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Introduction
The rst question put to the 20062009 Templeton scholars was, How
can archaeologists recognize the spiritual, religious, and transcendent in
early time periods? The question is difcult, not least because the very
meanings of the terms spiritual, religious, and transcendent are
contested. The initial question thus immediately devolves to theoretical
issues both broad and hoary. That question was not addressed to our
cohort; yet the issues are so central, rich, and refractory as to merit fur-
ther comment. I therefore wish to offer another answer to the question
What is religion? and to apply it to a few topics at atalhyk. These
include the nature of ancestral remains, the house, leopards, and teeth
and claws in walls. More specically, my answer helps account for the
vitality that is, the animacy that these objects apparently had for the
people who created or curated them.
In addressing the question of what is religion, I assume that religion
is a concept, not a real thing in the world, and that this concept origi-
nated at a particular time in a particular part of the world. In contrast, in
most of the ancient and modern world, including atalhyk (Hodder
2010a: 16, Hodder this volume), religion does not stand out as a sepa-
rate concept but is part of the cultural fabric. As Pels (2010: 233) writes,
we should not look for a distinct practice, with institutional and doc-
trinal unity or coherence at atalhyk. Nonetheless, religion there as
elsewhere can be given a particular, substantive denition, one based on
a category of human thought and action that is even broader than reli-
gion, yet still distinctive.
86
A Cognitive Theory
The argument appeared decades ago (Guthrie 1980) and, despite rene-
ments and updates, remains much the same. Cognitivist scholars of reli-
gion now generally accept at least three of its propositions: that we are
especially concerned to detect intentional agents (prototypically humans)
in our environments, that we search for them with high sensitivities and
low thresholds, and that we necessarily overdetect. Doing so, we con-
struct a world brimming with humanlike vitality.
Guthrie (1980) made three further assertions touching on religion.
First (as Spinoza 1955; Hume 1957; Horton 1993; and others also hold),
religious and secular thought and action are similar and continuous and
spring from the same cognitive processes. Religion is not sui generis.
Although this claim of continuity contradicts much traditional religious
predictably bet on the most signicant possibility: the spider not the
thread, the burglar not the wind.
The most signicant possibilities (universally seen as the most ani-
mated and vital, Cherry 1992) usually are organisms, especially humans.
Practically, humans are signicant because they are complexly organized
and powerful, able to generate, for example, an indeterminate range of
effects including symbolic ones. Intellectually, as models for understand-
ing the world, they again are most signicant, generating endless infer-
ences from the same power and complexity.
Human presence, however, may be hard to detect. As do other ani-
mals (famously including leopards, for instance) we exploit perceptual
uncertainty by camouage and deceit. Moreover, our behavior is so
protean that almost nothing, from sea-level rise to earthquakes, can be
excluded a priori as an effect. Thus our difculty in discovering humans
and similar intentional agents is not peculiar to the Pleistocene, but
ongoing. This difculty compounds the intrinsic complexity of cogni-
tion. And thus as we bet high, on humanlike agents, we face long yet
worthwhile odds.
The evolutionary basis of this strategy (evidently shared by other ani-
mals, Guthrie 2002; Foster and Kokko 2008) is, Better safe than sorry:
Better to mistake a stick for a snake or a boulder for a bear, and more
generally to mistake an lifeless object for a vital one, than the reverse.
The logic is that of Pascals wager: if right, we gain much and, if wrong,
lose little. The most salient default models resulting from this wager,
humanlike ones, are endlessly diverse, general, and largely unconscious.
Thus accidents appear as punishments, earthquakes as messages, and the
universe as designed.
It is worth noting that the strategy described has nothing to do with
projection, a concept often said (e.g., by Freud 1990 [19121913];
Mithen and Boyer 1996; Boyer 2001: 143144; and Descola 2009) to
explain anthropomorphism. Although popular, the concept of projec-
tion as a mental process is muddled and has aptly been called a metaphor
without a theory (Harvey 1995). No precise description of this pur-
ported mental process is available, and scrutiny reveals the metaphor as
not merely useless but also misleading (Guthrie 2000).
A key question arises: What is humanlike in a model, and for what do
we search? We search rst (Guthrie 1980, 1993, 2007a, 2008) for minds
and behavior resulting from them, notably symbolism. Wegner (2005:
22) similarly notes our readiness to perceive minds behind events and
writes that our faculty for mind perception is a strong guiding force in
perception more generally. Human minds, in turn, include generalized
capacities for language and other symbolism; so all events taps on the
window, comets, illnesses seem to signify.
The complementary question is, What is not humanlike in gods, spir-
its, and other humanlike agents? No clear disjunction exists. Rather,
they, we, and other animals appear on a continuum or, better, on var-
ious continua. Gods may, for example, share the travails of the human
life course: being born, eating, drinking, growing old, getting sick, and
dying (Thompson 1955; Ehnmark 1939).
