explicit in The Convent – whose participants we were constantly reminded were at ‘crisis point’ – and The Retreat, presumably because the production executives believed that it was this that made


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Consuming spirituality The construction of a narrative – any narrative, whether fictional or factual – necessarily involves the selection and ordering of information relevant to the communication of an intended meaning. This meaning will, moreover, be determined by the narrator, whether consciously or unconsciously. Thus my account of an everyday life event – such as meeting a friend for coffee – will not simply consist of an exhaustive catalogue of each and every minute detail and movement, but rather a selection of key moments or themes that hold a particular significance relative to the event and persons in question. And of course it is also the case that different records of the same events can be variously constructed from different perspectives and with widely different interpretations. Not surprisingly therefore, TV producers inevitably encode a particular set of meanings into the programmes they make: an audience is never simply presented with the raw ‘facts’ of the matter, but rather with selected information that gives a particular reading of the given situation, and reflects a specific interpretative bias. This is true of all factual programming – from the news to wildlife documentaries – but it is most especially true of so-called ‘reality’ shows in which selective editing deliberately reinforces certain storylines and exaggerates particular characteristics of the participants. The effect of this is to blur the distinction between fact and fiction: taken to its logical conclusion, it leads to what Jean Baudrillard presciently described as the substitution of reality by simulacra. In The Consumer Society, first published in 1970, Baudrillard describes how the media reduces the reality it purports to represent to a series of interchangeable images, which then constitute a self-referential system of signs that forms a closed hermeneutic circle. This is to say that in the fully developed consumer society, we consume not the ostensible object itself, nor even its functionality, but rather what it signifies. Hence, when buying a pair of training shoes, for example, one is not buying a useful pair of shoes, so much as a brand image, affirmed by advertising and correlated with a projected set of lifestyle values. Baudrillard argues that the logic of simulation ultimately undermines reality itself: it aims to ‘conjure away the real with the signs of the real’ (1998, p. 33). This leads


the original programme so appealing. However, the steady decline in viewing figures across the three series – from nearly three million for The Monastery to less than one million for The Retreat – would seem to suggest otherwise (source: personal communication, March 2007).


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in turn to the subversion and alienation of reality, and its replacement with a ‘neo-reality’, a simulation that involves the ‘liquidation of all referentials’ followed by ‘their artificial resurrection in systems of signs’ (1983, p. 4). Arguably, the principal agent of this subversion is television, which not only conveys the ideology of a world that is readable in images, but also the implication that ‘only what can be read [ ... ] will tend to exist [ ... ] there will no longer be any question of the truth of the world, or its history, but only of the internal coherence of the system of reading’ (1998, p. 124). Commenting on The Louds – an observational documentary series made in 1971 that could be considered an early forerunner of today’s reality TV show – Baudrillard identifies the basic premise of the format as the false but seductive notion that the situation in question is being filmed ‘as if we weren’t there’ – precisely in order to give the viewer the illusion that they are there, as secret witnesses (1983, p. 50). Reality is thus simultaneously made present to us and alienated from us. Neil Postman (1985) makes a number of related points in his polemical critique of television when he argues that by taking information out of the context from which it derives its meaning, modern communications technology – from the telegraph to the internet – makes that information into a commodity that can be exchanged without any due consideration to its meaning, use, or relevance. As a result it becomes incoherent (because divorced from its own context) and irrelevant (when juxtaposed with ours) and is ultimately reduced to triviality. This, he argues, is an inevitable consequence of the shift from literary modes of communication, and the discourses shaped by the medium of printing, to electronic and primarily visual modes of communication, in which images – abstracted from their context – are transmitted across the globe at the speed of light and then rearranged as stories that bear little or no relation to that original context. Thus news items, advertisements, game-shows, soap operas and factual documentaries all have this in common: they are signs, which can be ordered, reordered, combined and juxtaposed in any sequence, to create entirely new narratives and meanings. This undermines the reality in question by re-presenting it without regard to the context from which any given image has been taken, and which originally gave it meaning. On this view, television does not depict reality at all, but rather, projects a particular – and usually trivialised – interpretation of the world, which is then presented to the viewer as ‘reality’. If this is the case, it should not come as any surprise – suggests Postman – that the news has become entertainment and entertainment is one of the principal topics of news, for what else could


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we do with such de-contextualised and thus meaningless information other than use it to entertain ourselves? (1987, p. 77). In the early years of the communications revolution, Baudrillard recognised that ‘the content of the messages, the signifieds of the signs are largely immaterial. We are not engaged in them, and the media do not involve us in the world, but offer for our consumption signs as signs’ (1998, p. 34). A further implication of the commodification and trivialisation of information that results from its decontextualisation is also a certain kind of totalitarianism that is ultimately dehumanising: the media is not interested in the story, only the telling – or, to be more precise, the selling – of it. Like consumption, which as Zygmunt Bauman puts it, has ‘no other purpose but its own perpetuation and intensification, serving no other objective but itself’ (2002, p. 148), the media is a self-perpetuating, self-referential, system of production, existing for its own sake. Its function, according to Baudrillard, is to: neutralise the lived, unique, eventual character of the world and substitute for it a multiple universe of media which, as such, are homogenous with one another, signifying each other reciprocally and referring back and forth to each other. In the extreme case, they each become the content of the others – and that is the totalitarian ‘message’ of a consumer society. (1998, p. 123) Baudrillard explains that the closer one gets to ‘true documentary’, live coverage and so on, and the more one pursues ‘the real’ with ever more sophisticated technology, so our alienation from the world is increased and the ‘truth’ of TV is revealed: ‘that the primary function of each message is to refer to another message’ (1998, p. 122). The self-referential nature of the media can also be illustrated from my own experience as a participant in The Monastery. Two years after the series was first shown, I was featured in another religious programme – Songs of Praise (BBC1, 4 March 2007) – for which I was ostensibly interviewed in order to tell the story of my spiritual journey. However, my participation in Songs of Praise derives all its meaning from my participation in The Monastery, as was evident from the way in which the latter programme was constantly referenced in the Songs of Praise feature. Indeed, footage from The Monastery must have accounted for at least half of the four or five minutes of my ‘scene’, even though in an interview lasting well over an hour I said very little about The Monastery. This shows that I was not there to tell my story at all: TV told its own




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self-referential story, about a character from a TV show. Moreover, this closed hermeneutic circle is also indicated by the fact that because it was the Lent edition of Songs of Praise, the forty days of Lent were explicitly linked to the forty days I had spent at Worth Abbey. This somewhat arbitrary connection – given that we were at Worth during the summer – neatly illustrates the way in which television undermines and trivialises the reality it purports to represent by means of the decontextualisation and re-juxtaposition of information that Baudrillard and Postman identify as its primary characteristic. If there is any validity to the foregoing analysis, which rejects the very possibility of ‘serious’ television, then the notion of religious television would seem to be equally untenable. The ambiguities inherent in The Monastery become even more acute when we consider that monasticism – commonly perceived as an escape from reality – is made real for us through reality TV, a medium commonly regarded as completely fake. Baudrillard poses a question that is, therefore, particularly apt in our consideration of this matter: which is true – the ostensible reality being depicted, or the hyper-real simulation of reality that is experienced through television? All too often, it seems, media reality can be confused with the social reality it purports to represent, with the result that we experience what Baudrillard described as ‘the dissolution of TV into life, the dissolution of life into TV’ (1983, p. 55). Once again, there is evidence for this implosion of the difference between reality and representation in my own experience as a participant in a religious reality TV programme. Media pundits, not to mention the viewing public, routinely elided the distinction between our real-life experience of spending six weeks in a monastery, and their experience of that reality, as derived from watching a TV programme about it. This is indicated in comments such as that made by Simon Rowe, writing in The Voice Today: ‘The series marked a fresh step on Tony’s path towards spiritual enlightenment’ (2005, p. 10). Here ‘Tony’ has become a character in a TV show, the ‘script’ of which reveals that he is apparently on a ‘path’, and moreover it sounds as if it is the show itself – not the reallife experience depicted in ‘the show’ – that is credited with his ‘spiritual enlightenment’. To give a further example of the way in which the medium conditions the message, we were regularly described as ‘contestants’ – even though there was no competition. In other words, in borrowing from the conventions of reality TV, The Monastery contained and expressed certain cues, which then dictated the way in which the programme was viewed and understood. Reality was reconfigured by reality TV.


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Baudrillard describes the process of simulation in terms of the ‘mythologising of reality’, his own example being the way in which Esso service stations sell log-fire barbecues, which ironically symbolise exactly what the oil industry killed off (1998, p. 99). Is there a parallel we can draw from our present case study? Could it be that The Monastery is merely a sign of a religious reality that has been subverted and replaced by a simulacrum? Some would suggest that the declining significance of traditional religious institutions, and the corresponding rise of individual autonomy in ‘practices of faith and belief’ is correlated with, and maybe even the outcome of, what have been called the ‘the cultural commodification practices of the media industries’ (Hoover and Lundby 1997, p. 5). If the media does not mediate reality so much as form it, then it could be seen as taking on some of the reality-ordering functions traditionally ascribed to religion, thus ‘providing the raw material for the intended or unintended construction of religious meanings’ (p. 6).

Spiritual consumerism Religion and the media have more in common than might at first be supposed, for both are in the business of telling stories that enable us to make sense of ourselves and the world we inhabit. As Stewart Hoover – among others – has frequently suggested, religion and media are not two separate domains; on the contrary they ‘occupy the same spaces, serve many of the same purposes, and invigorate the same practices in late modernity’ (2006, p. 9). Having said that, however, an apparent similarity of function belies a significant difference of purpose. For example, it could be argued that religion tells a story, which – when lived – transforms the lives of individuals and societies. The media, by contrast, spins a yarn of superficial fantasies that are distracting but not fulfilling; its aim is profit rather than human flourishing. Some might go further and claim that the entertainment industry has subverted religion, replacing religious narratives with soap operas, and the divine with the ‘stars’ whom we worship, literally as idols. Seeing religion in functionalist terms such as these is not without its drawbacks, but if – as Hoover asserts – the media plays a part in the structuring of daily life, and has an influence on our values and lifestyle, constituting ‘the inventory of symbols, values, and ideas out of which sense is made locally and globally’ (2006, p. 13), then it is implicated in areas traditionally ascribed to religion. Although we should be wary of oversimplification, Hoover points out that there




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are nevertheless circumstances in which media clearly does function in ways that might be seen as ‘religious’, such as when ‘shaping and enforcing social values and ideas’ (p. 14). Similarly, few can doubt that the media has assumed a key role in articulating our collective social emotions during significant public events, crises and commemorations. In this sense, therefore, the media can be seen as taking on religious functions, or even providing a new ‘secular religion’ to replace the traditional forms of religious life that it seems to be helping to erode. There are in fact a number of ways in which we can see the media taking on religious functions: for example, media output may be moving or inspirational, conveying what are usually assumed to be religious or spiritual narratives; or it may have a direct influence on ethical thought and behaviour, providing role models for moral values and social action with which people may identify. Of course, this can go both ways. Just as ostensibly ‘secular’ media may act as a vehicle for an explicitly ‘spiritual’ narrative (such as The Matrix trilogy of films), so too may ostensibly ‘religious’ media convey a very ‘secular’ narrative (for example, the health and wealth gospel of televangelism). Hoover concludes from his study of the ways in which people integrate media experience into what he calls their ‘plausible narratives of self’ that we live in a culture where it is becoming the generally accepted norm for the individual ‘to make sense of the world, to draw on resources of memory, tradition, belief, family, school, place-of-worship, and media culture to craft a sense of themselves that works and functions in contemporary life’ (2006, p. 261; emphasis added). There has been an explosion of mass media – cable, digital, and satellite TV, 24-hour news and other specialised channels, not to mention the advent of the internet – since 1970 when Baudrillard wrote The Consumer Society. This proliferation marks not only a democratisation of information, but also the fragmentation of a common cultural vocabulary. The result – for better or worse – is the formation of new types of virtual community, new ways of constructing and sharing personal and social identity. As Gordon Lynch has noted, electronic media – particularly television, but increasingly now also the internet – ‘play an integral part in the way in which contemporary daily life can be structured and acted out’ (2005, p. 49). Television can thus be seen as the mediator of our common myths, the place where people ‘construct the meaning of their lives’ (p. 108). The social effects of television are often seen as generally negative: it is widely held to be responsible for the erosion of traditional social structures, family life, and so on. Yet others recognise that it can in fact be both isolating and


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connecting: it undermines some forms of associational activity, while at the same time creating others. Lynch points out that electronically mediated communities can be both a substitute for and a facilitator of real-life social contact (2005, p. 56). TV shows have the capacity to unite people who are not actually present to each other in a shared (albeit abstracted or virtual) experience. If or when people do meet – for example, at work the next day – they have a common experience by means of which to relate to one other, perhaps by talking about the previous night’s episode of a popular soap opera, and discussing the lives and experiences of the characters. Indeed, this aspect of television viewing is considered by many people to be a fundamental part of their total viewing experience, providing as it does an occasion for social interaction. Moreover, viewers do not only talk about soap opera characters, they even write to them as well. Such claims are not based on merely apocryphal anecdotes. In 1998 the Express (30 March 1998) famously ran a front-page headline campaign calling for ‘Justice for Deirdre’, a character who had been sent to prison in an episode of the popular soap opera Coronation Street. This does not necessarily indicate that people cannot tell reality from fiction; but rather that the difference between them has become increasingly blurred or otherwise unimportant. To be part of a television audience, therefore, is to be part of a community, with a shared communal narrative and (at least) a virtual identity. Whether or not one agrees that television has appropriated certain religious functions (as alluded to above), it is surely the case that television has the potential to undermine the role of religion as creator and sustainer of social identity, thus rendering the church obsolete in this particular regard. Indeed, the oft-noted and widespread decline of participation in associational organisations – including churches, political parties and team sports – in favour of personal spirituality, single issue campaigns and working out at a gym or health club, is sometimes linked with our increased dependence on TV, and the social atomisation that appears to be correlated with the development of new media technologies. Now, having subverted the role of religion in this respect, the media is – with all the weight of postmodern irony – selling religion back to us as a commodified product, a simulacrum of spirituality, to fill the gap in our lives that the market actually created in the first place by dehumanising life and thus causing us to infer that there must be ‘something more’. Indeed, the participants in The Monastery were actually described in one TV guide (TV and Satellite Week) as five men ‘looking to fill their spiritual void in the show’ (2005, p. 14). Paradoxically,




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however, by offering a little respite from ‘modern life’, the language of much contemporary spirituality implicitly accepts as normative the ‘modern life’ it purports to critique. Thus this unintentionally ironic statement highlights both the consumerist discourse of modern life’s ‘spiritual void’, and the absurdity implied by the notion that we could seek to fill it ‘in the show’. Spirituality is frequently characterised as a ‘personal quest for meaning’. However, this masks an insidious privatisation of religion, both in terms of subjectivity and commodification, which embodies – perhaps even makes a virtue of – the very individualism and consumerism to which it is often claimed the commitment to faith should be opposed. As Stewart Hoover observes, ‘Religious identity is today oriented towards the “self”. It [ ... ] tends to be more private, subjective, implicit, and reflexive than in the past’ (2003, p. 12). This privatisation has a history going back at least as far as the nineteenth-century liberal protestant tradition of Schleiermacher, and before that to the eighteenth-century enlightenment, but arguably it is only in the latter half of the twentieth century that Carrette and King identify a second privatisation of religion, which has resulted in the erection of altars to individualism and consumerism in pursuance of ‘the self’ (2005, pp. 15ff.). This was perfectly expressed in the Channel Four series broadcast a few weeks after The Monastery called Spirituality Shopper (whose title says it all) in which three people try out various different spiritual ‘products’ to see which works best for them. Noticeably absent from their spiritual ‘practice’, however, were the essential elements of discipline, personal sacrifice and commitment. It was spirituality with all the difficult bits left out. Commenting in the Guardian on some of the issues raised by these two programmes, Giles Fraser highlights the distinction between them in the following terms: The idea that spirituality represents some innate human aspiration to the ultimate is a piece of modern candyfloss that neatly accords with the desire to participate in religion without any of the demands it makes upon you. It’s religion transformed into esoteric self-help for those ‘with something missing’ – could it be a Porsche, could it be a new man, could it be God? For the Christians of the early church, spirituality – not that they would have called it that – was about the death of the old person and the emergence of a new identity modelled on that of Christ. It’s not something that one can dip into or an intriguing and unusual fashion accessory for the person who has nearly everything. (2005, p. 11)


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Lacking a transcendent object outside the self, spirituality in this individualistic form has more to do with affirming rather than moving beyond our egotism, thus ironically reinforcing the very ‘problem’ it sets out to solve. Christianity, on the other hand, has in its prophetic mode always had a profoundly countercultural streak, actively challenging the norms that society at large takes for granted. Indeed, St Benedict makes this point in the Rule when he writes: ‘Your way of acting should be different from the world’s way’ (RB 4.20). This in turn is an echo of St Paul, who – in his letter to the Romans – writes: ‘Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds’ (Romans 12.2). We should not read these injunctions as a command to opt out, or passively retreat from the world to a place of comfort and safety, but rather as a call to be more dynamically engaged with the world, such that we transform it and are in turn ourselves transformed as a result. By contrast, spirituality conceived as a cult of ‘self-improvement’ (strangely paralleling the contemporary obsession with DIY, home improvement, and a plethora of TV ‘makeover’ shows) is not about real change at all, but the subtle reinforcement of existing patterns of the self. In their critique of the commodification of spirituality, Carrette and King claim that The term spirituality has now become the ‘brand-label’ for the search for meaning, values, transcendence, hope and connectedness in ‘advanced capitalist’ societies. The notion works by compartmentalizing questions of human values into an identifiable market space. (2005, p. 32) Spirituality has become a commodified product. However, the spirituality we are sold today – the stripped out rebranded assets of the world’s religious traditions – does little to challenge or transform our lifestyles, other than perhaps making us more productive at work. It is supposed to fill the gap left by materialism, but is in fact a product of materialism. Consumer spirituality does not question the status quo, does not shape the values of the world, but is rather driven by the agendas of self-interest and insatiable consumption to which it masquerades as an alternative. It therefore accommodates to ‘the world’s way’, is part of the problem rather than anything to do with the solution. Under the pretence of being ‘alternative’ it engenders conformism; pretending to offer freedom it perpetuates servile consumerism. As Rowan Williams points out, our present age is both deeply individualistic and deeply




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Our choices are constantly channelled into conformist patterns, and when we try to escape there are often standard routes provided by the very same market – ‘Don’t be like the crowd!’ says the advertisement which is trying to persuade you to do the same as all the other customers it is targeting. (2003, p. 52)

Conclusion Without wishing to detract from all that was good about The Monastery, it is hard to avoid the suspicion that it ended up telling a story that owed more to our collective participation in these prevailing discourses of spiritual commodification than its ostensible subject matter. Although the story was set in a traditional religious context, it selfconsciously promoted ‘spirituality’ rather than religion, thus reinforcing the false dichotomy between them. Thus, the series began with a seemingly open question: is there anything that the ‘lifestyle choice’ of the monastic tradition or, for that matter, religion in general, can offer the modern world? By the time the follow-up programme was made one year later, we apparently had the answer: ‘Yes – it’s good therapy’. Have we all been duped? On the one hand, if the foregoing analysis is correct, then the answer must – to some extent – be affirmative. The Monastery shows us something that appears to be profoundly countercultural, while at the same time subtly undermining its ostensible subject by reinforcing a prevailing discourse of spiritual commodification. On the other hand, however, given the abundant evidence to suggest that consumers regularly use products and ascribe meanings to them in ways quite different to those intended by the producers, should we not give more credence to the viewer’s own account of the programme and their experience of it? After all, the almost unanimous testimony of viewers declared that it was sensitive, intelligent, moving, inspirational, and so on. One of the reasons The Monastery managed to transcend the limitations of television, and had such a profound impact on so many viewers, was that in spite of its underlying narratives, in the real life experiences being depicted, real transformation was occurring. After all, this wasn’t a game-show or a makeover programme. But having said that, while it may be true that the consumer exercises a high degree of autonomy at the point of consumption, this freedom is entirely undermined by the


conformist, whereas properly understood the monastic tradition is neither. We think we are free, but our supposed freedom is actually highly manipulated:


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fact that they have little or no control over what is produced and made available to them. The notion of a customer-driven market is a fanciful myth; the products we choose are chosen for us long before we even know we have the choice to consume them. Our ‘freedom’, therefore, is – at best – severely constrained: for the most part, we are completely seduced by the media, by consumerism, and thus complicit in a web of ‘manufactured consent’. So while it may be true that in spite of the ‘hidden agenda’, many viewers evidently saw something of real spiritual significance in the programme, a question still remains regarding their understanding of these mixed messages. It is possible we have merely responded to consumer spirituality with spiritual consumerism.

References Banks-Smith, Nancy (2005) ‘Kitchen Sink Drama’ The Guardian, 25 May Baudrillard, Jean (1983) Simulations New York: Semiotext[e] Baudrillard, Jean (1998) The Consumer Society London: Sage Bauman, Zygmunt (2002) Society under Siege Cambridge: Polity Press Biressi, Anita and Nunn, Heather (2005) Reality TV: Realism and Revelation London: Wallflower Press Brooke, Simon (2005) ‘The First 30 Years Are the Hardest’ The Daily Telegraph, 24 May Brooker, Charlie (2005) ‘Screen Burn’ The Guardian, 7 May Carrette, Jeremy and King, Richard (2005) Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion London: Routledge Doyle, Olivia (2005) ‘TV Guide’ The Sunday Tribune, 15 May Fitzherbert, Henry (2005) ‘TV Guide’ The Sunday Express, 22 May Fraser, Giles (2005) ‘God’s Been Mugged’ The Guardian, 6 June Fry, Timothy (1982) The Rule of St Benedict in English Collegeville MN: Liturgical Press Hill, Annette (2005) Reality TV: Audiences and Popular Factual Television London: Routledge Hoover, Stewart and Lundby, Knut (1997) Rethinking Media, Religion, and Culture London: Sage Hoover, Stewart (2003) ‘Religion, Media and Identity: Theory and Method in Audience Research on Religion and Media’, in Jolyon Mitchell and S. Marriage (eds) Mediating Religion: Conversations in Media, Religion and Culture London: T & T Clark Hoover, Stewart (2006) Religion in the Media Age Abingdon: Routledge Lynch, Gordon (2005) Understanding Theology and Popular Culture Oxford: Blackwell Postman, Neil (1985) Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business London: Methuen Rowe, Simon (2005) ‘TV Guide’ The Voice Today, 20 May Smith, Giles (2005) ‘Channel Hopper’ The Sunday Telegraph, 8 May TV and Satellite Week (2005) ‘TV Guide’ 13 May




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Williams, Rowan (2003) Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert Oxford: Lion Books Wilson, A. N. (2005) ‘Give Me Monks and Mullahs on TV, not Paxman’ London Evening Standard, 27 May Wintle, Angela (2005) Worth Seeing – A Life Changing Combination of TV and Religion’ Brighton Evening Argus, 7 May


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Living in a Material World: Religious Commodification and Resistance Sharmina Mawani and Anjoom Mukadam

For us sacred things and places are to be protected from defilement. Holiness and impurity are at opposite poles. (Douglas 2002, p. 9) This chapter will explore the impact of immigration on the relationship between religion and consumer culture in Britain. It will focus particularly on the ways in which globalisation and commodification have accelerated the consumption of ‘ethnic’ goods, be they cultural or religious. Whilst for some there are no limits where commodification is concerned, for others there is a clear boundary that cannot be traversed. Religious commodification is an arena in which there is an increasing interest, especially as religious symbols and artefacts are being appropriated by both adherents and non-adherents in an attempt to capitalise on a growing market. As developments in this field are very recent, this chapter will draw on examples cited on the internet. Multidirectional immigration is far from being a new phenomenon and throughout its history Britain has been associated with such movements. Whilst immigration is frequently associated with negative connotations, there are obvious benefits to the host country, which are often overlooked. Mass migration took place at the end of the Second World War when Britain faced huge labour shortages, especially in areas where the work was low-paid, had low status, unsocial working hours and offered poor working conditions. The immigrants’ position in British society was that of ex-colonial subjects who occupied some of the lowest rungs within the employment hierarchy (Brah 1996; Jones 1993 ). For over half a century visible minorities have changed the


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Sharmina Mawani and Anjoom Mukadam

cultural landscape of Britain and whilst initially many of them may have envisaged returning to their countries of origin, with time the ‘myth of return’ diminished and the sojourners began to form roots in Britain. For the newly arrived immigrants there was very little choice when it came to maintaining their own identities, despite the fact that they had brought with them several aspects of their cultural heritage, including religions, art, cuisine, medicine, couture, music and dance. Tragically, in order to be accepted as full and equal citizens of the host community, the immigrants had to ‘assimilate into the national culture, exchange their inherited or imported identity for one derived from their new country and undergo a kind of cultural rebirth’ (Parekh 2008a, p. 83). In the decades following the initial influx of migrants, British society has changed; new terms to describe this pluralism include multiracial, multicultural and multi-ethnic. Where once there was an attempt to annihilate difference, it appears that we are now encouraged to celebrate that difference. However, one should not lose sight of the fact that racism has been rife in Britain since the early days of immigration and that in many respects it was the harsh attitude towards ‘others’ that resulted in the creation of a hybrid identity which otherwise might not have developed among minority ethnic communities. Discrimination continued from the first generation to the second and this lack of acceptance on the part of the majority has led to a very strong revival of ethnic identity (Anwar 1998; Nielsen 2000; Stopes-Roe and Cochrane 1990). Malik equates discrimination with inequality and argues that race came to be the way through which people made sense of the world around them (2001). Derogatory taunts and name-calling included the terms ‘blacks’, ‘wogs’ and ‘Pakis’ (Banton 1983). Abdul, a first-generation migrant of Indian ancestry, clearly recalls the manifestation of racism: ‘When we first came to this country ... overall, it was a really shitty experience because of racism ... violence, bullying ... somebody hits you ... they spit at you!’ (Mukadam 2003, pp. 144ff.). Such racist attacks were often carried out because of the stereotypical manner in which the South Asian community was viewed – brown-skinned ladies clad in cheap polyester saris and bearded men in turbans who smelled of curry and spoke in broken English with a thick Indian accent. Pilkington (2003 p. 42) highlights what he terms the ‘imperialism-racism framework’ to show how being White in British society allowed the belief of domination and superiority, especially in relation to those who had come from countries that previously had been a part of the British Empire. As Parekh (2008b, p. ix) points out ‘With the exception of the Jews,


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few other diasporic communities have suffered as much harassment as the Indian’. The first generation were grateful for being allowed to stay and work in Britain and many found solace in the communal networks they formed, as well as the enclaves in which they lived. Their children have found themselves at a crossroads, having the choice of following the path trodden by their parents – one of subservience and alienation – or creating their own unique trajectory: one of belonging and cultural creativity. In our opinion it is this creativity that has allowed the second generation to find their own unique place in British society, ‘... the key to their success appears to lie in fusion, a blend of East and West that allows for mutual understanding and respect in a multi-ethnic society that now thrives on the notion of pluralism’ (Mukadam 2008, p. 121). It appears that in the 1980s and 90s retailers realised the potential of this arena of fusion not only for those seeking to validate their ethnic identity but also for those interested in partaking in the exotica of multicultural Britain and globalisation in general. Perhaps this was the turning point at which the very symbols used in racist attacks in the 1960s and 70s – saris, henna and bindis – turned into elements of beauty, sophistication and high culture. Globalisation is a term that we readily use and yet it is a recent term that, unlike the notion of modernisation, has an inclusive quality, which Beyer (2007, p. 98) explains as ‘the global expressed in the local and the local as the particularization of the global’. The meeting of cultures often results in the adaptation of certain aspects of one group’s cultural elements by another, and while at first glance it may appear that it is only the minority ethnic communities that are adapting aspects of the dominant culture, a more in-depth examination reveals that there is in fact a mutual exchange. Globalisation has brought with it the complexity of citizenship, ‘race’ and religion, which Cohen calls ‘the fuzzy frontiers of identity’, as it includes geopolitical, political, religious, cultural and physical identities (Cohen 1995). British sociologist Anthony Giddens has put forward the notion that consumerism is ‘simultaneous cause and therapeutic response to the crisis of identities emanating from the pluralization of communities’ (Trentmann 2004, p. 373). According to Stearns (2001, p. ix) ‘consumerism describes a society in which many people formulate their goals in life partly through acquiring goods that they clearly do not need for subsistence or for traditional display’. Studies have shown that shoppers strive to purchase goods which are in opposition to the normative notions of who they are, thereby resisting identities which may be imposed on the


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family or larger community (Douglas, 1997; Miller 2001). Consumerism, therefore, is no longer simply the acquisition of goods and services; it has increasingly become a fundamental way of communicating values and beliefs. This has led to the deterritorialisation and displacement of the goods themselves (Appadurai 1996), or, in other words, commodification, a process of abstraction in which objects are removed from the physical, emotional and relational settings in which they are fabricated and redefined in new terms. In addition to the consumer attributing new meanings to products and services, the media and the marketplace have consistently searched the outer limits of society to find products that can be repackaged and sold to the mainstream. Whilst it appears that this is a new phenomenon, we need only look at the example of the Swastika, originally a symbol of longevity and prosperity, which, due to its adaptable nature, was appropriated by the Nazis as a symbol of nationalism (Balchin 1944). Recently it has been the cultures of India that have been appropriated and commodified. At first, a superficial assessment immediately points to the peculiarity of presenting the myriad of Indian cultures as one homogenous culture. India is a land of over one billion, where each of the twenty-four states has its own official language, and whilst laying claim to one of the six major religions of India, an Indian may also identify with a particular sect or local religion (Verma 1978). In 2004 the Tourism of India website declared that ‘the states of India are more diverse than the countries in Europe’, each with its own unique culture, languages and religions. So, commodifying aspects of Indian culture has resulted in the promotion of a homogenised view of Indian culture and identity. It would appear that while the primary object of commodifying Indian culture may be financial gain, an underlying factor is the promotion of a new national identity – a Britain that is multicultural and cosmopolitan. In view of the shared history of Britain and India it is not surprising that India is still seen as the exotic other, which the mainstream willingly embraces, as indicated by one of May’s (1996, p. 61) respondents: ‘I just love it. I love it because it’s different – a little taste of something more exotic ... Most days I might have an Indian meal, or a Thai meal or a Chinese meal ... .I never just have a cheese omelette, never, it’s boring’. The search, therefore, is for authentic, relatively untouched goods that can be extracted from their Indian space, repackaged and sold to the mainstream, entirely free of Indian influence or control, thereby rendering the original context and meaning of the goods irrelevant. Nevertheless, these goods are marketed to the public with claims of


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authenticity, suggesting that the purchase of specific ‘ethnic’ items from the mainstream market is, for those not of Indian ancestry, one way of accepting and adopting a multicultural ethos; while for those of Indian ancestry such purchases are marketed as a means of reinforcing their Indian ethnic identity. This view is shared by Sonia Deol, a second-generation Indian and presenter on the BBC’s Asian Network radio station, who states about her generation: ‘while ten years ago younger Asians tended to adopt Western tastes in music and fashion, today they are more likely to assert their Asian identity in the way they dress and in what they listen to’ (Higham 2002). In today’s world, consumerism has become an irresistible value-system to the extent that, one could argue, it has almost taken over the role of religion. Pope John Paul II, in his annual World Peace Day message in 1999, equated consumerism to Marxism, Nazism and Fascism and stated that consumerism is ‘no less pernicious ... the effects of material consumerism, in which the exaltation of the individual and the selfish satisfaction of personal aspirations become the ultimate goal of life. In this outlook, the negative effects on others are considered completely irrelevant’. Today’s shrinking material world has led corporations to take commodification into ‘identity spaces’ of culture and society (Hassan 1999). Loy (1997, p. 275) has equated the market to a god that is ‘pretending to offer a secular salvation’. With the escalation of globalisation, consumerism has been seen as a world religion (Dobell 1995). No one would disagree with the claim made by Daly and Cobb (1989, p. 373), that ‘shopping has become the great national pastime’. This obsession, alongside a need for a sense of self, or in other words, an identity, has led to religious artefacts being detached from their traditional symbolism and objectified, a process that is known as the commodification of religion (Mawani 2006). In contemporary Western societies it appears that boundaries that were previously considered sacrosanct are no longer being maintained, especially where marketing professionals and retailers are concerned. The commercialisation of religious holidays is a familiar phenomenon, as is evidenced by last-minute shoppers frantically searching for the perfect gift on Christmas Eve and the sudden appearance of chocolate bunnies and eggs, associated with Easter, on store shelves in late January. While traditionalists attempt to revert to the original meaning of religious holidays, retailers are wary of projecting these holidays in a manner that is too religious for fear of losing non-practising and nonChristian consumers (Bates 2001; Chapter 11). As Mukadam’s (2003) research amongst second-generation British Gujaratis shows, 38 per




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cent of her Nizari Ismaili Muslim and Swaminarayan Hindu respondents claimed to celebrate Christmas, showing that the observance of religious holidays is no longer restricted strictly to adherents. Artefacts whose rightful place was once deemed to be within the religious sphere have been appropriated, stripped of their traditional meaning and sold as commodities in the marketplace in an effort to offer individuals an opportunity to enhance their identity, or even create a whole new identity. Rosaries and crosses are now part of the fashion accessory industry and sculptures of the Buddha have become decorative ornaments available for purchase in High Street stores. There is no shortage of worldrenowned celebrities who are walking, talking advertising campaigns for the objectification of religious symbols. Madonna, for example, has used the image of the crucifixion in her live shows and incorporated Sanskrit chants in her songs. Taking religious images out of their original contexts and bringing them into the marketplace removes the symbols and doctrines attached to the images, thereby diminishing the respect and reverence given to such objects in the religious arena. In most cases, signifiers of religious traditions are exoticised and made into material objects of desire. In a religious context these images/symbols of the faith are used by adherents to evoke feelings of love and longing for the Divine. Ironically, commodification results in others, often non-adherents, longing for the material goods onto which the image is transferred. Recently retailers have begun to take commercialisation to a new level, where religious symbols are being plastered on everyday objects, often at the risk of being disrespectful of the religious establishment as well as its adherents. Commodified religious artefacts are promoted with the aim of selling religious icons, albeit stripped of their symbolism, appealing to those disenchanted with organised religions, in an effort, perhaps, to attract them with a false sense of security and happiness. There is no doubt that these retailers are also targeting the adherents of particular religions, perhaps with the message that purchasing such goods will reinforce their religious identity. Such marketing of a medley of religious artefacts almost sanctions those who have no definitive membership of a particular religion to pick and mix elements from different religions to create their own individual patchwork ‘religious’ identity. It appears that the market has created an environment where one can now shop for a ‘religious’ identity, whereas previously such artefacts were only available in places of worship. While it may not be fashionable to openly declare association with an organised religion, the public display of religious symbols, such as


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Hindu gods on t-shirts, was dictated by fashion magazines to be the latest craze in the summer of 2002. The precise genesis of this fad is difficult to pinpoint, but it may have been somewhere in 1997 when Nike placed a logo resembling flames on a line of running shoes, which corresponded with the Arabic word for God, Allah. Although the name Allah is most commonly associated with Islam, the word is not specific to Islam; Arab Christians and Jews also use the word to refer to God. In Islam, a figure of Allah is not drawn or depicted in any way, as it may lead to idol worship. However, written in Arabic calligraphy the word is used to adorn mosques and homes. When the outraged Muslim community threatened a global Nike boycott, the running shoe was recalled, Nike apologised for offending Muslims and stressed that ‘through this process, [they have] developed a deeper understanding of Islamic concerns and Islamic issues and ... have opened up a broader dialogue with members of the Islamic community’ (MSNBC 1997). It appears that this incident alongside the events of September 11, 2001 have led marketing professionals and retailers to refrain from using Islamic symbols on mundane goods; instead, they turned their attention to Hindu symbols. This is not to say that other religions have escaped unscathed. On the contrary, Christian and Buddhist symbols have also been targets of commodification. The US-based company Blue Q found themselves in the middle of a dispute in early 2008 after releasing a product range entitled ‘Looking Good for Jesus’, in the hopes of appealing to the fifteen percent of Singapore’s population who are Christians. Merchandise, like the Looking Good for Jesus bubble bath, is advertised on the Blue Q website in the following manner: ‘Follow in his footsteps. Take the plunge with a soak in everlasting Citrus and Juniper suds that make you feel like you’re walking on water.’ While the lip balm claims to ‘Returns lips to near virgin quality. Virtuous vanilla flavor protects and preserves.’ Since the complaints, the range has been removed from stores in Singapore but can still be purchased through Blue Q’s website, as well as other popular online shopping websites such as Amazon. Another of Blue Q’s ranges that can be classified as commodification of religion is their ‘Wash Away Your Sins’ range, which consists of towelettes, breath spray, lip balm and soap. With the tagline ‘For liars, cheaters & wrongdoers’, according to the Blue Q website this merchandise is: ‘Formulated to soothe guilty conscience and kill sins on contact. And smell divine! Blue Q is the World Leader in Sin Removal Products, and whether your salvation comes in a pump, spray or tube, Wash Away Your Sins lets you commune with confidence. Save yourself, save others!’




