Becoming Saints: Coptic Orthodox Monasticism, Exemplarity, & Negotiating Christian Virtue

Joseph Youssef

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of Anthropology University of Toronto

Becoming Saints: Coptic Orthodox Monasticism, Exemplarity, & Negotiating Christian Virtue

Joseph Youssef

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of Anthropology University of Toronto

2019 Abstract

Based on 13 months of transnational ethnographic fieldwork between Egypt, Southern California, and Toronto, this dissertation examines questions around exemplarity, morality, and the cultivation of virtue among Coptic Orthodox Christians. Specifically, this thesis investigates the relationship between Coptic monks and the wider Coptic community. Many Copts view monasticism as a morally exemplary way of life. The monk as one who has forsaken all social ties and lives in the desert is regarded as one who has attained the highest form of virtue. This view results in different levels of engagement with monastic practice and competing voices for what it means to be a Coptic

Christian. As will be demonstrated through ethnographic details, there is a gap between the ideals of the Coptic monastic imaginary and the lived reality of negotiating Christian virtue for monks and laity alike. Furthermore, this dissertation unpacks the ways in which Coptic monasticism is

(re-)imagined and (re-)produced in North America and how Coptic subjectivity is (re-)negotiated in relation to Egypt and the Mother Church.

Acknowledgments

Becoming exemplary is a process as this dissertation will soon show. Whether one strives to be the best monk, Christian, or anthropologist, there are many along the path who are a part of this process, who challenge, encourage, and patiently watch for the individual to grow and formulate their vocation. This research would not be possible without the encouragement and support of the numerous monks and clergy. In Egypt, I would like to thank the monks of al-Souriān, Anba Bishoy, Abu-Makār, al-Baramous, Mari-Mina, Abu-Fana, al-Mohhārāk, Anba Antonios, and Anba Bola. In the United States, I am grateful to the monks of Saint Antony’s Monastery in California and Saint Mary and Saint Moses’ Abbey in Corpus Christi, Texas. They graciously allowed me to live among them, and they spent countless hours not only answering my questions but offering me hospitality. I am indebted to all of you. Pray for me.

I would like to thank the Metropolitan Serapion, Bishop of the Diocese of Southern California & Hawaii & Abbot of Saint Antony's Monastery, for allowing me to carry out my fieldwork in the diocese, especially at the monastery and Saint Paul’s Brotherhood. I am thankful to Bishop Youssef of the Southern United States and Abbot of Saint Mary & Saint Moses Abbey, for our several conversations during my retreats to the monastery. My description of the monastic initiation ritual in Chapter 2 was one I that witnessed there, and was also published in volume 5 of the Canadian Journal for Coptic Studies. I would also like to thank Metropolitan Paphnutius, Bishop Demetrius, Bishop Yolios, Bishop Mattaous, and Bishop Raphael for allowing me to interview them.

My journey in anthropology began in a 3rd year undergraduate course entitled Conceptualizing Religion, taught by Prof. Girish Daswani. Little did I know that he would become my co-supervisor with Prof. Simon Coleman. I would like to thank both them for their continuous help and support. They both worked very closely with me, giving feedback on multiple drafts of each chapter, and always going above and beyond my expectations. I hope I was a worthy disciple. I would also like to thank Prof. Amira Mittermaier, who was really involved in the later stages of my writing, not only as a committee member, but also with our department thesis writing group during the 2017- 2018 academic year. I am truly grateful for her timely responses and comments on my chapters. I am also grateful to Prof. Andreas Bandak for accepting to be my external examiner. His work has challenged me intellectually, and continues to be a source of inspiration.

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At the University of Toronto, I would like to thank my colleagues in the thesis writing seminar who read and offered comments on several chapters. I would also like to thank my office-mates in AP420 for fostering the desire to be productive and hashing-it-out with me. I would like to thank Natalia Krencil, the graduate administrator at the Department of Anthropology, who while dealing with a plethora of students, always seemed to have time for me. I am grateful to Prof. Michael Lambek for reading early drafts of some of my chapters during our thesis writing seminar during the 2014-2015 academic year. I would also like to thank Professors Valentina Napolitano, Donna Young, Alejandro Paz, Maggie Cummings, and Katherine Blouin, who were all very gracious in offering feedback at different stages of the writing process.