These answers raise further questions: If gods, spirits, and other
humanlike agents (central to religion, pace Keane 2010: 195), with their
traces and messages, are anthropomorphisms, why are they frequently
represented as invisible and/or intangible, when actual humans are nei-
ther? If invisible, why are they plausible? Can humans also be invisible
and intangible, or do these qualities distinguish gods and spirits? Since
spiritual beings and especially humans (Cherry 1992) arguably are for us
the archetypical agents, to answer these questions is to say how we con-
ceive agency.
daily life. The collective vitality that many scholars of atalhyk ascribe
to that world thus is a universal human phenomenon.
Why do we intuitively conceive agents so differently from modern
biology? Such conceptions may constitute an evolved strategy for a per-
ceptual problem (Guthrie 2008): identifying intentional agents in a
world in which their embodiments are innumerable and camouaged
and defy easy identication. Compared to their embodiments, agents
goals and purposes are few and predictable. Indeed the central ones are
only three: eating, reproducing, and avoiding being eaten. Perhaps in
consequence, our notions of agents are built more around their goals
and effects than around their bodily forms. At atalhyk, for example,
ancestors surely were characterized more by their interest in, and effects
on, the well-being of their houses, and leopards more by their interest in
and effects on domestic herds: than either was by their appearance. Both
ancestors and leopards were difcult to see, but the actions of ancestors
could be discerned in (for instance) the sickness or health of households,
and those of leopards in missing goats.
A Neurology of Anthropomorphism
I turn nally and briey to several recent issues about atalhyk and
environs, to comment on a few interpretations given by scholars closer
to the trowels edge. Hodder and Meskell (2011) identify three symbolic
themes in the early Turkish Neolithic, based primarily on atalhyk
and Gbekli, and suggest that these themes may have been instrumental
in the process of agricultural intensication.
The three themes are rst, phallocentrism, with depictions of erect
penises, both animal and human; second, a concern with wild and dan-
gerous animals and especially their hard, pointed, and durable parts; and
third, a concern with the piercing and manipulation of esh connected
with curating skulls, both human and animal. What these three themes
may have meant and how they may have been related are, of course, hard
to know, as the authors and respondents note. Nonetheless, I will offer a
few thoughts, starting by recasting the issues as questions.
First, why is there apparent phallocentrism? Second, why are there
sharp, dangerous animal parts in the walls (and why, to revive a question
in Hodder 2006, do these not include leopard parts?) And third, why are
there piercing of esh and removal of human and animal heads? We can
derive a few possible suggestions from the intersection of the notions of
house society and of pervasive anthropomorphism, including its religious
forms. That is, each question can be set in the context of peoples pre-
sumed desire to maintain durable houses and their presumed belief that
humanlike agency in the world is general.
Why, then, was there phallocentrism, as opposed (for example) to
goddesses? Hodder and Meskell (2011: 237) note that phallocen-
trism privileges maleness as a cultural signier and a source of power
and authority, and that this is echoed in choosing bulls for feasting
at atalhyk and in depicting male animals there and at Gbekli. In
contrast, older interpretations of male-centered imagery, Hodder and
Meskell note skeptically, link it with violence.
My rst observation is that Hodders and Meskells connection of
phallocentrism with power is consistent with an assumption that people
at atalhyk, as elsewhere, saw the penis as having its own anthro-
pomorphic vitality. In relatively recent times, for example, Montaigne
writes, We are right to note the license and disobedience of this mem-
ber which thrusts itself forward so inopportunely when we do not want
it to, and which so inopportunely lets us down when we most need it. It
imperiously contests for authority with our will (Haidt 2006: 5). This
organ is thus a locus of independent animacy and hence interest, both
in humans and in animals. This observation admittedly is both ahistoric
and acontextual; but the widespread presence of phallicism in European
Upper Paleolithic art (Angulo and Garca-Dez 2009) as well as in the
Turkish Neolithic means at least that we must cast our explanatory and
comparative net wider than atalhyk alone.
A second suggestion about phallocentrism is that if as is likely
Neolithic people understood the male role in reproduction, then an
interest in fertility could be expressed as an interest in male sexuality just
as well as in female. At atalhyk such an interest could also be tied
to perpetuating the house, although similar imagery at Gbekli, where
there may have been no houses to perpetuate, may undercut the plausi-
bility of this connection.
The second question is, Why are sharp, dangerous animal parts in
the walls and why, in Hodders (2006) question, do these not include
leopard parts? Here I feel on rmer ground. Hodder and Meskell (2011)
suggest that the embedded animal parts could have played several roles,
indicating durability, signicant events in house history, and piercing of
the esh. They again (rightly, to my mind) downplay violence.
Rather than violence, I suspect (as do several respondents as well as
Hodder 2010a: 24, who refers to the power or energy of wild animals)
that, in addition to the roles suggested by the authors, the sharp animal
parts embody animacy or vitality that is, power, energy, and life and
contribute it to the house. They are physical intersections of special vital-
ity with the world and, as Nakamura (2010: 321) puts it, may have been
a condensation of animal power. Carnivores and raptors, compared
both to prey and to domesticated animals, are brighter, more indepen-
dent, and more active and thus, in Cherrys (1992) terms, more animate
and humanlike. Therefore, they are natural sources of animacy. Mind-
body dualism, as described earlier, aided by similarity and contiguity,
means both that this animacy survives the (eshed) body and that the
parts need not be visible to enliven the house.