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Later that same year, the British-owned hair products company ghd, whose slogan is ‘a new religion for hair.’ launched a television advertising campaign in the UK for the ghd IV hair styling equipment which featured a woman clad in lingerie, sitting at the edge of a bed with a rosary in her hands. The text across the screen read ‘ghd IV thy will be done’, followed by ‘ghd a new religion for hair’, where the letter ‘t’ was fashioned to resemble the Christian cross. The Advertising Standards Authority in the UK deemed the commercial offensive and instructed ghd to ensure it was not aired again (BBC News, 2008). Ghd still continues to use the slogan ‘a new religion for hair’, and has added a new feature to their website, Goddess Gospels, which leads one to a webpage containing four different sections – Euphoria, Creation, Praise and Enlightenment – that provide information on what’s new, styling videos, fashion trends and advice from the expert style team, respectively. It appears that the founders of organised religions are increasingly becoming the prime targets of commodification. Buddhabrilliant. com, an online shopping website, has taken Unilever’s ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ brand of margarine to new heights with ‘I can’t believe it’s not Buddha’ printed on t-shirts. Another example includes lyrics from the Righteous Brothers’ song, ‘He ain’t heavy, He’s my brother’, which have been transformed to ‘He ain’t heavy, He’s my Buddha’. The following statement aims to justify their choice of marketed merchandise: ‘Although the T-shirts on this website may seem lighthearted, they are purposefully designed to respect the peaceful people of Buddhism’. Whilst no religious traditions seem to have escaped this rampant exploitation, it is arguable that the Hindu tradition’s exotic allure has attracted the greatest attention in the marketplace. An important factor in the significant emergence of products bearing Hindu motifs may have been the explosion of Indian culture that hit the streets of Britain in the summer of 2002 (Mukadam 2003). In producing such merchandise, retailers and marketing professionals failed to take into account that the symbols on which they were capitalising were sacred to a large Hindu community residing in the West. While images of Hindu deities adorn rickshaws, phone booths and tea stalls in India and are often used in television advertisements, they ‘are always done with an unquestionable reverence for the divine’ (Caswell 2004). As Gagan Kanwar, a software developer in Austin, Texas, points out: ‘as long as the religious icons are not desecrated or ridiculed there should be no reason to worry’ (Caswell 2004). In


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Hinduism, Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth and fortune, as well as luck, beauty and fertility. She is also considered to be the mother of the universe. Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god, is Lord of success and destroyer of evils and obstacles. He is also worshipped as the god of education and wisdom. Representations of Ganesh are based on thousands of years of religious symbolism and thus have never been claimed to be exact replications of a living figure. Ganesh is seen not as a physical entity but a higher spiritual being, and statuerepresentations act as symbols of the divine. The Hindu Goddess Kali is seen as the Great Mother and Ultimate Reality. Astonishingly, it was in a sacrilegious manner that the images of Hindu deities were used distastefully on merchandise, like flip-flops by Laceys Footwear bearing images of Ganesh, bikinis with the image of Lakshmi by Italian designer Roberto Cavalli and, most shockingly of all, the images of Kali and Ganesh used as decorative features on toilet seats. These blasphemous actions have led the Hindu Human Rights organisation to accuse businesses of trying ‘to gain a quick buck in the name of the beauty of Hindu culture’. In addition, the Oxford Street department store Selfridges launched a line of cakes decorated with images of Hindu deities. Initial complaints from the Hindu community brought empty promises to remove the cakes from store shelves. As the complaints intensified, Selfridges eventually removed and destroyed the cakes. Bimal Krishna Das, a member of the National Council of Hindu Temples, explains why these cakes were seen as a defamation of Hindu deities: Our theology states that sacred images must be treated with the utmost reverence ... The idea of cutting and eating an image of a god is incredibly offensive, far worse than, for example, spitting on it. Also, having the image in contact with animal products – eggs – is a desecration. It is enormously disrespectful to the Hindu community, and symbolic of the way our gods are increasingly used for capitalist promotions. (Methven 2002) Although there is a small minority of Hindus who feel that these items are a means by which the West can be educated about Hinduism as they ‘may spark interest and at the very least a conversation’ about Hinduism, the majority still feel that commodifying Hinduism ‘encourages only a cursory knowledge of Hinduism’ which will decline when the fad disappears (Caswell 2004). It is quite clear that there




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is blatant resistance to the commodification of religion, but could this be because the religious artefacts are being appropriated by nonadherents? Would adherents see the commodification of religion as more authentic if the adherents themselves were promoting religious products? While the above examples illustrate the manner in which entrepreneurs are utilising religious symbols that they do not hold sacred, there are others, in this case, Jews and Muslims, who are capitalising on symbols from their own faiths. In Judaism, the skullcap or yarmulke is traditionally worn by men, especially during prayer. In the Spring of 2004, New York designer K.S., inspired by the lyrics of an MC Paul Barman song, ‘I couldn’t stay calm because she revealed a bra made of two yarmulkes,’ decided to make the fantasy a reality and imported yarmulkes from Israel to make her lingerie. The bras, which are priced from $55 to $65, are available in three styles: Bat-Mitzvah, Boobooshka and Sports. Charles Golding, Chief Editor of London’s Jewish News, stated ‘It’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel ... it is in very poor taste.’ In defence of her ‘art’ K.S. made the following statement: ‘My work combines religion, sexuality and humor ... .It’s my art, but I don’t want people to freak out and take it too seriously’ (New York Observer 2004). The faith of Islam has not escaped this global trend and it too is being commodified by those practising the faith. Launched in 2004, Mecca Cola was the innovation of French businessman Tawfiq Mathlouthi, whose aim was to create a product that would incorporate Islamic values, appeal to Muslim sentiments and compete with Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola. His brand was named ‘Mecca Cola’ – a clear exploitation of Islam’s holiest city – as a way of attracting his target group. Clearly, there is the hidden subtext that anyone who drinks this product is supporting Islamic ideals. Developed in response to an increase in anti-American sentiment in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 attacks, the main objective of Mecca Cola is to provide consumers an alternative to American goods. Mathlouthi asserts that by donating ten per cent of all profits to Palestinian charities and another ten per cent to European NGOs he is ‘launching a humanitarian business. CocaCola is not the first, we are the first’ (Message 2004). In fact, Coca-Cola’s preference not to publicise its charitable donations through advertising campaigns should not lead one to conclude that it is inactive in this sphere. From motivating children to stay in school to combating the HIV/AIDS epidemic in Africa, according to its website, the Coca-Cola


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foundation is committed to improving the quality of life of people around the world. Over the last ten years the Foundation has donated over $124 million dollars in support of programmes in the education sector alone. While Mecca Cola asserts that it is a company built on Islamic principles its slogan, ‘No more drinking stupid, drink with commitment’, appears to encourage anti-American sentiments, rather than attempting to build bridges with America. In addition, such a slogan would suggest that Muslims residing in America must make a choice, Islam or America. Those American Muslims who choose to drink anything other than Mecca Cola are being told that they need to reassess their loyalties (Murphy 2003). Sadly, Mathlouthi fails to realise that one can be both American and Muslim and perhaps that is why the distribution of Mecca Cola has not reached North America. It seems that a spokesperson for Coca-Cola recognised the true intentions of Mecca Cola when he stated that Mathlouthi had ‘identified a commercial opportunity which involves the exploitation in Europe of the difficult and complex situation in the Middle East’ (Murphy). In parallel with Mecca Cola, British entrepreneur Zafer Iqbal endorsed the term qibla, the direction for prayer and the point of orientation to the Kaba in Mecca, as the name for his soft drink. Like Mathlouthi, Iqbal alleges that his is a company based on Islamic foundations and ten per cent of all profits are donated to charities locally and in the Third World. Qibla-Cola is relying on consumers, Muslims and non-Muslims alike, who are angry about the way in which Muslims have been treated in the aftermath of the events of September 11, 2001. Abdul Hamid Ebrahim of Qibla-Cola states that their slogan, ‘Liberate your taste’, emerged because ‘people in the world, especially in the Third World, feel occupied on all levels ... So, their taste has become colonized to an extent. What we’re saying is for consumers to liberate their consumer behaviour’ (CBC 2003). Regardless of attempts by Iqbal to lure consumers to switch to a soft drink with Islamic values, competition is fierce, with small Arab grocery stores in London still selling four times more cases of Coca-Cola than Qibla-Cola (Clickwalla 2004). However, in Birmingham, where there is a large population of Muslims of Pakistani ancestry, the story is somewhat different, as Khalid Hussain, Director of Pak Supermarkets in Birmingham, illustrates: ‘Qibla is definitely outselling Coca-Cola within our group [of five shops] in Birmingham’ (Message 2004). Qibla-Cola has now found its way to other European cities and Canada (Clickwalla 2004).




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As the aim of both Qibla-Cola and Mecca Cola is to rival the Americanbased Coca-Cola which propagates the notion that ‘if you drink CocaCola you will contribute to the brotherhood of man’ (Message 2004) they are vigorously encouraging Muslims to contribute towards a united Muslim brotherhood, as a Qibla-Cola representative explained: ‘Coke, Pepsi, both sell an American dream. We also wish to sell a dream. We want to sell an Islamic dream’ (Message 2004). While Qibla-Cola and Mecca Cola stress that their product is different from that of CocaCola, journalists at a press conference in Casablanca, Morocco, were not convinced: Female Journalist 1: My question is about your visuals, it looks a lot like Coca-Cola. Tawfiq Mathlouthi: I don’t mean to be rude, but you need to visit the optician and get your eyes tested. The visual is totally different from Coca-Cola – we have four colours and not two. This big American brand has only two, red and white. Ours is the colour of the Palestinian flag, we have black, green, red and white. And I don’t think the company from Atlanta supports Palestine. Female Journalist 2: In terms of the visual, I’m sorry but you haven’t convinced me at all. At first glance I saw the red and white and thought it was Coca-Cola. (Message 2004) Mark Pendergrast, author of For God, Country and Coca-Cola, a comprehensive history of the Coca-Cola company, explains the similarities between Mecca Cola and Coca-Cola: ‘It’s amazing to me how similar it [Mecca Cola] is – they have the same dynamic ribbon that was invented by Coca-Cola in 1969. It has the same red and white colouring, it has the same kind of script’ (Message 2004). Although claiming to sell a product that is unique, the packaging of Mecca Cola and Qibla-Cola seems to be uncannily similar to that of Coca-Cola. A more recent product is the Ummah Caramel chocolate bar, which was launched in May 2004 by the UK-based Ummah Foods, and which resembles the Galaxy Caramel chocolate bar produced by the Mars Company. The chocolate bar aims to fill a gap in the market for Muslim consumers who have a sweet tooth and require a halal chocolate bar. Ummah Foods guarantees that its chocolate bar has not come into contact with alcohol or meat products: even the glue in the wrapping is not manufactured from animal products. The aim of Ummah Foods is to ensure that ten per cent of its profits is donated to local and global


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charities, both Muslim and non-Muslim. In an effort to support Islamic art Ummah Foods commissioned young Muslim artists to design the packaging for Ummah Caramel. Whilst Qibla-Cola and Mecca Cola are clearly exploiting Islam for profit, one may question whether the primary aim of Khalid Sharif, the man behind Ummah Foods, is to fulfil a genuine need of the Muslim community, or whether he is also profit-motivated. A closer look into the history of Ummah Foods reveals that prior to producing the now acclaimed halal chocolate bar, Ummah Foods attempted and failed to launch 29 other products (Enterprise UK 2010). Furthermore, in an article on Ummah Foods’ own website, Sharif is quoted as stating ‘We found that chocolate is the only product that sells more than cola.’ Such statements lead us to believe that Ummah Foods is clearly creating a need, rather than filling one, which places them in the same camp as Qibla-Cola and Mecca Cola, where religion is being manipulated for profit. The fact that a new niche market has been uncovered is a credit to the business acumen of the individuals involved. However, personally, we feel that these products are an exploitation of Islam and its adherents by businessmen who are only interested in financial gain – it is nothing more than the commodification of religion and does not serve to promote Islamic values, such as peace and brotherhood. Capitalising on religion and religious icons is not always about offending one group or another. Salaam, Abdul-Malik Ahmad and Naeem Muhammad, three young black Muslim-Americans have come together to form Native Deen and are tapping into the Muslim market by rapping about Islam. Described as the ‘hip-hop group that puts The Prophet before profit’ (Parry 2003), Native Deen are drawing on their Muslim identity in an effort to relate to other young Muslims growing up in America, and at the same time educate Americans about Islam. Their songs are about religious duties, pride in being a Muslim and tensions that may arise when practicing Islam in a secular society. Salaam explains the manner in which women are portrayed in their songs: ‘You’ll never find anything in our lyrics that’s degrading to women – never ... When there are references to women, they’re either about praising our mothers or about how much we love our wives’ (Donaldson-Evans 2002). One of their most popular songs, M-U-S-L-I-M, encourages Muslim youth to be proud of their religious identity. Although they charge $600 to perform at weddings and conventions, there are strict conditions that must be adhered to at all of their performances: alcohol must be absent and there cannot be




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any mixed dancing. In addition, to ensure that no Muslim group is offended, Native Deen only use percussion and voices in their songs (Donaldson-Evans 2002; Parry 2003). Native Deen are representative of a small minority of enterprises who are utilising religious symbols to promote public awareness about their religion (Clark 2007; Mawani 2006). In the past, being a member of an organised religious group was the norm for communities as a whole, and the desacralisation of religious icons and symbols would probably have resulted in some form of punitive action. Today the West has become more liberal and religion has lost its position as the binding force of society and as a key marker of group identity. Whilst participation in organised religion per se may be on the decline in the West, it appears that religious symbols and traditions have taken on a new lease of life in the arena of everyday consumption. The commodification of religion seems to have taken place gradually and silently, permeating contemporary consumer culture. Recently this phenomenon has become more widely visible and has gained momentum due to increased globalisation and transmigration. Whilst the commodification of mundane cultural elements has been accepted, there has been a marked and sometimes vocal resistance to the commodification of religious symbols and artefacts. Despite this resistance, as is evident from the numerous websites selling commodities adorned with religious images, it seems that the exploitation of religious icons is a business venture that marketing professionals and retailers are willing to embark on, regardless of the offence it may cause to devout adherents. While organisations like Hindu Human Rights and the Council on American-Islamic Relations are trying to ensure religious symbols are not desacralised, sadly, some adherents are campaigning vigorously to capitalise on symbols from their own religion. In conclusion, religion in its traditional form may be changing, but it is clear that both adherents and non-adherents are drawn to religious artefacts and symbols that have been in existence for centuries. The question now is whether or not they can continue to coexist in an environment where there is a tension between the sacred and the mundane. We have seen that when consumer culture crosses the fine line drawn by adherents resistance ensues, but whether this will prevent continued religious commodification is unclear. From our findings it appears that although we live in a material world, there is always a need for negotiation as the past confronts the present.


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Appadurai, Arjun (1996) Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press Anwar, Muhammad (1998) Between Cultures: Continuity and Change in the Lives of Young Asians London: Routledge Balchin, Willliam G. V. (1944) ‘The Swastika’ Folklore 55(4), pp. 167–8 Banton, Michael (1983) ‘Categorical and Statistical Discrimination’ Ethnic and Racial Studies 6(4), pp. 269–83 Bates, Stephen (2001) ‘Let’s Leave Christ out of Christmas’ The Guardian 24 December, http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2001/dec/24/christmas.stephenbates (consulted on 8 February 2005) BBC News (2008) ‘Hair Prayer Ads Ruled “Offensive” ’ BBC News 12 March Beyer, P. (2007) ‘Globalization and Glocalization’, in James Beckford and N. J. Demerath III (eds) The Sage Handbook of the Sociology of Religion London: Sage. pp. 98–117 Brah, Avtar (1996) Cartographies of Diaspora London: Routledge Caswell, Michelle (2004) The God Commodity www.redhotcurry.com/views/hindugod_lunchbox.htm (consulted on 28 March 2004) CBC (2003) ‘Qibla-Cola, the Real Thing for Muslims’ CBC News 8 August www. cbc.ca/cgi-bin/templates/print.cgi?/2003/08/08/cola_030808 (consulted on 24 February 2004, page no longer live) Clark, Lynn Schofield (2007) ‘Introduction’, in Lynn Schofield Clark (ed) Religion, Media and the Marketplace New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, pp. 1–36 Clickwalla (2004)’The Launch of Qibla Cola’ www.clickwalla.com/article. php?cid=19&aid-=1577 (consulted on 24 February 2004, page no longer live) Cohen, Robin (1995) ‘The Fuzzy Frontiers of Identity: The British Case’ Social Identities 1(1), pp. 35–62 Daly, H. and Cobb, J. (1989) For the Common Good: Redirecting the Economy Toward Community, the Environment, and a Sustainable Future, Boston: Beacon Press Dobell, A. Rodney (1995) ‘Environmental Degradation and the Religion of the Market’, in Harold G. Coward (ed) Population, Consumption, and the Environment Albany: State University of New York Press, pp. 229–50. Donaldson-Evans, Catherine (2002) ‘Muslim Musicians Rap About Islam’ Fox News www.foxnews.com/printer_friendly_story/0,3566,65540,00.html (consulted on 14 February 2005) Douglas, Mary (1997) ‘In Defence of Shopping’, in Pasi Falk and Colin B. Campbell (eds) The Shopping Experience London: Sage, pp. 15–30 Douglas, Mary (2002) Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo London: Routledge Enterprise UK (2010) ‘Khalid Sharif’ Enterprise UK, www.enterpriseuk.org/ inspiring_stories/khald_sharif (consulted on 2 February 2010, page no longer live) Hassan, Robert (1999) ‘Globalization: Information Technology and Culture within the Space Economy of Late Capitalism’ Information, Communication & Society 2(3), pp. 300–17


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Higham, Nick (2002) ‘Asian Media’s Bright Future’ BBC News http://news.bbc. co.uk/1/low/entertainment/tv_and_radio/2367945.stm (consulted on 5 April 2003) Jones, Trevor (1993) Britain’s Ethnic Minorities: An Analysis of the Labour Force Survey London: Policy Studies Institute Loy, David R. (1997) ‘The Religion of the Market’ Journal of the American Academy of Religion 65(2), pp. 275–90 Malik, Kenan (2001) ‘The Changing Meaning of Race’, http://www.kenanmalik. com/lectures/race_oxford1.html (consulted on 29 January 2002) Mawani, Sharmina (2006) The Construction of Identities Amongst Young Adult Nizari Ismaili Muslims in Toronto and Mumbai, Unpublished PhD Thesis, SOAS, University of London May, Jon (1996) ‘ “A Little Taste of Something More Exotic”: The Imaginative Geographies of Everyday Life’ Geography 81, pp. 57–64 Message in a Bottle (2004) BBC 2 (aired on 22 February 2004) Methven, Charlie (2002) ‘Icing on the Cake is Too Much for Hindu Shoppers’ The Telegraph 15 May www.opinion.telegraph.co.uk (consulted on 21 May 2002, page no longer live) Miller, Daniel (2001) The Dialectics of Shopping Chicago: University of Chicago Press MSNBC (1997) ‘Nike Apologizes to Muslim Community’ (consulted on 8 February 2005, page no longer live) Mukadam, Anjoom (2003) Gujarati Speakers in London: Age, Gender and Religion in the Construction of Identity, Unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Reading Mukadam, Anjoom (2008) ‘Shattering Stereotypes: Post-Diasporic Swaminarayan Gujaratis in London’, in Anjoom Mukadam and Sharmina Mawani (eds) Gujaratis in the West: Evolving Identities in Contemporary Society Newcastle UK: Cambridge Scholars Press, pp. 106–26 Murphy, Verity (2003) ‘Mecca Cola Challenges US Rival’ BBC News 8 January (consulted on 24 February 2004) Nielsen, Jørgen S. (2000) ‘Muslims in Britain: Ethnic Minorities, Community, or Ummah?’, in Harold G. Coward, John R. Hinnells and Raymond B. Williams (eds) The South Asian Religious Diaspora in Britain, Canada, and the United States New York : State University of New York Press, pp. 109–26 New York Observer (2004) ‘Simon Says’ New York Observer 1 March Parekh, Bhikhu (2008a) A New Politics of Identity London: Palgrave Macmillan —— (2008b) ‘Foreword’, in Anjoom Mukadam and Sharmina Mawani (eds) Gujaratis in the West Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, pp. ix–xi Parry, Wayne (2003) ‘Rapping for Allah’ Toronto Star 2 February Pilkington, Andrew (2003) Racial Disadvantage and Ethnic Diversity in Britain London: Palgrave Macmillan Stearns, Peter N. (2001) Consumerism in World History: The Global Transformation of Desire London: Routledge Stopes-Roe, Mary and Cochrane, Raymond (1990) Citizens of This Country: The Asian-British Clevedon: Multilingual Matters Trentmann, Frank (2004) ‘Beyond Consumerism: New Historical Perspectives on Consumption’ Journal of Contemporary History 39(3), pp. 373–401


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Sustaining Spiritualities in Consumer Cultures Lyn Thomas

This book considers religions as possible sources of critiques of excessive consumerism, and motivators of a more responsible approach to resources, whilst simultaneously recognising and exploring the interrelationships between the two, that is, the consumption practices associated with and generated by religions, and the ways in which religions themselves can become commodified. In this chapter I will attempt to deepen the discussion of the relationships between consumerism, ecology and spirituality, encompassing, in the case of the last, practices and beliefs outside the world’s classic religions. In bringing together these areas I am attempting to explore how in the contemporary world they are in flux, and how in their transformations they impact, and might impact on each other. Whilst it is hoped that some of the areas of the discussion will have a broader relevance, it is focused on the cultural context I am most familiar with, contemporary Britain. The first challenge in approaching this topic is what is understood by the word ‘spirituality’, a notoriously fuzzy concept, with an equally ‘fuzzy’ boundary with religion (Zinnbauer et al. 1997). The notion of ‘secular spirituality’, or spirituality which is independent of religious traditions, is now a commonplace, with scholars such as Kourie emphasising that ‘it is possible to practise a deep spirituality without necessarily being religious in the accepted understanding of the world’ (Kourie 2006, p. 24; Van Ness 1996). Inevitably, there will be as many understandings of the term ‘spirituality’ as there are readers and users of it, since it attempts to encapsulate that which cannot easily be defined, an area of human experience which is both culturally specific in its expressions and attempting to cross boundaries and speak to universal dimensions of human life: the need for meaning, purpose and consolation, particularly in the face of suffering and death. Zinnbauer et al. (1997)


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comment that ‘while religiousness historically included both individual and institutional elements, spirituality is now commonly regarded as an individual phenomenon and identified with such things as personal transcendence, supraconscious sensitivity and meaningfulness’ (Zinnbauer et al. 1997 p. 551). As Inge Daniels’ discussion of the material nature of religious practices in the Japanese home suggests, however, spirituality can take more collective and less internalised forms in different cultural contexts, and, I would argue, almost always has a material dimension or expression (Daniels 2003). Kourie, similarly, in her discussion of the contemporary ‘turn’ to spirituality of both religious and secular inspiration, argues that whilst spirituality is always concerned with ‘self-transcendence’, it should not be automatically associated with ‘piety’ or ‘otherworldiness’ (Kourie 2006, p. 22). Heelas and Woodhead chart the rise of spirituality outside mainstream faith traditions in their well-known research on holistic practices in Kendal, Cumbria. They conclude that the increase in holistic spiritual practices outside religious congregations is connected to the ‘subjective turn’ of contemporary Western society, ‘a turn away from life lived in terms of external or ‘objective’ roles, duties and obligations, and a turn towards life lived by reference to one’s own subjective experiences’ (Heelas and Woodhead 2005, p. 2). Thus, while spirituality clearly thrives within classic religions, and is particularly developed in some branches of them, such as Sufism in Islam or the monastic tradition in Christianity, increasingly, though still marginally, in contemporary Western societies, the experience and practice of spirituality also takes place outside established religions. Examples would range from ‘new’ religions, such as ‘New Age’ spiritualities, ‘reclaimed’ cultural traditions such as various forms of paganism, or holistic practices such as yoga (Heelas and Woodhead 2005). This chapter attempts to discuss spirituality in general terms, rather than analysing in depth the differences between the various practices. Since I am dealing, then, with the general rather than the specific, my personal interpretations will inevitably play a part. The ‘personal’, however, is also socially and culturally determined, and the subjective lens through which this chapter is conceived and written has a specific social location; so does, of course, the academic voice, though this is less often remarked upon. The conception of spirituality presented here is influenced by world religions, particularly Christianity, since they form part of my own culture. Like the New Age spiritual practices discussed by Heelas and Woodhead, it is influenced by the cultural openness to religions such


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as Buddhism which characterised some youth cultures of 1960s Britain. Though I was not directly influenced by, nor a participant in the ‘hippy’ culture’s exploration of Indian religions, that cultural moment was in the background of my youth, and therefore an influence on the thinking here. Christianity, which was strongly present in one side of my family and largely absent in the other, is a stronger influence, since it was my chosen form of spiritual expression in extreme youth, and again, in later life, is making a ‘twitch upon the thread’ (Waugh 1945). The final element in this formation is the long years of secular life in between, and the often fiercely atheist milieu of the intellectual middle class (and especially the left) to which I now belong. In all these senses I do not speak of spirituality with the authority of an established practitioner, but rather as a novice, whose spirituality, like that of others of my generation, is a ‘bricolage’ of disparate elements (Roof 1999, see below). Spirituality, then, is understood here as an aspect of human thought and activity which is associated with the search for a deeper sense of wellbeing and meaning than that provided by other strong motivating forces in human life – work, play, relationships, material comfort or even wealth; it is seen here, however, not just as a quest, but also as a practice, whether religious or secular, of contemplation or meditation, of stepping back from the rush of every day life, however momentarily. It is sometimes associated with particular forms of words, with sacred texts or prayers, but equally is often seen to have reached its most authentic expression when a ‘beyond language’ state is reached or aspired for, an emptying of the mind. The central characteristic of the notion of spirituality I am mobilising here is, then, meditation or prayer, the attempt to ‘listen to’ silence. This may be allied to an energetic engagement with the world, and in this sense is not, to use Kourie’s term, ‘otherworldly’. However, my notion of spirituality as a practice of quietness which may (or may not) underpin a dynamic and justice-seeking activity in the world, lends it a narrower focus than that, for instance, of Kourie. For Kourie, spirituality ‘refers to the values to which we subscribe which give meaning and orientation to our lives’ (2006, p. 26); self-transcendence, in her view, may occur through passionate pursuit of power or success, and she argues that the latter can also function as ‘the referents of spirituality’ (p. 23). The vision I am presenting here is less all-embracing than this, and based on the notion, common to many religions, that ‘self-transcendence’ requires a sustained effort to reach beyond the promptings of ego. As Nicholas Buxton points out, ‘prayer, like listening (which is actually what prayer is all about), is a state in which we need


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to be both relaxed and alert at the same time’ (Buxton 2008, p. 141). Mental activity cannot be halted, but it can be noted, and reduced as far as possible to stillness or a kind of shimmering of the mind. This is usually separate from everyday life, and matched by a still posture, whether standing, kneeling or sitting cross-legged. This practice is often accompanied and assisted by a focus on the breath. Becoming aware of the breath calms the mind and brings us back into the present moment. When being still and noticing the breath we are living at the most basic and minimal level, but also, paradoxically, potentially at the most profound. In terms of the themes of this book, interestingly, we are in these moments consuming only the barest minimum needed to sustain life. Being in the present moment, rather than allowing our thoughts to wander to the past or the future, is an important aspect of this process. It is surprisingly difficult, and can clearly extend beyond the meditation practice to an attitude to the whole of life, where we might strive to live fully in the moment, and to appreciate the ‘now’. In his famous description of Emma Bovary’s ennui with her quiet life married to a country doctor, Flaubert contrasts her dreams of exotic journeys with the simple beauties she cannot see: ‘On fine days she went down into the garden. The dew had left its lace on the cabbages, long silver threads, stretching from one to another’ (Flaubert 1966, p. 97). Earlier, in his description of her convent education, Flaubert provides the analysis of Emma’s ennui: If she had grown up in a room at the back of a shop in a commercial district perhaps she could have been inspired by the lyrical beauties of nature, which generally we rely on writers to translate for us. But she knew the countryside too well, the sounds of the animals, the milking, the ploughing. Used to gently rolling landscapes, she preferred dramatic inclines. She only liked the sea for the storms, and greenery only if it adorned ruins. (Flaubert 1966, p. 71) Flaubert implies here that art is necessary to reveal the beauties that ordinary, everyday experience offers, and which, like Emma, we often eschew in favour of more vivid or extreme experiences. Looking, as well as listening, is part of the ‘presence in the present’ with which spirituality is often associated. As in the quotation from Flaubert, awareness and appreciation of the natural world are part of some traditions and practices and it is perhaps this aspect of spirituality which explains the openness of some environmental movements (discussed in the Introduction) to the spiritual dimension. Thus, there is a sense, in this conceptualisation of spirituality, of being aware of the world and its




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beauty and of being fully alive; this is often expressed in religious traditions as appreciation of, and thanks for the gift of life, the life around us and in us. The idea of being in, and appreciating, the present moment leads to further dimensions of spirituality beyond the practice of prayer or meditation, namely its presence in everyday life activities through a mindful attention to them. In her discussion of environmental activism among Roman Catholic women, Sarah McFarland Taylor quotes the co-founder of ‘Sisters of Earth’, Mary Southard: ‘I love to cook as a spiritual exercise, eat in silence, having set two places (one for me and one for the Beloved), have candlelight, eat mindfully, grateful for the beings who give their lives to be food ... Praying that my life (our lives) may be good food for one another’ (McFarland Taylor 2006, p. 459). Such mindful attention is equally feasible and valuable in secular contexts, and again we are reminded of the inextricability of the material and the spiritual. In her exploration of the spatial aspects of the ‘secular sacred’ Kim Knott describes how the ritual of dining can become sacralised in contexts lacking any religious intent: ‘The domestic dining space can be produced as a sacred space on certain occasions set apart from everyday routine’ (Knott 2002, pp. 58ff.). Knott describes how the transformation of the domestic space is achieved by attention to details such as candles and flowers and the observance of social codes and conventions relating to dress, gift-giving and decoration of the table. Knott concludes that the boundaries between religion and non-religion, and between secular and sacred, are more blurred than is commonly imagined, and that the construction of community through the creation of ‘special occasions’ is an important feature of social interaction (and one might add, wellbeing). In terms of my discussion of spirituality this kind of activity has two pertinent aspects: firstly, the spiritual practice of being mindful and aware of the pleasures and processes of activities such as eating in ordinary everyday life, and secondly, the need for sacralised occasions. Belk et al. (1989) argue that consumption is a ‘vehicle for transcendent experience’ and that increasingly we are observing the ‘applicability of the concept of the sacred to the secular context of consumption’ (Belk et al. 1989 p. 2, p. 8). Whilst this may lead to forms of excessive or conspicuous consumption, for example in Christmas celebrations, recognition of this potential for a spiritual dimension in everyday activities encompassing consumption practices is important. As Crocker and Linden argue, the key question is ‘how much is enough?’ (1998, p. 7); or, can we, unlike Emma Bovary, learn to appreciate the beauty of grey skies rather than dreaming of flying to brilliant blue?


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Spirituality is also commonly viewed as a kind of recharging of the batteries: after connecting with this area of experience, we re-enter active life with renewed energy. In a secular context this may mean with a more peaceful state of mind, a more grounded self, more capable of resisting and managing ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’. In a religious sense, all of this will apply, but there will also be a renewed commitment to living according to the tenets of faith rather than the individual’s own selfish desires. Classic religions centrally emphasise the need to transcend desires and everyday preoccupations through the practice of prayer, as a way of creating the possibility of openness to Divine presence and hence to the possibility of transformation of our being and behaviour. There is, however, no reason why secular spiritualities should not also promote a stronger sense of moral and social responsibility. Whether it is sustained by religious ritual and belief or not, spirituality generally involves regular commitment to a routine of practice. In this sense, it is in tension with Heelas and Woodhead’s notion of the distinction between religion as ‘life-as’ duty, role or obligation, and holistic spiritual practices as ‘subjective-life’ cultural forms, where the emphasis is on subjective experience and the cultivation of the self. If discipline and routine are necessary features of any attempt to develop a spiritual life, and most spiritual teachers affirm this, then there are more commonalities with established religions than may at first appear. Participation in a community is also, in many though not all cases, a common element. Judith Butler has recently argued that the experiences of loss and vulnerability connect all human beings (Butler 2004). She deconstructs the false premises of the ‘war on terror’, the first-person narrative that sees the US and its allies as the victims rather than perpetrators of violence, and the victims of the violence they do in fact perpetrate as lives that do not count and are not grievable. A spirituality worthy of its name must surely involve the kind of shift which Butler advocates, from first-person narrative to a consideration of and address to the second and third persons. The call to live less selfishly is a common feature, and to varying degrees, axiom, of major world religions. Secular spirituality, in its drawing back from everyday concerns and motivations can lead to a similar rebalancing, a temporary silencing of the clamour of ego-centred desires, allowing space for consideration of the needs of others, and how these might be met. Butler’s argument makes clear that dominant ideologies which are blind to the histories and circumstances of cultural others are the basis for aggression and political failures. The kind of shifts in the narratives underpinning destructive




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global politics which Butler discusses might be generated or accompanied by spiritualities which would question an all-encompassing focus on ego-enhancing consumerism or ambition and promote practices of community, relationality and altruism. Spirituality in a broad sense can thus be seen as an important element in the ecological revolution which is urgently needed if we, other living beings and the planet are to survive. The stepping back from the rush of desires and preoccupations, and the effort of thinking beyond and outside the usual focus on ‘what I need’ and ‘what I need to do next’ seem a fertile ground for reflection on the space we occupy on the planet and the resources we use. Spiritual practice can be a key to living more lightly on the earth; being in the present may help us to appreciate more fully what we consume, and therefore to consume less voraciously. The refocusing on what really matters (which must, to some extent, be left open to definition by diverse individuals and cultures) may render irrelevant some of the distractions we habitually indulge in. The altruism which most religions seek to promote and which secular spiritualities can engender must surely lead to concern for future generations, and for other species. Religions are often criticised in this context, whether for their anthropocentrism, or their other-worldliness, both of which can lead to lack of attention to the environment and non-human life. In their ‘ecological phase’ they ‘are moving from a primarily anthropocentric focus to include ecocentric and cosmocentric concerns’ (Tucker 2003, p. 23). The ‘other-worldliness’ sometimes ascribed to religions is also being combated by the rediscovery and reinterpretation of passages in sacred texts with a strong focus on nurturing the earth; as Foltz comments in his discussion of Islam and ecology: Certain sayings of the prophet seem particularly relevant to contemporary issues of sustainability: ‘Live in this world as if you will live in it forever, and live for the next world as if you will die tomorrow’ and, ‘when doomsday comes if someone has a palm shoot in his hand, then he should plant it’ (Ibn Hanbal, Mushad 5.440 and 3.184). (Foltz 2006, p. 211) Clearly, as Gottlieb remarks, religions often fall short of their own ideals and moral precepts, and this applies in their ecological phase, as ever. Equally, their response to this challenge is likely to be a determining factor in their own fate, as well as playing a crucial role in creating the cultural landscape which would encourage the changes in human behaviour which the environmental crisis demands: ‘Religion’s


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response to the environmental crisis as well as to the social forces of industrialization, globalization, militarization, and consumerism which give rise to the crisis, will be the single most important factor in determining whether religion will be a vital part of humanity’s future or sink into increasing irrelevance’ (Gottlieb 2006, p. 18). Broadening this argument to encompass the myriad forms of spirituality practised in contemporary cultures seems another important element in the cultural change required by the crisis. In many ways spiritual practices are already swimming against the stream of contemporary consumer cultures, which are characterised not only by the association of leisure with consumption and the proliferation of things to buy, but also by a work ethic which is as all-encompassing as it was when Weber wrote his famous text on the compatibility of Protestantism and capitalism. Heelas and Woodhead argue that contemporary society has built its own version of Weber’s ‘iron cage’ where the bars are made of targets, profit-margins, managerialism and surveillance, and that this is clashing with the culture of subjectivisation, which they see as the other pillar of modern life, frequently expressed through performative consumerism (Weber 1985). They argue, plausibly, that ‘subjective-life’ versions of religion and spirituality are more attractive than ‘life-as’ religions with their moral demands and rules, for people who are already under the cosh of the target culture in their working lives. Even these forms of spirituality may be difficult to sustain in the contemporary conjuncture. In what follows I will approach my argument from a different angle to that adopted so far. Rather than continuing to explore how spirituality can contribute to sustainability in the ecological sense, the question I wish to address here is how spirituality, as a crucial element of human flourishing, indeed, arguably, of what it is to be human, can itself be sustained in contemporary cultures. In the first place, this requires some discussion of the problems posed for spirituality by consumer culture and the work ethic, with which it is inextricably entwined (Du Gay 1996), and the ways in which spiritual life itself is threatened. If we contrast even the fairly minimal and basic survey of the meaning of spirituality and characteristics of spiritual practice outlined above with key features of contemporary affluent societies, a series of binary oppositions begin to emerge. The first of these is noise and silence. Being quiet and being still were seen as essences of prayer and meditation. It is obvious that we live in a very noisy world, and furthermore, that silence is often viewed as a threat, something to be avoided at all costs. In her book on silence (2008), Sarah Maitland, who lives




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in a house miles from other human habitation in the Scotland highlands, with the telephone mostly switched off and no radio or television, remarks on how her friends and relatives found her project to live in this way threatening and disturbing. In the television programme The Monastery, discussed by Buxton in Chapter 3, one of the monks asks the new arrivals to listen to the silence in the church of Worth Abbey. The programme is unusual, perhaps unique in contemporary television, in that it dares to film silence. Noise, of course is not in itself bad: it can be joyous or comforting, and listening to the background sounds around us can be as much part of being in the present moment as seeking silence. However, it is problematic when it is ubiquitous or intrusive. The compulsion to seek noise and activity at all times leads to what can sometimes appear to be obsessive or indeed performative use of the mobile phone and other electronic gadgets, imposing unwanted noise on others. Compulsive behaviours of this kind and the lack of awareness of one’s surroundings and sensitivity to others which accompany them would be interrogated or halted by a more spiritually grounded mode of being. The rarity of quiet in contemporary lives in turn pushes spirituality out, to the margins. This example contains within it a second contrast – between stillness and busy-ness. Juliet Schor has done important work on increases in working hours in the American context (Schor 1991) while Madeleine Bunting has written about recent changes in work culture in Britain, which have resulted in the longest working hours in Europe, and their effects on individuals and their relationships with others. She comments: ‘Just as the late twentieth century grasped the fact that there was a crisis of environmental sustainability, the twenty-first century is beginning to grasp the dimensions of a comparable crisis, this time of human sustainability – a scarcity of conditions which nurture resilient, secure individuals, families, friendships and communities’ (Bunting 2004, p. xxi). This connection between sustaining the environment and sustaining human flourishing is also my point here. The technological revolution, which, it was imagined earlier, would create more leisure, has in fact made it possible for work to invade all areas of life. Work telephone calls can be taken in the evenings and at weekends, emails can be read at midnight, and so on. Walking along the street, in transit between meetings, we can be contacted by colleagues on mobile phones. Lunch hours are part of a long-forgotten past culture. The spaces within the working day have disappeared, and leisure is increasingly encroached upon. We are predisposed to busy-ness by these technologies and structural constraints, but it also becomes compulsive and


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chosen, as Christopher Jamison points out (Jamison 2006, pp. 13–29). Constant busy-ness presents a second major challenge to spiritual practice: the first element of this being the effort to make time, and the second, that of adopting a diametrically opposed mode of existence to habitual hyperactivity. The other side of the coin is that while some sections of the population are locked into the work culture, others are locked outside it in poverty and inactivity. Lack of purpose and social validation are still more damaging, and it is difficult to create a routine of spiritual practice in the absence of routine per se, or of the peace of mind to which material security is essential. Less prestigious forms of ‘multi-tasking’, necessitated by the demands of caring for children, the sick, elderly and those living with disabilities are carried out mainly by women of all classes (Craig 2007, Ehrenreich and Hochschild 2002, Schor 1991). Increasingly, of course middle-class women (who are still required, in most cases, to manage caring, even if they are not doing it themselves) pay female migrant workers and working-class women to carry out these tasks, so that inequalities of gender, class, ethnicity and ‘race’ intersect and compound each other. Despite, or perhaps because of, their work in paid and unpaid caring (in that they seek respite from nurturing others in this way), women constitute the majority of religious communities and of the holistic milieus analysed by Heelas and Woodhead (2005). Perhaps, in this sense, the spiritual, like the relational, domain is largely being ‘looked after’ by women (Woodhead 2005; Woodhead and Sointu 2008). Clearly, the pressures of work regimes and the gendered, classed and ‘raced’ inequalities that they build and are built on are inimical to the development of opportunities for spiritual development and practice for all. The environments we inhabit and have created, and our habitual modes of moving through them, are seldom conducive to quietness, stillness and spirituality. Again, the emphasis is on speed and perpetual movement, rather than significant pausing. The noise and pollution caused by cars dominate and make it difficult to enjoy walking through urban spaces, and cars render country roads dangerous for walkers and cyclists. Religious buildings are often closed because of the threat of vandalism and in cities parks offer the main quiet spaces open for public use. In some, especially poorer, areas these are in short supply. Lack of time forces us into modes of transport such as aeroplanes or cars which prevent us from seeing and experiencing the landscapes we are crossing. Just as we are rarely engaged in one task, we are rarely really in one place.