I made many friendships with fellow graduate students, who were a constant source of encouragement and support during this liminal stage. Mac Graham began the process with me from undergrad. Letha Victor was always able to strike the balance between encouraging me to work hard and having a good time. She and I made a vow to convocate together but I fell short between her model of exemplarity and the lived reality of my inability to focus. Many in the graduate department discovered that Arie Molema’s thesis proposal was truly exemplary. Nick Feinig and Connie Gagliardi graciously edited my dissertation during different writing stages. George Mantzios quickly came to my aid when I asked if he could help me prepare my bibliography, as my deadline for submission loomed closer. I enjoyed many thought-provoking conversations with Jessika Tremblay, Omri Grinberg, Seth Palmer, Johanna Pokorny, Mathew Gagne, Shayne Dahl, Dhebi Hay, and Eden Martin. I would also like to thank Kathleen Ogden at the Writing Centre for helping me think through Chapter 4.

No words can describe the profound impact of Prof. Saba Mahmood on my intellectual thinking. I was asked to pick her up from Toronto Pearson Airport and drive her to UTSC for a paper she was giving. I remember her asking me questions about my work, balancing a critical eye and gentle critique, challenging me to think outside the box. She has left her imprint on the discipline of Anthropology for generations to come, and she will never be forgotten.

Professors, Paul Sedra, Febe Armanios, James Bielo, Tom Boylston, Anne Moore, Farha Ghannam, Lois Farag, Nelly van-Doorn Harder, Ariel Shisha-Halevy, Stephen Davis, Mark Swanson, Maged (Dn. Severus) Mikhail, Tim Vivian, George Bebawi, Dr. Hany Takla, and Dr. iv

Saad Mikhail were all kind to offer feedback, either written or through conversation, during different stages of my writing process. My academic interest in Coptic Studies, particularly in monasticism, was sparked by undergraduate courses I took with Prof. Ramez Boutros at U of T. Helene Moussa has been a friend and a mentor for the past 10 years. She is a continuous source of support, lending her ears and always offering sound advice.

Friends and fellow graduate students of Coptic Studies: Michael Akladios, Bishoy Dawood, Candace Lukasik, Fr. Paul Guirgis, Mother Antonia, and Donna Rizk-Asdourian were a constant source of inspiration. Fr. Bigoul al-Souriany was my first monk-interlocutor by Divine Providence. We enjoyed many conversations and academic conferences together. Marcus Zakaria and Carolyn Ramzy adopted me as their younger brother.

For a decade or so, Androu Arsanious, Bishoy Khalil, Bavly Kost, Antonyou Salama, Mena “Tall”, Paul Tadros, Mena Tawadros, Mark Magharious, and Meena Farag would spend our Friday nights after youth group at McDonald’s, talking about theology, politics, and Church affairs. Our extraordinary conversations became a part of ordinary life.

When I needed to take a break from writing, Daniel Habashy would spend his lunch hour with me roaming the streets of downtown Toronto. I also enjoyed many “coffee runs” with Michael Habashy to Tim Horton’s.

Fr. Sarabamon al-Anba Bishoy allowed me to attend training classes for the newly ordained priests, Fr. Isaac Salib, Fr. Mina Asaad, Fr. John Bekhit, Fr. Mark Ibrahim, and Fr. John Botros, during their 40 days in the monastery. I accompanied them as a lowly layman to various meetings with bishops and monks, to gain words of benefit.

Fr. Mina Ava-Veni, Fr. Girgis al-Antoni, Fr. Aghabius al-Makari, and Fr. Takla and Fr. Thomas al-Anba Bishoy took time out of their busy schedules to give me tours of their respective monasteries and arranged interviews with monks. Fr. Rofail and Fr. Archillidis Ava-Mina were examples of true discipleship.

In Los Angeles, I am grateful to Bishop Abraham (previously Fr. Isaac Boulos), Bishop Kyrillos (previously Fr. John Paul), Fr. Arsani Paul, Fr. Antony Paul and Fr. Mark Paul, for showing me that peace can be acquired in the desert or the city.

