In recent years, Buddhist archaeologists have often complained that historians see archaeology as only useful for finding the cities and monasteries mentioned in Buddhist texts and, perhaps, fleshing out a few missing details (Aldenderfer 2008; Coningham 2001; Trautmann and Sinopoli 2002; Fogelin 2007b, 2013; Shaw 2007). To some degree, archaeologists have blamed historians for our own failings. Until the last few decades, archaeologists have accepted the view that religion is of the mind, beyond the reach of our materialist research. The development of the archaeology of religion, to my view, can be roughly divided into three phases. Initially, archaeologists of religion were forced to justify and defend their research to skeptical archaeologists—to establish religion as a legitimate venue for archaeological research. Next, archaeologists of religion needed to develop robust methods to study ancient religion. Among the primary insights in this phase was the recognition that religion is not simply what people think about, but rather something that people do. Archaeologists recognized that by doing religion, ancient people could legitimize authority over others and promote social solidarity among a population. Rather than the mere reflection of societal concerns, archaeologists recognized that religion and ritual were instrumental in creating and perpetuating social practices.
With the archaeology of religion now a legitimate form of archaeological research, and the methods for the archaeology of religion becoming systematized, archaeologists can now move into a third phase of research—contributing to the study of long-term religious history. This is precisely what I have attempted in this volume. But in doing so, I have realized that some of the basic claims from the second phase of research—including my own work—are limiting what the archaeology of religion can accomplish. While it is true that religion is something that people do, religion is also something that people think. Any effective study of long-term religious change must accommodate both the religious practices and the religious principles of ancient people. Symbols, doctrines, cosmologies, and theology matter, and the archaeology of religion is poorer in their absence. In part, this requires the incorporation of historical sources, when available. But it also requires developing new archaeological approaches that are capable of incorporating symbolic and structural aspects of ancient societies. This does not mean that archaeologists should abandon the more practice-based approaches developed in the second phase of research, only that practice theory be balanced with more structural approaches. More so, these structural approaches need not be invented in whole cloth. Within the anthropological literature are numerous robust methods for studying the symbolic and structural aspects of religion that can be applied to archaeological contexts. Here I have particularly relied on Peircian semiotics, but other approaches could also be used.
The standard critique of structural studies in anthropology is that they are unable to account for religious change since they postulate a superorganic system of belief that determines the behavior of individuals within any particular society. Rather than knowledgeable actors who alter and contest social practices, in structural studies people are automatons enacting cultural norms. To some degree, this critique of structuralism is correct. Many structural studies have removed the agency of individuals. Further, the acceptance of this structural view of religion is precisely why archaeologists avoided the study of religion for so long. The rejection of the structural view of religion and the recognition that religion is something that people do were likely prerequisites for the development of the archaeology of religion. But with these prerequisites met, it is now time to consider the real impact of structure—of religious symbols—in archaeological studies. This can be done by recognizing that the problem with structural approaches is not that they are structural, but rather the assumption that social structures are coherent. Once the idea of a structural coherency is abandoned, the dichotomy of structure and agency diminishes in value.
When structure is viewed as inherently inconsistent, incoherent, and fractious, assumptions of long-term stability no longer hold. If structural forms are incoherent or out of balance, it requires human effort—agency—to maintain them. Periods of stability are just as dependent on human agency as periods of change, and inaction can lead to change just as much as action can. The failure of traditional structural approaches to account for human change was not the product of their structural orientation, but rather their assumption that structure was a well-oiled, coherent machine. Structural incoherency can serve as the source for contestation and change, as different people seek to tip the balance one way or another. In this archaeological history, I have identified a contradiction between the individual and group as fundamental to Indian Buddhism. But this does not mean that I think that this specific contradiction is inherent to all societies. Rather, different societies will have different tensions, contradictions, and social ruptures. Archaeologists and historians working in other contexts will need to identify the structural disjunctures particular to the societies they study. While the study of dis-juncture is valuable, it cannot be applied uncritically.
Viewing Indian Buddhism as shot through with contradictions, tensions, and disjunctures has allowed me to use numerous, often discordant, social theories to more effectively study it. Critically, I did not attempt to synthesize theories of practice, structure, and semiotics—I juggled them. I make no claim to resolving the dialectic. I frankly doubt it is resolvable. Theorists have been trying to balance the competing concerns of structure and agency, however conceived, for at least two or three millennia. Perhaps someone will finally solve this problem in my lifetime, but I wouldn’t bet on it. In the meantime, I am comfortable using different theories to address those portions of the archaeological and historical record of Buddhism for which they are most appropriate. If this means that I employ sometimes incompatible theories, so be it. In a world where societies are incoherent, theoretical incoherence is no vice.
World History