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It is clear from the above that consumerism is part of the broader construction of a society geared towards profit and productivity. It also plays a central role in encouraging the focus on individual desires rather than the common good. As Campbell has argued, it is predicated on the generation of new and ever-changing desires; when one desire is satisfied, it is immediately replaced by another (Campbell 1987). The restlessness that this promotes, along with the acquisitiveness it is predicated on, are profoundly at odds with more spiritual modes of wellbeing. On the one hand, consumerism compensates for the loss of time and opportunities for other forms of self expression and conviviality imposed by the work ethic, so that we are locked in a vicious circle of working and earning more in order to buy quick fixes to compensate for this loss of our own time, of our own lives. On the other, as Du Gay has argued, the boundaries between our identities as workers and as consumers are now, in any case, blurred: we exist on a continuum of struggle to construct a fragile identity in both spheres: ‘work becomes an arena in which people exhibit an “enterprising” or “consuming” relationship to self, where they “make a project of themselves, and where they develop a style of living that will maximise the worth of their existence to themselves’ (Du Gay 1996, p. 78). It is not surprising, then, that when people are made redundant, they frequently lose their sense of self, and become temporarily incapacitated; these are fragile selves, ‘relational semi-identities’ (Du Gay 1996, p. 7) which lack the grounding that spiritual practice might provide. In her development of the concept of ‘alternative hedonism’ Kate Soper has argued that in all the ways I have discussed here, consumer cultures are compromising significant pleasures such as time for friends and relationships, relaxation, contact with nature or beautiful and peaceful urban spaces (Soper 2008). My argument is that their incompatibility with spirituality is also a significant loss for individual and collective human flourishing. The challenge to change the way we live for the sake of sustaining the planet is also a challenge to do so in order that spiritualities, in all their diversity, can be sustained. However, it is also important to acknowledge that despite the tensions I have outlined between spirituality and consumer culture, as Belk’s work suggests, they are connected and interacting rather than separate in contemporary societies. Can the marketing of spirituality be seen as a healthy sign that something beyond material satisfactions and pleasures is still sought in Western, affluent societies? Or does it denote, as Buxton argues in Chapter 2, the loss of any real life of the soul? My discussion here will focus on three tropes of secular spirituality in popular cultural discourse. The first of these is evidenced in the


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phrase: ‘I am spiritual but I’m not religious.’ Like ‘I’m not a feminist, but ...’ this phrase distances the speaker from a range of beliefs which are not generally valued. Religions may be increasingly visible, and this visibility may be taking new forms (Ward and Hoelzl 2008), but they (particularly Islam) are still stigmatised in a context where secularity is a powerful discourse, associated with science, rationality and progress. This ‘I’m not, but’ trope allows the speaker to suggest that their life is more than a set of work and leisure pursuits and a network of relationships, or a package of social, cultural and economic capitals, but at the same time it dissociates them from religious institutions, from ‘established’ religion, and from all its negative cultural connotations. The phrase can be regarded as an instance of ‘postsecularity’, through its desire to retain a dimension of human life beyond material pleasures and practices whilst simultaneously distancing oneself from established religions. It can be seen as an attempt to be fashionable, to avoid connection with Christian Churches associated with ‘happy-clappy’ evangelism or incense, ritual and older congregations, or with the religions of racialised ethnic minorities and their misunderstood and misrepresented outer signs and symbols (see Mukadam and Mawani, Chapter 3 of this volume). It is both a fashion statement and an indication of some longing for another dimension, for meaning. It allows the speaker a great deal of freedom from the demands of religious community and morality, but also risks leaving them unsupported and unsustained. It may result in a spirituality of whim and caprice, which ultimately can only be ephemeral. It is highly individualistic, in that the speaker is free to define their spirituality in any way they wish. This breadth of definition is both a strength, in that it can accommodate diversity, and a weakness, in that these versions of spirituality can become so nebulous that they scarcely exist. A second and connected trope is the notion of a quest to find the right version of spiritual practice to suit the individual. Here, different forms of spirituality and their accoutrements are seen as offerings in a ‘spiritual marketplace’ (Roof 1999), where individuals can pick and mix a combination that suits them; this activity may take place online, in the ‘Mind Body Spirit’ section of a bookshop or through sampling of various practices or communities, until the right ‘mix’ is achieved. This phenomenon was identified by Wade Clark Roof in his research on the ‘baby boomer’ generation in America; Roof found that for this generation being born into a tradition was no longer sufficient: ‘The believer is thrust into the situation of the bricoleur, who in cobbling together from a variety of doctrines, symbols, texts, moral codes, and




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spiritual disciplines finds new religious meaning’ (Roof 1999, p. 137). A recent British television programme, Spirituality Shopper (Optomen for Channel 4, 2005), also discussed by Buxton, which presented individuals at a crisis point in their lives with a selection of religious practices to try out, epitomised this approach. The quest for the right version or mix of spirituality is linked to the third trope – that of the ‘spiritual journey’. This term can be used as a descriptor for the kinds of quest described above, or it may be deployed by those who are already within religious communities or devotees of particular practices. ‘Being on a journey’ is a metaphor for modern life in a more general sense, and a cliché of lifestyle television and magazines, newspaper articles on health and wellbeing and popular psychology and therapy. It can be connected, in Britain, to a post-Thatcher emphasis on the individual, and more broadly to the ‘subjective turn’ discussed by Heelas and Woodhead (2005). Helen Wood’s and Beverley Skeggs’ work on lifestyle television demonstrates the classed and gendered nature of the ‘journeys’ which participants are called on to undertake in the construction of television narratives, whether to improved family life, dress sense, physical appearance, diet or money management (Skeggs and Wood 2004; Wood and Skeggs 2008). Individual participants are in some way deficient, unable to cope with the demands of modern life. They are encouraged, or even pressured, to do better and an expert guide/presenter assists them in their ‘journey’. The result, representing narrative closure, is the perfected individual, who is functioning more effectively, and often more competitively, within an imperfect social status quo. The fact that many of the problems presented as individual issues in lifestyle television are the result of social inequalities and political policies is concealed in these narratives where everyone can manage themselves to a better future. Spirituality Shopper participates in this discursive framework. Although the guide/presenter has a gentler persona than that of his equivalent in some other examples of the genre (particularly those where women are found to be inadequate in terms of key aspects of their femininity – dress, beauty, mothering), the programme nonetheless delivers a packaged response to the profound human problem of grief and of finding time to grieve. The life-as ‘journey’ metaphor can in fact be a dead end: a way of sidestepping significant and perhaps irresolvable aspects of human experience such as sadness, lethargy and loss. The mediatised ‘spiritual journey’ is inevitably linked to this wider context of voyage towards perfected selves; it can become one more aspect of work on the self demanded of the modern individual, who is required to strive for a successful career,


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picture postcard family, toned body, and spiritual transcendence, all at the same time. The ‘spiritual journey’, like the bricolage of a spiritual home and identity from the ‘marketplace’ have their parallels in other aspects of contemporary consumerism and the often unwanted choices it imposes: choices, even of supplier of basic services, or of complex packages offering ‘the best deal for you as an individual’ can create new areas of work and resulting exhaustion. Spirituality of this kind can add a further layer of dilemmas to an already dazed ‘consumer’, and can reinforce the sense of never-ending work, and of a continuous striving to perfect a flawed self, without any of the guidance and support proposed by holistic practices or classic religions. The metaphor of the ‘spiritual journey’ is, however, clearly a more ancient and deeply rooted concept than the recent manifestations described above. Almost all classic religions draw on the idea of journey or quest, whether towards Enlightenment in the case of Buddhism, grace for Christianity, or Moksha for Hinduism. Pilgrimage is a physical expression of this metaphor, and again, almost all world religions share this practice; most notably pilgrimage to Mecca, or Hajj, is the fifth pillar of Islam, and is practised each year by two million Muslims. The revival of the concept of the spiritual journey in popular parlance and media culture in Western societies is not just an instance of the commodification of religions discussed by Mukadam and Mawani in Chapter 3, but can also be seen as belying the once assumed secularity of these societies. However deformed, or incorporated into the culture of self-improvement through consumerism, the image of the spiritual journey remains a phenomenon of postsecularity, a connection with societies’ religious roots and cultures. It is significant, nonetheless, that the complementary aspect of many religious traditions, which is precisely about staying still, and about obedience to everyday routines of prayer and ritual, is taken up less by Western consumer cultures. The Monastery, which Nicholas Buxton discusses in depth in Chapter 2, was an unusual representation of religion in contemporary television, in that it embraced precisely the concepts of stillness, obedience and humility which are not generally taken up by mediatised forms of spirituality. Whilst, as Buxton argues, the programmes focus to a great extent on conflicts between the participants, they proceed at a stately pace compared with much reality and lifestyle television, or even contemporary documentary. The camera lingers on the austere space of the Worth Abbey Church, built of brick in the late 1960s, and on the monks processing in and out, as they perform their six daily offices. Shots of the landscape around Worth Abbey, or of a flickering candle




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flame intersect the human narrative and create an atmosphere of stillness. Despite this unusual representation of spirituality in a popular cultural form, Buxton’s argument that the programmes can be seen as the reduction of religion to spectacle and commodity is quite compelling, particularly when focusing on the process of producing and marketing the programmes globally. However, my small-scale research on responses to the programmes (which cannot be discussed in depth here) suggests that in their aftermath the programmes became a transitional space. Audience members were drawn to Worth by the programme, and in that sense their responses can be seen as those of media consumers. However, on arrival, most were profoundly affected by their participation in the monks’ routines of stillness, silence and song. The spaces of the Church and the nearby retreat house were at the same time made significant and special by the fact of having been filmed, and resonant with a sustained spiritual practice which the programme could at best suggest: The prayer times and mass were wonderful to listen to, coming from someone who normally endures church rather than enjoys it this was a step forward. As the Abbot said ‘the walls are marinated in prayer’ and I think everyone feels this when they spend time there. The most special time for me was the church at night. The altar seems to come to life when lit up in the darkness and it was a precious time to sit and pray. (Letter from retreat participant) In this concept of transitional spaces, Knott’s work, drawing on Lefèbvre, comes to mind; in the sacralisation of space, through commemorative activities such as leaving flowers where a road accident victim has died, or social rituals such as special meals with friends and family, a spiritual meaning and dimension are often being sought. Despite the constraints on spirituality which I have discussed, it is far from being completely obliterated, and as Knott’s work and several chapters here attest: ‘People continue to set things, events and places apart as ‘sacred’ even in the domestic sphere’, Knott 2002, p. 62). Heelas concludes that the New Age spiritualities of life he has researched cannot be explained in terms of, or reduced to commodification: ‘Just as pretty well everyone agrees that “Money can’t buy you love” (only a semblance and a travesty of it), so have I never come across anyone who claims that money, and money alone, can buy you spirituality’ (Heelas 2008, p. 211). As Heelas remarks, those making the argument that New Age spiritualities are purely a phenomenon of niche marketing ignore


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the fact that ‘you have to work to experience spirituality’ (p. 211) and that the majority of their practitioners are ‘middle aged, discerning, people-centred, postmaterialistic, professional women’ whose orientation is more towards helping others than selfishness (p. 217). I would argue that Heelas’s ‘spiritualities of life’ are also transitional spaces: the yoga teacher may have a website and her students may pay a modest sum for their class, but they emerge strengthened and calmed and more able to support and nurture others. Spirituality, like natural resources and their diversity, may be threatened by high-speed lifestyles centred on the accumulation of material goods. Perhaps still more acutely, spirituality is threatened by the precariousness of lives subjected to poverty or threatened by war. The interconnectedness of the struggles for global social equality, for environmental responsibility and for the creation of societies where all aspects of human life and creativity can flourish becomes apparent. A general sense of imbalance in human activity (and particularly that of dominant nations) is evidenced by this discussion; classic religions and new forms of spirituality have much to offer in the struggle to create new and less materially encumbered ways of living. Sustaining spirituality in turn requires a new balance between activity and stillness, and a less rapacious mode of being on the earth.

References Belk, Russell W., Wallendorf, Melanie and Sherry Jr., John F. (1989) ‘The Sacred and the Profane in Consumer Behavior: Theodicy on the Odyssey’ Journal of Consumer Research 16, pp. 1–38 Bunting, Madeleine (2004) Willing Slaves: How the Overwork Culture is Ruling our Lives London: Harper Collins Butler, Judith (2004) Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence London and New York: Verso Buxton, Nicholas (2008) Tantalus and the Pelican: Exploring Monastic Spirituality Today London and New York: Continuum Campbell, Colin (1987) The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism Oxford: Blackwell Campbell, Colin (2007; first published 1991) Consumer Culture and Postmodernism Los Angeles, London, New Delhi and Singapore: Sage Craig, Lyn (2007) ‘Is There Really a Second Shift and If So, Who Does It? A TimeDiary Investigation’ Feminist Review 86, pp. 149–70 Crocker, David and Linden, Toby (eds, 1998) Ethics of Consumption: The Good Life, Justice and Global Stewardship Lanham MD and Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield




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Daniels, Inge (2003) ‘Scooping, Raking and Beckoning Luck: Luck, Agency and the Interdependence of People and Things in Japan’ Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 9, pp. 619–33 Du Gay, Paul (1996) Consumption and Identity at Work London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Ehrenreich, Barbara and Hochschild, Arlie Russell (eds) (2002) Global Women: Nannies, Mais and Sex Workers in the New Economy New York: Metropolitan Press Flaubert, Gustave (1966, first published 1856; translation here author’s own) Madame Bovary Paris: Garnier-Flammarion Foltz, Richard (2006) ‘Islam’ in Roger Gottlieb (2006) pp. 207–19 Gottlieb, Roger (2006) The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Ecology Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press Heelas, Paul and Woodhead, Linda with Seel, Benjamin, Szerszynski, Bronislaw and Tusting, Karin (2005) The Spiritual Revolution: Why Religion is Giving Way to Spirituality Malden MA, Oxford and Carlton, Victoria, Australia: Blackwell Heelas, Paul (2008) Spiritualities of Life: New Age Romanticism and Consumptive Capitalism Oxford and Malden MA: Blackwell Jamison, Christopher (2006) Finding Sanctuary: Monastic Steps for Everyday Life London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson Knott, Kim (2002) ‘At Home in the Secular: A Spatial Analysis of Everyday Ritual’ Jaarbook voor Liturgie-Onderzoek 23, pp. 45–62 Kourie, Celia (2006) ‘The “Turn” to Spirituality’ Acta Theologica Supplementum 8, pp. 19–38 Maitland, Sarah (2008) A Book of Silence London: Granta McFarland Taylor, Sarah (2006) ‘Eating Spirit: Food, Faith and Spiritual Nourishment in the Lives of Green Sisters’, Ecotheology, The Journal of Religion, Nature and the Environment 11(4), pp. 445–64 Roof, Wade Clark (1999) Spiritual Marketplace Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press Schor, J. (1991) The Overworked American: The Unexpected Decline of Leisure New York: Basic Books Skeggs, Beverley and Wood, Helen (2004) ‘Notes on Ethical Scenarios of Self on British Reality TV’, Feminist Media Studies 4(2), pp. 205–8 Soper, Kate (2008) ‘Alternative Hedonism, Cultural Theory and the Role of Aesthetic Revisioning’ Cultural Studies 22(5), pp. 567–87 Tucker, Mary Evelyn with Judith Berling (2003) Worldly Wonder: Religions Enter Their Ecological Phase, La Salle IL: Open Court Van Ness, Peter (1996) Spirituality and the Secular Quest London: SCM Press Ward, Graham and Hoelzl, Michael (2008) The New Visibility of Religion: Studies in Religion and Cultural Hermeneutics London and New York: Continuum Waugh, Evelyn (1945) Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Ryder London: Chapman and Hall Weber, Max (1985; first published 1904–5) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, translated by Talcott Parsons, London: Unwin Paperbacks Wood, Helen and Skeggs, Beverley (2008) ‘Spectacular Morality: “Reality” Television, Individualisation and the Remaking of the Working Class’, in David Hesmondhalgh and Jason Toynbee (eds) The Media and Social Theory London and New York: Routledge


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Woodhead, Linda (2005) ‘Gendering Secularisation Theory’ Kvinder, Køn og Forskning (Women, Gender and Research, Denmark) (1) pp. 24–35. Woodhead, Linda and Sointu, Eeva (2008) ‘Holistic Spirituality, Gender, and Expressive Selfhood’ Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 47(2), pp. 259–76. Zinnbauer, Brian, Pargament, Kenneth, Cole, Brenda, Rye, Mark, Butter, Eric, Belavich, Timothy, Hipp, Kathleen, Scott, Allie and Kadar, Jill (1997) ‘Religion and Spirituality: Unfuzzying the Fuzzy’ Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 36 (4), pp. 549–64




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Part II


Everyday Practices of Religion and Consumption and Their Environmental Dimensions: Paradise Lost?


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5 Paul Cloke, Clive Barnett, Nick Clarke and Alice Malpass

Introduction: faith and social action This chapter traces significant interconnections between faith-motivated activists and the widening participation in fair-trade activities in and around the city of Bristol in the UK. Despite the attempts of institutionalised religion to demonstrate the contrary (see, for example, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Commission on Urban Priority Areas, 1985) ‘faith and ‘the city’ have often been awkward bedfellows within social science narratives. Disciplines such as human geography, for example, have developed rather uncontroversial geographies of religion, marking out both geographies of difference, in which religion poses as an aspect of ethnicity or political factionalism (Guelke 2006), and geographies of landscape and place involving both formal and informal spaces of the sacred (Kong 2001). Beyond safe havens such as these, however, human geography’s account of the groups and individuals identified with faith and/or religion has often been characterised by embarrassment, suspicion or hostility. ‘Faith’ has become easily essentialised as fundamentalist, proselytising, politically conformist and integrally immersed in the workings of the capitalist state and, as such, it has been framed as an object of critique rather than a legitimate source of explanation and understanding (Cloke 2002). Despite this environment of negative critique, there is evidence to suggest that faith-motivation should be taken more seriously as a context of potentially progressive activism. First and foremost, there is now a body of work from social movement scholars that demonstrates the importance of faith-activism in a number of spheres. For example, research on the civil rights movement (Morris 1984), the Central American peace movements (Smith 1996), the Polish Solidarity movement (Osa 2003)


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and the US faith-based community action movement (Warren 2001; Warren and Wood 2001; Wood 2002) has emphasised the centrality of religious morality as a political motivator capable of shaping individual and collective activist identities, and the importance of religious organisations and resources as enablers of political activism. Local religious congregations have been found to offer both a basis for the development of social capital that aids community development, and a politicisation of that social capital (Slessarev-Jamir 2004). Larger-scale religious organisations provide both historical frameworks for collective action and leadership around which such action can take place. Evidence from the UK has emphasised multi-faith and interfaith involvement in community regeneration (Harris et al. 2005; Jackson and Kimberlee 2004), pointing to the potential of faith communities to engage in urban transformation (Farnell 2001; Farnell et al. 2003) and to blur the boundaries between the public, the private and the personal through engagements with political and social governance (Dinham and Lowndes 2008). Broadly speaking, then, it can be argued from this evidence that faith can provide a context and a motivation for political involvement, and sometimes progressive political involvement. More specifically, this body of research suggests two interesting mechanisms by which wider faith-concerns become channelled into particular issues. First, Williams and Blackburn’s (1996) study of Operation Rescue in the US argues that single-issue political involvement (in this case, anti-abortion protests) can represent a symbolic expression of wider concerns and genres of political action (in this case nonviolent direct action) that are motivated by faith. Action can thus become a symbolic context for faith. In similar vein, Orton (2006) demonstrates the role of particular political issues as ‘creative spaces’ in which the potential of faith communities can be harnessed. Action can thus become a practical channel through which faith is practised, and the socially active potential of faith is released. Overall, then, this evidence suggests that whether providing an agency of justice and welfare to slum-dwellers (Davis 2004), establishing services for homeless people (Cloke et al. 2005), or more generally embodying a transformative theology of social engagement through the emergence of radical urban congregations (Gibbs and Bolger 2006), faith-groups can be seen to be a significant presence in the landscape of contemporary social action. Other evidence also emphasises the need to take faith-motivation seriously. For example, some of the key thinkers of materialist socialism have accepted the need to invoke some form of theology in their ongoing ontological eagerness to avoid idealism (Milbank 2005).


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Perhaps most significantly, the intervention of Jürgen Habermas (2002) has pointed to the emergence of a so-called ‘post-secular’ society in which religion as a repository of transcendence has an important role to play. Habermas argues that religious values of, for example, love, community and godliness can help to offset the global dominance of individual acquisitiveness and competitive consumerism. However, it is not Habermas alone who has been referencing religion in the search for hope amongst materialism: Derrida (1996) uses negative theology to sustain his thesis involving the openness of signs and the absolute nature of the ethical command; Badiou (2006) celebrates the revolutionary event of the arrival of divine grace in the world bringing with it the universal offer of forgiveness and love; and Zizek (2001) embraces the idea of love which transcends desire, through the historical emergence of Christ and Christ-likeness. That these philosophers of contemporary socialism have taken a theological turn in search of their geographies of hope suggests that it is worth looking seriously at the activities of contemporary faith-proponents in their application of ‘hopeful’ theologies. Moreover, faith, belief and religion have been strongly implicated in the capacity to be prophetic and potentially subversive in contemporary society. Across different denominations, the call to the church has been to become more prophetic, by questioning whether its current prophetic voice has been co-opted into the culture of the day (Brueggemann 2001). While in some of its guises Christian social practice has a decaying look which is virtually synonymous with liberal bourgeois ethics (Bland 2005; Prochaska 2006), elsewhere social action is being discursively decoupled from ‘politics’ and instead the ethics of Christianity are being presented as a practical place to stand in order to seek to negate dominant cultural discourses and practices (Myers 2003). In particular, ethical practices – such as engagement with fair trade – provide the opportunity for ‘action-as-testimony’ (Williams 2005) in which participatory action witnesses to, and makes present in representation, key social objectives such as neighbour-love and environmental stewardship. Such testimony is, as Williams suggests, ‘most meaningful when least concerned to dominate’ (p. 2). Thus denominationally (Flint and Kearns 2004), nationally (Ebaugh et al. 2005) and locally (Jackson and Kimberlee 2004) there are suggestions that faith-based action on behalf of local and distant others is being rejuvenated in parts of the contemporary church, and that far from being quaintly outdated, faithbased reforming initiatives may represent an important intervention in the new cartographies of the contemporary city.




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The empirical work discussed in this paper draws on an extensive research programme on the subjects and spaces of ethical consumption funded by the UK Economic and Social Research Council and Arts and Humanities Research Council. The research has undertaken two principal strands of empirical work – focus groups with a range of consumers in the city of Bristol, and interviews with key actors in a series of different ethical campaigns both in Bristol and at a national level – in order to investigate both how ethical consumption is governed, and how consumers govern their ethical selves. We suggest that consumption is not only a ‘venue for political action’ (Micheletti 2003) but also an arena in and through which people learn the meanings of what it is to act morally and ethically (Barnett et al. 2005a). In the paper, we focus on one of the ethical campaigns studied in the research – the promotion of fair-trade products – and on the role of people who connect their involvement in fair trade to a profession of Christian faith. We suggest that fair trade acts as a device through which some Christians learn to act morally, and that complex fusions of faith and politics serve to motivate what is often a faith-led initiative in establishing a campaigning presence for fair trade in and around the city. Our research is founded on ideas about virtue ethics, a strand of normative ethics that emphasises virtues, or moral characteristics, seeing them as deep-seated dispositions for certain kinds of action. Emphasis on virtues has brought about a shift of focus in the understanding of ethics from questions of ‘what I ought to do’ to ‘what kind of person do I strive to be?’ Previously, consequentialist and deontological ethics (Singer 1997) worked to explain forms of altruism which were able to overcome the obstacles of self-interest, but the acknowledgement of virtue ethics has directed attention to the awakening of enlightened self-interest in caring for others (Barnett et al. 2005b), and in particular to the habits and practices through which virtues are learned. Consumption is understood as one moment in a range of wider everyday practices (Warde 2004), so our concern here is with the relationship between practices, consumption and broader conceptions of the ‘good’ life. Although there is evidence that ‘ethical’ consumers are often motivated by a strong sense of personal integrity which connects the individual to a deeper moral self through key ethical practices (Allahyari 2000), ethical consumption should not be restricted to a privileged group of affluent consumers who practice ethics as a form of social distinction and moralistic discourse. As Miller (1998)


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has demonstrated, consumption per se is neither moral nor immoral: it is merely a medium of ethical conduct which is just as likely to involve ordinary everyday ethics of localised care as costly displays of moral selving. So our research has sought to understand different ways in which practice, consumption and ‘good’ come together, and faith-based proponents of fair trade provide an interesting example of just such a nexus.

Faith in consumption There has been a long historical tradition of faith-based social action in Britain, from church provision of welfare in the Catholic middle ages, through the philanthropic movement of the nineteenth century, to the recent resurgence of evangelical social action in current times. Recent work on the provision of services for homeless people, for example, suggests that faith-based ethos underpins the majority of organisations and individual volunteers in this particular sector (Cloke et al. 2005; Cloke et al. 2007). The acknowledgement of the influence of faith on consumption, however, has been more tentative. Miller (1998) has noted that within today’s largely secular society, almost all of us still recognise ourselves as living our lives according to the goals and values that remain somehow higher than the simple dictates of instrumentality. Accordingly, he argues, we use accounts to understand each other’s actions which depend on ‘the continued existence of cosmology as a realm of transcendant value’ (2004, p.254), accounts, for example, of ‘love’, which is a powerful but often neglected foundation of shopping practices. Miller’s appreciation of the transcendental nature of the ‘good’ in life is somewhat conditioned by his framing of secularism, yet it is possible to argue that transcendental religious faith may well act as a foundation for practice and a context for accounts of how some people live their lives. In this paper we focus on Christian faith (itself non-ubiquitous), but we acknowledge the wider contexts of faith-practice in other religions and spiritual movements. In adopting this focus we want to suggest, therefore, that accounts of Christian faith will in some circumstances inform practices of (ethical) consumption. To some extent, Christian ethics have historically been associated with practices of public moralising and demonising of various forms of participation (unwitting or otherwise) in consumer culture (Schreiter 1997). As Campbell (1998) emphasises, the puritan Christian inheritance has encouraged successive generations to privilege work over




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leisure, thrift over spending and deferred gratification over gratification of the moment. Pleasurable consumption has therefore been targeted by Christian moralists, and such hostility is maintained in many fundamentalist quarters of Christian religion, at least in a theoretical sense. Moralising over consumption has also been associated with evangelical tendencies to proselytise all and sundry by any means possible (Dionne and Chen 2001). However, more recently, Christian ethics have displayed a more post-secular sensibility (Coles 1997), turning from judgementalism to the pursuit of Christian ‘virtue’, and mirroring the question of ‘what kind of (Christian) person do I strive to be?’ As Wilber (1998) notes, moral codes have not been dispensed with. Excessive consumption in the face of worldwide need and suffering is still likely to be regarded as morally unacceptable, and consumption as a primary goal of human achievement will still be viewed as detrimental to human dignity. However, such codes are being expressed increasingly in terms of practices which can achieve the inculcation of more appropriate moral values, acknowledging that ethical behaviour and self-interest are not mutually exclusive. Thus, we see a linkage between grand theological imperatives – to contest the powers and forces of destruction as a redemptive challenge (Gorringe 2004; Myers 2003 ), to develop a deeper prophetic agenda as a questioning of societal norms (Wallis 2001) and to maintain a critical and adverse relationship with established institutions (Tinder 1989) – and questions of everyday practice – how to act on Christian principles, to perform Christian identities, to embed religious emotion into changing practice (Wynn 2005). This changing focus of Christian ethics is contextualised by Lyon (2000) within a wider crisis of modernity, which Christianity has helped to develop, and from whose consequences it is struggling to extricate and exempt itself. An inherent part of the struggle is to forge alternatives consistent with what Moe-Lobeda (2004) terms ‘justice-making, self-respecting, neighbour-love’ and ‘regenerative Earth–human relations, (these representing the key moral norms of Christian faith). Neighbour-love, for example, has become more difficult because the increasingly indirect relations in the ‘society of strangers’ render neighbours less visible. As Lyon (2000) argues: The point ... is to take responsibility for the other wherever she or he is encountered. How this is worked out in the society of strangers, living under the sign of mobility, is a crucial question. The everyday challenge of consumerism has yet to be fully acknowledged by most Christian communities. (p. 145)




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Over the intervening nine years, this assessment may have proved to be a little gloomy. Major campaigns in Britain, such as Jubilee 2000 and Make Poverty History (2005) have benefited from the founding influences of Christian organisations, leading to the suggestion that faith-groups can become ‘the conscience of the world’ (Wallis 2005). We need to recognise, of course, that these campaigns actually drew support across the spectrum of faith and non-faith motivation. More specifically, an evaluation of the current state of fair trade by Nicholls and Opal (2005) recognises the contribution of organised religion, particularly Christianity, both to grass-roots events and to national-level initiatives. In Britain, Christian groups have been behind the establishment of both Traidcraft (and its very successful Café Direct product lines) and the Fairtrade Foundation, which have been highly significant in the rise of fair-trade awareness and activity. Moreover, key actors such as Bruce Crowther, architect of the Fair Trade Town campaign, are reported as expressing strong religious beliefs. In the USA, fair trade has been pioneered by Christian Mennonite organisations, and awareness of fair-trade issues has been raised by the Interfaith Coffee Program which has brought fair-trade coffee and fair-trade issues into church fellowship hours after worship across America. This kind of evidence suggests that faith-ethics are, in part, being practised in the consumption arena, and that to an extent the challenge of consumerism is beginning to be addressed. In the remainder of this paper, we direct attention to these phenomena at the scale of a city and its environs, investigating the role of Christian faith in the coming together of practice, consumption and ‘good’ life. What we suggest is that faith can be seen in various ways to shape consumption, but that by the same token, consumption can be seen to be shaping faith.

Faith and ethical consumption in Bristol What follows draws on a series of 20 interviews with people in and around Bristol who have a significant involvement with Traidcraft, an organisation founded on Christian principles to distribute fair-trade food, household and craft products throughout the UK. Traidcraft’s initial system for distributing and promulgating its products was through a series of local representatives – FairTraders – who volunteered to sell stocks of fairtrade goods in their area, as well as to distribute mail order catalogues and generally raise awareness of fair-trade issues. Most FairTraders have been church-based, and some have gone on to become Key Contacts, providing wholesaling and information services for FairTraders working




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at a smaller scale. Although this distribution system continues, Traidcraft has also sought to ‘mainstream’ its activities through significant involvement in fair trade product lines (Café Direct, Tea Direct, GeoBars and so on) which are marketed through supermarkets, and via an increasingly important campaign organisation working nationally and internationally to lobby on fair-trade concerns (Barnett et al. 2005a). Our interviews were designed to inform a range of issues, not least an innovative box delivery scheme for Traidcraft goods in a group of commuter villages south of Bristol. However, for the purposes of this paper we have interrogated these interview materials to trace different connections between Christian virtue ethics and practices of fair-trade consumption. What we have found is complex and multifaceted, but we suggest that three arenas stand out as significant loci for interaction between faith and fair trade. First, fair trade presents an important device by which Christians can enact aspects of their faith, and thereby work out what it is to practice faith-virtue ethics in consumption. Fair trade works as both a symbolic expression of wider faith-related concerns, and as a practical channel through which faith can be materialised and practised. Secondly, opportunities to practice fair trade are communicated and demonstrated especially significantly within particular social networks and notably churches, in which opportunities are afforded for the promulgation of virtue ethics in everyday life practices. Faith-groups therefore offer important organisational forms and resources with which to enable ethical and political action. Thirdly, these social networks are often energised by what we might term ‘evangelists’ – energetic and persuasive individuals who present potentially governing repertoires of fair-trade practices that reflect appropriate faith-ethics in church networks. In detailing these themes in turn we want to emphasise the potential diversity of these faith networks. Not only do different denominational proclivities attach differently to fair-trade activities, but also churches themselves are wrapped up in forms of consumerism whereby churchgoers will often carefully choose which church best suits their preferences. Equally, and relatedly, fair- trade evangelists will variously be bringing faith into the political realm and politics into these faith-networks. Such differences will be significant in the interpretation of these three broad themes.


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(i) Personal faith and virtue ethics in fair trade Narrating the importance of faith in everyday practice to an interviewerstranger can involve a range of personal strategies including using code-


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phrases to summarise a faith-aspect, or even a taking-for-granted that the interviewer would ‘get’ the connection without it having to be spelt out. What follows, then, is a necessarily partial account of interview passages where accounts of participation in fair trade intersected with spoken-about issues of faith and conscience. Several respondents stated a clear relationship between ethical practice and Christian or church-based values: ‘the teachings from the Bible are that you should treat everyone the same ... there’s lots of stories in the Bible that just say you should treat everyone as your neighbour, not just the person you like ... So think about people you don’t know, and the rest of the world you don’t know properly’. (Ray) ‘as Christians we should be supporting Fair Trade ... we shouldn’t be exploiting other people’. (Sue) ‘I want that Christian good without a shadow of a doubt’. (Hazel) ‘I am motivated basically by Christian faith ... I know about these things, I know I have an ability to do something about it, and therefore I have a responsibility to do what I can’. (Edna) ‘I know that there’s a choice between something that is fairly traded or a similar cheaper or more convenient item ... and sometimes I do hesitate, but I do wonder, how would I explain it? Because I do think I will have to explain myself ... It’s a good job we’ve got a conscience’. (Stephen) Interestingly, these various expressions of Christian values emphasise different relationships, between self and needy other, self and God, self and other Christians and self and self-conscience. In this way, motivation to practise fair trade is only intermittently expressed in terms of a connection with distant others, and may indeed be about responsibility/love within close social networks and devotionally to God, rather than about producers in developing countries. Most likely, although rarely expressed all at once, Christian motivation reflects all of these things together, a sort of practical way of living life as a Christian in such a way as to deal, at least in part, with contemporary problems of consumerism. ‘As a Christian, it is just the way I want to lead my life ... and I don’t want to have any truck really with the things that I don’t morally agree with’. (Anne-Marie)



‘To do something practical, I think that’s always been the basis of it ... this idea of living by example’. (Emma)


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Some respondents attributed specific background characteristics as formative to their current interests and practices in fair trade. Emma, for example, told us that her grandparents used to buy Traidcraft products when they first came onto the scene, so her awareness of their availability turned into learned behaviour when she left home and found her own church that had a Traidcraft Fair Trader in its midst. Ronnie similarly pointed to her convent school upbringing and her subsequent espousal of Catholic social justice as reasons why her Christian ethos was currently practised through fair trade. Others narrated aspects of their own personality and identity which contributed to their current ethical practice. For Stephen, nascent political interests from an early age in conjunction with his self-evaluated character (‘I am a bit serious minded and I very easily plug into these things’) augmented his Christian ethos as prompts to action. Liz spoke of a highly tuned social conscience which transcends faith; importantly she recognises similar values in her non-Christian husband: ‘If I wasn’t a Christian I would still support fair trade, because I have a social conscience and I care about people and I don’t think its right that they should be taken advantage of ... .as a Christian you are given a moral framework, you learn what’s right and wrong and I suppose that is where my sense of social justice comes from. But my husband isn’t a Christian and he feels like that too’. (Liz) This demonstrates a fascinating mix of learned Christian ethics which are practised both inside and outside church, and alongside a partner with similar but secular beliefs. We have no evidence as to whether fairtrade practice was passed on to her husband, who accepted the practice but not the associated Christian ethical premise, but we know of other examples where this has been the case. Finally, Susan told us that her adoption of Zen Catholicism ‘supported my own ethical judgements’ – perhaps illustrating the religious consumerism discussed by Lyon (2000), but perhaps also emphasising the possibility that faith offers a suitable vehicle for pre-existing political traits. The suggestion from virtue ethics that ethical involvement is usually twinned with enlightened self-interest is given credence in these interviews. Emma’s involvement in selling fair trade in her local church ‘helped improve confidence’ and allowed her to ‘get to know the people in church a bit more because I know them by name and talk to them a bit more’. For Ray, the impetus to be involved with fair trade came in


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the aftermath of personal illness:

In different ways, then, the symbolic and practical ‘device’ offered by Traidcraft permitted involvement of varying intensity and faithbased motivation in a way of practising Christian virtue ethics. In some cases, involvement appears to have been a reflexive and rational response to ideas about what is ‘good’ in life, following a theological or performative model. At other times, however, fair-trade practices seem to have been happened on rather less deliberately, although rarely as casually as when Sue started to introduce coffee mornings in her Methodist Church in order to raise funds for a church hall project she was involved in, and she thought she might as well support fair trade as a minor part of the bigger venture. Fair trade in such cases represents but one of a number of competing devices available for the embodiment and practice of faith-based ethics, and respondents sometimes admitted to feeling ‘guilty’ and ‘responsible’ because they were not able to donate more time and/or purchasing power to the fair-trade ‘cause’. (ii) Churches as social networks for fair trade One of the principal findings of recent investigations of social capital in cities (for example, Putnam 2000) is the dramatic decline of organisations which both bond together groups within the community and bridge out to non-members in the community. Perhaps the principal exception to this trend has been the continuing presence of churches, albeit often in smaller overall numbers, as islands of buildings and volunteerism in the sea of fading social capital (Chalke 2003). It certainly seems to be the case that fair-trade services and campaigning have been able to take root in particular places through the auspices of church social networks. Churches have come to represent ‘centres’ of fair trade generically, in a manner perhaps only matched by Oxfam shops, and despite wide variations in activism for fair trade within different churches, they seem to offer common social networks in and through which fair trade diffuses out into surrounding localities. Several of our interviewees ‘discovered’ fair trade through the activities of Traidcraft representatives in church networks. Sarah, for example,


‘I’ve always believed in fair trade ... but it didn’t happened solely because of my beliefs. It happened because I had spare time on my hands, and our church had just started ... Traidcraft.’