I am thankful to Fr. Filimon Mikhail and Fr. Athanasius Rageb for housing me at Archangel Michael in Santa Ana. Thank you to Fr. Daniel Habib, Fr. Moses Samaan, Fr. Bishoy Kamel and Fr. Theodore Labib for our many wonderful conversations.

I am indebted to Fr. Kyrillos Ibrahim and the community of Saint Paul’s American Coptic Orthodox Church for accepting me as their own. Maged and Nevine Boctor generously invited me to Bible Study with Fr. Mina Guirguis and their wonderful group of friends.

I am grateful for the friends, role models, and mentors I have gained during this journey: Tunt Mona Shenoda, Dr. Elhamy Khalil, Dr. Emil Bishay, Mena Milad, Mina Fouad, Athanasius Wahba, Steven Sedky, Ernest Elraheb, Paul Adelsayed, Julie Khela, Mark Mikhail, Nagy Morcos, Rafik Mattar, David Dawood, and Joseph Girgis.

Fr. Timon al-Souriany Fr. Seraphim al-Baramousy, Fr. Anastasi Saint Antony, Fr. Mark Aziz, Fr. Makary Silwanis, Fr. Michael Sorial, Dr. Joseph (Dn. Athanasius) Faltas, (Dn.) Emmanuel Guirguis, and Raafat Moussa have taught me what theology looks like in practice.

I am indebted to my family in Egypt and California, who constantly encouraged and challenged me to be a better anthropologist. Uncle Nashat, Tunt Gehan, Uncle Raafat, and Youstina welcomed me into their home in Mission Viejo. I am especially grateful to my aunts in Alexandria: Leila, Wafaa, and Nadia for housing and feeding me stuffed-pigeon during my periods of fieldwork. Uncle Samuel accompanied me and my father on numerous trips to different monasteries without hesitation. Uncle Michel made sure I was up to date with local politics. My cousins Mina, Nehal, Monika, Karim, Lydia, Jack and Sandra included me in their outings with their friends and made my fieldwork enjoyable. Celine, Sophia, Claire, and Malak kept me on my toes. Uncle Fadi, Tunt Niveen, Nardine, Myrna, Teta Zizi, Adel, Soha, Suzy, Amgad and Reem took me on several family-day-trips to Mari-Mina. In Cairo, Maged, Uncle Nagui, Tunt Amany, Marina and Sandra always made sure I had a place to stay. I enjoyed many thought-provoking conversations with Uncle Saher about The Egyptian Uprising. When in California, Teta Samira made sure I was well prepared with groceries when I lived alone.

Anthony, Maryann, Makarios, and Seraphim Shenoda became a part of my family, or rather, I became a part of theirs.

I am indebted to Tunt Sahar who has treated me as Samer, Jennifer, and Miriam in every sense of what it means to be a son.

I cannot begin to thank Gido George for his continuous encouragement. He spent countless hours translating some of the more difficult monastic texts in Arabic for me, so that my research would be enriched. I hope that someday I can be half the scholar you are.

The heavens gained several saints during the course of my Ph.D. research, who were a source of inspiration and a part of the process. Fr. Wissa al-Souriany departed this world before I could show him the fruit of my research. (Gido) Abuna Konstantine and Teta Isis were an example of virtue and service for over 50 years. My maternal grandfather, Gido Fayez, was the first one to teach me about Egyptian history. Several of the narratives about Church history and his university days with Pope Shenouda in this thesis are inspired by his unique way of telling stories. Teta Angele recounted to me the stories and miracles of the saints. Though her eyesight was deteriorating, she would ask me to enlarge the font on her iPad so that she could pray the 150 Psalms and dedicate them for me. She truly exceeded the exemplarity of monks.

No words could ever do justice to the eternal memory of Magdy Barsoum, my uncle, interlocutor, and friend. He took me into his home with Tunt Sahar and called me his son. We took a couple of trips to St. Antony’s Monastery together, where he challenged me with his intuitive questions and offered me fresh perspectives on what I was thinking about. He was a continuous source of encouragement and called me out when he saw that I was slacking. In health and illness, he never stopped giving. He was a living model of exemplary who never wore black. I dedicate this dissertation to your memory.