In a related question, Hodder earlier (2006: 11) asked why there
should be so many depictions of leopards at atalhyk but such a
marked lack of leopard bones; and Meskell, Nakamura, King, and Farid
(2007: 281) similarly note the absence of leopard skulls within plastered
forms. A possible reason for the depictions is that leopards were a threat,
and depictions widely are thought to control or inuence their subjects
(as the sculpture of a woman seated upon two probable leopards sug-
gests). If so, then depictions of leopards may have exercised power over
real leopards.
In contrast to depictions, however, physical remains especially bones,
teeth, and claws typically do not merely point to but, like relics of
saints, embody agency, including its danger. In at least some hunting tra-
ditions, an intact skeleton can regenerate the animal; and at atalhyk
human bones likely were, as Hodder (2006: 61) notes, delegates of the
dead. If so, then leopard bones likely were delegates too, but unwel-
come ones. In the case of raptors and small carnivores, sharp parts could
safely be kept and displayed because humans can cope readily with these
animals. Leopards, in contrast, are wily, dangerous adversaries, neither
to be hosted nor to be lightly invoked. Meskell et al. 2007: 280 note
their cunning, Kamerman (this volume, cited by Hodder Ch.13, this
volume) notes their powerful ability to merge into the environment,
and Lewis-Williams (2000) offers a cautionary San account of two friends
who hunt a leopard but are separately ambushed and killed by it.
Thus the taboo that Hodder thinks may have existed against taking
leopard bones into town might well have been motivated by reason-
able prudence (understandable to me as a resident of Boulder, Colorado,
where mountain lions often enter town). What would require special
explanation is, instead, the exception to the rule: the perforated leopard
claw buried with a woman and a plastered skull.
Last, why are there piercing of the esh and removal of human and
animal heads? I assume that the piercing of esh is not itself a goal
but the means to obtain (particular) skulls, as skulls probably were the
central loci of ancestral spirits. To explain the removal of heads, we again
need the two notions of the durable house and of anthropomorphism:
the former as the goal of the actions, and the latter as their rationale.
Here the anthropomorphism lies in attributing human mental qualities
to human remains, an attribution reecting an aspect of the intuitive
dualism described earlier: Mind, or spirit, is independent of body and
survives it.
The remains of ancestors (not necessarily adults, as Hodder and
Meskell 2011: 246 point out, since in house societies ancestors often
include all who have died in the house) probably played a role similar to
that of sharp animal parts: They contributed their vitality, power (recall
Pattons image of power humming under the oor), pedigrees, and
authority to the house. Clearly, their descendants wanted them to remain
close and, doubtless, in communication.
That the ancestors were in fact encouraged to stay is suggested not
only by their location within the house but also by the lack of grave goods
noted in Nakamura and Meskells (2013) atalhyk conference paper.
Rather than tools or travel gear, graves here had only a very few per-
sonal items such as ornaments. I suggest that the reason that the deceased
needed no equipment, travel or otherwise, is that they already were home
and encouraged to stay. The importance of their presence probably was,
as in most house societies, not only emotional but also political and eco-
nomic, as the basis for rights to property both material and immaterial.
A similar view of keeping the ancestors home is advanced by Gillespie
(2002) on the pre-Hispanic Maya. They were also a house society, indeed
calling their corporate kin groups houses, and similarly buried their
dead under the oors or in the platforms of houses. By continually curat-
ing the bones of deceased family members within their own domestic
space (2002: 67), Gillespie writes, descendants maintained their rights
to both tangible and intangible property. Intangible property, judging
from ethnohistorical and ethnographic sources, included the names and
souls of the dead. These appear to have been passed down in perpetuity
within the house, with the souls reincarnated in descendants.
Similar relationships may have underlain the concern with ancestors
apparent in the Middle East Neolithic. The skull found at atalhyk
at the base of a house post, and infant foundation burials, reect liter-
ally the foundational relation of ancestors to the house. Hodder (2010a:
2627) writes similarly that social structure and dominance were created
not through the control of production but through the performance
of rituals, links to ancestors and the animal spirits. . . . Thus religion and
spirituality at atalhyk were closely linked to the house. Indeed, he
writes (2010b: 345), in house-based societies, houses are religion.
This apt phrase recalls the response of a new householder in the hamlet
in which I worked in Japan (also a house society), to a question about his
houses religion (shu4kyo 4). We are the rst generation in this house, he
replied, so we have no ancestors here. So we have no religion (Guthrie
1988: 65). Religion for him, that is, consists of relations with the ances-
tors, the source of pedigree and a major component of status. Religion
Conclusion
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