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was told about Traidcraft by a ‘school-gate’ parent friend:

Sarah regularly spends £50 per month at her local church-based Traidcraft shop, and has branched out from foodstuff purchases to Christmas and craft goods, and attendance at Traidcraft fashion shows in the area. Similarly, Hazel was enrolled into fair-trade purchasing and volunteering through her local church: ‘We have a housegroup from our local Methodist church; little groups of people meet, other than on a Sunday. And one of the guys ... he said what we need to do is make people feel aware of fairly traded goods – they’d obviously sold Traidcraft at his former church – and I said well okay, I’ll stick my neck out and say I’ll do it for a little while. I suppose that’s perhaps four years ago.’ Such direct translation into fair-trade activism is rare, but in small local settings new ethical converts can quite quickly become active campaigners if the fair-trade arena suits their desire to practise identity politics and ethics. The church setting can thus provide fertile territory for active faith-practice. Alternatively, churches can offer a safe and respectable environment in which to experiment with issues such as fair trade which seem to some to be radical and potentially contentious. Anne-Marie heard about Traidcraft in her local church and reported to us that she ‘feels safe buying Traidcraft’ there because other people in the church who she respects have assured her of Traidcraft’s respectability both to the social network of church and to individual mediators within that network: ‘I think the great thing that the church ... that being part of the church is teaching me is – the fact that we are not individuals in this world, that we are a big family’. (Anne-Marie) This metaphor of family is used to connect her Christian identity both to a localised community and to an ecological vision of being part of a wider world community and environment. Her part in this ‘family’ can safely be practised through devices such as Traidcraft. Of course we should temper any romanticised gloss implied here about ‘being’ church. Other


‘Our friends told me about it (Traidcraft), probably about ten years ago ... She had known about it because of her religious ... she’s in Bristol Christian Fellowship, so she’ll have heard about it through that.’


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respondents told of contests and struggles over issues relating to churchbased fair trade – the high cost of products (when other pressing financial priorities are not being met), the anti-sabbatarian nature of Traidcraft stalls in churches, the taste of the coffee (particularly when first introduced with little choice) and so on – which suggest that church social networks vary in the ease with which they are colonised by the ideas and, perhaps more importantly, the everyday practices, of fair trade. As well as operating as self-contained social networks, churches represent robust platforms for the dissemination of fair-trade issues and products into the wider community. Sue told us that she is now well known in her area as the local contact point for fair trade: ‘I supply the local primary school staffroom, and I’ve got another church in Portishead that has it (Traidcraft goods) on a regular basis. The Catholic church if they’ve got anything happening will often have goods on a sale or return basis as will the Anglican church, so it’s quite extensive really.’ Neither is such dissemination simply to other churches. Emma describes a spreading of the Traidcraft message through local word of mouth: ‘I think it’s certainly the best way of spreading the message by getting ... local people to then spread it further ... it’s kind of filtering out again, it’s branding out. A lot of it is word of mouth, and friends doing this, and so and so, talking about that.’ Emma regularly runs pre-Christmas sales advertised in the village and through the school, and encounters ‘different people again’ through these events. Interestingly, she places considerable store by the legitimation of these events as mainstream activities in the village rather than ‘being some odd churchy thing’. Such legitimation is a fascinating facet of using church networks to springboard fair trade out into the wider community. Often churchgoers will be aware of the dangers of proselytising and may therefore be wary of their place in ‘mainstream’ society. However, involvement with fair trade places them at the centre of a popular political movement, and legitimises Christian ethics vis-à-vis this mainstream. Fair trade therefore fits well with the sensibilities of a post-secular charity and faith-based action which makes no adverse demands on its ‘clients’ (Cloke et al. 2005; Coles 1997; ). Again, then, the practice of virtue ethics can be seen to involve enlightened selfinterest in the midst of caring for others.




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In suggesting that churches represent local social networks in and through which fair- trade discourses and devices take root and flourish, providing an exemplar of what it is to behave and consume ethically, we point not only to the networks themselves but also to the provocateurs who stimulate such activity. In terming such people ‘evangelists’ we are not seeking to cross-reference their role with that of spreading the Christian gospel per se; we merely seek to reflect the zeal and energy which empowers the spreading of the fair-trade ‘gospel’ albeit with a Christian perspective and motivation. We have encountered several of these key figures who become local agents for the cause, and combine practical tasks of supplying fair-trade goods and running fair-trade events with a number of other roles which involve getting the message across and converting other people to the practice and cause of fair trade. Evangelists are therefore not only networkers, but they are advocates and persuaders, and can quickly become active campaigners. Indeed fair-trade campaigning is often associated with multiple campaigning for related causes and the virtue ethics they engender. Our interviewees gave accounts of their activism which explained their actions in terms of a number of these evangelist roles. Ray, for example, describes herself as a ‘persuader’: Ray:

‘Yes, I am a persuader. I am very good at ... well, I think I am ... sometimes I embarrass my husband (laughs) in the supermarket’. Interviewer: ‘Would you go up to random people?’ (laughs). Ray: ‘Not to random people ... I used to say, not loudly, but quite clearly, in the queue ... that is made by Nestlé, we don’t buy Nestlé things (laughs). Not to somebody I didn’t know, you know, just to my husband or somebody I happened to know there, if I saw it in their trolley. And then if anybody said to me why, and people have, I tell them the Nestlé story ... And I persuade people in the church that perhaps they ought to be considering buying fairly traded products for their offices and that’s grown a lot.’


(iii) Local ‘evangelists’ for fair trade

It is interesting how Ray’s persuasion is invariably linked with material objects and devices. The Nestlé product in the supermarket trolley


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‘so that I can always, you know, if people drop a comment in front of me I can say, well, I keep catering things so if you’d like I can give you a few teabags to try, just to see if you like this. And very often ... and nearly always, in fact, people will say ... ; oh no, if we’ve decided we’ll go fairly traded we’ll go, and take it’, and off they go with their tub of coffee and big bag of forty teabags ...’. (laughs) We emphasise the jocularity of this part of the interview because Ray clearly sees these devices as an opportunity to ease people humorously into her way of thinking and acting, whether they realise it or not. Laughter also defuses any potential proselytising edge to the actions. However, the use of food and drink materiality is a clear tactic which is tailored to different networks and contacts. She continues: ‘If we had done talks at schools, we’ve given just a pack of biscuits and/or teabags to the children to take home to mum. And then sometimes the parents will then be quite happy to come out (to coffee mornings) because you always put in your little compliments slip and address ... so some mums have come that way.’ Ray insists that her customers are not all ‘mums’, but it is clear from these interviews that fair trade evangelists will network strategically in their locality. The first obvious network is the home Church, which as Sue describes involves linking Christian and fair-trade discourses: ‘I don’t think that you have to be a Christian to want to support fair trade, but that was the way I persuaded the people at the church that is was the right way to go, because I think it was easier for them to come to terms with it.’ Sue here suggests a transferability of discourse, and chooses between ‘political’ and ‘Christian’ accounts, depending on the object of her advocacy. Other key evangelists extend their network of influence in whatever ways they can. Debbie talks about where she sets out her stall (both practically and metaphorically), including churches, village


sparks a conversation. Consideration of using fair-trade products in workplaces is prompted by a deliberate tactic of using catering packs of tea and coffee:


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fetes, youth groups, Rainbow and Guide groups, Christmas fairs, civic events, Women’s Institute and Mother’s Union groups and schools. Her strategy is to respond to new opportunities and to persuade individuals within these groups to take on the task of serving that network. She describes herself as ‘a networker’ and a ‘frustrated activist’, the latter being an expression of how time spent serving new fair-trade networks limits her ability to engage in different forms of campaigning: ‘I don’t go to the campaign meetings and I don’t go out on the demos ... I mean I’d love to but I don’t have time. So on the practical side I feel I’m there to provide the stock, provide myself if required, and provide information if they want it, or I can point them in the direction to go.’ Debbie’s ‘practical’ advocacy indicates an important form of fair-trade evangelism, that is ensuring that the presence of fair-trade goods, and the associated message, infiltrates local social networks by whatever means. Other evangelists progress from this ‘practical’ persuasion into fullblown political campaigning. Edna has worked with Traidcraft for 25 years or more, starting with a personal commitment that quickly spread into her church network: ‘I started buying coffee just for myself, and fairly quickly became more and more convinced that this was the right thing to do and that other people ought to do it too, and started talking to people in church. And we started buying it as a group, and then it just gradually grew from there.’ Edna soon became a Key Contact for her area of Bristol, helping other FairTraders with their stocks and events. She started off, in her words, as a ‘fussy mother’, but motivated by her Christian faith and by an awareness of wider political issues she harnessed both Christian and political discourse as and when appropriate: ‘In a sense it’s always been political, hasn’t it? I mean the fact that we were going into fair trade was political, although ‘political’ was a bit of a dirty word within the church, because ‘this is Christianity’... but my Christianity involves my whole life including politics ... you can’t separate the two.’




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‘This is one of the exciting things about all this campaigning – Jubilee 2000, Trade Justice, Make Poverty History – it means that we are that much more involved with other people, and they’re more aware of us as well ...’ For Edna this involves active involvement in national campaigns relating to social justice, and deliberate engagement in political rallies and demonstrations (recently in Birmingham, Cologne, Genoa, London and Edinburgh. She says: ‘Sometimes I think this is mad, I mean I’m over 60 now ...’ Edna’s reworking of the supposed Christian/political divide is a tribute both to her personal commitment to the cause, and to the changing relationships between politics and faith, which are frequently being brought together through espousal of virtue ethics. Therefore to perform a Christian identity politically has become less ‘dirty’ and by the same token the Christian foundations of fair-trade activism have been subject to a kind of evangelism, which permits easy alliances across faith/politics divides.

Conclusions The research reported on here suggests that faith-motivation, church networks and Christian fair trade evangelists have combined to achieve an appreciable impact in particular localities. From humble beginnings, fair-trade activism through Traidcraft has evolved into a significant campaigning force in and around Bristol, as in other cities in the UK. We are not suggesting that fair trade is in any way monopolised by faith-based motives, networks or ethos. There are several important examples of fair-trade activism in Bristol which are built on a secular focus of care, not least through a series of key fair-trade businesses that have grown up in the city. Local authority activity in favour of fair trade has also been noteworthy. However, faith-based networks have proved to be the source of a remarkable scale of local involvement in this context. The networks represent important arenas in which ‘ethical’ identity is modelled and learned in specific aspects of consumption. Much of the impetus for this modelling and learning stems from the work of local activists with an evangelistic outlook for fair- trade practice and


Although 80% of her sales remain church-based, she is excited by recent opportunities to ‘move out of the church’ by involvement with wider campaigning.


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discourse. Although these individuals contribute different kinds of personal involvement, in both their selling and their campaigning they are crucial in setting out the stall of ethical consumption. More generally, we suggest that the role of social networks and attendant evangelists may be of wider relevance than in the specific fair trade and faith-motivated contexts discussed in this paper. The diffusion of devices and models of other virtue ethics may well also rest on the role of networks and evangelists in persuading the virtue of particular configurations of practice, consumption and ‘good’ living. There are two important wider implications that flow from these findings. First, it seems likely that church-based or wider faith-based networks can act as arenas of innovation in relation to other ethical issues. For example, there is now a significant groundswell of activity designed to persuade faith-congregations to practise more sustainable church-life, using audits of environmental practice in the collective church sphere to prompt parallel audits of individual and household practices (see, for example, Bookless 2008; Spencer and White 2007). As with fair-trade issues, the activation of faith-networks in this respect seems likely to be connected to the particular passion and determination of particular activists or evangelists within that network to instigate change and diffuse best practice therein. Such practice will be explained in terms that will appeal to the virtue ethics of that community, here emphasising theologies of environmental stewardship and concern for creation, and will often be resourced by wider organisations such as the Christian ecology movement A Rocha (www.arocha. org; www.ecocongregation.org). The second implication is that this ‘model’ of evangelists within particular networks is likely to apply in secular arenas, or in spaces where faith and secularism meet. The story of Transition Towns (www.transitiontowns.org) suggests that local networks for sustainable living are springing up where small groups of passionate enthusiasts are able to generate an infectious presence in particular places. Finally, we suggest that this example of localised participation indicates that a significant role can be played by faith-motivated people in campaigns for progressive socio-economic reform in general, and in particular for sustainable living. Although it is impossible to quantify, there can be a reasonable assumption that the Christian influence in organisations such as Traidcraft and the Fairtrade Foundation has served as a catalyst both for consuming fair-trade goods and campaigning about fair-trade issues at the local level, and for a more aggregate move towards larger-scale political campaigning, and commercial




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mainstreaming of fair-trade products. Far from being distracted and self-absorbed, the fair trade issue is one where Christians have found a prophetic voice, and have overcome their supposed aversion to the ‘political’ by choosing to identify with the discourses and pathways to participation offered by ethical consumption. In so doing they have commonly moved beyond the walls of their churches and expressed care for both local and global neighbours. It is noteworthy that the interviews with fair trade activists did not reveal particularly strong or critical political analyses of, for example, globalisation or exploitative labour practices. These discourses tended to be subsumed within more ethical concerns about the self-other relationship. Perhaps the adoption of ethical rather than political prompts to action will be interpreted as a watering down of the religious content of involvement, but as the interviews interpreted above suggest, there remain strong theological prompts to participation in ethical consumption, even if such prompts do seem to be wrapped up in new forms of post-secular sensibility. These churchgoers seem to be finding other devices, including consumption, through which to express their theological and ethical desire to be involved in acts of caritas and agape. In so doing they have in small (and indirectly perhaps in much larger) ways imprinted faith-based interventions onto the new cartographies of the city. Again, there are implications here for sustainability more broadly. The ethical prompt to action is a powerful one at a time when more formal political distinctions are being blurred in the actions of, and opposition to government. Changing consumer behaviour in favour of more sustainable practices is a task that can happily draw on the appeal of virtue ethics as a foundational campaigning device. Despite entreaties for change aimed at individual behaviour and practice, it seems likely that existing or new social networks will be fruitful arenas for the sparking of new ethical awareness and action. Faith-networks will be involved here, both in the centripetal diffusion of faith-based sustainable ideas and devices, and in receiving and activating such ideas from other ethical evangelists whose motivation relates to secular counter-consumerist cultures. There is also evidence, again from the Transition Towns movement (Mason and Whitehead 2008), that a mixing together of the secular and the faith-motivated can be mutually reinforcing in campaigns around sustainable ethics. In these kinds of ways, the initiatives and collaborations achieved in the fair-trade sector can be seen as more generally applicable to wider areas of sustainable development.




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Allahyari, R. (2000) Visions of Charity: Volunteer Workers and Moral Community Berkeley CA: University of California Press Archbishop of Canterbury’s Commission on Urban Priority Areas (1985) Faith in the City Worthing: Churchman Publishing Badiou, A. (2006) Being and Event translated by O. Feltham, London: Continuum Barnett C., Cloke P., Clarke N. and Malpass A. (2005a) ‘Consuming Ethics: Articulating the subjects and Spaces of Ethical Consumption’ Antipode 37, pp. 23–45 Barnett, C., Cafaro P. and Newholm T. (2005b) ‘Philosophy and Ethical Consumption’, in R. Harrison, T. Newholm and D. Shaw (eds) The Ethical Consumer London: Sage Bland, P. (2005) ‘The Politics of the Eye: Toward a Theological Materialism’, in C. Davis, J. Milbank and S. Zizek (eds) Theology and the Political: The New Debate Durham NC: Duke University Press Bookless, D. (2008) Planetwise: Dare to Care for God’s World Nottingham: InterVarsity Press Brueggemann, W. (2001) The Prophetic Imagination (2nd edn.) Minneapolis MN: Fortress Press Campbell, C. (1998) ‘Consuming Goods and the Good of Consuming’, in D. Crocker and T. Linden (eds) Ethics of Consumption Lanham MD: Rowman and Littlefield Chalke, S. (2003) Faithworks Eastbourne: Kingsway Cloke, P. (2002) ‘Deliver Us from Evil? Prospects for Living Ethically and Acting Politically in Human Geography’ Progress in Human Geography 26, pp. 587–604 Cloke, P., Johnsen S. and May J. (2005) ‘Exploring ethics? Discourses of ‘Charity’ in the Provision of Emergency Services for Homeless People’ Environment and Planning A 37, pp. 385–402 Cloke, P., Johnsen, S. and May, J. (2007) ‘Ethical Citizenship? Volunteers and the Ethics of Providing Services for Homeless people’ Geoforum 38, pp. 1089–101 Coles, R. (1997) Rethinking Generosity: Critical Theory and the Politics of Caritas Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press Davis, M. (2004) ‘Planet of the Slums: Urban Involution and the Informal Proletariat’ New Left Review 26, March/April, pp. 5–34. Derrida, J. (1996) The Gift of Death: Religion and Postmodernism Chicago IL: Chicago University Press Dinham, A. and Lowndes, V. (2008) ‘Religion, Resources and Representation: Three Narratives of Faith Engagement in British Urban Governance’ Urban Affairs Review 43, pp. 817–45 Dionne, E. and Chen, M. (eds) (2001) Sacred Places: Civic Purposes Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press Ebaugh, H., Saltzman, J. and Pipes, P. (2005) ‘Faith-based Social Service Organizations from Government Funding: Data from a National Survey’ Social Science Quarterly 86, pp. 273–92 Farnell, R. (2001) ‘Faith Communities, Regeneration and Social Exclusion’ Community Development Journal 36, pp. 95–107 Farnell, R., Furbey, R., Hills, S., Macy, M. and Smith, G. (2003) ‘Faith’ In Urban Regeneration Bristol: Policy Press


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Flint, J. and Kearns A. (2004) ‘Enabling and Cohesive or Irrelevant and Divisive? The Role of the Church of Scotland Congregations in Developing Social Capital in Scottish Communities’ Scottish Affairs 48, pp. 108–29 Gibbs, E. and Bolger, R. (2006) Emerging Churches: Creating Christian Community in Postmodern Cultures London: SPCK Gorringe, T. (2004) ‘The Principalities and Powers : a framework for thinking about Globalisation’, in P. Haslam (ed.) Globalisation and the Good London: SPCK Guelke, J. (2006) ‘Religion, Geography And/Of’, in B. Warf (ed.) Encyclopedia of Human Geography Thousand Oaks CA: Sage, pp. 407–8 Habermas, J. (2002) Religion and Rationality: Essays on Reason, God and Modernity Cambridge MA: MIT Press Harris M., Hutchinson R. and Cairns B. (2005) ‘Community-wide Planning for Faith-based Service Provision: Practical, Policy and Conceptual Challenges’ Nonprofit and Voluntary Sector Quarterly 34, pp. 88–109 Jackson, M. and Kimberlee, R. (2004) Daily Service: How Faith Communities Contribute To Neighbourhood Renewal and Regeneration in the South West of England Bristol: Government Office For The South West Kong, L. (2001) ‘Mapping “New” Geographies of Religion: Politics and Poetics in Modernity’ Progress in Human Geography 25, pp. 211–33 Lyon, D. (2000) Jesus in Disneyland: Religion in Postmodern Times Cambridge: Polity Mason, K. and Whitehead, M. (2008) ‘Transition Urbanism and the Contested Politics of Spatial Practice’ Paper presented to the Annual Conference of the Royal Geographical Society/Institute of British Geographers, London Micheletti, M. (2003) Political Virtue and Shopping Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan Milbank, J. (2005) ‘Materialism and Transcendence’, in C. Davis, J. Milbank and S. Zizek (eds) Theology and the Political: New Debates Durham NC: Duke University Press Miller, D. (1998) A Theory of Shopping Cambridge: Polity Moe-Lobeda, C. (2004) ‘Offering Resistance to Globalisation: Insights from Luther’, in P. Haslam (ed.) Globalisation and the Good London: SPCK Morris, A. (1984) Origins of the Civil Rights Movement New York: The Free Press Myers, C. (2003) Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus Maryknoll NY: Orbis Nicholls, A. and Opal, C. (2005) Fairtrade: Market-Driven Ethical Consumption London: Sage Orton, A. (2006) ‘Contesting “Good Practice” in English Faith-based Community Work: Changing Agendas and Changing Organisations’ Paper presented to the AAG Annual Meeting, Chicago Osa, M. (2003) Solidarity and Contention: Networks of Polish Opposition Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press Prochaska, F. (2006) Christianity and Social Service in Modern Britain Oxford: Oxford University Press Putnam, D. (2000) Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community New York: Simon and Schuster Schreiter, R. (1997) The New Catholicity: Theology between the Global and the Local Maryknoll NY: Orbis




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Singer, P. (1997) How Are We to Live? Ethics in the Age of Self-Interest Oxford: Oxford University Press Slessarev-Jamir, H. (2004) ‘Exploring the Attraction of Local Congregations to Community Organising’ Nonprofit and Voluntary Sector Quarterly 33, pp. 585–605 Smith, C. (1996) Resisting Reagan: The US Central America Peace Movement Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press Spencer, N. and White, R. (2007) Christianity, Climate Change and Sustainable Living London: SPCK Tinder, G. (1989) The Political Meaning of Christianity Baton Rouge LA: Louisiana State University Press Wallis, J. (2001) ‘Eyes on the Prize’, in E. Dionne and M. Chen (eds) Sacred Places: Civic Purposes Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press Wallis, J. (2005) God’s Politics New York: Harper Collins Warde, A. (2004) ‘Theories of Practice as an Approach to Consumption’ ESRC/ AHRB Cultures of Consumption Programme Working Paper No. 6 Warren, M. (2001) Dry Bones Rattling Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press Warren, M. and Wood, L. (2001) Faith-based Community Organizing: The State of the Field Jericho NY: Interfaith Wilber, C. (1998) ‘The Ethics of Consumption: A Roman Catholic View’, in D. Crocker and T. Linden (eds) Ethics of Consumption Lanham MD: Rowman and Littlefield Williams, R. (2005) ‘Introduction’, in C. Davis, J. Milbank and S. Zizek (eds) Theology and the Political: New Debates Durham NC: Duke University Press Williams, R.H., and Blackburn, J.N. (1996) ‘Many Are Called But Few Obey: Ideological Commitment and Activism in Operation Rescue’ in C. Smith (ed.) Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith in Social-Movement Activism, New York: Routledge, pp. 167–85 Wood, R. (2002) Faith in Action Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press Wynn, M. (2005) Emotional Experience and Religious Understanding Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Zizek, S. (2001) On Belief London: Routledge




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Islam in the Globalised World: Consumerism and Environmental Ethics in Iran Hossein Godazgar

Introduction As Wittgenstein (1996, p. 198) stresses in his concluding chapter of the ‘Lecture on Ethics’, ‘[e]thics...springs from the desire to say something about the ultimate meaning of life, the absolute good, the absolute valuable’, though it ‘can be no science’ and it ‘does not add to our knowledge in any sense’. At first glance, it seems that since there is no single ‘ultimate meaning of life’, ethics would be fundamentally different and diverse among various value systems and societies, particularly Islam and the West. Yet, partly under the influence of global forces, it seems that different societies have similar meanings of what the ‘absolute good’ is, even if the hybridising features of globalisation must not be underestimated (Godazgar 2000). This chapter examines this claim through the investigation of the tensions between consumption and Islamic values and the implications for environmental ethics in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Iran, clearly an instance of an Islamic society which has become known as a symbol of ‘Islamic extremism’, can be expected to show fundamental differences from western countries. Consumption as a mode of gratifying desires and wants through luxury and ‘unnecessary’ services and goods (that is, consumerism) is generally considered a key feature of western liberal democracies, through which the ideals of individualism, pluralism, hedonism and romanticism are manifested. But, in a post-consumerist vein, it is argued that consumerism, based on liberal political philosophy, threatens the physical basis of life through a materialisation of human arrogance, disregard of the natural world and systematic cruelty to animals. In other


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words, the ideology of liberalism has resulted in the eradication of environmental ethics by encouraging consumerism in modern liberaldemocratic societies. Given that Islamic societies are supposed to lack, if not oppose, liberal political philosophy as a dominant ideology, they would lack the consumer ethics of liberal societies and, therefore, would be expected to have far fewer environmental problems. Although, in the view of the Islamic clergy, Islamic ethics oppose consumer ethics, ordinary Iranians seem to pursue a different approach under the pressure of global forces. This chapter examines the relationship between Islam and consumerism among ordinary Iranians and thus its implications for environmental ethics. The core question is: ‘Is Iran, as a member of Islamic countries and the South, consumerist?’ In order to answer this question, I first discuss the relationship between Islam and environmental ethics. I will then turn to discussion of a range of theorisations of the relationship between Islam (or religion in general) and consumerism, which will contextualise my empirical findings on Iranian Muslims’ attitudes to consumerism and globalisation. These findings are presented in the third section of the chapter. Finally, the conclusion will directly address the question outlined above.

Islam and environmental ethics Islam, like many other religions, seems to have a neutral position with respect to the ‘modern’ issues of consumerism and sustainability; it might even consider them irrelevant. This is because ‘religions came into being in circumstances different from those we face today’ (Foltz 2002, p.12). One’s religiously-informed understanding of the ethics of consumption and environment therefore has its origin in the interpretations of the Islamic text, rather than the Islamic text itself. The extension of these interpretations can be as different and various as the number of Islamic agents. However, it would be naive to suppose that the agents of Islam would or should always act in accordance with the religious text. As the results of this research as well as others show, like many other religious traditions, Islam is not the only factor that inspires Muslims’ actions. Having said this, both opponents (for whatever reason) and proponents of consumerism or sustainability are equally capable of resorting to Islamic texts to justify their positions. One Muslim might oppose consumerist values by relying on the Qur’an, Chapter 7 Verse 31: ‘eat and drink and be not extravagant; surely He does not love the extravagant’. (7: 31) In contrast, another Muslim might find no deviation from Islamic law (shari’a) in living an


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extravagant life, as there is no law to specify the quantity or quality of consumption, except in a few cases such as the consumption of pork or alcohol. Both support of environmentalism and opposition to it could similarly be justified in an Islamic context. Those who view Islam as compatible with sustainability may take the Qur’anic examples of ‘And the earth, He has set it for living creatures’ (55: 10), not just human beings, or texts that describe God as the real owner of the heavens and earth and human beings as God’s ‘khalifah’ (vice-regent) (2: 30, 6: 165) who must take care of His creation as ‘amanah’ (trust or stewardship). Akbar Ahmed claims that ‘Islam’s very colour is green and its concept of the good life, paradise, is replete with gardens, orchards and rivers’ (1992, p.120). In this view, greenness seems to be an intrinsic value of Islam, which is now under threat from modernity, seen as an external force. This is why Ahmed tends to describe the environmental degradation in the non-Western world, including the Muslim world, as a ‘new present or “gift” from the west’. Then he adds ‘[a] good Muslim is a tenant, not owner, of the earth; he must tread it softly’ (1992, p. 120). In contrast, another Muslim, relying on the same Islamic texts, might refuse to care about the environment by stressing the notion of human exceptionality and by denying the intrinsic value of any non-human living being. In so doing, they may resort to the Qur’anic verses ‘He it is Who created for you all that is in the earth’ (2: 29) or ‘And He has made subservient to you whatsoever is in the heavens and whatsoever is in the earth, all, from Himself’ (45: 13). This is very similar to the anthropocentric approach in western liberalism. In brief, whether Islam as a religion is understood as being in favour of consumerism and post-consumerism or against both depends on which interpretation is being mobilised by its agents. In this context, Islam, like western Judaeo-Christian traditions, is potentially both compatible with consumerism and capable of reacting to the environmental problems it generates. However, Islamism, as a political ideology and distinguished from Islam as a religion, is explicitly neither in agreement with consumerism nor enthusiastic in tackling green issues. It is not surprising that post-revolutionary Iranian authority, in an anti-western, anti-capitalist ideological mood, has opposed consumerism as the core of political liberalism. This became particularly important for the Islamic authority because anti-consumerism served the country’s economic interests while it was suffering from severe economic sanctions. Of course, the Islamic Republic has experienced fluctuations in its attitude towards capitalism and liberalism during its thirty year history. While it experienced a harsh opposition to liberalism in the 1980s and is continuing


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to experience even harsher hostility under Ahmadinejhad’s presidency, it took a softer position under Hashemi-Rafsanjani’s presidency, and an even softer position under Khatami’s. Post-revolutionary Iran has never succeeded in defining a systematic, coherent model for its ‘Islamic’ political economy. Islamist political systems, in contrast to political liberalism (Rawls 1993), require a huge government that is capable of preventing people from exercising their own preferences and fulfilments with reference to various aspects of everyday life. I have already examined this in relation to the impact of Islamism on Iranian postrevolutionary education (Godazgar 2008), but education is not an exception. The interventionist Islamic government will also not allow Iranian consumers freedom to choose the commodities to form their own conception of a good life, whether ‘good life’ is defined in the frame of consumerism or post-consumerism. This is mainly because the sovereignty of the individual (both consumer and producer) is denied by the communal ideology of Islamism. Iranian Islamic authority not only opposes consumerism, but also the post-consumerist ethics of environmentalism. The present VicePresident, Dr Parviz Davoodi, who is himself a western-educated economist, has recently declared that the Islamic Republic will not bother with the ‘colonial’ slogans of the green movement and environmentalism originating from western countries which have already experienced economic development and are now preventing developing countries from achieving it under the pretext of sustainability. According to him, it is now the turn of developing countries to undergo development. In this view, environmental concerns are irrelevant to developing countries, such as Iran, and are only pertinent in the context of developed societies: ‘Westerners pay no attention to the preservation of the environment when their processes of production and structural development are at stake. But when developing countries move towards economic development, meeting the requirements of environmental issues becomes obligatory for them’ (Davoodi 2007, p. 1) Yet, having said this, it seems that scholarly literature pays little attention to the distinction between Islam and Islamism; I will develop this point in the next section.



Islam and consumerism The approach that Gellner (1992), Ahmed (1991, 1992) and Turner (1991, 1994, 2000) have taken towards Islam and consumerism failed to foresee a promising relationship between them. Campbell (1983, 1987, 1994,


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1997 and 2004) is also pessimistic about there being a positive relation between religion, in its broad sense, and consumerism. In their view, Islam and consumerism contain contradictory features. In contrast, there is little scholarly work that differentiates explicitly between fundamentalists and the majority of Muslims in relation to consumerism. There is also little work that predicts compatibility between religion, particularly Islam, on the one hand, and consumerism and post-consumerism, on the other. Beckford (2003) is one of the few who does. Gellner (1992) and Ahmed (1991) attribute Islam’s problem with consumerism at the cognitive level to the latter’s relativism and secular materialism. For Gellner (1992, pp. 72–85), consumer culture is typified by ‘the currently fashionable form of relativism’, which displays ‘universal, ecumenical tolerance and comprehension of alien cultures’. This opposes, according to him, Islam’s ‘simple, powerful, earthy, sometimes cruel, absorbing, socially fortifying movement’, ‘the old, long-established High Culture of [its] own faith’, and its ‘claim to a unique revelation’ and ‘absolutism’ (Gellner 1992 pp. 72ff.). A consumerist Muslim will find himself in a situation where he is devaluing his faith by reducing it to ‘merely one of many and equally valid ‘systems of meaning’ (Gellner 1992, pp. 72–85). It seems to be in this context that Ahmed predicts that: ‘Muslim societies will not fall easily into the emerging global pattern’ (1991, p. 230). He identifies Islam as the main obstacle in the path of consumerism and postmodernism. In his view, the reason why Islam and consumerism cannot be reconciled is much deeper than is usually thought. Their confrontation allegedly originates in their opposed philosophies, structures, and world views: ‘One is based in secular materialism, the other in faith; one has rejected belief altogether, the other has placed it at the centre of its world-view’ (Ahmed 1992, p. 264). Like Gellner and Ahmed, Turner (1991, 1994, 2000) also finds Islam and consumerism incompatible, but with reference to the dilemma of everyday lifestyles, rather than relying on intellectual levels of communication: ‘The corruption of pristine faith is going to be brought about by Tina Turner and Coca-Cola and not by rational arguments and rational inspection of presuppositions and the understanding of western secularism’ (Turner 1994, p. 10). For him, whilst Christianity and the rest of the world have been vulnerable to the lifestyles required by the ‘Ford motor’ car, Islam is not, though it was comfortable with the consumer ethics of early capitalism (Turner 1994, pp. 90–2). This, he argues, is mainly because high consumerism is interpreted by Islamic religious leaders as a new form of colonialism (‘internal cultural




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invasion’) and ‘a further extension of westernisation and symbolic penetration’ (Turner 1994, p. 91). This was the major reason behind the assassination of Sadat, President of Egypt: ‘...at the level of peasant life, American consumerism stood for a further erosion of traditional values’ (Turner 2000, p.145). In other words, the feudalist value-system of Islam challenges American consumerism which has stood for the fragmentation of these traditional values (village versus global market place). For Sherry, this seems to be true in the context of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade centre (Sherry 2004, p. 48). Turner (1994, p. 93), using Tönnies’ terminology of Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft, associates Islam with the former as the ideology of closedcommunal relations of a global village manifested in the fundamentalist view of the world, which stands against Gesellschaft or open-associational relationships of a global supermarket represented by consumerism. In other words, it is argued that the authority of Islam, manifested in its absolutist ideology and ‘uniform’ lifestyle and teachings, is rejected by the new philosophy of consumerism, according to which each individual enjoys a right of having his or her own approach to the ‘truth’ – the pluralisation of life-worlds or global ecumenicalism (Turner 1994, pp. 86–94). Therefore, the reconciliation of the collective identity of the ummah with the individualistic features of modern consumerism seems to be out of the question: ‘It is difficult to imagine how one can have several universalistic, global, evangelical, religions within the same world political space. How can one have mutually exclusive households within the same world cultural system?’ (Turner 1994, p. 93). Campbell (1983, 1987, 1994, 1997, 2004) argues similarly to Turner (1991, 1994, 2000), and to some extent to Ahmed (1992) when he distinguishes between ‘modern consumerism’, associated with high- or postmodernity, and ‘traditional consumerism’, compatible with religion. ‘Modern consumerism’ is viewed as a source of ‘the worst’ of human motives: envy, avarice, pride and extreme materialism (Campbell 1994, p. 505). In contrast, ‘traditional consumerism’ is characterised by ‘fixed needs’, rather than endless wants, consumption of ‘the same products repeatedly as and when these needs arise’ and, more importantly, these ‘needs’ are ‘dictated by traditional ways of life’ (Campbell 1994, p. 507). Therefore, for Campbell, modern consumerism’s characteristics of individualism, dynamism, hedonism and romanticism are opposed to religious fundamentalism’s call for communal identity, static economic ethics, everlasting concerns and traditionalism. In Campbell’s view, modern consumerism is severely individualistic in nature, rather than communal. Identity, based on individualism and




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gratification as the ‘metaphysics of modern consumerism’ (Campbell 2004, p. 28), contrasts with the forms of ‘tribal’ identity associated with religious fundamentalism post-9/11. Therefore, it seems that Islam’s communal identity is incompatible with consumerist epistemology, according to which each individual may claim that their tastes are indisputably theirs and cannot be challenged by others. In other words, the authority of religion and also the old-style experts, who got their authority principally from their institutional role, is challenged by the individual’s claim to choose her or his own account of ‘eternal truth’. Instead, ‘gurus’ or ‘enlightened ones’ displace the clergy and these oldstyle experts. While the latter try to tell individuals what they ‘need’, ‘gurus’ tend to help the individual ‘discover’ what it is that they ‘want’, or ‘desire’ (Campbell 2004, p. 34). Campbell also associates modern consumerism with ‘dynamism’ and the unknown ‘novel’ character of products. Dynamism refers to the ‘consumers’ almost magical ability to produce new wants immediately after old ones are satisfied’. The ‘novel’ character of ‘modern’ consumerism relates to the fact that we do not know ‘what “satisfaction” (if any) such products might yield when we desire them’ (Campbell 1994, p. 507). The ability ‘to want’, ‘to desire’, ‘to long for’, and particularly the ability ‘to experience such emotions repeatedly’ is something that happens to any ‘modern’ consumer, regardless of how privileged or wealthy they are (Campbell 2004, p. 28). Such ability, following Weber’s style of analysis, is referred to as the ‘spirit’ of modern consumerism by Campbell: ‘an attitude of restless desire and discontent coupled with the treatment of consumption as an end-in-itself’(1983, p. 281). In this view, it would be ‘immoral’ not to desire ‘unlimited good’ in the modern world. This is clearly opposed to traditional consumerism’s ‘static economy’ and desire of ‘limited good’. Campbell (1994, p. 508) also maintains that while ‘modern’ consumption is associated with hedonism or ‘pleasure-seeking’, the ‘traditional’ version is oriented towards sensory ‘satisfaction-seeking’, which originates in utilitarianism, and seems to be compatible with religious faith. However, it is clear that Campbell’s account of morality is not viewed as unproblematic by post-consumerists and environmentalists For a more detailed review of Gellner’s, Ahmed’s, Turner’s and Campbell’s ideas on Islam/religion and consumerism, see Godazgar (2007). In contrast to this, Beckford (2000, 2003) has taken a different approach in order to investigate the relation between Islam and consumerism: social constructionism. However, he has done this mainly as part of an analysis of the relationship between religion and globalisation.




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Inspired by Roland Robertson (1985, 1992), Beckford believes that religion and religious movements have played a significant role in globalisation and that there have been interactions between them, rather than confrontations. Hence, it is important for him to study the relationship between religion and globalisation, and therefore high consumerism, from this perspective: ... [R]eligion is ‘good to think with’ in relation to globalisation for three main reasons. Firstly, it challenges simplistic theorizing based on highly selective examples. Secondly, it forces attention on religion’s capacity for self-reflexive critical thinking about globalisation. Thirdly, religion resists any single model of globalisation by demonstrating a kaleidoscopic range of responses. (Beckford 2003, p. 106) Different religions have responded differently to globalisation: ‘some religions have indirectly facilitated globalisation’; ‘some religious responses to globalisation welcome the opportunity to foster new ideals of universal love and peace’; and ‘other religious responses perceive globalisation as a threat to their integrity and influence’ (Beckford 2000, p. 75). Indeed, for Beckford, the relationship between religion and globalisation or high modernity is much more diverse and complicated than that which Turner, Campbell, Ahmed and Gellner describe. High modernity or modern consumerism, via globalisation, does not become embedded everywhere in the same form. It differs according to preexisting religious values as well as social, political and economic conditions. Therefore, at one extreme, the response of Orthodox Christianity in locations such as Greece and Eastern Europe to globalisation is liable to be negative because it might be perceived as an external force which may weaken the claimed, primeval links between religion and land. But the evangelical Protestants’ response to globalisation is likely to be positive, and they may regard it as a wonderful opportunity that may lead to strengthening each individual’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ in a homogeneous way. Alongside these responses, Beckford notes: ‘Hindu nationalist movements and Islamist movements have also turned global communications technologies to their advantage’ (2003, p. 115). Of course, as Beckford argues, the forms of this advantage depend on the interpretations of globality and globalisation of religious leaders, and therefore differ from one religious organisation to another (2003, pp. 115ff.). For example, the leaders of some religious organisations seek




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to expand their access to all parts of the world through globalisation, such as the Roman Catholic Church, Soka Gakkai International, the Baha’is, the Word of Life and the Church of Scientology. In contrast, other religious leaders may find it to their advantage to oppose globalisation. They therefore emphasise the threat to their own religious tradition represented by external alien forces, frequently referred to as American mass culture and consumerism. They keep the subject of globalisation alive on their agenda by making a sharp contrast between chastity, morality and the primeval character of their own tradition and the ‘upstart’ and ‘mongrel’ consumerism of alien global forces. This grants religious leaders the opportunity to claim authority and legitimacy, and to constantly highlight their tradition. Beckford (2003, p. 116) mentions the Iranian revolution of 1979 as a typical example of this paradox, during which its Shi’ite leaders started to affirm the primacy of Shi’ite principles over so-called corrupted values of western liberalism, capitalism and consumerism. However, in Beckford’s view, this does not mean that Muslims as a whole are against consumerism and global forces. His social constructionist approach is capable of differentiating between the majority of Muslims and ‘Islamic extremists’ (2003, p. 139). For him, although a minority of Muslims have responded to late modernity through fundamentalism and anti-consumerist ethics, this response does not encompass all of Islam. Furthermore, his approach is open to the possibility of compatibility between religion, including Islam, and consumerism as well as post-consumerism. Bearing all this in mind, in the next section of this chapter I will report my findings on the relationship between Islam and consumerism in Iran, a context where the global force of satellite TV is a significant factor. If Iranians are not against consumerism, then Iran, as a Muslim nation, will not be an exception in terms of environmental concerns, from a post-consumerist perspective.