Uncle Ehab and Tunt Terez joined me on my journey when I asked their daughter to marry me. They have been a constant source of support, inspiring me, and putting up with my academic rants at the dinner table. My achievements are a fruit of their patience.

Yousef has challenged me in more ways than others. His healthy skepticism has taught me to never take anything at face value and to always appreciate critical inquiry.

Dany has been a source of inspiration in indirect ways. He has helped me come up with ideas through his sense of humour and witty comments about my work. In his desire to see me succeed, he accepted my recounting of some embarrassing moments together in Chapter 6. vii

My parents, Medhat and Doris, immigrated to Canada 30 years ago so that I might have a better future. They instilled in me a curiosity for learning and have always encouraged me to pursue what I love. My dad selflessly took time off work to accompany me during fieldwork, so that I would be safe. This dissertation is but a humble offering to you, for the sacrifices you have both made for me. Thank you.

Mariam has patiently waited for the completion of this dissertation. She regularly endured listening to my random bursts about monasticism and was dragged into a million conversations with people interested in knowing about my research. She has the remarkable ability to decipher anthropology jargon, and has taught me to say things simply yet impactfully. She has continuously encouraged me to persevere. If I have to describe her in anyway, she was my sanity during the insanity of writing this thesis. This one’s for you. I love you.

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Note on Transliteration

For the Arabic transliteration in the dissertation, I followed the guidelines for the International Journal for Middle Eastern Studies. I have chosen not to transliterate names of interlocutors and titles such as Abuna, or father, for better readability.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments ...... iii

Note on Transliteration ...... ix

Table of Contents ...... x

Timeline of Major Events in Egypt and the Coptic Orthodox Church Since 2010 ...... xiii

Introduction ...... 1

Examining Exemplary Spaces ...... 9

(Re) Considering an Anthropology of Christianity ...... 11

Anthropology of Ethics & Morality ...... 13

Theology & Coptic Citizenship in Egypt ...... 22

Contextualizing Egypt & Diaspora ...... 24

Anthropology of Transnationalism & Diaspora ...... 31

Positionality & Methodology ...... 35

Summary of Chapters ...... 43

Historical Overview of Coptic Monasticism, Ecclesiastical Authority, & Tensions of Power ...... 46

1.1 The Emergence of Monasticism & Ecclesiastical Authority ...... 47

1.2 Relationship of Monks to the World...... 52

1.3 Education, Reform & Contesting Authority ...... 54

1.4 The Sunday School Movement ...... 60

1.5 Revival of Coptic Monasticism ...... 63

1.6 Political Tensions & Marginalization ...... 66

1.7 Citizenship & the Coptic Subject in Egypt ...... 70

1.8 Brief History of Coptic Diaspora in North America ...... 75

1.9 Coptic Diaspora & Egyptian Politics ...... 80

1.10 Conclusion ...... 82

Monastic Spaces, Rites, & Making Coptic Monks ...... 85

2.1 First Steps to Monasticism...... 91

2.2 Experiencing the Retreat House ...... 95

2.3 Calling or Individual choice? ...... 98

2.4 Heading to the Monastery ...... 107

2.5 Day of Consecration ...... 111

2.6 The Funeral Service ...... 113

2.7 Monks & Priests: Degrees of Exemplarity ...... 117

2.8 Monastic Infrastructure ...... 119

2.9 Cells & Monk Quarters ...... 120

2.10 Agricultural Land & Anchoretic Cells ...... 122

2.11 Conclusion ...... 123

Coptic Monastic Hagiopics: Cultivating Coptic Subjects & Expectations of Virtue ...... 126

3.1 Brief History & Overview of Coptic Hagiopics ...... 134

3.2 Mediating Baraka ...... 138

3.3 The Typical Coptic Monastic Hagiopic ...... 142

3.4 Hagiopics & (Re)Producing the Coptic National Subject ...... 146

3.5 Hagiopics & Self-Cultivation: An Actor’s Perspective ...... 147

3.6 Coptic Hagiopics, Workers & The Critique of Monks & Monasteries ...... 151

3.7 Coptic Hagiopics: The Perspective of a Bystander on Set ...... 156

3.8 Coptic Hagiopics & Diaspora ...... 159

3.9 Conclusion ...... 162

Exemplifying the Exemplary: Tensions & Anxieties in Relation to the Holy Man ...... 164