Islam and consumerism in Iran In order to understand Islamic consumerism and Muslim reaction to global forces, in 2002–3 I conducted research in Tabriz, the capital city of East Azarbaijan Province situated in North-west Iran. Tabriz’s population is estimated to be about one and a half million. A survey of questionnaires, interviews and participant observation in the University of Tabriz and shopping centres, and the analysis of some newspapers and journals were the chosen methods of research. My research therefore presents a combination of qualitative and quantitative methods,




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though the emphasis in this chapter is on the former, in line with the research methods represented in the rest of this collection. The aim was to discover the status of consumerism in the everyday lives of young Iranians, under the influence of global forces such as satellite TV. My informants were recruited using the ‘snowballing’ method. The completed questionnaires totalled 160; 88 (55%) were completed by men, and 72 (45%) by women. The ages of the participants ranged from 15 to 25 (19.67 on average). Interviews were also conducted with 33 of them. Satellite TV Satellite TV was chosen as one of the variables for my research for two main reasons: firstly, although satellite TV was both religiously and legally forbidden, and still remains illegal, it was used extensively by Iranian Muslims from the members of the lower class to the upper class; secondly, it played a significant role in transforming consumer culture from what Campbell describes as ‘traditional consumption’ to ‘modern consumption’. Indeed, it acted as a tool to transfer capitalist values to the Muslim country of Iran and this alone would be sufficient to make it illegal both in religious and legal terms in Iran, a country that experienced an anti-western Islamic revolution less than three decades ago. In Tabriz, where this research was conducted, satellite TV had become affordable to many Iranian Muslims, due to the plentiful supply of smuggled receivers, with prices ranging from about £30 to £200. Despite its illegality, Iranians had access to ‘129 channels in the early 1990s’ (Mohammadi 2000, p. 200) and to ‘97 satellite channel packages from 15 parts of the world, some of which are capable of showing 200 television networks’, at the time of the research, as Ruhani (2002, p. 3), the Secretary of the High Council of National Security, remarked. The popularity of satellite TV became very obvious during my research. Only four people (2.5%) claimed that they ‘never’ watched satellite TV. About half of my informants (50.1%) reported that they watched it frequently and more than a third of the informants (36.3%) watched it ‘to some extent’. According to my informants, global forces such as satellite TV had influenced various aspects of their life in association with consumerism: music, (both as listeners and learners/players); movies and enthusiasm for western, particularly Hollywood, films; Valentine’s Day and keen interest in reading romantic novels; outward appearance; food and eating out; and carelessness about wasting food and goods (for the impact of the internet as well as further evidence of the influence of satellite TV, see Godazgar 2007). Using appropriate statistical methods, it became clear that there were significant relations between the variable




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of watching satellite TV and each of the above-mentioned variables. That is, watching satellite TV influenced the level of participation in the above activities.

Music affects consumer behaviour by transforming values and identity (Vergara 1998, Dolfsma 1999, Brown 2008, López-Sintas et al. 2008). Music, particularly jazz and pop, also promotes other forms of consumption, especially of alcohol and cigarettes. Confirming this, a male student told me: ‘do not worry too much about alcohol’s illegality in Iran. It is easily accessible for those who seek it. We drink it even at the University Campus’. The religious prohibition (hormat) of music, declared by all ulama (Islamic clergy), left no doubt for religious people that it must be avoided. Through the Islamic Revolution and the few years that followed, few dared to listen publicly to music, something that was common in pre-revolutionary Iran. Yet, taking advantage of Ayatollah Khomeini’s decree giving permission under certain conditions to listen to a very limited number of so-called ‘revolutionary’ pieces of music in early 1982, the toleration of music began with classical music in the 1980s. With the introduction of satellite TV in the early 1990s, the strict regulation of music produced and performed within Iran loosened, so that even women were allowed to sing in public, of course only as part of a group. At the time of conducting this research, all sorts of both western and native music CDs and cassettes were tolerated. Thus, music, from my informants’ point of view, was no longer a sign of ‘irreligiosity’, and thus it would be hard to distinguish between religious and non-religious people in the 2000s in terms of whether they listen to music. A revolutionary member of the clergy told me informally in this regard: ‘there is no problem in listening to music. I even listen to pop music myself.’ A shopkeeper selling music cassettes suggested very confidently in reply to my question that ‘Won’t you get into trouble for selling such ‘haram’ cassettes?’: ‘There are so many more serious ‘harams’ going on in the name of religion in this country that “music”, compared to them, is like fingering the beads on a rosary (meaning that it has thawab or reward in judgement day)’. Not only did none of my informants avoid listening to music for religious reasons, 76.3% (122) of them publicly used Walkmans to listen to their favourite music. Western music was favoured nearly as much as national and local music. If we classify my informants’ favourite music into two categories of local (Iranian) and global music, they listened to global music nearly as much as local or national music. In this regard, a female student told


Music


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me: ‘I find pop music stimulating and Beethoven relaxing. But I prefer pop music, especially western music. Its message is romantic, although I do not understand its meaning. [But] I can understand its philosophy from its context. It speaks from heart to heart. It moves me’. Music was not confined to listening or watching. Despite state restrictions, the number of private music schools was dramatically increasing, due to high demand by Iranian youth for tuition in various musical instruments. A young woman, although dissatisfied with the number of existing music schools, described them as twice as numerous as sports clubs. The instruments taught in these schools were also a mixture of western, national and local ones, as she reported. However, the proportion of western instruments was considerable. The musical instruments that respondents were interested in, in order of popularity, were guitar, piano, keyboard, setar (plucked string instrument), violin, ney (end-blown flute), tombak (goblet drum) and daf (tambourine-like instrument). The amount of interest shown in non-local music instruments is notable. Films Global films, as another form of media, affect local values and transform ways of life, including the practice of consumption, in host societies (Chon and Choi 2003; Sifaki 2003). With the Islamic Revolution of 1979, all American and most western films were, not surprisingly, banned from state TV and cinemas, which are state-controlled. Among foreign films, Japanese ones were thought to be more suitable for broadcast on state TV in the 1980s, and these became popular among a population tired of poor quality home-produced series and films. But even the censored Japanese films and series had an impact on the people’s religion. The actors and actresses became the new, modern sacred figures for their vast public audiences. In an interview conducted in the mid-1980s on the anniversary of the birth of Fatemeh (a sacred figure for Shi’ite Muslims, who was the daughter of the Prophet and the wife of Ali, the first Shi’ite Imam), a young woman, influenced by the Japanese moral values displayed by the character ‘Oshin’ in the series The Years Away from Home, said that an appropriate role model for Iranian women was not Fatemeh anymore, but Oshin – this could have resulted in her being sentenced to death, though she was pardoned by Ayatollah Khomeini after she repented (Khabar 1987). Indeed, Oshin had become so popular among Iranians that girls, stores and even some vegetables were named after her. Since then, the focus has been on improving the quality of ‘home-made’ films and series and reducing the number of Japanese ones




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broadcast. The advent of satellite TV in the early 1990s opened a new window to the outside world and offered extended horizons: ‘Nowadays we are restricted to neither the Islamic home-made products broadcast on TV or shown in cinemas nor to the sad Japanese series or films they showed before. Satellite TV has now opened our eyes to the new world, particularly Hollywood films. People watch them either directly from the satellite TV they have at home or indirectly through the recorded CDs which are distributed in the black market’, a 19-year-old man, who was in the illegal business of CD distribution, commented. Such films contain scenes that are not allowed officially on moral grounds, and have had a great impact on the value systems and various aspects of the everyday lives of my informants, in terms of outward appearance, shopping, eating, drinking, interior decoration and food presentation. All this occurs through either explicit means, for example through advertisements, or implicit, for example, dress sense and the eating, drinking and shopping habits of the characters in the films they watch. An informant believed that commercial breaks in the middle of films had been very effective in promoting the consumption of snacks, such as fizzy drinks, crisps, chocolate bars and chewing gum. She suspected this to be the reason for the introduction of adverts by Iranian state TV in the middle of its own films, for products such as fruit juices and even ‘alcohol-free beers’. Another female respondent also admitted that Hollywood films had had a huge impact on her life: ‘they have made me very consumerist, particularly in terms of eating. My attitudes towards my body have also changed. Now, I try to have more vitamins and proteins than carbohydrates in my diet’. Another woman believed that such films had had a great impact on her husband’s attitudes: ‘My husband’s attitudes, under the impact of such films, have now become very positive towards women and their freedom. I can go to coffeeshops etc. with my friends without his objection’. Some believed that various coffee shops, pizza shops, and other restaurants, modelled on western fast-food restaurants such as McDonald’s, had been created due to the demand generated by consumers under the influence of such films (western fast-food franchises such as McDonald’s or Burger King are banned in Iran). Most of my informants believed that eating out was sharply on the increase and that such films were the main influencing factor. For some of my informants, these films had changed every aspect of their everyday lives from clothing to reading novels in bed before sleep (reading novels was a relatively new phenomenon; Iranians had traditionally been interested in Persian poems, rather than novels). All these changes, partly caused by satellite TV, challenged the desire




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of the clergy for Iranians to follow the guidelines of Islamic ideology prescribed by them.

Although Valentine’s Day was not as familiar as western music and films, its introduction was important. It is related to consumerism because it disseminates western values and leads to the growth of gift shops with so-called ‘non-Islamic’ goods. These shops are reportedly raided by the state forces every year in February. Valentine’s Day severely violates the sex-segregation policy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Mixing between men and women was cited as evidence of the Pahlavi regime’s moral corruption. In the 1980s, the Islamic Republic was successful in imposing sex-segregation by introducing new laws and social controls, such as the obligatory veiling of women. However, these measures do not seem to have been very effective in the late 1990s and particularly the 2000s: ‘If having a boyfriend or girlfriend carried status in North Tehran [an upper class area] before the Revolution, nowadays this is not confined to North Tehran. You will find it in many places’, a shopkeeper, who was in the business of Valentine’s Day goods, remarked. Observation of a shopping mall on a major avenue of Tabriz revealed that although for religio-political reasons the term ‘Valentine’s Day’ was not used, the goods decorated and presented in the shops were those commonly used for its celebration: various sorts of handicrafts, such as key rings and special flowers in the shape of love hearts, and musical and scented cards. In an interview, a shopkeeper revealed that this stuff was for Valentine’s Day. Out of 158 answers to the question about Valentine’s Day, only 55 young people (34.4%) suggested that ‘they knew nothing’ about Valentine’s Day, while more than a half of them had been celebrating it – 7.5% (12) of them recognised it; 25% (40) celebrated it ‘to some extent’, while 31.9% (51) of them celebrated it ‘completely’. Satellite TV, besides the internet, played a major role in the introduction and celebration of Valentine’s Day, according to an informant. A male student told me that: ‘The internet usually plays a complementary role to satellite TV. This is the case for any item, including those related to Valentine’s Day. One finds out about the item, and sometimes from which website it can be purchased, from the satellite TV and then orders it online’. However, since credit cards are not easily available, they often use their friends’ or relatives’ credit card.


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As well as what should and should not be eaten, Islam has paid considerable attention to what should and should not be worn (Aldridge 2000, p. 124). Although both sexes are expected to meet the necessary religious requirements in theory, much more is expected of women in terms of dress by the religious leaders in practice. According to Ayatollah Motahhari’s (1989, 1990) account of the difference between men and women, women are more likely to cause moral corruption in a society than men. In his view, while men are naturally the source of wisdom, women are the source of love. Such a theory, proposed by Ayatollah Motahhari, played a major role in post-revolutionary Islamic ideology and the Islamic Republic’s policy towards women (Godazgar 2008, pp. 72ff.). For an ideal Muslim man, the ruling Islamic ideology required them not to wear a tie, which was allegedly a symbol of the West, to wear the simplest possible clothes, even avoid ironing clothes, and to wear a beard, at least to the extent that it is noticeable. In brief, the less western he looked, the more religious and faithful he was. For women, the issue was much more serious. They were required to wear the chador, a black material which covers the whole body except the face, as a superior covering or hijab. Otherwise, they were at least required to wear a postrevolutionary designed wimple-like head covering known as a maghnae, along with a loose-fitting and long manteau and trousers, all in dark colours. They were also required to avoid putting on make-up and wearing jewellery (Velayati 2007). Yet, for my informants, dress sense had been changing steadily since the early 1990s. Although men, particularly state officials, still did not dare wear ties, most of them appeared to wear smart clothes, shave their faces and use western perfumes. The issue had become more significant in the case of women though; a 21-year-old female student remarked:

Although women are still obliged to wear a manteau, they know how to make it conform to their own taste. They wear a manteau, but it is so tight and short that the shape of their body is quite obvious. Also, the manteaux are not just black any more. You can hardly find a woman without make-up. At the very least, she will have made up her eyes. Otherwise, she will be labelled as being ‘dowdy’. The style of glasses, hair styles, dress sense etc. are all influenced by the West through satellite TV.


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Hossein Godazgar

Satellite TV spreads a message of ‘be how you want to be’or ‘live how you want to live’and that nothing matters’. It does not matter even for boys to put make up on. They can even pluck their eyebrows, as they do nowadays. Influenced by adverts broadcast on satellite TV, women are increasingly becoming interested in plastic surgery on, for example, their noses, eyes and cheeks. The number of youth who wear jeans is dramatically increasing. The youth want to question everything. They like to laugh at traditions and religion. ... Nobody cares about anything. For another female married student, satellite TV had influenced everyone, whether they belonged to the masses or the elite: ‘The masses are influenced in terms of their dress sense, and interior decoration. And the elite are influenced in terms of the way they think. In my case, it has influenced me in terms of my diet’. For a university lecturer I interviewed, consumerism was not now confined to so-called ‘liberal’ families, but had also penetrated traditional families: There is a lot of variety now, and this has caused a lot of consumption. One cannot resist it. I know a strict religious family who did not want to show any flexibility towards this trend of increasing consumption. But I see the father is surrounded by it now. When short skirts became fashion, her daughter bought one as well, wearing it under the chador. She also listens to pop music now as well. Sensitivities about eating and dress have reduced. In terms of outward appearance, my informants’ role models in descending order were Hollywood actors/actresses, closely followed by Iranian actors/actresses, then Iranian sportspersons, and again closely followed by western sportspersons. However, some of them believed that Iranian actors/actresses and sportspersons were also influenced by western values in terms of outward appearance. Food and eating out


Another female student, who was 27 years old and gave the impression of being religious was noticeably unhappy about this situation:

Although alcohol became prohibited in Iran after the Islamic revolution, access to illegally-imported alcohol had noticeably increased in the years just before this research, according to my informants. This was so serious that the Islamic government introduced a nonalcoholic


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beer (ma’aoshshair). Moreover, compared to the 1980s, a greater variety of cold drinks were available, such as authentic Coca-Cola and Pepsi and a variety of home-made and western-made nonalcoholic beers. According to my research, my informants’ favourite drinks were CocaCola and Pepsi. But their change of taste was not restricted to cold drinks. Coffee was now preferred over the traditional hot drink of tea. My informants reported that they had been introduced to new forms of meals which they were now making at home, such as pizza, lasagne and various types of spaghetti and pasta. Even their consumption of oil has recently been shifting from animal fat and hydrogenated oil to the healthier oils, such as vegetable and olive oil. Having said this, my informants were not satisfied with having meals at home. Their enthusiasm for eating out had led to the establishment of many modern restaurants in various parts of the city, alongside restaurants serving the traditional and still popular meal of ‘rice and kebab’. Eating out in modern restaurants was not always welcomed by the religious authorities, as three of my informants stressed. This was mainly because it allowed greater mixing between sexes. Waste Sharifi (2002a, 2002b), a columnist for the conservative Keyhan newspaper, gives some examples of Ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamanei’s everyday lives and explains how these two leaders avoided waste and consumerism. Then he quotes Ayatollah Khamanei, the present supreme leader: Waste and financial squandering is something that must be avoided in the Islamic Republic. [But] some people do not follow this. Wasting is [like] a smelly bog and financial squandering is a satanic temptation. Both the people and authorities must take seriously the issue of financial and economic discipline. Financial and economic discipline means challenging financial squandering, over-consumption and waste... They are against Islam. (Sharifi 2002b, p. 5) [trans. by the author] Opposition to waste and consumerism from an Islamic viewpoint was also one of the main agendas of all conservative newspapers at that time. Sharifi reports an interview with a housewife:



The more you are involved in a consumerist and machine-made life the more you will be in trouble. Such a person will take no notice of


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worship, relaxation etc. ... a consumerist human being tries to work two or three shifts a day to earn further income. The more he or she earns the more he or she shops, for example he or she wants to buy a house, car, computer, VCR etc. All these attempts make him or her an exhausted, giddy and distressed human being, who has sacrificed himself or herself and his or her family for consumerism. But if he or she was content with less and was not following consumerist ethics, he or she would not be in so much trouble. ... Did we not have proper nutrition in the past when our mothers did not own various types of modern electrical machines, like blenders, meat-mincing machines, fryers, and so on? On the contrary, everything was done by hand and we enjoyed the healthiest foods and we did not need any physician or medicine ... Of course, the creation of a progressive life, getting jobs done faster and avoidance of wasting time are not too bad, but everything must be used according to what is needed, in a moderate way. It should not be used for luxury. (Sharifi 2002b, p. 5) (trans. by the author) Despite this Islamic context, for my informants, both consumption and waste were a matter of affordability, rather than religion. Although about 80 per cent of my informants suggested that they tried to avoid shopping for non-necessities and luxuries, none of them gave religion as the reason. For my informants, waste meant two things: luxuries, and discarding leftover food, used clothes and shoes. With regard to luxuries, they were more than keen to have a luxurious life if they could afford it, though it required a ‘waste of money’. For instance, my question of whether they would drive a ‘Ford’ car or a home-made ‘Paykan’ car sounded ridiculous to them – they would categorically rather drive a ‘Ford’ car. In addition, more than half of my informants (55%) suggested that they followed fashions with regard to clothes and shoes. They would not wear them if they were out of fashion, though they were still useable. However, the majority of them did not like to throw away leftover food. But no one was concerned with either religion or environmental sustainability. In response to the question of what they would do when they found their rooms too hot, most of my informants answered that they would rather open windows than turn off heating.


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Conclusion Although all the theories of the relationship between Islam and consumerism or globalisation I have reviewed were helpful in understanding and


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identifying some elements of consumer culture in the context of Iran, Beckford’s approach was exceptional in this regard. His social constructionist approach to globalisation distinguished between the ‘extremist’ views on consumerism presented by the Islamic authority, and the views of ordinary Muslims, in this case Iranians, on global forces. Although the Islamic leaders provide a gemeinschaftlich (in Turner’s language) or a ‘satisfaction-seeking’ (in Campbell’s words) interpretation of consumption, ordinary Muslims ‘construct’ their understanding of consumption in a context influenced by globalisation and consumerism. This is why the package of globalisation with all its concomitants, including consumerism, is labelled ‘cultural invasion’ (tahajom-e farhangi) by the state-provided or state-controlled mass media. In addition, the state, usually the Ministry of Islamic Guidance, funds and awards research projects to investigate why Iranian youth are becoming increasingly susceptible to ‘alien culture’. Most of these projects base their findings on the reports of the state-controlled, particularly conservative, newspapers and magazines, rather than reporting directly the attitudes and ideas of the agents involved. However, the global ethics of consumerism take an Iranian form and are embedded in a different way. Indeed, as the findings show, Iranians use and value local products alongside global ones. But Iran is not an exception in this regard. All global forms are re-embedded in the new context after they become dis-embedded from their origin. Moreover, the research shows that my informants do not usually associate their consumer practice with Islam, nor do they believe that their consumer ethics oppose their religious beliefs. As in other nations, religion is not the only identity of Iranians. There are also other factors in play: the economic situation, social calculations, and political consequences. A separate research project, a careful, quantitative assessment of how much Islam (as defined by Gellner, Turner, Ahmed, and Campbell) shapes Iranians’ attitudes to consumer behaviour illustrated that on average Islam informs only about 19% of my informants’ motives as consumers (Godazgar 2007). This is confirmed here in several sections of the findings, particularly in relation to waste. My informants tend to ‘construct’ not only ‘consumerism’, but also ‘Islam’ in a way that suits their desires in various aspects of everyday life. This was very clear from their usage of illegal satellite TV and music, or the way they dress. Furthermore, present-day Iran, while desiring and practising consumerism, shows little concern for its environmental impacts. This applies equally to the Iranian authority and the people, though they have different motives. Whilst the former is motivated by the global South’s




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enthusiasm for development, the latter is fascinated by the hedonism of consumerism, though within a Muslim framework. Indeed, neither of these motivations is associated with religion. Like any other religion, Islam does not have a fixed meaning and definition. What comes to be known or interpreted as ‘Islam’ and ‘nonIslam’ not only differs from one social agent to another, but its interpretation also changes in different circumstances and social conditions. This is evident from Iranian attitudes and their practice of consumption in different periods, whether before the Revolution of 1979, the first decade of the Islamic Republic, or the period in which this research was conducted. Each Iranian Muslim, like other individuals, defines the ‘good life’ in accordance with his own desires and the social conditions in which he lives. An all-encompassing religion, such as Islam, will be able to help him to justify his position in all these circumstances. Therefore, the most important thing is what he defines to be a ‘good life’. If consumerism, for instance, gives a sense of the ‘good life’ for some Muslims, ‘Islam’ will not be an impediment, as is illustrated by this research. This is also the case with environmental ethics. When Iranian Muslims want to change their sense of the ‘good life’ from consumerism to environmentalism, ‘Islam’ will not prevent them. Indeed, ‘Islam’, like many other religious traditions, is capable of being defined in such a way as to draw on extensive theological and philosophical resources in both conceptualising and practicing environmentalism.

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Campbell, C. (1997) ‘Shopping, Pleasure and the Sex War’, in P. Falk and C. Campbell (eds) The Shopping Experience London: Sage Publications pp. 166–76 Campbell, C. (2004) ‘ “I shop Therefore I Know That I Am”: The Metaphysical Basis of Modern Consumerism’, in K. M. Ekstrom and H. Brembeck (eds) Elusive Consumption Oxford and New York: Berg Chon, B. S. and Choi, Y. (2003) ‘Clustering Local Tastes in Global Culture: The Reception Structure of Hollywood Films’ Sociological Research Online 8(1) Davoodi, P. (2007) ‘moaven avval rais jomhouri: tarrahan barnamehaye panj saleye qabli secular boodand’ [Vice-President: The authors of the previous five-year [development] plans were secular]. Sarmayeh [Capital]. 1386/9/6 [26 October 2007] No: 613 Dolfsma, W. (1999) ‘The Consumption of Music and the Expression of Values’ American Journal of Economics and Sociology 58 (4), pp. 1019–46 Foltz, R. C. (2002) World Views, Religion and the Environment: A Global Anthology Belmont CA: Wadsworth Gellner, E. (1992) Postmodernism, Reason and Religion London: Routledge Godazgar, H. (2000) ‘The Millennium Clock in an Iranian Context and the Theme of Global Time’, paper presented at the BSA (British Sociological Association) Conference, York, April Godazgar, H. (2007) ‘Islam Versus Consumerism and Postmodernism in the Context of Iran’ Social Compass 54(3), pp. 389–418 Godazgar, H. (2008) The Impact of Religious Factors on Educational Change in Iran: Islam in Policy and in Practice Lampeter, Lewiston, and Queenston: The Edwin Mellen Press Khabar [News]. (1367) [1987] ‘touhin-e radio-ye melli be hazrat-e Seddiqeh-yeh Kobra (pbuh)’ [The insult of national radio to Hazrat Seddiqeh Kobra [or Fatemeh] (pbuh)]. Keyhan. 7 Bahman [27 February 1987] López-Sintas, J., Garcia-Alvarez, M. E. and Filimon, N. (2008) ‘Scale and Periodicities of Recorded Music Consumption: Reconciling Bourdieu’s Theory of Taste with Facts’ The Sociological Review 56(1): 78–101 Mohammadi, A. (2000) ‘Iran in the Age of Satellite Communication’, in J. Beynon and D. Dunkerley (eds) Globalisation: The Reader London: The Athlone Press Motahhari, M. (1368) [1989] Mas’aleh-ye Hejab [The Issue of Hejab] Tehran: Sadra Publisher Motahhari, M. (1369) [1990] Nezam-e Hoqouq-e Zan dar Islam [Women and Her Rights in Islam]. 14th edition Tehran: Sadra Publisher Rawls, J. (1993) Political Liberalism New York: Columbia University Press Robertson, R. (1985) ‘The Sacred and the World System’, in P. E. Hammond (ed.) The Sacred in a Secular Age Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, pp. 347–58. Robertson, R. (1992) Globalisation: Social Theory and Global Culture London: Sage Ruhani, H. (1381) [2002] ‘jelow-giri az mahvareh dar boland moddat karsaz nist’ [The prevention of satellite television is not possible in long-term]. Iran 2265 (7 Mehr; 9 October) Sharifi, F. (2002a) ‘khoon-e gorosngan bar sofreh-ye rangin-e esraf-konandegan’ [The blood of the hungry on the full table of the wasters]. Keyhan. 19 Aban (9 November) No.: 17521




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Sharifi, F. (2002b) ‘ezterab-e dastan-e por, aramesh-e dastan-e khali’ [the stress of the rich and the relaxation of the poor] Keyhan. 20 Aban (10 November). No.: 17522 Sherry, J. F. (2004) ‘Culture, Consumption and Marketing’, in K. M. Ekstrom and H. Brembeck (eds) Elusive Consumption, Oxford and New York, Berg Sifaki, E. (2003) ‘Global Strategies and Local Practices in Film Consumption’ Journal for Cultural Research 7(3), pp. 243–57 Turner, B. S. (1991) ‘Politics and Culture in Islamic Globalism’, in R. Robertson and W. R. Garrett (eds) Religion and Global Order New York: Paragon House Turner, B.S. (1994) Orientalism, Postmodernism and Globalism London: Routledge Turner, B. S. (2000) ‘Islam and Consumerism’, in J. Beynon and D. Dunkerley (eds) Globalisation: The Reader London: The Athlone Press Velayati, M. (2007) ‘Perceptions contrastées du hijab parmi les ressortissants iraniens résidant au Royaume-Uni’ Social Compass 54 (3), pp. 435–51 Vergara, A. (1998) ‘Musica y ciudad: representaciones, circulacion y consumo’, in N. Garcia Canclini (ed.) La Ciudad y los Ciudadanos Imaginados por los Medios. Segunda Parte Mexico: U Autonoma Metropolitana pp. 182–219 Wittgenstein, L. (1996) ‘Lecture on Ethics’ From Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, in L. Cahoone (ed.) From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology Oxford: Blackwell


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Consumerism in Slovak Catholic Homes Zuzana Búriková

Introduction Consumerism has been variously defined as the ceaseless pursuit of the ‘good life’ through consumption (Fox and Lears 1983, pp. xii); an excessive reliance on consumer goods to achieve pleasure or status, define self or create relationships; or as the tendency to give precedence to consumer goods over other values. While many critics have adopted Marx’s view that consumerist attachment to products detaches people from healthy human relationships, others emphasise that consumer societies damage the environment and use up resources too rapidly. Definitions of morality and decency also emanate from ideals that see property and capitalism as crimes. Despite numerous religious and public discourses against consumerism, consumption and a consumerist orientation are increasingly prevalent, and high levels of consumption are generally taken to constitute the good life. This contradiction between anticonsumerist opinions and consumerist practices is not rare; examining consumerism in Western Europe, the US, Turkey and Romania, Güliz Ger and Russell W. Belk reveal that though materialism is considered to be socially destructive, in all countries high levels of consumption were taken as constituting the good life, while consumption by particular individuals was morally legitimated by rationality and utility, or altruistic spending for others (Ger and Belk 1999). This chapter focuses on similar contradictions between the counter-consumerist opinions of agents and their consumerist practices. Drawing on broader ethnographic research concerning household consumption in a Slovak Roman Catholic village, I will focus on the question of how religious identities and practices merge with, and differentiate themselves from, consumer identities and practices. In order


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to examine how Roman Catholic villagers in Northern Slovakia relate to consumerism I will juxtapose their discourses on consumerism with their own practices of consumption and spirituality. I attempt to show how they overcome the contradiction between counter-consumerist discourse and consumerist practice by locating particular modes of consumption in the sphere of family and Christian values. In this analysis I will focus on popular religion as it was lived in the everyday lives of the villagers, rather than on theological teachings.

Methodology The fieldwork was carried out in the Northern Slovak village of Pekárka, where I explored retail and shopping practices, and how they were conceptualised by both retailers and customers. This work is a conventional ethnography that focuses on one particular community. The choice of the community is also conventional, as the community is rural, and the village is situated in the marginal, not affluent, Slovak region of Orava. Case studies tend either to explore places with the most generalisable characteristics of the studied region and the phenomena, or to focus on some specific feature. This case study is of the second kind. Specific localities are as suitable for anthropological research as typical ones, as they enable the examination of specific variations or appropriations of dominant systems or ideologies (Hann 1993). Indeed, Pekárka represents a rather atypical case, which may provide examples of some specific aspects of social life, particularly the relationship between commerce and consumption and Roman Catholicism. The data was collected through six months of ethnographic fieldwork (participant observation and interviewing), which I conducted from February to August 2002. During my fieldwork I carried out participant observation in all shops in the village. I complement this data with my findings from more formal, recorded interviews with both retailers and customers. I went shopping with my informants whenever possible, and made notes. When the shopping was over, I interviewed my informants about their shopping and consumption preferences. As I was particularly interested in the relationship between religion and consumption, I attended masses in the village church regularly and interviewed people about their donations to the church, their moral economy and its connection to religion, and how they thought consumption is related to religion (for example, special shopping for holidays, gifts related to certain rituals, special decoration of houses). I paid particular attention to their deployment of religious discourses in relation to economic


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matters, for instance using religion as legitimation for particular (low) prices or informality of transactions (acceptance of credit without any formal agreements).

Pekárka is a large village (almost 1700 inhabitants) in the central part of the North Slovakian region of Orava. It is a beautiful village, located in the side valleys shaped by small rivers heading to the river of Orava. Traditional wooden houses stand next to large modern structures in the narrow valley; others are scattered on the surrounding grassy slopes. The village is dominated by the white of the church, built in the 1930s. Though archival pictures from the 1960s show an almost completely wooden village, contemporary architecture consists mostly of large brick and whitewashed houses built within the last 30 years. Pekárka is in one sense an exceptional village, being one of a handful of hill villages where, because of the insufficiently fertile land around the village, the socialist authorities abandoned the collectivisation project in the 1950s. The major activity of villagers still revolved around agriculture. They continued to work as private farmers paying quotas in kind to the state, increasingly combining subsistence farming with seasonal or temporary work and occupations in the state sector. After 1978, when after a renewed effort to establish a co-operative the land was finally collectivised, the villagers mostly found employment in three large factories built in the area during the post-war industrialisation drive. The changes set in motion in 1989–90 were radical. In the Orava region, factories were sold off, liquidated or had their workforce drastically reduced, which resulted in severe unemployment (25–40% during my fieldwork: the quoted numbers vary according to the season of the year). Most people found work in various enterprises in the greater region or as wage labourers on construction sites in Slovakia, the Czech Republic, Austria and Germany; more than 30 young women worked as au pairs, carers and nurses in the UK, Austria and Germany. Fearing unemployment and impoverishment in the turbulent era of the early 1990s, most villagers claimed at least a portion of the total of their land from the co-operative. As they did not agree with the quantities or shares granted, and claimed particular pieces of land instead, the privatisation process became too complicated: the co-operative ceased to be viable, collapsed, and all formerly collectivised land was returned to its original owners. After the collapse of the co-operative in the early 1990s the villagers returned to subsistence farming. Their


Setting


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farms provide an insurance and free food supply for the unemployed or those with employment elsewhere; only a small part of the produce is sold within the (mostly) informal economy. The food produced rarely enters the market, but either complements the household’s consumption or is used for exchange within the village. Farming is also seen as a safeguard of morality: generally, my informants stressed that it does not allow people, especially the unemployed, to stay idle or take to drinking out of boredom. Farming was also related to both aesthetics and authenticity: the frequent handling of old, wooden tools and the use of cows and horses for work were justified by both necessity and aesthetics. In fact, it is technically impossible to use big tractors on the slopes of the hills, while working with bare hands helps to ensure narrow lines of potatoes, and to avoid smashing or missing any when harvesting the produce. This mode of production is cheaper, as one needs neither a tractor nor fuel to run it. Some families stressed that they liked (in terms of aesthetic preference) working with wooden tools or using farm animals more than bringing in tractors, as it was more beautiful or more enjoyable. It also connected them to their ancestors whom they regarded as good, hardworking, moral, strong, and somehow more authentic people. When speaking about Pekárka, the inhabitants of the Orava region, a bastion of Slovak Roman Catholicism, would probably label it the Holy Land (Svätá Zem) instead of using the official name. This nickname refers to the strong Roman Catholic devotion of the villagers who according to regional stereotypes are said to be very devoted, even dogmatic, moral and traditional, but also backward and peasant-like. The nickname itself goes back to the 1960s when 58 village girls decided to enter the convent. At the time of my fieldwork, there were currently 18 natives of the village who had become priests and four other men were studying in seminaries. The village, which also constitutes the parish, also has a long tradition of supporting Catholic missions in Indonesia. It goes without saying that almost all inhabitants of the village are Roman Catholics; there are just a few Protestants who have married in, but their children were christened as Roman Catholics. Religion structures and influences all aspects of social and economic life in the most profound way, though surfacing most in issues of a technical, practical and indeed material and aesthetic nature. Typically, discussions related to religion would focus on whether to buy a new songbook prescribed by the Church, how to perform rituals and keep holidays correctly (for example, whether to bring flowers to the church for blessing on the day of the Holy Mary of Flowers in August or on the




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Divine Body of Jesus in June), particular performances, sermons, and the private lives of individual priests. Activities strongly related to the practice of religion include the attendance of masses on Sundays and observance of Holy Days of Obligation, fasting on Friday, material support for the Church and the parish (for example monetary contributions, participation in rebuilding of the road leading to the church, refurnishing of the parish house and the priest’s dwelling). Villagers also placed great emphasis on the importance of families, their (material) wellbeing and homes, and on the practice of a specific ‘moral’ economy and aesthetics through homes, the church, the village and social interaction. Since the village itself lies in a remote valley, accessible by road and rail only since 1950, with an exceptional historical trajectory, it would be too easy to dismiss such domains of difference in relation to religion and consumerism simply because they seem to be a form of isolated local culture which is permitted by global consensus. But, like any other social group, the village is no longer best understood as self-constructed within the terms of its own value system. The villagers participate simultaneously in more than one economy, and often in more than one cultural community. While traditional models are important – and some of them in diverse ways reassert and distinguish themselves in lieu of and within the global web of links – people can choose continuities with previous projects of value (or in other cases emergence of unprecedented forms of identity) because their experience is in fact transnational (Friedman 1990; Miller 1995): ‘Rather they are constructing themselves through appropriating or rejecting contexts in which they find themselves ... through more complex dialectics of identification’ (Miller 1995, pp. 4ff.).

Ethnography When one looks at the transcripts of my interviews from Pekárka, one finds a very anti-consumerist community. Numerous critiques of consumerism reappeared in the interviews as well as in the village sermons. When talking about religion or about recent political and economic developments, my informants usually mentioned the evil nature of consumerism. They saw consumerism as a false path to happiness via consumption, an excessive orientation to consumption ending in a state of being dominated by things and a valuation of things over people. For them, growing materialism was a result of incoming capitalism; they clearly expressed their fear that stressing relationships with things will alienate people from relationships with other people. They criticised




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the fact that people increasingly focus more on earning money and buying still more things at the expense of relationships. Migrants and entrepreneurs were frequently mentioned in this respect, as those who are both most endangered by consumerism and bringing this evil to the village. My informants often mentioned socialism and even talked of their peasant ancestors as people who led frugal, modest but moral and happy lives, contrasting them with the capitalist and consumerist present. Interestingly, consumerism was seen as anti-religious since people could be enchanted by material things at the expense of spirituality. They even saw consumerism in a cosmological light: many interviews emphasised that increasing consumerism and materialism are the first signs of the Apocalypse. One could hear the very same stories regardless of age, gender or occupation. Their anti-consumerist opinions were supported by the official standpoint of the Slovak Roman Catholic clergy. Since the mid 1990s consumerism has become a significant issue tackled by the Roman Catholic Church in Slovakia and anti-consumerist articles by Slovak Roman Catholic clergy often appeared in the media during the time of my fieldwork. The Church regarded consumerism as the contemporary manifestation of evil in the world. In January 2003, the Conference of Bishops of Slovakia and the Ecumenical Council of all the Christian churches of Slovakia even organised an official meeting on Materialism and Christianity. The public statement issued by the council (www.sme.sk/clanok.asp?rub=online_ zdom&cl=789896) argued that the ideological materialism of communism has been replaced by a form of practical materialism, which takes dangerous latent forms, and can be found even within Christian churches. According to the statement, consumerism is imprisoning people as spiritual beings, enslaving them to the spiritless materia. The statement goes on, claiming that Christian churches are aware of their responsibility in establishing the values of Slovakia, and will try to contain the materialist tendencies of its population. Such statements were accompanied by activities such as unsuccessful attempts to prohibit supermarkets and hypermarkets from selling goods on Sundays. This provides an interesting parallel with the situation in Israel described in Chapter 9 in this volume, though in that case, the desire to limit commerce comes from the community rather than religious authority as here. My field notes describing consumption practices paint such a different picture, that it is hard to believe they relate to the very same people I interviewed about their opinions on consumerism. Despite the negative




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connotations of consumerism, most of those studied had personal consumption patterns and aspirations that, from a distance, appear consumerist and highly materialist. Spending time with women in the village generally meant being preoccupied with consumer goods. Both everyday practices and discussions focused upon issues such as how to get a new washing machine, which brand of television to buy, how to refurnish a bathroom to give it more space and a ‘modern’ look, where to buy new clothes for their children at the beginning of the school year, or which yoghurts were most tasty and healthy. My informants wanted to have beautiful lives and for them this was very much related to having and using beautiful things. They developed the concept of a beautiful or good life comparatively: among other things, through consumption the villagers wanted to equal the inhabitants of cities, whom they considered to be more affluent and more advanced in terms of consumer culture. Reference was often made to the West as an ideal model of consumption: such consumption was considered normal (Fehérváry 2002; Rausing 2002). Consumerism was seen as something that necessarily accompanies progress and is integral to the good life. However, it is important to note that cities were simultaneously seen as inferior in terms of morality. Economic transactions and attitudes to consumption in Pekárka are not defined only by ‘objective’ economic transactions, a tendency to abstraction or rational choices. When thinking about consumption and commerce I have found Silverstone, Hirsch and Morley’s (1992) identification of household with moral economy useful, since it emphasises the cultural embeddedness of an economy and distinguishes between abstract market economic transactions and economic activities of households defined by cultural and personal particularities. Silverstone, Hirsch and Morley emphasise that this ‘economy of meanings and a meaningful economy ... stands in a potentially or actually transformative relationship to the public, objective economy of goods and meanings’ (Silverstone, Hirsch and Morley 1992 p. 18). In Pekárka, most consumption practices were oriented toward material homes. Generally, the moral economy of households in my field site can be compared with Gudeman and Rivera’s model of the house as an economic base with the ideal of thrift: in Pekárka, produce and money are supposed to flow into the household but not out (Gudeman and Rivera 1990). Money itself has an ambivalent character. On the one hand, through the concept of thrift, it is an important means for getting necessary goods and, as such, for enriching and reproducing households, on the other hand it is an abstract element, endangering




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the ethos of equality and the highly individual relationships between particular persons and families (Simmel 1978). This ambiguity was reflected in particular attitudes to money: on the one hand, driven by economic strategies, people wished to gain as much money as possible, on the other hand, they tried to avoid monetary transactions within the community. Home is not only a symbolic target of the moral economy. In Pekárka, the target of both consumption and investments is indeed the material home: the largest proportion of savings and income is focused on building, furnishing and provisioning of home. The home itself is supposed to have specific material features. As numerous studies of material culture have shown, the material and the symbolic cannot be separated (Buchli 2002, Miller 1988, 2001). In particular, a home should not be a flat, but should be a house. In fact, despite being one of the poorest Slovak regions, Pekárka is currently seeing house-building flourish. Houses are built and rebuilt, or have further storeys and back extensions added, using modern and fashionable materials and aesthetics. Elderly people usually live in old wooden houses, though these are sometimes rebuilt. In particular, two young families (all in their middle or late thirties) live in wholly wooden houses with extensions, one of them sharing the house with the man’s parents, who are not considering building a new house. Old couples sometimes live with their single children, who occasionally extend the house after marriage, or a newly married couple, if they need somewhere to live, may move in until they build their own house. Having a family was frequently connected with having a house. Generally, newly-weds and their parents try to build a new house for a young family as soon as possible. There were twelve new houses under construction during my stay in the village. The houses are large, usually with two or three floors, one or two kitchens (one is used for daily cooking, while the other serves for preparation of the feed for animals, for making preserves, doing laundry and the like), one or two living rooms (one for everyday and another for more festive occasions) and about three bedrooms. Importantly, the homes themselves are seen as a requirement for a proper family life, in addition to indicating a certain morality, status and social life. Whatever their income, people living in flats are considered to be poorer than people living in houses. Flats are also considered to be much less comfortable (noise, lack of space and privacy are mentioned in this respect). There is also a moral dimension to the difference between houses and flats, as life in flats is believed to be more anonymous, less secure and less moral than life in houses. The idea of a good family life is also related to having a house,




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as the villagers agreed that children living in crowded and anonymous urban blocks of flats cannot have a proper childhood: they were unable to imagine children having fun and receiving guidance, education or morality in high-rise buildings. However, paradoxically, for the sake of having a big house, my informants have to suspend, at least temporarily, some of the relationships and sociality they cherish most. Their greatest efforts (in terms of both time and money) are invested in their homes, their building, repairing, cleaning, decorating and farming, which is also part of household provisioning. Indeed, sometimes it may seem that homes are more important than people or relationships: men are leaving their families to work abroad to be able to build large houses; many people spend most of their time building and cleaning their houses, working their fields, or in occupations bringing some money to the household, rather than being with their loved ones. School teachers in particular complained that parents tended to look after their fields, cattle and houses more than after their children.

Solving contradictions The importance of materiality, and the stress put on consumption and material wellbeing were omnipresent in my field site. I was struck by the apparent inconsistency between informants’ condemnation of consumerism and materialism in voicing their values and criticisms of other people’s consumption orientations versus their own ostensibly materialistic behaviours. Such contradictions between anti-materialist and counter-consumerist opinions and consumerist practice are common: there are various ways in which consumers rationalise their own consumption practices in order to resolve this contradiction and legitimate their consumption as being necessary and decent. Analysing consumption patterns in Romania, Turkey, the USA and Western Europe, Ger and Belk (1999) illustrate five types of ethics used to justify materialism: romanticism (joyous passionate cultivated aestheticism or passionate sharing and pleasure justifications), Protestant utilitarianism (wants are seen as natural needs), altruistic sociality (spending for others), generalised sociality (being part of a world of progress) and fairness or equity (deservingness). All these accounts suggest that consumption is also a moral project. In this section I will concentrate on the question of how my informants managed to live with this contradiction and what kind of morality they used to justify their consumption. My informants described two different mechanisms they use to resolve this conflict.




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I will mention the first only briefly, as I want to concentrate on the second, which is related to religion. Firstly, my informants did not see their behaviour as consumerist. Indeed, they did not consider themselves as consumers at all. Being involved in agriculture and producing at least some of the food they consumed whether vegetables, potatoes or their own milk and meat products, the villagers conceptualised themselves as producers. Houses were also important for this production-based self-identification: most of my informants built their houses themselves (with mutual help from relatives and friends) and stressed that people living in houses have to engage in continual activities related to the management or improvement of their homes. Through various DIY projects, people are seen as developing and improving themselves through the materiality of their homes. By defining themselves as producers and non-consumers and their behaviour as non-consumerist, they negated any possible contradiction between declared opinions and practice. Focusing on the second mechanism takes us back to the topic of this volume, because if we want to understand my informants’ contradictory attitude to consumerism we have to return both to home and spirituality. Home is not only the space and focus of most consumption practices in my field site, but relates consumption to the sphere of religious values: I argue that the home – the objectification (Miller 1987) of the family – was the most important place where religious practice and devotion were played out. It seemed that materiality and consumption were intrinsically related to an everyday religious morality. In my interviews, I usually asked what the life of devoted Roman Catholics should look like. The most usual answer was that they should have families and beautiful homes, and look after both of them through work. To start with I was surprised by the materiality and simplicity of the answers, desperately searching for something else, more in keeping with my own, limited ideas of what Christian spirituality should look like. Only later did I realise that the family (established through a proper religious wedding) and home were the core of religious practice in Pekárka, and only much later that Christian practice can also include the beautification of one’s home, the purchase of a new washing machine, and having well-dressed children who can afford to have chocolate bars as part of their school lunch. The focus on the material home among practising Christians is not unusual. For example, a religious wedding and concerns related to the materiality of home, its furnishing, beautifying and provisioning represent sufficient religious practice among Trinidadian Christians




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(Miller 1993). Similarly, examining conjugal relations and the building of houses amongst the Protestant Paiwan in Taiwan, Tan argues that through the building of houses, the mission of Christian love and conjugal relations is objectified (Tan 2001). Thus the building and beautifying of one’s home, or cleaning and provisioning of houses also means building the Christian home in a transcendental sense. The importance of the materiality of the Christian home was striking also in my field site. Indeed, the moral economy of the household is centred on the concept of home in Pekárka and this home is not neutral, but a Christian one. Material desires and consumption are related to the religious practice of creating the Christian home. The idea of families, homes, and indeed building, owning and looking after material houses as a significant Christian duty was stressed both by my informants and in numerous sermons I heard in the village. For instance, when giving a sermon during a religious holiday, a visiting preacher who was born in the village mentioned how pleased he was at the sight of so many new and beautiful houses that had sprang up in Pekárka, for, as he stated, these houses were an expression of the believers’ real hearts and spirituality. The sermon was greatly appreciated, as it sustained the opinions of the listeners: this was exactly what they wanted to hear. In a similar tone, the sermon I heard on St. Joseph’s day explicitly mentioned the opposition between consumption related to the material home as a Christian act on the one hand, and excessive drinking as morally wrong on the other hand. The priest spoke particularly about a young man who was drinking excessively and spending all his fortune in bars and clubs, but who suddenly decided to stop drinking and save money to build a house in order to be able to get married later (the young man saw the construction of the house as necessary for the marriage, since he thought he could not have a proper family life and well-behaved children in a flat in an urban high-rise). The priest mentioned this story as an example of the young man’s turn to faith, comparing his behaviour to St. Joseph, who was looking after Holy Mary and Jesus. In general, having a large family is highly praised and an only child would be pitied for not having siblings and enough fun and enjoyment, and moreover would be suspected of possible selfishness and lack of the ability to share. Not having children without an acceptable reason (for example health, but also poverty) would be seen as strange or as a sign of the parents’ selfishness and meanness. A woman in her 20s will typically have at least two or three children (three is considered the ideal number); people in their 30s and 40s frequently have four up to eight siblings, their parents coming from similarly large families.




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The preoccupation with the number of children is apparently tied to religious practice, as large families with many children are in general considered as Christian and religious. The absence of families was seen as a moral decay of the world, something which is ontologically wrong. Having a family as a Christian duty was frequently mentioned in sermons, depicting at the same time the Divine family as the ideal of parenthood. Both clergy and believers presented the Christian family as an analogy to the Divine family. In particular, Holy Mary was mentioned as the prototype of the housewife in the sermon on the day of the local religious festivals of Odpust (Absolution): ‘You should look at Holy Mary as a wife and mother working in the kitchen, and when I look at an ordinary woman looking after her family in Pekárka, I see Holy Mary’, said the preacher, explaining the maintenance of one’s own family in the Christian spirit and the reproduction of the prototype of the Divine family as the most important Christian duty. In particular, he mentioned that men should behave like St. Joseph when looking after their families, and when approaching their wives, they should see Holy Mary in them. For many of my informants having a family meant becoming like the Divine family, and some of them expressed this analogy explicitly. For instance, I was going through the family photo-albums with Jozef, and his wife Anna, both in their middle thirties. There were many pictures taken on various Christmas Eves in the albums. There were statues of Joseph and Mary under the Christmas tree in one of the pictures, and their baby lying next to them. They told me that they put their child there in order to thank the Lord for that (Christmas) gift; and as their baby was very small at that time, the situation reminded them of the birth of the child Jesus, and they themselves felt like the Holy Family. Finally, they made a picture of their child with the statues of St. Joseph and Holy Mary, to keep a memory of this joy and blessing. The photo of their child – God’s present to their family – was ranked together with pictures of other gifts such as a TV set they bought on that occasion, or toys for the older children. Thus, having and reproducing a human family has supreme cosmological consequences. As I have shown, through its everyday activities, even through its very existence, the individual human family as a basic, primary social unit is continually related by analogy to the transcendental social unit of the Divine Family. It is crucial for the topic of this volume that the centrality of the families for religion and cosmology was mostly expressed through the care for the material wellbeing of families, through the focus on home and through consumption.




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For my informants, their homes, with all their inherent materiality, are an appropriate medium for expression of both their care for their families and their faith. As Belk, Ger and Askegaard write, ‘consumers find various ways to moralize their consumption patterns in order to justify them as being necessary and decent’ (Belk, Ger and Askegaard 2003, p. 328). My informants do not avoid consumption that fits the definition of consumerism, but rather they attempt to reconstruct its cultural meaning. Shared consumption is considered to be a means to happiness if and when it contributes to warm and loving relationships with friends and family. Consumerism is seen as steeped in individualism, but to spend money on family is communal and highly valourised. Seen as belonging to the sphere of Christian values, the concern for consumption and the material wellbeing of families was morally unproblematic. Since the material home operates as the objectification of Christian families, and the care for its materiality is explained as a Christian practice, consumption is tamed, and does not represent the dangers of consumerism or alienation. In consumption practices related to homes, consumerism merges with religion, and becomes a vehicle for expressing my informants’ concern for religious values, in particular for the Christian family. As such it is not seen as dangerous and evil consumerism, that would be condemned by the Church. Though this case study could be seen as an unusual account from an exotic marginal place, it follows a more general logic. Works by numerous researchers (Coleman 2000, Lyon 2000, Miller 2004, Wuthnow 1994) suggest that contemporary religions have often come to embrace consumerism. Far from presenting an alternative and more humane/ charitable/moral perspective to that of marketplace exchange and consumerism, contemporary Catholicism as a practice in Pekárka has come to embrace and employ these perspectives wholeheartedly, making them part of proper care for the Christian family. The inhabitants of Pekárka can thus make great efforts to beautify their homes, not considering their consumption in this context as consumerist at all. Their religious identities and practices do not differentiate themselves from consumer identities and practices, but merge with them. At the same time, identifying themselves as producers living in green rural areas they (often wrongly) did not see their consumption practices as threatening the environment. Similarly, despite using large amounts of fertilizers and pesticides, they considered their produce as ecological and even organic, because it was not commercial and was produced by themselves in their homes. Furthermore, my informants evaluated their consumption patterns comparatively, pointing out that they could not




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afford to spend as much as many of the inhabitants of Slovak or foreign cities where they worked. However, any external measure of this comparison would be relative. On the one hand, my informants did not possess as many financial resources as city dwellers, especially those living in Western Europe, so they bought fewer and cheaper goods. On the other hand, inhabitants of Slovak and indeed Western European cities might be surprised by the size of the houses and the efforts put into their appearance and furnishing. At the same time, it is necessary to point out that it was mostly lack of resources that stopped my informants from consuming more. In conclusion, if we think about this case study in terms of the need to consume in more sustainable ways, neither the contradiction between anti-consumerist beliefs and consumerist practices, nor the merging of religious and consumerist identities, lead to more environmental and sustainable consumption practices. Actually, in Pekárka they might rather do the opposite.

Acknowledgements This research was supported by VEGA project 1/0632/08 Sociological and Anthropological Analysis of Consumption of Products and Free Time Activities in Slovakia. An earlier version of the paper was presented at the international and interdisciplinary conference Countering Consumerism: Religious and Secular Responses organised at London Metropolitan University in April, 2005. I am very grateful to all participants for their comments on my work. Special thanks go to Lyn Thomas for invaluable comments and help with the language.

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Gudeman, Stephen and Rivera, Alberto (1990) Conversations in Colombia: The Domestic Economy in Life and Text Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Hann, Chris M. (1993) ‘Introduction: Social Anthropology and Socialism’, in Chris M. Hann (ed.) Socialism, Ideals, Ideologies and Local Practice London: Routledge Lyon, David (2000) Jesus in Disneyland: Religion in Postmodern Times Cambridge: Polity Press Miller, Daniel (1987) Material Culture and Mass Consumption Oxford: Blackwell Miller, Daniel (1988) ‘Appropriating the State on the Council Estate’ Man 23, pp. 353–72 Miller, Daniel (1993) ‘Christmas against Materialism in Trinidad’, in Daniel Miller (ed.) Unwrapping Christmas Oxford: Clarendon Press Miller, Daniel (1995) ‘Introduction: Anthropology, Modernity and Consumption’, in Daniel Miller (ed.) Worlds Apart: Modernity through the Prism of the Local London: Routledge Miller, Daniel (ed.) (2001) Home Possessions: Material Culture Behind Closed Doors Oxford, New York: Berg Miller, Vincent (2004) Consuming Religion: Christian Faith and Practice in a Consumer Culture New York: Continuum Rausing, Sigrid (2002) ‘Reconstructing the “Normal” ’, in Ruth Mandel and Caroline Humphrey (eds) Markets & Moralities: Ethnographies of Postsocialism Oxford, New York: Berg Silverstone, Roger, Hirsch, Eric and Morley, David (1992) ‘Information and Communication Technologies and the Moral Economy of Household’, in Roger Silverstone and Eric Hirsch (eds) Consuming Technologies: Media and Information in Domestic Spaces London, New York: Routledge Simmel, George (1978) The Philosophy of Money London: Routledge Tan, Chang-Kwo (2001) ‘Building Conjugal Relations: The Devotion to Houses amongst the Paiwan of Taiwan’, in Daniel Miller (ed., 2001) Wuthnow, Robert (1994) God and Mammon in America New York: Free Press www. sme.sk/clanok.asp?rub=online_zdom&cl=789896 (consulted on 13 March 2003)




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‘What’s Not Spent Is Lost’: Consumption Practices of Pakistani Muslims in Britain Kaveri Harriss

Introduction This chapter discusses the implications of Islam for the consumption practices of Pakistani Muslims in Britain, providing an ethnographic perspective against which to examine claims about the non-materialism associated with classic religions, and about trends in consumption among Muslims. The chapter explores everyday consumption among Pakistani Muslim households in a low-income but increasingly polarised neighbourhood in East London, in which the moral economy of community is broadly defined by competitive consumption. In the face of hopes that ‘Eastern’ religions like Islam might be a panacea for the aspirituality and consumerism of ‘Western capitalism’, the chapter examines how Pakistani Muslims engage practically, emotionally and intellectually with the ethics and morality of consumption, and questions how religious values are drawn upon in discourses about consumption. Whilst having complete sympathy with fears about the consumption patterns that characterise contemporary Western societies, their reliance on finite resources and unacceptable environmental impacts, this chapter supports the view that the understanding of consumption prevailing in the literature on sustainability is impoverished. Ethnographies of consumption argue that green consciousness, the understanding of consumption literally as ‘the act whereby we use up [the world]’ (Miller 2001, p. 225), is linked with a particular privileged class status (Foster 2002; Morrison and Dunlap 1986) and that the effort to normalise the perspectives of this elite obscures the fact that we live in an era when


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most human suffering is the direct result of lack of goods (pharmaceuticals, housing, transport, books, computers). It also fails to understand why and how people consume, which includes ‘marking’ or providing important pieces of social information through the material world (Douglas 1976) and striving to create social relationships by appropriating commodities in specific ways (Miller 1987). If we go beyond prescriptive ideas about consumption as an intrinsically ‘bad thing’ and look into the motives and aspirations of mass consumers, consumption emerges principally as a mode through which people in contemporary post-industrial societies experience social hierarchy (Burrows and Marsh 1992; Edgell and Hetherington 1996). Attention is drawn to consumption as a mode of expressing social status, an act of self-definition in a game of symbolic power in which social groups express their distinctive social positioning through material practices such as taste (Bourdieu 1984). Equally, however, the reduction of consumption solely to class relations must be rejected as overly economistic and instrumentalist. As Friedman points out, ‘the very fact that class consumption style correlation lingers consistently in the 50% range ought to make us wonder about what the other 50% is up to’ (1994, p. 168). Most helpful, following Miller, is the treatment of mass consumption as the objectification of certain identity projects; a perspective which focuses attention on consumption as an experiential process in which people define themselves and their values through their use of commodities, which are transformed in turn by their association with an individual or group (1987, pp. 190ff.). Moreover, Miller (1995a) observes that consumption practices can develop into a complex plethora of different identity projects which are externally expressed in material form: ‘the object world ... assists us in making it increasingly possible for these to be merely partial connections, bits and pieces of often contradictory ‘habitii’ rather than the more systematic ‘habitus’ of traditional socialisation analysed by Bourdieu’ (1995a, p. 35). If theorisations of consumption practices are one necessary underpinning for this discussion, the place of Islam in lived experience is equally a strong focus. It has been widely noted that Pakistani Muslims in Britain have increasingly stressed their ‘Islamic’ identities, distancing themselves from a ‘South Asian’ racial or cultural ascription, from a political activist ‘black’ self-labelling and, in recent years, from a nationalist self-identification as ‘Pakistanis’ (Werbner 1996, p. 91). Such changes have been understood in relation to the historical experience of migration and settlement in Britain, industrial restructuring and the fragmentation of traditional working-class identities under


Consumption Practices of Pakistani Muslims in Britain


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Thatcher, transnational imaginaries connecting British Pakistanis with the political oppression of Muslims in the global ummah (the brother/ sisterhood of Islam), and their connections with geopolitical events that have led Muslims to be stigmatised in British society as an ‘enemy within’ (Abbas 2005). A conceptual separation between ‘Islam’ and ‘Pakistani culture’ has emerged with strong demotic currency, advocating the purging of innovation, accretion and Pakistani local custom from a version of Islam that is constructed as pure and universal. In this discourse, Pakistani culture is criticised as ‘traditional’, backward, corrupted by vestigial influences of Hinduism, and sometimes in stark contradiction with ‘true’ Islamic principles. Moreover, this separation between religion and culture requires people to carefully scrutinise Islam as it appears to be practised by other Muslims, which they may reject as a ‘cultural Islam’ as opposed to a pure, culturally-free version of Islam, legitimated and authenticated with reference to scripture. This split between Islam and culture is present in Pakistan, where it is overlaid with oppositions between universalising orthodoxy, the nation and the Urdu language versus jahiliya (ignorance), heterodoxy and the local and particular (Ring 2006, pp. 96ff.). In the British context, the process is seen to have been accelerated and facilitated by British education. A burgeoning literature describes how second-generation Pakistanis have selectively embraced some aspects of their parents’ socialisation and not others, using the legitimacy of Islam to undermine traditions viewed as merely ‘cultural’. Where traditions are not considered to have a religious justification, Islam can even offer the means whereby the loosening of restrictions is achieved (Bradby 1999; Butler 1999; Jacobson 1998; Knott and Khokher 1993; Macey 1999; Shaw 2000). The reformist discourses encompassed by this conceptual opposition between Islam and culture broadly follow the classist pattern of a young, urban, British-born and -educated generation criticising the backwardness of older, rural-origin, lowerclass migrants who are accused of failing to exercise ijtehad (reasoned judgement) (Brown 2006). Whilst not denying the strengthening of Islamic identities among Pakistani Muslims in Britain, Werbner argues that ‘this apparent identity shift disguises a continuing tension between different dimensions of a complex cluster of personal identities’ (1996, p. 91). In keeping with a seam of scholarly accounts emphasising a sober, ascetic construction of Islam, with a stress on purity, bodily containment, spirituality and intellect and an aversion to pleasurable material consumption (cf. Bayat 2007), she distinguishes starkly between ‘the world of Islamic asceticism


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and sobriety and the (secular) world of South Asian (Indian) popular culture with its laughter and sensual gaiety’ (2002, p. 188). She characterises individual social identities as ‘schizophrenic and inconsistent’, arguing that Pakistani Muslims ‘tend to sustain different symbolic domains of activity and keep these domains separate’, ‘compartmentalised’ or ‘in disjunction’ (1996, p 93). In a similar vein, Bradby stakes out a distinction between the incongruent and divergent ends of ‘Islamic honour’, which is served by the adoption and demonstration of material values of frugality, and ‘secular honour’, which is served by ‘cultural’ values such as extravagance, generosity and hospitality (2002, 2006). In contrast with such accounts, this chapter questions the tendency for scholars to posit consumption as something that is at odds with Islam. Whilst it is true that certain reform-minded individuals and organisations embrace a particular ideology entreating Muslims to exhibit modesty, bodily control and hide their sensuality (Metcalf 1990), the premise that ‘true’ Islam requires asceticism and renunciation is contested even among reformers. For instance, Allama Iqbal talks of Islam as a religion that uniquely acknowledges and deals with material needs in life in addition to the spiritual, and why Islam is therefore not only an aqeeda (belief) but deen (religion), in other words, a complete code of life; Iqbal’s modernism rather stresses mianravi (the middle path), discouraging excess but at once acknowledging material and sensual needs (Ahmad 1980). The meanings of Islam for consumption practices, and the ways in which these moral and ideological positions are negotiated by ordinary Pakistani Muslims, sometimes pragmatically and critically, are therefore the concern of this chapter.

Social mobility in East London Home to approximately 19,000 Pakistani Muslims, the docklands borough of Newham in East London has a complex history of trading, industrial and migratory connections with Empire. The earliest migration from Pakistan to East London comprised young, male labourers who were unmarried or left their families behind. As in most Pakistani settlements in Britain (cf. Ballard 1996), the majority originated from Mirpur district in Azad Kashmir and subsequently stimulated migration flows from the neighbouring districts of Jhelum, Rawalpindi and Gujrat in the north of Punjab. However, migratory origins in Newham are more diverse than in most British Pakistani settlements, with substantial streams from districts in the central Punjab, such as Lahore, Sialkot, Faisalabad, Sargodha and Multan as well as more far-flung




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cities like Karachi and Peshawar. The early labour migrants in the 1950s and 60s found work in small-scale factories and workshops run by Jewish or Asian patrons in Aldgate and Whitechapel before moving on to more favourable employment in the large factories surrounding the docks. An appreciable number of Pakistanis moved to East London after having first settled in West Yorkshire, Lancashire or the West Midlands, where they worked for a number of years in moribund textile mills and foundries before losing their jobs to deindustrialisation or simply moving on. With the dismantling of industry in the 1980s thousands of Pakistanis in East London were made redundant, prompting long-term unemployment for many. Others were driven to set up their own businesses (particularly garment outfits, taxi ranks and fried chicken takeaways), buy properties and start renting them out, which has brought wealth to some (Ahmad 2008; Harriss 2006). I lived in Newham for two years, renting a box room from Mirpuri landlords, experiencing everyday life through the standard but deceptively simple ethnographic method of ‘hanging in’ (Wallman 1984, p. 42), and carrying out life history interviews on experiences of industrial change, social mobility, impoverishment and ill health (Harriss, 2008). In comparison with other depictions of British Pakistani communities, this chapter therefore delves less into the consumption practices of immigrant elites, and more into those who say that they are just doing ghuzara (getting by). ‘The community spirit has changed’ Pakistani Muslims in East London are astute in identifying growing pressures to consume competitively and are clear in their minds about why this has come about. The pressures to display family status through forms of prestigious consumption, such as lavish weddings, large suburban houses, expensive cars, kitchen appliances, plasma screen televisions, music systems, three-piece leather sitting room sets and laminate flooring are attributed to the increasing economic differentiation in the community. They contrast the competitive consumption of the present with the non-hierarchical, normative ethos that surrounded consumption in the early days of migrating to Britain. The hardship and struggle of the early days is emphasised in nostalgic stories that are recounted, suitably embellished, by firstgeneration migrants and their British-born children alike. These were days when men lived austere, spartan lives in dilapidated dockland terraces referred to in good humour as deras (a dera is a hut/outpost in the lands where men in rural Punjab gather to socialise outside the


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home, associated with an ethos of freedom and equality). In these terraced houses numerous bodies occupied beds in turn, in accordance with the demands of shift work. Many were joined by wives who have their own stories of feminine toil, maintaining overcrowded houses with large numbers of children supplemented by their fostered nieces and nephews; of piece-work done in the rag trade; of long strenuous hours spent at sewing machines. The idealising of humble beginnings in these depictions of a ‘community of suffering’ (Werbner 1980) is an unusual departure from the agonistic hierarchical contestation over status that has been seen to prevail in Pakistani society. However, it serves to underline the agency, tenacity and resourcefulness of migrants through a classic rags-to-riches narrative. The voracity with which hierarchy and status differentiation has been reasserted in East London, reproduced and embellished through competitive consumption, is understood with reference to the shift into self-employment and the development of a culture of entrepreneurship founded on rivalry. Over time, cos people have got their own businesses, the community spirit has changed. I went over to this shop the other day to do some work for this man I know, and his old man was there and we got chatting. He’s known my family since they first came here. When you speak to people like that, to the elder people you just think ... They all started out on a level footing, nobody had more money than anyone else. But now that there’s money, this competition has started creeping into the Pakistani community as well. One guy gets a Golf so his mate has to get a Golf too, then the first guys gets a BMW so his mate has to get a BMW, and then he gets a Merc and his mate gets a Merc too, yeah and one with a 3 litre engine. Asim [25–9 years, second-generation male] Similarly, competitive consumption is linked to the ‘resurgence’ of the idiom of caste (zat or biradari). Caste is widely condemned as a vestigial relic of Hindu tradition in Pakistani society that contradicts the egalitarian principles of Islam, yet it is tacitly accepted and supported, paradigmatically in the process of arranging marriages but also more prosaically through the preferential dispersal of favours to one’s ‘own blood’. Although biradaris are not as explicitly ranked as Hindu caste groups, the use of such terms reflects a concern with the religious legitimation of status differentiation. Through the idiom of caste,




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Nowadays it’s totally different ennit. It’s more like, snooping. You know that old backwards thing, like my family’s better than your family. I’m a Jat. Khandan (family). Yeah, you’re a Raja and I’m a Malik and I’m better than you. That’s come up again, cos that sort of thing, 60s and 70s you hardly ever heard that cos everyone was doing the same thing. But as soon as someone got a bit of money he become Chaudry sahab you know? Or Raja sahib [landowning/high caste groups]. And this is like, retaliation. Bukhtiar [30–4 years, second-generation male] The connections between consumption and rivalry are also felt to be fuelling a proliferation of supernatural negativity based on interpersonal jealousies. Friendships are interwoven with veiled, critical speculation about the true extent of one other’s wealth and a pervasive mistrust (chalakee or craftiness). Najma captures a popular sentiment: ‘it usually happens in the Asian community that if you are well off or if you are well-mannered or if your kids do well then you are in people’s minds. This is ominous and brings evil on the family’. There is a common perception that forms of spiritual negativity such as the evil eye and black magic are on the increase. However, the fear of spiritual negativity is not so great as to curb conspicuous consumption. East London Pakistanis note with interest the proliferation of advertisements for pirs (ritual specialists) in the Urdu language press, and of shifty men at underground stations and mosques handing out flyers advertising African spirit divination or exorcism. They point out the fascination for black magic among the younger, British-born generation as proof that belief in the supernatural is not only the product of ‘lack of education’. Indeed, the status of black magic in orthodox Islam is a subject hotly debated privately and with religious scholars. This account of moral concerns about the emergence of competitive consumption identifies a strong correspondence between the astute reasonings of Pakistani Muslims in Britain and the existing scholarship relating to them. It broadly supports the notion that an intensification of processes of distinction follows from socio-economic polarisation, the growth of self-employment and development of a culture of entrepreneurship. It also concurs with the idea that status differentiation, when complicated by caste, kinship and marriage endogamy, comes to be contested through the medium of religiosity; and that the accumulation of


economically mobile migrants may lay claim to officialised symbolic capital and establish themselves as an elite.


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rivalries and jealousies in Britain also attracts supernatural negativity (it is important to note that such beliefs are not in any way inconsistent with Islamic piety). However, the multiplicity of links between socioeconomic change and ritual status warns against an oversimplified reading of caste and supernatural negativity. As the Comaroffs claim, ritual, as an experimental technology intended to affect the flow of power, is a likely response to contradictions engendered by social transformation; moreover, supernatural negativity is not simply an imaginative ‘idiom’ or ‘symptom’ of social upheaval but a practical discourse enabling it to be comprehended and controlled (1993, p. xxvii; cf. Apter 1993, pp. 124ff.). ‘Brother, bhai, send us this and that and this’ Pakistani Muslims in East London subscribe to the romanticising of ‘Eastern non-materialism’ by making occasional comments about the saadgi (simplicity) of life in the villages and the poverty and hardiness of the people. However, they talk more animatedly about Pakistan as a place of voracious consumption and material avarice. This is a particular consequence of migration. For recent migrants the pressure to remit money to kin in Pakistan is extremely onerous. In the early years after migration, there are pressures to remit money to help the family back home with everyday consumption as well as the construction of kotiyan (mansions) (see Plate 1), the accumulation of consumer goods, contributions towards the education and marriages of younger siblings, nieces and nephews, and the healthcare of ageing relatives. The migrants have ambivalent and contradictory feelings about remittances. For most, remittances are an elaborate game of bravado, requiring a careful balance between priorities and investments in Britain and Pakistan. It is important to remit money to maintain status and secure the reputation of being a successful migrant family. People who do not remit money are negatively judged as kanjoos (stingy) and put under substantial pressure by kin in Pakistan who, like Jamal’s relatives, remind them pointedly that ‘it’s much easier for you because you’re earning pounds’. There is also, however, the risk that relatives will take advantage and see migrants as a source of free funds. Such generous people are also negatively judged as lalloo (innocent or simple) (cf. Osella and Osella 2000 on pavam, a gendered insult for generous but gullible Gulf migrants in Kerala). They are stuck between playing the part of a successful migrant benefactor, retaining a certain amount of income for personal use and simultaneously dodging the accusation of kanjoosi. There is considerable frustration among the migrants that their kin in Pakistan do not appreciate the extent of the struggle and




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Plate 1 Migrant mansion and surrounding agricultural land in rural Azad Kashmir 2005. The three-storey kotis (mansions) are the quintessential display of successful migration. Source: author’s own.

financial hardship that they endure(d) in the UK to be able to remit money ‘back home’. They sacrifice their personal financial security on behalf of relatives in Pakistan who spend the remittances on the kinds of prestigious consumption that they would like to engage in themselves (cars, consumer durables, mobile phones and lavish weddings). They complain about getting lists from back home ‘saying brother, bhai [elder brother], send us this and that and this’. They are cynical about their relatives and call them matlabi (self-interested). I feel like I’m the piggy in the middle basically. My father-in-law is ... basically, he thinks he’s a holy man, my father-in-law. His biggest problem is that he’s always like this [proffers hand in begging position] ... Give give give give give ... And because I’ve been successful, I’ve always done this and that for them. But there’s no appreciation whatsoever. Hossein [40–4 years, second-generation male]


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Beyond the game of bravado, the dilemma is motivated by a genuine desire to maintain the affective bonds of kinship across space and time,


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uphold normative ideals about provisioning within families, and consolidate the status of the family back home, which is the primary anchor of symbolic power for first-generation migrants and remains a significant resource for their non-migrant children. Providing materially for family members is considered by most to be an act of sawab (religious merit) and generative of good feeling and spiritual indebtedness. For your friends or your relatives, you have to sacrifice some of your cash for them. They say ‘our brother-in-law, our brother, our uncle is in England’. Like when Eid comes, you know how much respectability is there. I have four sisters. They are all married and in their own families. But as a big brother, bhai, like at Rakhri time [a festival celebrating sibling ties], sisters take [gifts] isn’t it. I even have an older sister, she is 60 and she says ‘I don’t need money’. I said ‘doesn’t matter, you are my sister isn’t it. I don’t have a mother, you are like my mother’. It’s not like her sons are working. I sent her £30, I said ‘buy clothes for Eid’. So everyone prays for us. Shabir [50–4 years, first-generation male] This study of remittances indicates that essentialised oppositions contrasting the materialistic and affluent West with the non-materialistic East are fractured through the experiences of Pakistani Muslims in Britain, who at once subscribe to the romanticised idea of Pakistan’s saadgi (simplicity) and also dread, but understand, its rapacious consumerism. This lends weight to Miller’s injunction to examine ‘how societies on the periphery of the industrial world often seize upon new possibilities of consumption with alacrity and use them to embody elements of modernity which as yet are resisted by more metropolitan regions’ (1995b, p. 282). ‘You go out and you be really over-the-top about it’ Ritual gifting is an enormous part of the economy of conspicuous consumption. Distinction signalled through excelling in a symbolic economy of agonistic spending is a key route through which hierarchical differences are legitimated through religious practice (Werbner 1990). Lena-dena or reciprocal ritual gifting at life-course ceremonies (such as births, circumcisions, marriages as well as Eid and sometimes birthdays) binds people materially in participation in community life, and is a mundane part of household economies. Expenditure is therefore circumscribed by obligations and responsibilities to a redistributive moral economy and relations of kinship-cum-friendship which lay




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claim to a household’s wealth, akin to what Kopytoff (1994) refers to as the ‘lineage mode of consumption’. Lena-dena can also be seen to establish dialectical relations between households. As Khalid put it, the point of lena-dena is for you to ‘go out and be really over-the-top about it’. If someone wishes to deliberately augment their family status they may increase the gift and up the stakes, which signals a challenge to the receiver and requires at least equal reciprocation. Saving for and spending on lena-dena is primarily the responsibility of women, and constitutes a way in which women contribute to the status of the household by creating relationships of obligation and indebtedness with other households in extended networks of kinship-cum-friendship (Shaw 2000; Werbner 1990). My mum is really old-house on all of that stuff, you know I mean if someone does have a baby she does go right over-the-top and buy give pairs of clothes and then she has to get the mum a ring and has to get the dad a shirt and you know, I mean it even sometimes goes onto the parents sort-of-thing, the parents of the baby [laughs] ... You know, it’s really really over-the-top. But that’s the way my mum is. Khalid [30–4 years, second-generation male] Sadiq-Sangster (1991) finds that the inability to participate in community reciprocity is a primary mode in which poverty is experienced in low-income Mirpuri households, producing acute anxieties about the family being perceived as dependent and causing some to withdraw from sociability with others. The agonistic nature of gifting is therefore emphasised by Pakistani Muslims, as in much social analysis influenced by Bourdieu. However, the equally important peace-keeping qualities of gifting are often overlooked (cf. Ring 2006). It is important to recognise that the competitive nature of lena-dena is voluntaristic. Prestations may be normative and intended simply to maintain participation in the moral economy of the biradari, particularly for those who feel they lack the financial strength to engage in competitive gifting. Families try to stay ‘within their limits’, and the amounts given are said to be within the budgeting capacities of most households. As Farooq says, ‘we don’t have any special savings, it’s not so much, £10, £20, everybody can afford it’. It is taken for granted that lena-dena must be prioritised and budgeted for. Rather than avoiding a special occasion, small short-term loans are sought from relatives and friends in order to maintain prestations.


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Financial hardship prevents some households from partaking in lenadena, which means that they gradually become excluded from the casual material reciprocity that constitutes and reproduces membership of networks of kinship-cum-friendship. Tahzeem, for example, was unable to attend her niece’s wedding because she had no decent clothing to wear. She had no money for a new suit, she didn’t want to borrow to buy one, and she had worn her other dressy suits to too many weddings already. She sent her three teenage children to the wedding with Uzma and myself, wearing their Eid outfits which they had only worn once before. The girls were wearing make-up but no jewellery. Uzma was unwilling to take the girls into the wedding hall until they were appropriately attired, so we quickly took them to a pound-shop beforehand and bought them some plastic jewellery. Even then, the other guests at our table remarked on the girls’ shabby appearance and Uzma’s own sons – with the jealousy typical between cousins – called them ‘gyppos’. The inability to partake in this symbolic economy of ritual and ceremony incurs a form of ‘social death’ (Bourdieu 1966, p. 217). Taken together, this study of gifting emphasises how ritual consumption can take on a dialectical and agonistic nature in the rapid socioeconomic differentiation that follows migration: ‘the (public) ritual/ religious domain has been central to migrants’ strategic conversion of economic capital into prestige and status, becoming one of the privileged grounds for negotiations, assertions and contestations of social position built upon [migration]-earned money’ (Osella and Osella 2004, p. 114). What is sometimes overlooked, however, is that for those who do not have astral trajectories or ambitions, ritual gifting is mostly not competitive but normative; playing a routine part in creating and sustaining relationships through the ongoing expectation of reciprocation. ‘What kind of a wedding do you call that!’ Weddings are the occasions par excellence for conspicuous consumption. Every aspect of the performance of a wedding, from the style and quality of attire to the gifts exchanged, the tastiness and abundance of the food served (which is very important), and the quality of execution of the rituals is avidly noted and subsequently given a spirited appraisal. For the wealthy who are able to partake in the ‘rat race’, as has been widely noted, weddings allow scope for profligate displays of wealth destruction, signalling an honourable disregard for wealth hoarding (Werbner 1990, p. xv). Some reform-minded Pakistani Muslims see this as evidence of dunyadari (materialism). At Shazia’s mehndi (prenuptial) celebrations I was approached by




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Zuleikha, a young woman involved with Tableeghi Jama’at (a Islamic reform organisation), who unlike the other guests at the wedding was wearing a tightly-bound black hijab (headscarf) and Arab-style jilba (gown). She apparently wanted to share with me her disappointment at the flamboyant celebrations that were going on, perhaps because my being English might mean that I’d understand, or perhaps because she wanted to straighten out some misapprehensions that I might be getting about Islam. ‘It doesn’t say in the Qur’an that we should celebrate our marriages by showing off. Islam says that we should live simply. Weddings shouldn’t be this wasteful. It’s a shame. All this is just Pakistani tradition but it is not Islam.’ I asked her about what an Islamic wedding should look like. ‘The kind of wedding I had’, she replied, ‘we had a simple nikaah (Islamic marriage) just with my parents and my brothers and sisters and my husband’s family, we didn’t have a mehndi like this. I wore these same clothes that I’m wearing now’. However, when I later put Zuleikha’s proposition of virtuous frugality to her cousin Imran, he recalled the wedding and laughed – ‘what kind of a shaadi (wedding) do you call that!’. When the topic of wedding expenses comes up in conversation, most Pakistani Muslims shake their heads or whistle through their teeth at the huge sums of money that are spent, but add that ‘chalo (well ...) ... it only happens once in a lifetime’. More important is the celebration of marriage as an Islamic sacrament, sanctioning an exclusive, intimate, lifelong relationship between a man and a woman. In this construction of marriage celebrations, they signal the single most momentous transformation in two people’s lives, as opposed to the marriage celebrations of the ‘English’, who are thought to have more licentious sexual mores and weak families that are prone to breaking down. Celebrating marriage with splendour and magnificence delineates its importance in Islam and is seen to be legitimate. Bradby’s concept of there being parallel systems of ‘Islamic honour’ served by frugality and a ‘secular honour’ served by excess is therefore unsatisfactory, as it presumes that there is wide convergence of values, and recognition that frugality constitutes ‘true’ Islam. Rather, this study shows that popular ‘traditionalists’, like reformists, may appeal to holy scriptures to guide practice (cf. Marsden 2005; Osella and Osella 2008a), negotiating doctrinal issues in relation to salient facts of their everyday experience and through their own interpretations of the implications of what the religion demands. For the majority there is therefore no contradiction between Islamic piety and potlatch-style lavish wedding celebrations.


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Through the process of household budgeting mundane, profane expenditure is intimately connected with the types of ritual spending that confer symbolic prestige. Everyday decisions about consumption and standard of living impact on the household’s long-term trajectory in terms of status and security (cf. McCrone 1994). As has been widely noted in the sociological literature on Britain, long-term status is signalled by owner-occupied housing; for Saunders, ‘meaning’ more in giving people a sense of ontological security than their position in relations of production (Saunders 1987). East London Pakistanis who are living in social housing are pained by their inability to prove anything as a tangible sign of success and find it extremely stigmatising in the community. Shanaz comments philosophically that without a house of one’s own ‘there’s no izzat (respect) is there’; she complains about having to listen to remarks from her relatives such as ‘oh my god you’re in this country and you’ve done nothing’. It’s so hard. If only they knew. Because my life, our life has been completely different from them people. And that can have a huge effect on your mental state as well. Then you come home and you think oh my god we’re poor and we haven’t got a house and then you start arguing, you start snapping at the children or at your husband, why have you done this, why – there’s so much pressure on with the Asian people with their families, that you know, ‘we’ve done this much, this is how much sone di churrian [gold bangles] we have and how many cars we’ve got and how many bank balance, we’ve built a house back home’, it’s just like a rat race. You know? That ‘we’ve got a house here and we’re working’ and you know. And first of all they said ‘oh you’re living in a council house?’ They look down on you. Shanaz [40–4 years, second-generation female] As Shanaz’s remark about snapping at her husband suggests, being deft with money is a highly valued quality. From my observations, even households with the most out-of-control finances maintain detailed informal procedures for keeping track of domestic accounts. The emphasis is on being able to meet the household’s own financial needs so that they do not have to burden their family and friends with requests for financial support; on maintaining responsibilities to others in the form of material exchanges, outlined above, and the casual aana-jaana or milna-julna (coming-and-going) of sociability enabled by domestic inter-household hospitality. People who are extravagant


‘What’s not spent is lost’


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hosts and spend on others khulle jeb se (with open pockets) are indulgently admonished or praised for their generosity, which is usually deemed to be a good thing. However, fazool kharchi (spendthriftery) is otherwise frowned upon. These normative spending practices are strongly gendered and idealised in a context-specific manner. In women, kanjoosi (stinginess) is socially valued, although not to the extent that one would not be able to enjoy one’s life. As Zahid said, ‘aurat ko thora sa kanjoos hona chahie, lekin ittna ziada bhi nahi’ (women should be a bit stingy, but not too much!). Women are thought to be more voracious consumers and men complain of the pressure to meet their wives’ material desires. Generosity in men is praised and men who spend lavishly on their families are said to keep their wives happy. Notably, however, in some households women complain that material provisioning and comfort is not enough and that they crave intimacy with their husbands more than gifts; evidence of the emergence of new forms of conjugalities in what is selfconsciously talked about as ‘modern’ family life. The material needs of children are felt to have grown astronomically within living memory. Children embody the quwat (strength) or material status of the family, and objectify their parents’ most important duty of giving their children the inputs required for a good future. East London parents also tend to sympathise with their children’s demands for transient objects consumed as objects of fad and fashion. If children are deemed to be poorly dressed or unkempt, the family are called jungli (wild, primitive), moorey (dumb) or gyppo (gypsy). The responsibility for children’s consumption lies primarily with women, and there are strong normative moral ideals about women suffering material privation for the sake their children. In contrast with men’s perceptions of their wives, women report few areas of consumption that they privilege for themselves. Women’s talk is often strongly performative of sacrifice: You got so many demands from the children, so many demands that you have to sacrifice yourself for everything just to fill their demands. Nagina [40–4 years, second-generation female]


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I’m a mum so I’ve always protected my children. Whatever happened I’ve always protected these four. I’ve always cooked and made big meals for my children. Rani [45–9 years, second-generation female]


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Self-reliance is another important normative ideal in talk about budgeting. As Shabbir says, ‘it’s like they say in Punjabi [sic], jittne chador hain uttne pao pehlane chahie’ (spread out [your feet] as wide as the blanket allows). However, as widely noted, it is often the households who are the least well off who are the most assertive about the centrality of prestige consumption (cf. Miller 2001, p. 227). Outside the immigrant elite, the only way of participating in the consumer society is therefore to buy goods on credit, even at the cost of long-term status and security. Most express a reluctance to become indebted to agencies beyond their own networks, in keeping with various studies that have found low-income Pakistani households to be more averse to commercial loans than their white counterparts (Herbert and Kempson 1996; Sadiq-Sangster 1991). A minority of East London Pakistanis raise objections to the use of commercial loans on the grounds that they contravene the Islamic prohibition on usury. However, they also feel that they have to accept certain non-Islamic facts of life in the British context. The gendered use of credit within households is notable. Men are more likely to take commercial credit from institutions like banks, credit cards or moneylenders, whereas women are more likely to rely on pawnbrokers, friends and relatives, reflecting women’s more restricted individuated ownership of property and assets, access to information and occupational status. Nafisa, for example, argues passionately with her husband over taking on unnecessary loans whilst she struggles to make ends meet: If he [husband] would like ... be more committed with the money and things, like I was thinking you know, we can save up and then we can buy a house or something, you know we need to think about it cos of the children. But he’s not. Like that car he’s got, the low driver or whatever it’s called. It’s one of those tractor cars. He just wanted to get it. He wanted an expensive car, and that’s what happened. This company was giving him a loan and as he got the loan so he thought he might as well get the car. They sort of offered it to him. It probably has interest as well, yeah, it’s like for five years or something. So half his money goes down there as well. Nafisa [35–9 years, second-generation female] Generally, young people are also less loan-averse and more prepared to get into debt in order to participate in the consumer society. The older generation criticises them for living too much in the present, and not planning for the future. As Nasrullah put it, ‘they never think of tomorrow’. Older people are more likely to lay claims to ideals of




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non-materialism, being more preoccupied with religiosity and spiritual merit and prone to saying, like Farooq, that ‘now it’s time to think about the aakhrat (judgement day)’; ‘I used to think about buying nice shirts too, but none of that is necessary now’. Zahid likes to tell me the following couplet taught to him by his father: ‘jinha nu taqwa rab da, ohna nu rizkh hamesh; palle nay bannde, panchee te dervaish’ (a pious person has no need of sustenance; the bird and the dervaish have no need to hoard). Such spiritual ideals of frugality and modesty in material comforts intertwine with renunciation and withdrawal from earthly pleasures, constructed as part of the ageing process (cf. Lamb 2000; Vera-Sanso 2003). Despite their professed lack of material desire, however, the older generation do participate actively in consumerism, achieving distinction vicariously through their children’s consumption and gifts. They may protest outwardly at the expense, but are visibly pleased at the display of filial duty and respectful provisioning. Anytime if I need some money he’s always here [talking about his eldest son]. Sometimes he buys. Last time I bought a telly he paid the money. And the time before, I bought a car, he paid the money. He always helps me. Because he’s good, he’s whatever Islam says, how to respect your parents. Sadiq [60–4 years, first-generation male] Frugality and thrift per se are, therefore, ambivalent qualities for East London Pakistanis. Many Punjabi sayings celebrate a pragmatic orientation to expenditure, recognising the need to save for things that are important but also the importance of enjoying the pleasures of life whilst it is there. When accompanying Uzma or Iqbal for fabric shopping in Forest Gate, for example, they would justify a large purchase with ‘jirha nay kharcha, oh gwach janda’ (what’s not spent is lost) or ‘jab tak banda zinda hai to kamaa lenda hai’ (as long as you have life, you can earn money). For the majority, consumerism is not in conflict with Islamic piety. Zahid, for example, is passionate about shopping and able to hold his own amongst his peers in his sartorial style, dressing in a manner that denotes high fashion among young Pakistani men in East London. He frequently admonishes me that ‘achhe kapre hain achhe shakhsiat ki zamanat’ (good clothes are a guarantee of good character). His hair is cut short and spiked with gel; he is clean-shaven but for an inch-thick band tracing the line of his jaw; he wears thick silver chains and amulets around his neck; trainers that always look brand new; his clothes are ‘sporty’, with expensive, well-cut jeans, designer sweaters


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and a bomber jacket; and he wears a costly non-alcohol-based perfume bought from a swanky Arab shop on Oxford Street, which comes in an elaborate box shaped like the ka’aba. When he returned from the perfume shopping spree and showed the perfume to his family they cried ‘haii allah, bahut fazool kharch hai!’ (he’s a spendthrift!). However, his indulgent spending is judged as a virtue as he is also generous with his money and spends freely on his family, surprising them with thoughtful, well-chosen gifts. He is also devout, catching as many namaz (prayers) as he can and scolding his peers for their impiety and lack of genuine understanding of the secrets of the religion. He is widely praised because there is said to be a lot of ‘balance’ in him, combining godliness with an impressive personal style and ethic of enjoyment of material pleasure. Like most of his peers, in my experience, Zahid exhibits little of the ‘multiphrenic’ identities characterised by Werbner, inhabiting his Muslim identity comfortably and drawing on ‘Islamic’, ‘South Asian’ and ‘Western’ aesthetics and modes of consumption skilfully and simultaneously, without being ‘schizophrenic’ or ‘inconsistent’ (cf. Werbner 1996, p. 93; see Plate 2).



Plate 2 MacDonalds logo-inspired t-shirt in the window of an Islamic shop in Forest Gate, 2008. Young British-born Pakistani Muslims to whom I pointed it out found the t-shirt ‘cool’. Source: author’s own.


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Taken together, the diversity of everyday consumption practices fits awkwardly into a characterisation of expenditure patterns in terms everyday thrift combined with occasional ritual splurge. There are certainly normative moral ideals concerning careful economising in day-to-day expenditure and community pressures to strive for long-term status and security objectified in housing, assets and consumer durables. However, frugality is valued in accordance with specific constructions of masculinities and femininities, articulated in relation to marital status and generation. Involvement in mass consumption increasingly leads East London Pakistanis to take out commercial loans and get into debt in order to meet normative or competitive styles of consumption. Bourdieu argues that spending beyond one’s means can be seen as a ‘sensible bluff’ (1977, p. 181) permitting a household to rise in standing and recoup the economic investment in the form of symbolic patrimony. Beyond this instrumental and strategic interpretation, however, I would suggest that a more practical or aesthetic process is at work, in which frugality per se is a quality valued differently as individuals respond to norms in accordance with a kind of intuitive notion of the habitus; more appropriate for elders, who are constructed as liminal beings with limited personal needs; and less appropriate for young people, who have a legitimately strong attachment to material pleasures. Consumption is not only a political statement about relative status, but also the achievement of fulfilment by the creation of a life space through a particular set of commodities: ‘living like a king is not part of a strategy of potlatch ... but the enjoyment of the highly valued luxuries associated with such status’ (Friedman 1994, p. 169). As far as first-generation migrants are concerned, Pakistanis have expectations about the kinds of lives that they ought to be able to lead in Britain, of which Mirpuri agents in the 1960s told their prospective clients that ‘sarkan soney naal sajain ne’ (the streets are paved with gold). Indeed, the inability to cope with the perceived material privations of life in Pakistan – extreme temperature, frequent load-shedding/power cuts, being separated from the creature comforts of home in Britain – is one of the things that signals to them most clearly that they have undergone a shift in transnational identity and become a pardesi (foreigner) (cf. Vora 2008).


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Conclusions In conclusion, this study of the ethics and morality of consumption delineates consumption practices that are normative and habitual. East London Pakistanis consume in accordance with embodied ideas about


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personhoods and needs, in relation to an intuitive notion of the habitus in which specific sets of commodities create appropriate life spaces. Religious values are certainly raised by the issue of consumption. There are some critically-minded people who believe that ‘true’ Islam requires moderation and modesty in material comforts, or frugality and being spartan in one’s lifestyle. They argue that this is at odds with local Pakistani culture. Certain scholarly accounts in anthropology reproduce this reformist construction of Islam as sober and ascetic and posit Islam as in contradiction or disjunction with a flamboyant, materialistic South Asian/Punjabi culture. However, this chapter has argued that this opposition between Islam and culture is unsatisfactory as it obscures the fact that Muslims who might be glossed as ‘traditionalists’ also appeal to holy scriptures to guide and legitimate action. As the Osellas observe, ‘in private practice many [Muslims] are negotiating doctrinal issues in relation to complex and contradictory demands of everyday life’ (2008b, p. 342). In practice, a notion of ‘balance’ combining piety with a pragmatic ethic of material enjoyment (like Iqbal’s mianravi) is most socially valued and offers the most cultural competence. As we have seen, green consciousness or the idea of consumption as literally ‘using up the world’ is not prevalent among Pakistani Muslims in Britain. The more salient question in relation to ethics and morality is whether people themselves see consumption as a ‘bad thing’. This study has attempted to shed light on why and how Pakistani Muslims consume in the way that they do. The conclusions are unsurprising. The idea that non-Western cultures are sites of non-materialism and anti-consumerist values has been critiqued by numerous studies in anthropology, which highlight the vital symbolic roles that consumption and goods play in people’s lives, conveying signals about world views, allegiances and social standing. Ethnographies also argue that the mis-identification of mass consumption with the West is a racist idea that denies any role in its production to the authenticity of a consumer culture increasingly inhabited by people across the world. Holding up Eastern religions or cultures as a foil for the evils of capitalism suffers from precisely the ‘utilisation of other peoples as exemplifications of ideal states rather than a consideration of the local conditions which accounts for the wide variety of different attitudes to consumption of particular forms of goods’ (Miller 1995b, p. 272). Whilst they declaim competitive consumption as a socially divisive ‘rat race’, the majority of East London Pakistanis see nothing problematic about consumption per se. Rather, their consumption practices make complex negotiations as they interact simultaneously




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with multiple regimes of value, competing to achieve distinction in Pakistan; alongside the Pakistani community in Britain; and alongside their other neighbours in Britain too.

Abbas, Tahir (ed.) (2005) Muslim Britain: Communities Under Pressure London: Zed Books Ahmad, Ali Nobil (2008) ‘Critical Approaches to the Study of Masculinity: Gender and Generation in Pakistani Migration’, in Louise Ryan and Wendy Webster (eds) Gendering Migration: Masculinity, Femininity and Ethnicity in Postwar Britain London: Ashgate Ahmad, Kursheed (1980) Islam: Its Meaning and Message Leicester: The Islamic Foundation Apter, Andrew (1993) ‘Atinga Revisited: Yoruba Witchcraft and the Cocoa Economy, 1950–1951’, in John Comaroff and Jean Comaroff (eds, 1993) Ballard, Roger (1996) ‘The Pakistanis: Stability and Introspection’ in Ceri Peach (ed.) Ethnicity in the 1991 Census: The Ethnic Minority Populations of Great Britain London: HMSO Bayat, Asef (2007) ‘Islamism and the Politics of Fun’ Public Culture 19, pp. 433–59 Bourdieu, Pierre (1966) ‘The Sentiment of Honour in Kabyle Society’, in John Peristiany (ed.) Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society Chicago: University of Chicago Press Bourdieu, Pierre (1977) Outline of a Theory of Practice Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Bourdieu, Pierre (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste London: Routledge Bradby, Hannah (1999) ‘Negotiating Marriage: Young Punjabi Women’s Assessment of their Individual and Family Interests’, in Rohit Barot, Harriet Bradley and Steve Fenton (eds) Ethnicity, Gender and Social Change Basingstoke: Macmillan Bradby, Hannah (2002) ‘Over the Top and Glamorous: The Meaning of the Marriage Meal Among Glasgow Punjabis’ Food and Foodways 3, pp. 111–36 Bradby, Hannah (2006) ‘Understanding Honour and Religion as Resource and Constraint for Young British Asians’, in John Walliss and Jim Beckford (eds) Religion and Social Theory Avebury: Ashgate Brown, Katharine (2006) ‘Realising Muslim Women’s Rights: The Role of Islamic Identity Among British Muslim Women’ Women’s Studies International Forum 29, pp. 417–30 Burrows, Roger and Marsh, Catherine (eds) (1992) Consumption and Class: Divisions and Change London: Macmillan Butler, Charlotte (1999) ‘Cultural Diversity and Religious Conformity: Dimensions of Social Change Among Second-generation Muslim Women’, in Rohit Barot, Harriet Bradley and Steve Fenton (eds) Ethnicity, Gender and Social Change Basingstoke: Macmillan Comaroff, John and Comaroff, Jean (eds) (1993) Modernity and Its Malcontents: Ritual and Power in Postcolonial Africa Chicago: University of Chicago Press


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Douglas, Mary (1976) ‘Relative Poverty – Relative Communication’, in A. H. Halsey (ed.) Traditions of Social Policy: Essays in Honour of Violet Butler Oxford: Blackwell Edgell, Stephen and Hetherington, Kevin (eds) (1996) Consumption Matters Cambridge: Blackwell Foster, John (2002) Ecology against Capitalism New Year: Monthly Review Press Friedman, Jonathan (1994) ‘The Political Economy of Elegance: An African Cult of Beauty’ in Jonathan Friedman (ed.) Consumption and Identity London: Taylor and Francis Harriss, Kaveri (2006) ‘Muslims in the London Borough of Newham’ Centre for Migration, Policy and Society Working Papers, University of Oxford Harriss, Kaveri (2008) Long-term Ill Health and Livelihoods Among Pakistanis in the UK: Class, Gender and Household Economies Unpublished PhD thesis, London: London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine Herbert, Alicia and Kempson, Elaine (1996) Credit Use and Ethnic Minorities London: Policy Studies Institute Jacobson, Jessica (1998) Islam in Transition: Religion and Identity Among British Pakistani Youth London: Routledge Knott, Kim and Khokher, Sajda (1993) ‘Religious and Ethnic Identity Among Young Muslim Women in Bradford’ New Community 19, pp. 593–610 Kopytoff, Igor (1994) ‘Leisure, Boredom and Luxury Consumption: The Lineage Mode of Consumption in a Central African Society’, in Jonathan Friedman (ed.) Consumption and Identity London: Taylor and Francis Lamb, Sarah (2000) White Saris and Sweet Mangoes: Ageing, Gender and Body in North India Berkeley: University of California Press Macey, Marie (1999) ‘Class, Gender and Religious Influences on Changing Patterns of Pakistani Muslim Male Violence in Bradford’ Ethnic and Racial Studies 22, pp. 845–66 Marsden, Magnus (2005) Living Islam: Muslim Religious Experience in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Cambridge: Cambridge University Press McCrone, David (1994) ‘Getting by and Making Out in Kirkcaldy’, in Michael Anderson, Frank Bechhofer and Jonathan Gershuny (eds) The Social and Political Economy of the Household Oxford: Oxford University Press Metcalf, Barbara (1990) Perfecting Women: Maulana Ashraf ‘Ali Thanawi’s Bihishti Zewar Berkeley: University of California Press Miller, Daniel (1987) Material Culture and Mass Consumption Oxford: Blackwell Miller, Daniel (1995a) ‘Consumption as the Vanguard of History’, in Daniel Miller (ed.) Acknowledging Consumption: A Review of New Studies London: Routledge Miller, Daniel (1995b) ‘Consumption Studies as the Transformation of Anthropology’ in Daniel Miller (ed.) Acknowledging Consumption: A Review of New Studies London: Routledge Miller, Daniel (2001) ‘The Poverty of Morality’ Journal of Consumer Culture 1, pp. 225–43 Morrison, Denton and Dunlap, Riley (1986) ‘Environmentalism and Elitism: A Conceptual and Empirical Analysis’ Environmental Management 10, pp. 581–89 Osella, Filippo and Osella, Caroline (2000) ‘Migration, Money and Masculinity in Kerala’ Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 6, pp. 115–31 Osella, Filippo and Osella, Caroline (2004) ‘Migration and the Commoditisation of Ritual: Sacrifice, Spectacle and Contestation in Kerala, South India’ Contributions to Indian Sociology 37, pp. 109–39




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Osella, Filippo and Osella, Caroline (2008a) ‘Islamic Reform in South Asia’ Modern Asian Studies 42, pp. 247–57 Osella, Filippo and Osella, Caroline (2008b) ‘Islamism and Social Reform in Kerala, South India’ Modern Asian Studies 42, pp. 317–46 Ring, Laura (2006) Zenana: Everyday Peace in a Karachi Apartment Building Bloomington: Indiana University Press Sadiq-Sangster, Azra (1991) Living on Income Support: An Asian Experience London: Family Service Units Saunders, Philip (1987) Social Theory and the Urban Question London: Unwin Hyman Shaw, Alison (2000) Kinship and Continuity: Pakistani Families in Britain Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers Vera-Sanso, Penny (2003) ‘Increasing Consumption, Decreasing Support: A Multigenerational Study of Family Relations Among South Indian Chakkliyars’ presented at the South Asian Anthropology Group Annual Conference Kinship and the New Economy 18–19 September London: London School of Economics Vora, Neha (2008) ‘Producing diasporas and globalisation: Indian Middle-class Migrants in Dubai’ Anthropological Quarterly 81, pp. 377–406 Wallman, Sandra (1984) Eight London Households London: Tavistock Werbner, Pnina (1980) ‘Rich Man, poor Man, or a Community of Suffering: Heroic Motifs in Manchester Pakistanis’ Life Histories’ Oral History Journal 8, pp. 43–8 Werbner, Pnina (1990) The Migration Process: Capital, Gifts and Offerings among British Pakistanis Oxford: Berg Publishers Werbner, Pnina (1996) ‘ “Our Blood is Green”: Cricket, Identity and Social Empowerment Among British Pakistanis’ in Jeremy MacClancy (ed.) Sport, Identity and Ethnicity Oxford: Berg Werbner, Pnina (2002) Imagined Diasporas Among Manchester Muslims Oxford: James Currey


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From the Parliament to the Market: Political Consumerism and the Fight for Sabbath Omri Shamir and Guy Ben-Porat

The Ultra-Orthodox (Haredi) community is one of the poorest sectors in Israel but because of the large families in the community, often more than eight children, the sector is an important target for food and other retail companies. Retailers’ efforts to reach the Haredi communities included special chain stores with strict levels of Kashrut (Jewish dietary laws), low cost products, large packages for big families and dress codes of store staff that promise a comfortable, modest atmosphere for the religious consumers. The competition between retailers over the Haredi market, however, has given the community new power it could use either for economic bargaining or for the enforcement of religious rules. Thus, retailers have at times to maintain strict religious rules not only vis-à-vis the Haredi sector but also in other operations in Israel. In the spring of 2008 a Haredi boycott was declared against David (Dudi) Weisman, an owner and co-owner of many businesses in Israel, including a chain of supermarkets named Shefa Shuk designed for the Haredi community. But when Weisman bought another chain called AM PM that operates seven days a week, 24 hours a day, the Haredi leadership demanded that the stores be closed on the Sabbath, in accordance with Jewish laws. When Weisman refused to comply, a boycott was declared by the Haredi leadership that ordered the community to avoid all Weisman’s businesses. The success of the boycott has caused great economic damage to Shefa Shuk and to Weisman’s business in general and an almost desperate attempt has been made to find an agreeable compromise. Consumer boycott campaigns, we argue in this paper, are becoming a part of the religious–secular struggle in Israel. Like many other Israelis,


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members of religious groups are losing faith in the political system, which appears to be largely unable to make decisions or enforce them. These groups therefore look for other channels of influence, including consumer power. Boycott campaigns are collective actions of citizens who use their purchasing power to achieve economic, social or political objectives. When people engage in boycotts they are said to engage in the act of ‘political consumerism’, as they choose particular products or producers in order to change institutional or market practices (Stolle, Hooghe and Micheletti, 2005). Boycotts have been used to advance environmental concerns, human rights issues and consumer demands, and have been directed against companies and governments targeted for unethical behaviour. This study examines the use of political consumerism in religious–secular struggles, where religious groups attempt to defend the public sphere from the secularising influence of consumerism. Specifically, we look at the struggles of religious groups to prevent commercial activity on the Sabbath. The religious day of rest in the context of an emerging consumer society is often the source of struggle between entrepreneurs who cater to the shopping desires of the public on the day of rest and religious groups that demand the preservation of the special, religious character of the day. Consumerism can be a powerful force in the secularisation of the public sphere, as new products, advertisements and consumer behaviour can violate religious norms and mores. Consequently, consumerism and its regulation – shopping hours, for example – is often part of the struggle between religious and secular forces, the latter pushing for more freedom. Religious groups, however, themselves often part of this emerging consumer culture, can use their power as consumers in this struggle to preserve religious norms. In Israel, significant changes have occurred in patterns of consumption and culture, as over the past three decades the country has gradually turned into a western-type affluent society, with more ‘hedonistic’ values, open to foreign cultural influences and deeply engaged in consumption. The proliferation of consumerist behaviour and values in Israel has also influenced secular-religious tensions as it has undermined previous arrangements that regulated the public sphere. At one time, for example, commercial activity on Saturday was restricted, but since the early 1990s shopping centres located outside city centres have catered to the desires of a growing secular public. The public sphere, therefore, is secularised by consumerist demand and behaviour that changes the character of the Sabbath. The use of political consumerism, as we argue below, is a reaction to the ineffectiveness of the political


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Politics and consumer power Political consumerism is an emerging, if at times neglected, form of participation as traditional forms of political engagement are losing ground (Stolle, Hooghe and Micheletti 2005). To study consumer involvement in politics requires us to consider the relationship between the consumer, citizenship and the state, as this establishes both the extent to which the state can intervene in issues of consumption and the extent to which the consumer is active in the political process (Daunton and Hilton 2001). The choices consumers make between products can extend beyond tastes, prices and values to moral/political considerations. Indeed, consumers are often called to make a choice between products for the way they are produced, environmentally and socially. In 1997, some 800 products, not to mention countries and states, were targeted for boycotts worldwide (Sen, Gurhan-Canli and Morwitz 2001). The ability of consumers to act collectively and prefer, for different reasons, one product over another can have important implications for companies, influence their policies and force ‘corporate responsibility’. Thus, consumers can use their purchasing power as a kind of a vote that is capable, among other things, of ‘educating’ corporate giants (Roddick 2001). Consumption and the self-reflexive consumer are part of what Giddens describes as ‘lifestyle politics’, characteristic of late modernity (1991). The political and ethical choices consumers make as they use their ‘purchase votes’ attempt to shape the society of which they want to be part and are considered to be an alternative form of political participation. This is the result of a growing lack of trust in government and political parties (Diamond and Gunther 2001; Inglehart 1997), lose of state control over the authoritative allocation of values in society. As a result, new arenas for political participation are sought by frustrated and concerned citizens (Stolle, Hooghe and Micheletti 2005). Critics of this approach, however, argue, first, that consumerism weakens the genuine or the idealised rational discussions of the public sphere, second, that consumer struggles are usually single-issue campaigns that do not translate into wider struggles (Daunton and Hilton 2001, pp. 10ff.), and, third,


arena. Religious parties were once able to wield political power in parliament and government to curb secular initiatives, but commerce on the Sabbath continues to advance in spite of all political attempts to stop it. The Haredi use of their power as consumers, therefore, can be explained as a new political strategy, as we describe below.


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the collective action required is hard to achieve or sustain and undermines these attempts and limits the power of citizens as consumers. Regardless of their effectiveness the use of boycotts has been found to be on the rise in recent years, even though their specific impact on firms is hard to assess (Gelb 1995). The business press appeared to agree in the 1990s that consumer boycotts were effective and were increasing in number, as The Economist concluded: ‘consumer boycotts are becoming an epidemic for one simple reason: they work’ (Klein, Smith and John 2002). A consumer boycott was defined as ‘an attempt by one or more parties to achieve certain objectives by urging individual consumers to refrain from making selected purchases in the marketplace’ (Friedman 1985). Boycotts are an instrument for consumers to demonstrate dissatisfaction or discontent and increase corporate sensitivity to their economic, political and social concerns. Boycotts constitute an organised, collective, but non-mandatory refusal to consume a good. Boycotts can be divided into ‘economic boycotts’, typically aimed at lowering consumer prices (or improving services), and ‘political boycotts’, more relevant to the current study, that are directed at social change (Sen, Gurhan-Canli and Morwitz 2001). Consumer boycotts, therefore, are marketplace means to what may or may not be marketplace ends (Friedman 1996). To achieve political ends through market means, consumers can also use a positive approach of organised action and engage in ‘procotts’ or ‘buycotts’ to support the production and purchase of goods and services they find ethical and to promote groups and issues with which they identify. Consumer buycotts attempt to induce shoppers to buy the products or services of selected companies in order to reward them for behaviour which is consistent with the goals of the activists. The study of political consumerism must take account not only of declarations and motivations but also of actual behaviour and its frequency (Stolle and Hooghe 2003). A successful boycott or buycott depends on the long-term commitment of a large enough group that can influence producers and business people to change their behaviour. This is especially difficult when ideological choices of consumption are relatively expensive and challenge the commitment of individuals and the group. Consequently, the study of political consumerism raises several questions: who are political consumers? What are their values? And what groups are more likely than others to participate in boycotts or buycotts? Like other instances of collective action, boycotts (and buycotts) are vulnerable to free-rider problems that limit the incentive for


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participation (John and Klein 2003). Research indicates that consumers who find a company’s action to be egregious are more likely to boycott, but there are other important variables such as the boycotter’s desire to change the world, feeling of guilt or satisfaction for consuming or not consuming a boycotted product, the rationalisations available for not participating and the costs of participation (Klein, Smith and John 2002). Garret hypothesises six possible factors for boycott participation: the awareness of consumers; the values of potential consumer participants; the consistency of boycott goals with participants’ attitudes; the cost of participation; social pressure; and the credibility of the boycott leadership (Garret 1987). Klein et al (2001) find self-enhancement and need for consistency one explanation for boycott participation. Sen et al. (2001) describe the boycott decision as a social dilemma in which individual interests are at odds with collective interests. People are likely to take part in the boycott if they truly identify with the cause, if they believe others will do the same, if they hold the cost of the boycott as not too high and if they believe that the boycott will succeed. Research suggests that people’s consumption decisions are strongly influenced by their reference groups. Consequently their decision to boycott is influenced not only by their identification with the boycott’s objectives, but also their identification with the group itself (Sen, Gurhan-Canli and Morwitz 2001). One assumption is that social capital, the embeddedness in voluntary associations, is likely to help overcome collective action problems involved in boycotts (Stolle, Hooghe and Micheletti 2005). In other words, the trade-offs consumers make between individual incentives and group commitments are likely to hinge significantly on the social pressure they feel to comply with the behaviour of relevant reference groups. Thus, the size, identity and interdependence of the group, the amount and nature of communication and commitment within groups and the identifiability of group members are all factors that influence the decision to participate in boycotts and, consequently, their success (Sen, Gurhan-Canli and Morwitz 2001). Consumption norms include formal and informal rules that constrain the range of choices. They provide a shared frame of reference and a common ground for communication (Cosgel and Minkler 2004). This could affect individuals ‘positively’ by directing them to certain commodities or ‘negatively’ by prohibiting others. Religions, for example, often promote a framework of ethics that influences consumption (Lindridge 2005) and, at times, boycotts. Because boycotts mean individuals have to make some sacrifices in favour of a common good or




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goal, it is logical to assume that religious groups in general would have an advantage in promoting such campaigns. The religious commitment to shared values, and often their commanding leadership, can reduce uncertainties and defections and, consequently, make cooperation and compliance with boycotts more likely. Religion provides its followers with a coherent and stable set of norms and values that underscore their identity, and individuals with religious beliefs can use consumption to express their commitment to religion (Cosgel and Minkler 2004). Religious values and norms often clash with the hedonistic consumer culture as the market economy frees itself from earlier constraints, religious arrangements among them, in favour of consumer choices and the rules of demand and supply. Shopping, noted Benjamin Barber in his study of globalisation (1995), ‘has little tolerance for blue laws, whether dictated by pub-closing British paternalism, Sabbath-observing Jewish Orthodox, or no-Sunday liquor-sale Massachusetts Puritanism’. The struggle to reduce the restriction of retail hours is an example of this debate, as these public policy initiatives involve a debate on several registers. Restrictions were used to protect employees, small businesses, family values and religious norms. However, longer working hours, the entry of more women to the labour market and changes in consumption habits, on the one hand, and competition between entrepreneurs, on the other, created demands to extend the hours of retail activity, including the weekends (Grunhagen, Grove and Gentry 2003). The current political situation in Israel, we argue in the next section, encourages the religious sector to organise as political consumers against the secularisation of the public sphere and to protect the special character of the Sabbath. This action can be described as an ‘instrumental boycott’ that is designed to coerce the target to change a disputed policy (Friedman 1999). The success of such a boycott depends on the following conditions: (a) whether consumers care about the boycott issues and objectives (b) whether it is successfully executed and (c) if its execution is likely to lead to the desired consequences specified by the boycott objectives (Friedman 1999). We now turn to describe the current state of affairs in Israel that underscores the Haredi boycotts.

Israel: church and state


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Jewish religion prohibits work and commerce on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. This includes a variety of restrictions of travel and work on the Sabbath that have in modern times often defined levels of religiosity, separated observant from nonobservant Jews and, under Jewish


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statehood, underscored many secular-religious debates. In the early years of statehood, tacit agreements between the religious and secular communities known as the ‘status quo’ regulated the relationship between the groups. These agreements were designed to maintain unity among the Jewish groups in pre-statehood, which was perceived as necessary for nation- and state-building. The observance of the Sabbath as a day of rest was one of the issues related to the status of Jewish law (Halacha) and its relevance for public policy and national identity. According to the status quo, ‘secular’ practices on the Sabbath and holidays, including commercial activity, were restricted. The Working Hour and Rest Law authorised the Minister of Labour to permit work on rest days ‘if he is convinced that ceasing work ... is liable to inflict major damage on the economy, on an ongoing work project, or on the provision of a vital service to the public or to a part of it’ (Cohen and Susser 2000, pp. 28ff.). Naturally, the law was interpreted differently by religious and secular groups, and its implementation was often decided by the political affiliation of the Minister of Labour. These differences were resolved by informal agreements and local arrangements between orthodox and secular communities or, at times, brought to the Israeli Supreme Court for adjudication. Overall, under restrictive economic conditions and a dominant culture of collectivism and a simple way of life, commercial activity was a relatively minor issue in religious–secular relations in the first four decades of statehood. With the globalisation and liberalisation of Israeli society and economy in the 1990s, the question of commercial activity on Saturdays became more pertinent. Two interrelated developments underscore the issue: a demographic change caused by the mass immigration of mostly secular Jews from the former USSR and the rapid development of a consumer society influenced by global economic and cultural changes that transformed the lifestyles and leisure habits of many Israelis. The status quo was established before statehood and in its early years, when Israel was a developing society and state, relatively closed to world influence and ideologically committed to nation- and state-building projects. In this context the non-commercial character of the Sabbath was hardly a sacrifice for the secular majority whose collectivist ideology disdained hedonism and whose consumption was limited by available income. But, as Israel has gradually turned away from austerity towards affluence, secular perceptions, interests and demands have changed, leading to the rejection of the status quo, ideologically or in practice.




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Economic growth in the 1990s was matched by an ‘Americanisation’ that included the introduction of consumerist behaviour and values, leisure activities and entertainment patterns and lifestyles imitating the affluent countries. American fast food and retail chains were established across Israel, rock music and other (mostly) American musical influences and a multichannelled commercial television became part of everyday life. Israel’s affluence, openness to foreign cultural influences, ‘hedonistic’ values and consumerism were attested by the increase in the number of motor vehicles, electrical appliances and, later, cellular phones and internet access. By 2001 many sorts of outdoor shopping malls had sprung up throughout Israel (Ram 2005). Entrepreneurs and urban planners tend to give names such as ‘BIG’ and ‘Mega’ to these sites and generally refer to them as ‘power centres’ since they represent large national and international businesses and big money. Blind to the constraints of religiosity, ethnicity or family connections, these shopping centres speak to modernity and link Israelis of all sorts to the wide, western – mainly American – world of plenty (Markowitz and Uriely 2002). These changes have also affected the ultra-orthodox communities in Israel that also take part in the growing consumer society, in spite of being one of the poorest sectors in Israel (Kaplan 2003). About one half of ultra-Orthodox households have a computer, one third have an internet connection and the number of mobile phones is almost equal to the secular sector (Sela 2010). A recent survey indicates that one quarter of the ultraOrthodox attribute significance to brand names and many advertising agencies have developed in recent years an expertise in marketing to the ultra-Orthodox (Yefet 2006). These trends, important as they are, have not changed the growing tensions between religious and secular over issues such as shopping on the Sabbath. However, as we will see below, the growing consumerism (and consumption) provided the ultra-Orthodox with a new source of power. The demand for shopping on Saturday has quickly found its supply as business entrepreneurs have discovered a way to attract more and more consumers, with little if any government involvement, to the dismay of the seemingly helpless religious public. Revenues of the shops open on Saturdays were reported to be three times greater than on weekdays and, therefore, gave a great advantage to shopping centres outside city centres, since these are open on Saturdays (Haaretz, Real Estate Section, 15 December 2002). Growing consumer demand, a result of the developments described above, is the force behind the changes and the growing number of shopping centres outside city centres. As one store manager


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explained: ‘These are the facts of life. In Israel, Saturday is the only day for family time. Some go to synagogue, others go to the swimming pool, and many prefer to spend the day shopping’ (Yediot Aharonot, 15 June 2003). Religious parties’ demands that the government enforce the law and shut down businesses that operate on the Sabbath led to some political controversies, but because, first, only a limited budget is allocated to enforcement agencies, second, many stores circumvent the laws by hiring non-Jewish workers, and third, because the revenue from Saturday opening is greater than the potential fines, the commercialisation of the Sabbath continues unabated.

Politics, law and the Sabbath – the new channels of politics Paradoxically, in the years during which the religious parties increased their political power, they lost their grip on the public sphere, which became according to several measures increasingly secular. Changes in the Israeli political landscape since the late 1970s have placed the religious parties in a powerful position. The inability of either of the two large parties (Likud and Labour) and of the related ideologies (Hawks and Doves) to obtain a dominant majority has made the religious parties central to any coalition formation and has meant that they have often been able to decide which party will rule. This political leverage enabled the religious parties to preserve the Orthodox monopoly over marriage and Jewish conversion, maintain the right not to be drafted into the military and channel more resources into religious education and institutions. But the growing religious power that angered many secularists, on the one hand, and the commercialisation described above, on the other, led to a secular counter-reaction that rapidly transformed the public sphere. The political power of the religious parties in the Knesset largely prevented changes to the existing laws concerning religion and state, including the Sabbath. However, the growing dissatisfaction of secularists with the existing arrangements was channelled into two types of initiative. The first type involved attempts to use the Supreme Court and its commitment to liberal values to challenge existing church-state relations. Appeals to the Supreme Court thus include demands to draft ultra-Orthodox men into the military, to import non-kosher meat and to recognise gay marriage. The second type of secular initiative simply involves finding ways to circumvent the rules – legally, semi-legally or illegally. Thus, for example, secular Jews who refuse to be married by




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the Orthodox establishment register their marriage abroad and, which is particularly relevant to our study, business entrepreneurs operate on Saturdays, in spite of restrictive regulations. While officially the regulation of the Sabbath has not changed, in practice various entrepreneurial initiatives have transformed it. While religious politicians were able to counteract many secular political attempts to change the status quo on issues like the military draft and religious education, they found themselves rather helpless against the developments in the economic realm and in the public sphere. During the 1980s and 1990s, the religious public continued to struggle against the secularisation of the public sphere by public-political means. In struggles that involved the closing of roads near religious neighbourhoods on Saturdays, or against changes in the rules for divorce and marriage, the religious public was relatively successful, but struggles related to commercial activity on Saturdays were far less successful. One famous landmark struggle was against the decision to open a cinema in the town Petach Tikva on Friday nights in February 1984. Political attempts to persuade the mayor to prevent the opening of the cinema failed to change the decision and appeals to the court fared no better. Religious leaders called on their public to demonstrate against the decision. About 10,000 demonstrators responded to the call of their religious leaders and came out on the first Friday night of the cinema’s operation to protest. But, neither this demonstration nor those that followed changed the decision. The demonstrations against the cinema lasted for three years and at times turned violent, but eventually, the Orthodox community lost this struggle, and the cinema (and others that followed) continued to operate on the Sabbath (Gutkind-Golan 1990). The struggle against McDonald’s operation on Saturdays was another example of the limits of religious politics. In the 1990s, McDonald’s was one of the leading brands that entered Israel shortly after the peace process began. After December 1993 when McDonald’s opened its first restaurant in Israel, the company opened over 80 new restaurants throughout the country. The company opened several kosher branches where there was consumer demand, but chose to serve nonkosher food in many of its branches and to keep most of them open on Saturdays. In 1997 the Minister of Labour, Eli Ishay of the Shas religious party, invoked a law, rarely used until then, regarding work on the Jewish Sabbath to try to force McDonald’s to close its branches on Saturdays. Omri Padan, McDonald’s CEO in Israel, explained that he would continue to operate on Saturday and sell non-kosher food


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despite the Minister’s attempt to enforce the law. ‘The state should stop telling people what to do or what to eat. This is my cultural and philosophical worldview, and I will do everything to win this struggle’ (Meidan 1997). In a first ruling in a series of trials in June 2000, McDonald’s was fined NIS 80,000 (about $20,000). McDonald’s CEO ran a campaign against the Ministry of Labour that warned that ‘Israel would turn into Iran’, but failed to organise a lobby to change the law that the Ministry of Labour had used against McDonald’s. The struggle between the international company that was an icon of globalisation and a local religious party was highly symbolic of the secular/globalreligious/local cleavage of Israeli society. Eventually, the religious parties lost the battle. Although McDonald’s failed in its attempts to challenge the fines in the courts, it was largely unaffected by them, and the Saturday opening continued. The McDonald’s and Petach Tikva conflicts described above were early indications of the limits of traditional religious politics, neither religious demonstrations nor the initiatives of religious politicians (even those holding office) being enough to protect the Sabbath from the growing commercialisation and secularisation of Israeli society. The constraints of religious politics were demonstrated again in the 1990s, when shopping centres on the outskirts of towns began operating on Saturdays and drawing large crowds. Research indicates that shopping on the Sabbath is popular not only among those who define themselves as nonobservant, but also among those who describe themselves ‘traditional’. Shopping on the Sabbath is independent of a secular belief system and from liberal values and is practiced by people who observe other traditions, perform religious rituals, maintain religious beliefs and hold non-liberal values (Ben-Porat and Feniger, forthcoming). The prevalence of consumer practices in different sectors of society makes the struggle of the Orthodox community all the more difficult and, as in the case of McDonald’s, the attempt to enforce existing laws has proven futile. Store owners have repeatedly either circumvented the law by hiring non-Jews (allowed to work on Saturday) or decided to continue operating because the revenues were greater than the potential fines. The religious public initially chose to ignore the operation of commercial centres located out of town, but the growing popularity of shopping on Saturdays was difficult to ignore and, more importantly, threatened to spill into the town centres, where shop owners expressed concerns over the loss of revenue to the out-oftown centres.




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The ultra-orthodox (Haredi) market is estimated at about $1.5 billion a year (Haaretz, 22 February 2005). Haredi consumer power, as a form of collective action, is supposedly enhanced, first, by the ‘social capital’ of the community, second, by obedience to religious authority and, third, a sense of frustration arising from the limits of traditional politics. Examining the religious use of consumer power in Israel reveals two types of initiatives taken in recent years. The first are attempts to create services or products designed for the religious public as alternatives to ‘secular’ ones. These products or services aim to take advantage of new technologies but avoid the ‘secularising threats’ of their use. The second type of initiative is more ambitious and aims to use consumer power to shape the public sphere itself, influencing both religious and secular populations; this type of action is, consequently, more difficult to implement. The liberalisation of the Israeli economy and growing privatisation enabled the religious community to demand products and services that cater to their needs. The opening of bus routes to competition, for example, has led to the creation of services for the ultra-Orthodox public in which men and women sit separately and have to dress ‘modestly’. The spokesman of Egged, the largest company that lost its monopoly, responding to public criticism of the religious buses, explained: ‘Fifteen to twenty years from now, we will continue to be the leading company, but we will also professionalise and cater to some sectors. Handling the ultra-Orthodox will be one of our main goals, as hundreds of thousands of them use our buses’. The ‘kosher bus lines’ were criticised for inappropriate discriminatory practices, particularly after some incidents where secular women were not allowed to ride the buses. Egged, the critics claim, is still subsidised by the state and therefore cannot discriminate, but the company, explained one satisfied (religious) customer ‘has its own logic, the economic logic’ (Haaretz, 4 July 2006). Another example of a struggle for a niche market, but one that did not evoke such a negative response was the demand for ‘kosher’ mobile phones. Initially, Haredi religious leaders identified computers and the internet as a threat to the community. The ability of men and women to communicate freely with each other without supervision, to obtain information or even to view pornography, caused religious leaders to declare war on the internet. The problem was exacerbated when mobile phones, extremely popular with the ultra-Orthodox population, began


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providing internet services. Religious leaders, somewhat helpless against the rising popularity of mobile phones among their public, concluded that the only way to prevent exposure to ‘indecent’ material was to limit cellular phones to conversation and prevent the use of third-generation technology. The phone companies that had invested significantly in the new services were reluctant to yield to these demands. The strategy employed by the religious community was a combination of boycotts and buycotts to force the cellular companies to change their policies. A committee of rabbis was formed to lead the struggle, and a high-profile lawyer was hired to conduct negotiations with the companies (Haaretz, 1 October 2004). The religious leaders instructed the Haredi newspapers not to accept advertisements from mobile phone operators and began to require yeshiva students not to hold mobile phones. While the big companies were reluctant to cooperate with religious demands, a smaller company, Mirs, perceived an opportunity to capture new clientele (Levinson 2005). In March 2005, the company launched a ‘kosher’ mobile phone – without of all of the new services disapproved of religious leaders, who demanded that the public replace its cellular phones with the ‘kosher’ Mirs phone. The decision to boycott the companies (and buycott Mirs) was a test case for the ability of religious leaders to control the consumer practices of their followers and, consequently, for the consumer power of the religious community. Less than a month after Mirs launched the ‘kosher’ phone, the other companies responded with their own initiatives. There are now three large companies that offer ‘kosher’ phones, explained the ultra-orthodox newspaper, ‘many have done what they had to and exchanged their cellular phones. The official mark of the rabbi’s committee has turned into a symbol. He who has an approved phone – belongs. He who does not – God have mercy on him’. ‘From now on’, concluded the newspaper, ‘there are no more excuses. There is no reason to use an unauthorised mobile phone. It is forbidden, strictly forbidden by the spiritual leaders’ (Ha’modia, 16 December 2005). A year after it began, the ‘kosher’ phone battle was described by the ultra-Orthodox newspapers as a great success: ‘Virtue has won. The commitment to our goals and the following of the words of spiritual leaders against all odds and in spite of the difficulties [has proven successful], the companies are now providing mobile phones for talking only’ (Ha’modia, 16 December 2005). Although a niche market was created, many members of the religious community have not switched to the new phones. The demand to use only ‘kosher’ phones was especially difficult for those who worked outside the community and were




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The Sabbath – changing strategies Commercial activity on Saturdays has been expanding rapidly since the 1990s due to business attempts to cater to growing demands and the resulting competition that forces more and more businesses to operate on Saturdays. The failed attempts of the religious leadership to persuade the government to enforce the laws that protect the Sabbath led to the emergence of new activists, ideas and strategies. The use of consumer politics to protect the Sabbath is based on the belief that a committed religious public can employ boycotts and buycotts to persuade businesses not to operate on the Sabbath and do what government regulation has thus far failed to achieve. This struggle, however, as was explained above, is structurally different from the struggle for ‘kosher’ phones or bus lines. While the latter encourages companies to create a special product that meets the needs of the religious public, the religious consumers’ struggle against commerce on the Sabbath essentially forces businesspeople to choose between religious customers and profits made on the Sabbath, and, consequently, is a far greater challenge. Store owners who do not operate on Saturdays reported that their businesses were hurt by the operation of other businesses. Some of them, located in the cities where operation was more difficult due to religious protest and municipal enforcement, declared their intention to open their businesses or demanded to be allowed to do so, and others, determined to observe the Sabbath, complained of unfair competition and requested that regulation be enforced. The economic consequences of the commercialisation of the Sabbath, and the apathy of government, encouraged religious businesspeople to take the lead in a new campaign. These were not only ultra-Orthodox, Haredi, businesspeople but also more moderate religious Jews (‘national-religious’) who were threatened by the secularising Sabbath. The opening of the new airport terminal in 2004 and the tender for shops that included operation on the Sabbath, thereby effectively preventing religious businesspeople from competing, was an important trigger for the new initiative. Religious businesspeople protested against the decision, including in the courts, but also blamed the religious public for not taking action. ‘A religious person’, explained one


either users of text messages and other services now prohibited or were provided with mobile phones by their companies (Levinson 2005) as well as for those unwilling to be satisfied with the less sophisticated phones.


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businessman, ‘will not enter a non-kosher McDonald’s even to buy a drink, but he will buy clothes in a shop that operates on Sabbath ... the religious only threaten but do not do anything’ (www.shabbaton.co.il/ default.asp?V_DOC_ID=1817 accessed May 2007). The new struggle for the Sabbath incorporated the support of religious spiritual leaders, but largely left the politicians outside, moving the struggle away from the ‘formal’ political sphere. In January 2005, thousands of Orthodox Jews gathered to protest against commercial activity on the Sabbath. Rabbi Raphael Halperin, the owner of a large optical retail chain, who organised the event, described the current status of the Sabbath as a ‘cancer in the nation’s body’ and called for strict enforcement of the laws. He urged his listeners to take the initiative and not count on law enforcement: ‘We are a strong economic force of half a million people.’ So far, he informed his audience, about 324,000 Jews have already signed a petition declaring they would not set foot in stores that operate on the Sabbath. ‘We will unite all the religious people of Israel, and they will get discounts in all places that observe the Sabbath [and] ... will not knowingly enter any shopping mall or gas station that does not display the “Sabbath observant” sign’ (www.inn.co.il/news.php?id=100041 accessed January 2005). It is a struggle over the Sabbath, he explained elsewhere and declared that: ‘we will boycott and prove to store owners that it is better for them to close on Sabbath’ (Tel-Aviv Magazine, 28 January 2005). Religious websites were created to promote a buycott and advertise businesses that observe the Sabbath so that religious people would choose them and encourage more to follow. Two major credit card companies in Israel agreed to produce special cards for Sabbath-observant consumers. The cards cannot be used on the Sabbath and provide cardholders with special discounts in several stores that agreed to join the campaign (Yediot Aharonot, 8 December 2004). The campaign attempted to send a positive message that emphasised the rights of the religious minority to observe the Sabbath and the overall importance of a day of rest. The opening of businesses on Saturday, the campaign argued, is unfair competition that forces businesspeople to operate on the Sabbath and discriminates against religious employees who observe the Sabbath. The observance of the Sabbath, explained the campaigners, is a universal rather than a religious interest and a social right rather than a religious commandment. ‘The ultimate goal is to make people appreciate and prefer businesses closed on Sabbath, in the best interest of everyone. We want to reach the point where even a non-observant




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person who wants to buy shoes will be encouraged to buy them in a shop closed on Sabbath’ (Dagan 2005). The ultra-Orthodox campaign waged against Shefa Shuk described above, in contrast, was a negative boycott campaign against a company targeted for violating the Sabbath laws and vulnerable to religious purchasing power. Shefa Shuk is a part of the ‘Co-Op Blue Circle’, one of Israel’s largest food retailers. Shefa Shuk has 14 branches in ultra-Orthodox neighbourhoods across Israel and is estimated to hold about 40 per cent of the ultra-Orthodox market; ultra-Orthodox consumers account for 45 per cent of its revenues. In 2006, David (Dudi) Weisman, one of the owners of Shefa Shuk, bought the AM PM chain stores. AM PM holds some 30 small and medium sized stores in the TelAviv area and operates seven days a week, 24 hours a day. After buying AM PM Weisman decided to take all non-kosher meat products previously sold in the store of the shelves but refused to yield to religious demands and close the shops on the Sabbath. Religious leaders attempted to persuade Weisman to close the stores and negotiations were held for more than a year. In March 2008, a forum named ‘the Committee of Rabbis for the Sabbath’ declared a boycott on Weisman’s businesses, including Shefa Shuk. The chairman of the forum explained that ‘we cannot accept that people break the laws of the Sabbath, directly or indirectly ... we will not allow that the Sabbath in Israel will become a day like every other day’ (www.ynet.co.il/ articles/0,7340,L-3518253,00.html accessed 14 March 2008). Newspaper advertisements have called on the religious public to stay away from the stores. ‘Dear Jewish Brother, don’t help the desecration of the Sabbath!!!’ explained one, ‘when you buy in Shefa Shuk you help open dozens of AM PM stores on the Sabbath’ (www.ynet.co.il/articles/0,7340,L-3525351,00. html accessed: 4 April 2008). Under the pressure of the rabbis Shefa Shuk’s general manager, a religious Jew, resigned. It was estimated that the stores lost between 30 to 50 per cent of their revenue; in spite of secular promises to shop in Shefa Shuk to counteract the religious boycott. When it was rumoured that Weisman was trying to sell Shefa Shuk, religious leaders declared that the boycott would continue, in order to prevent the transaction. While compromises were sought in the following months, no agreement was made between the two sides.


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Conclusion Boycotts and buycotts operate simultaneously in the initiatives of the religious public to take action in the economic sphere in order to curb


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the secularisation of the public sphere. These initiatives indicate a growing belief among some of the religious community that the political arena is blocked and, therefore, the religious public must use its economic-consumer power instead. What underscores these campaigns is not an attempt to stop consumerism, as the religious community itself is more and more involved in consumerism, but to embed consumerism in religious norms and regulations and use the consumer power accumulated to reinforce the ‘status quo’. So what are the prospects for religious boycotts or buycotts? The religious sector has social capital, leadership and commitment that have the potential to enable political consumerism. But the size of the secular public and its changing patterns of leisure and consumption create large incentives for businesses to operate on the Sabbath, so the story of Shefa Shuk is the exception rather than the rule, as the growing number of businesses open on the Sabbath demonstrate. Religious politicians, aware of the difficulties of using the law, also doubt the viability of political consumerism. As one of them explained: ‘the use of boycotts is relevant to the religious orthodox communities and much less for the traditional sectors who are in favour of closing business on Sabbath, but will continue to shop in stores that operate on Sabbath ... it can work in areas where there is a large orthodox population, but will not work in other places’ (Margi 2006). Overall, the religious struggle for the Sabbath is unlikely to succeed on a national level; it is more likely ‘safety zones’ will be created, where religious norms will have at least some protection from the threats of consumerism.

Note This research is also discussed in a paper published in Contemporary Politics 2007, Vol. 13, No. 1, pp. 75–92.

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Diamond, Larry and Rex Gunther (2001) ‘Introduction’, in Diamond and Gunther (eds) Political Parties and Democracy Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press Friedman, M. (1985) ‘Consumer Boycotts in the United States, 1970–1980: Contemporary Events in Historical Perspective’ Journal of Consumer Affairs 19(1), pp. 96–117 Friedman, M. (1996) ‘A Positive Approach to Organized Consumer Action: The “Buycott” as an Alternative to the Boycott’ Journal of Consumer Policy 19(4), pp. 439–51 Friedman, M. (1999) Consumer Boycotts New York: Routledge Press Garret, Dennis E. (1987) ‘The Effectiveness of Marketing Policy Boycotts: Environmental Opposition to Marketing’ Journal of Marketing 51 (April), pp. 46–57 Gelb, B. D. (1995) ‘More Boycotts Ahead? Some Implications’ Business Horizons March-April, pp. 70–6 Giddens, Anthony (1991) Modernity and Self-Identity Cambridge: Polity Press Grunhagen, M., Grove, S. and Gentry J. (2003) ‘The Dynamics of Store Hour Changes and Consumption Behavior’ European Journal of Marketing 37(11), pp. 1801–20 Gutkind-Golan, Neomi (1990) ‘Hichal Cinema Case as a Symptom of the Religious–Secular Relationship in Israel in the Eighties’, in C. S. Libeman (ed.) Religious and Secular: Conflict and Accommodation Between Jews in Israel Jerusalem: Keter Publishing, pp. 70–88 Inglehart, Roland (1997) Modernization and Post Modernization: Cultural, Economic and Political Change in 43 Societies Princeton: Princeton University Press John, Andrew and Klein, Jill (2003) ‘The Boycott Puzzle: Consumer Motivations for Purchase Sacrifice’ Management Science 49(9,) pp. 1196–209 Kaplan, Kimi (2003) ‘Studying Israeli Haredi Society’ [in Hebrew], in K. Caplan and E. Sivan (eds) Israeli Haredim: Integration Without Assimilation?, Tel-Aviv 2003, pp. 224–78 Klein, Jill Gabrielle; Smith, Craig N. and John, Andrew (2001) ‘Exploring Motivations for Participation in a Consumer Boycott’ Centre for Marketing Working Paper 01–701 London Business School Klein, Jill Gabrielle, Smith, Craig N. and John, Andrew (2002) ‘Why We Boycott: Consumer Motivations for Boycott Participation and Marketer Responses’ Centre for Marketing Working Paper 02–701 London Business School Levinson, Haim (2005) ‘Who Needs a Kosher Cellular Phone?’ Yediot Aharonot, 15 March Lindridge, A. (2005) ‘Religiosity and the Construction of a Cultural-consumption Identity’ Journal of Consumer Marketing 22 (3), pp. 142–51 Margi, Yaakov (2006) Interview with Author Markowitz, Fran and Uriely, Nathan (2002) ‘Shopping in the Negev: Global Flows and Local Contingencies’ City and Society 14(2), pp. 211–36 Meidan, Anat (1997) ‘Until the Last Cheeseburger’ Yediot Aharonot, 24 January Ram, Uri (2005) The Globalization of Israel: Mcworld in Tel-Aviv, Jihad in Jerusalem Tel-Aviv: Resling Press Roddick, Anita (2001) Take it Personally: How Globalization Affects You and Powerful Ways to Challenge It London: Harper Collins


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Sela, Rotem 2010 ‘Living the Good Life; Consumerism Among the Ultra Orthodox’ NRG 15.1.2010 www.nrg.co.il/online/1/ART2/040/603.html. Accessed: January 2010 Sen, S., Gurhan-Canli, Z. and Morwitz, V. (2001) ‘Withholding Consumption: A Social Dilemma Perspective on Consumer Boycotts’ Journal of Consumer Research 28(3), pp. 399–417 Shamir, O. and Ben-Porat, G. (2007) ‘Protecting the Sabbath: Religious Consumerism and Public Policy’, Contemporary Politics 13(1), pp. 75–92 Stolle, Dietland and Hooghe, Marc (2003) ‘Consumers as Political Participants? Shifts in Political Action Repertoires in Western Societies’, in Michelle Micheletti, Andreas Follesdal and Dietland Stolle (eds) Politics, Products and Markets: Exploring Political Consumerism Past and Present New Brunswick: Transaction Press Stolle, Dietland, Hooghe, Marc and Micheletti, Michele (2005) ‘Politics in the Supermarket: Political Consumerism as a Form of Political Participation’ International Political Science Review 26, pp. 245–69 Yefet Orna (2006) ‘One Quarter of the Ultra-Orthodox Attribute Significance to Brand Names’ (in Hebrew) www.ynet.co.il/articles/1,7340,L-3251071,00.html. Accessed January 2010




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action, social, 93–5 activity, 80, 81 affluent populations, 3, 11 Ahmed, Akbar, 117, 118, 119, 120, 133 alcohol, 130–1 Allah, 61 alternative hedonism, 7, 82 altruism, 78 American culture, 182 Barber, Benjamin, 180 Baudrillard, Jean, 43–8 Bauman, Zygmunt, 1, 2, 45 Beckford, James 119, 121–3, 133 beliefs, 6, 31, 58, 72, 83, 102, 133 Belk, Russell, 6, 20, 28–9, 76, 137, 145, 149 Benedictine tradition, 37–8 Berger, Peter, 21 Blue Q, 61 boycotts, 4, 175–80, 187, 190–1 breath, 75 Britain, 8–9 consumption practices of Pakistani Muslims in, 152–72 faith-based communities and ethical consumption in, 99–111 immigration in, 55–68 Buddhism, 74 Buddhist symbols, 61 busyness, 80–2 Butler, Judith, 2, 77–8 Buxton, Nicholas, 74–5, 85–6 buycotts, 187, 189, 190–1 Calvinism, 4 Campbell, Colin, 20, 28, 30, 82, 97, 120–22 capitalism, 1, 2, 4, 79 caring, women and, 81 caste, 157–8 Catholic homes, consumerism in, 137–50

children, 147–8, 166 Christian ethics, 97–8, 100–3 Christian home, 146–9 Christianity, 19, 51, 119, 122 Christian symbols, 61–2, 73, 74 Christian values, 138 Christmas, 59–60, 76 churches, fair trade and, 103–5 class relations, consumption and, 153 clothing, 129–30 Coca-Cola, 64–6 colonial, subjects ex-, 55 colonialism, 2, 119 commodification of religion, 8, 55–68 of spirituality, 51–2 communication, television and, 44–5 communications revolution, 45 community regeneration, 94 competitive consumption, 157–9 conformity, 11 consolation, 22, 28–30 consumer boycotts, 175–80, 187, 190–1 consumer culture, 2, 3, 171, 176, 180 religion and, 7–8 sustaining spirituality within, 72–87 consumer goods construction of meaning, 20, 24 ethnic, 55 religious symbols on, 61–7 symbolic role of, 24–5 world maintenance and, 25 consumerism, 2–3, 5, 115–16 attitudes toward, 137–8, 142–3, 145–6 busyness and, 82 cultural representations and theorisations of, 7 eschatology, 30–1 identity and, 57–8 immigration, religion and, 55–68 in Iran, 123–34


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196 Index

Daniels, Inge, 6, 73 Darwin, Charles, 19 debt, 167–8 decency, 137 desacralisation, 20, 67–8 desires, 82

domestic space, 76 see also home dress codes, Islamic, 129–30 Du Gay, Paul, 11 dynamism, 121 Easter, 59 Empire, British, 56, 155 ecofeminism, 5 ecojustice, 5 ecology, 78–9 eco-paganism, 5 entertainment, 44–5 entrepreneurs, 1, 158 environmental destruction, 3–6, 78–9, 137 environmental ethics, 115–18 environmentalism, 4–5, 76, 78 eschatology, 22, 23, 30–1 ethical consumption, 8–9, 96–111 ethics, 3, 4, 115 Christian, 97–8, 100–3, 138 of consumption, 5–6 environmental, 115, 116 Islamic, 116 virtue, 96–7, 100–3 ethnic goods, 55 ethnicity, religion and, 93, 182 Europe, 2 evil, 18, 22 evolutionary theory, 19 fairness, 26 fair trade churches as social networks for, 103–5 evangelists for, 106–9 faith-based communities and, 93–5, 99–111 personal faith and virtue ethics in, 100–3 faith ethical consumption and, 8–9, 97–111 fair trade and, 100–3 social action and, 93–5 faith-based communities, 8–10 fair trade and, 99–111 social action by, 93–5


consumerism – continued Islam and, 118–32 modern vs. traditional, 120–1 political, 175–91 pressures of, 10 religion and, 5–6, 8–12, 31–2, 59, 138–50 secularism and, 7 in Slovak Catholic homes, 137–50 spiritual, 47–52 spirituality, sustainability and, 8 theodicy as, 17–33 The Consumer Society (Baudrillard), 43–4, 48 consumption, 3, 115–16 competitive, 157–9 decisions about, 179–80 ethical, 5, 8–9, 96–111 globalisation of, 4 identity and, 153 moral and ethical issues of, 3–5 motives for, 153 ontological security, 27–8 by Pakistani Muslims in Britain, 152–72 religion and, 6–7, 175–91 as reward, 26–7 role of, in world maintenance, 23–6 of spirituality, 43–7 status and, 165–6 sustainable, 20–1 transcendence and consolation, 28–30 consumption theory, 3 counter-consumerist discourse, 137–8, 145 Crowther, Bruce, 99 crucifix, 60 cultural representations of consumerism, 7 of religion, 7, 37–54, 80, 84 culture, 6–7, 59, 154–5, 157, 171


11/18/2010 9:56:36 PM

family, 147–8 Featherstone, Mike, 3 femininity, 84 films, 126–8 Flaubert, Gustave, 75 food, 130–1 Fraser, Giles, 50 freedom, 52 Freud, Sigmund, 29 frugality, 168

197

Habermas, Jürgen, 95 Haredi community, 175, 186–7 hedonic dreaming, 28 hedonism, 7, 82, 115, 120, 121, 134, 181 Heelas, Paul, 12, 73, 77, 79, 81, 84, 86, 87 Hinduism, 154 Hindu symbols, 60–3 hippy culture, 74 home, consumption and the, 144–9 Hoover, Stewart, 47, 50 household budgeting, 16570 human sustainability, 80–1

Immigration to Britain, 55–57 religion, consumer culture and, 55–68 of secular Jews to Israel, 181 Indian religions, 74 inequalities, 2, 3, 12, 81 information, commodification of, 44–5 internet, 44, 48, 55, 124, 128, 182, 186–7 Iqbal, Zafer, 65 Iran, 9 consumerism in, 123–34 films in, 126–8 food and eating out in, 130–1 Islamic values in, 115, 118 music in, 125–6 satellite TV in, 124–5, 130 Valentine’s Day in, 128 waste in, 131–2 Islam, 10, 61, 64–7, 73 consumption practices of Pakistani Muslims and, 152–72 consumerism and, 118–32 dress codes, 129–30 ecology and, 78 environmental ethics and, 115–18 food and eating out, 130–1 interpretations of, 134 in Iran, 123–34 outward appearances in, 129–30 Pakistani identity and, 153–5 on waste, 131–2 role-models for women, and 126 women, attitudes to, 127 Islamic ethics, 116 Islamic symbols, 61 Islamism, 117–18 Israel, 10 church and state in, 180–3 economic growth in, 182 Haredi community in, 175, 186–7 political consumerism in, 175–91 religion and consumption in, 175–91 secularisation in, 183–4

identity, 11, 57–8, 153 Indian cultures, 58–9

Jackson, Tim, 3, 7, 11, 20, 24, 30 Jamison, Christopher, 81

gender, consumption and, 143, 162, 166, 167 intersections with class, ‘race’, ethnicity, 81 spirituality and, 81, 87 representations of, 84 Giddens, Anthony, 57 gift giving, 161–3 global economy, 1 global financial crisis, 11–12 globalisation, 57, 68, 115, 121–3, 181 global media, 9 see also media global politics, 77–8 God, 19–20 Gottlieb, Roger, 4 governance, 3, 21, 94 government, failure of, 1–3 green consciousness, 152


Index


11/18/2010 9:56:37 PM

Japanese home, 6, 73 John Paul II, 59 Judaism, 64 justice, 22, 25–7 Knott, Kim, 76 kosher mobile phone, 186–8 Kourie, Celia, 74 leisure, 11 lena-dena, 161–3 liberalism, 116 life-as journey metaphor, 84–5 lifestyle politics, 177 lifestyle television, 84 liquid modernity, 1 loss, 22 The Louds (documentary), 44 love, 38 Lynch, Gordon, 48 Madonna, 60 Maitland, Sarah, 79–80 marketing of religion, 8 religion and, 47–8, 37–54, 80, 84 mass media, 48 material home, 144–9 materialism, 5–6, 51, 95, 137 see also consumerism materiality, 146 McCracken, Grant, 28 McDonald’s, 184–5 meaning, construction of, 20, 25 Mecca Cola, 66 media, 37–54, 80, 84 see also television mass, 48 religion and, 47–8, 37–54, 80, 84 meditation, 75, 76 meritocracy, 26 migrants, 10 consumption practices of, 152–72 discrimination against, 56 ethnic identity of, 56 first-generation, 57 gender, and, 81 Slovakia, from, 39 religion, consumer culture and, 55–68

remittances by, 159–61 second-generation, 57, 154 women, 139 Miller, Vincent, 30 Migration, 55–68, 152–72 Mass, 55 mindfulness, 76 modern consumerism, 120–1 The Monastery (documentary), 7, 37–53, 80, 85–6 monasticism, 37–8, 52, 73 moral belief systems, 4 moral governance, 21 morality, 137 multinational corporations, 1, 3 multitasking, 81 music, in Iran, 125–6 Muslim identity, 67 narrative, construction of, 43, 84 Native Deen, 8, 67 natural resources, 1 negative theology, 95 neoliberalism, 1–2 neo-reality, 44 New Age spiritualism, 73, 86–7 new capitalism, 1, 2 news, 44–5 Nike, 61 noise, 80 non-materialism, 152, 159, 167–8, 171 obedience, 37–8 ontological security, 22, 23, 27–8 Operation Rescue, 94 organised religion, 67–8 Orthodox Christianity, 10, 122 other-worldliness, 78 pain, 18 Pakistani culture, 154 Pakistani Muslims community spirit of, in Britain, 156–9 consumption practices of, 152–72 household budgeting, 165–70 Islamic identities of, 153–5 remittances by, 159–61


198 Index


11/18/2010 9:56:37 PM

Pakistani Muslims – continued ritual gifting by, 161–3 social mobility of, 155–6 weddings among, 163–4 Parekh, Bhikhu, 56 Pekárka, Slovakia, 138–50 Pendergrast, Mark, 66 pilgrimage, 85 pluralism, 57 political consumerism, 175–91 political elites, failure of, 1–3 Postman, Neil, 44 post-secular society, 95 poverty, 81 prayer, 74–7, 86 present moment, 75–6 productivity, 82 profit motive, 1, 3, 82 Protestantism, 4, 79 Qibla-Cola, 65 racism, 56 reality TV, 37–53 reference groups, 179 religion, 4 coexistence with consumerism, 31–2 commodification of, 55–68 consumerism and, 7–12, 59, 138–50 consumption and, 5–7, 175–91 cultural representations and theorisations of, 7, 37–54, 80, 84 decline of, 23–4 discipline, routine and, 77 ecology and, 78–9 environment and, 4–6 globalisation and, 121–3 immigration, consumer society and, 55–68 marketing of, 8 media and, 47–8 in modern society, 95 organised, 67–8 other-worldliness of, 78 privatisation of, 50 reality TV and, 37–53 role of, 95 sociological view of, 21

199

spirituality and, 73–4 subversion of, by television, 49–50 religious artefacts, 60 religious holidays, commercialisation of, 59–60 religious identity, 50, 67 religious symbols, 60–4 desacralisation of, 67–8 objectification of, 60 religious television, 46 religious theodicy, 18–21 remittances, 159–61 reward, 22, 25–7 ritual gifting, 161–3 rivalry, consumption and, 157–9 Roman Catholic Church, 123, 137–50 Roof, Wade Clark, 83–4 Sabbath, 10, 175, 176, 180–5, 188–90, 191 sacralisation, 20, 29, 76, 86–7 sacredness, 28 sacred space, 76 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 19 satellite TV, 124–5, 130 Schor, Juliet, 80 secularism, 7–9, 97, 110, 119 secular spirituality, 77, 82–7 secular theodicy, 18–21 segregation, gender / sex, 128, 186 self-employment, 158 self-improvement, 51 self-reliance, 167 self-transcendence, 73, 74 Sennett, Richard, 1 sense-making, 21–2 Sharif, Khalid, 66 Shaw, George Bernard, 19 shopping, 59, 180, 182–3 see also consumption Skeggs, Beverley, 84 Slovakia, consumerism in, 137–50 social action, 93–5 social constructionism, 121–2, 123 social governance, 94 social hierarchy, 153 social identity, 48 social inequality, 3 Songs of Praise (documentary), 45–6


Index


11/18/2010 9:56:37 PM

Index

Soper, Kate, 7, 12, 82 Southard, Mary, 76 spaces, 86–7 spiritual consumerism, 47–52 spirituality commodification of, 51–2 concept of, 72–7 consumer culture and, 7–8 consumption of, 43–7 individualistic, 50–1 monastic, 37–8 new forms of, 12 religion and, 73–4 secular, 77, 82–7 sustaining, within consumer cultures, 72–87 women and, 81 Spirituality Shopper (TV show), 50 spiritual dimension, environmental movements, 4–5 spiritual journey, 84–5 spiritual marketplace, 83–4 status, 165–6 suffering, 19, 22 Sufism, 73 sustainability, 2, 5, 11 consumerism, spirituality and, 8 human, 80–1 sustainable consumption, 20–1 Swastika, 58 symbols, religious, 60–4, 67–8, 73–4 Taylor, Sarah McFarland, 76 television, 44–5, 48 lifestyle, 84 reality, 37–53 religious, 46 religious functions of, 49–50 satellite, 124–5, 130 social effects of, 48–9 terror management theory, 28 theodicy beyond consumerism, 32–3 constituents of, 21–4 consumerism as, 17–33 religious and secular, 18–21 thrift, 143–4, 168

time, lack of, 80–1, 82 toxic waste, 1, 2 traditional consumerism, 120 Trafigura, 1, 2, 3 Traidcraft, 99 transcendence, 22, 23, 28–30 transitional spaces, 8, 86–7 transmigration, 68 Ummah Caramel chocolate bar, 66–7 Ummah Foods, 61–7 urban transformation, 94 Valentine’s Day, 9, 128 values, 58, 74, 95, 97, 98, 101, 115, 116, 120, 122–6, 138, 146 value systems, alternate, 12 virtual community, 48 virtue ethics, 96, 100–3 war on terror, 77 waste in Iran, 131–2 production of, 2 wealth, production of, 2 Weber, Max, 4, 9, 21, 79, 121 weddings, 163–4 Weisman, David, 175, 190 Williams, Rowan, 51–2 women spirituality and, 81, 87 beauty and, 84, 130 caring and, 81 consumption and, 143, 162 government policy towards in Iran, 129 Islamic dress codes and, 129–30 representations of, 67 Roman Catholicism, and 76, 148 Woodhead, Linda, 73, 77, 81, 84 work, 82 working hours, 80–1 world maintenance, 20, 21, 24–6 Wood, Helen, 84


200

youth cultures, 74


11/18/2010 9:56:37 PM

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