4.1 Moral Exemplars & Baraka ...... 176

4.2 Monasticism & Holiness ...... 182

4.3 Clothing & Celibacy: Monasticism & the Marked Body ...... 184

4.4 Imitating Monks as (Im)possibility...... 188

4.5 Walking “Up the Mountain” ...... 192

4.6 Conclusion ...... 193

Monasticism in the North American Diaspora: (Re-)Creations & (Re-)Negotiations ...... 195

5.1 Introduction: When the Anthropologist becomes a Solitary ...... 198

5.2 The Coptic Californian Landscape ...... 202

5.3 Coptic Monasticism in North America ...... 203

5.4 Monasteries as “Places in-Between” ...... 209

5.5 Negotiating Monastic Inclinations ...... 211

5.6 Critiquing SPB ...... 214

5.7 Needing Elders ...... 216

5.8 Conclusion ...... 219

Family, Discipleship, & Technologies of Obedience ...... 221

6.1 Monasticism, Discipleship & Ecclesiastical Authority ...... 226

6.2 Playing Monks ...... 238

6.3 Conclusion ...... 239

Egypt in Relation to Cultivating Coptic Subjects ...... 241

7.1 Immigrating After January 25th, 2011 ...... 248

7.2 Diaspora & Church Reform ...... 250

7.3 Conclusion ...... 254

Conclusion ...... 256

Ethnographic Photos ...... 265

Bibliography ...... 275

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Timeline of Major Events in Egypt and the Coptic Orthodox Church Since 2010

January 6th 2010- Shooting at Coptic Cathedral of St. George in Nag Hammadi.

January 1st 2011- Bombing at al-Kīddīssīn Church in Alexandria.

January 25th 2011- Protests begin demanding the resignation of President Hosni Mubarak in Tahrīr Square Cairo.

February 11th 2011 – President Hosni Mubarak resigns.

March 17th 2011- Pope Shenouda III passes away.

November 17th 2011- Pope Tawadros II is enthroned as the 118th Patriarch of the See of Alexandria.

June 30th 2012- Mohammad Morsi becomes Egypt’s first democratically elected president.

November 2012- President Morsi issues a constitutional declaration giving him unlimited powers.

June 30th 2013- Protestors across Egypt demand resignation of President Morsi.

July 3rd 2013- Egyptian Armed Forces remove President Morsi from power.

August 14th 2013- Rabaʿa al-ʿAdawyia Massacre.

June 8th 2014- Abdel-Fattah al-Sisi’s sworn in as Egypt’s President.

September 7th 2014-Pope Tawadros’ 1st historical visit to Canada.

October 7th 2015- Pope Tawadros’ 1st historical visit to the United States.

December 11th 2016- Bombing at al-Botrosyia Church in Cairo.

April 9th 2017- Palm Sunday bombings at the churches of St. George in Tanta, and St. Mark’s Cathedral in Alexandria.

July 31st 2018- Bishop Epiphanius, Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Macarius found dead.

August 25th – September 1st 2018- the 1st international Coptic Youth Convention hosted by Pope Tawadros II at Logos Center in the Monastery of Saint Bishoy, Wadi al-Natroun.

September 13, 2018- Pope Tawadros’ 2nd visit to the United States.

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Introduction

Mark, Amir, and I sat at the steps of Saint Bola’s Cathedral as the sun was almost setting.

The cathedral had been constructed on the monastery grounds about fifteen years earlier, with the aim of providing a place of worship for pilgrims visiting the monastery located in the Eastern

Desert of Egypt near the Red Sea. In the horizon, we saw other buildings and churches on the mountaintops. To our right, a large neon sign reading “Souvenirs” was now bright red, hanging over the 5th century monastery. It looked out of place in relation to the walls and architecture of the ancient monastery. Earlier that evening, we had visited the souvenir shop where taratil (worship songs) were blasting, in an attempt to solicit buyers. The monk working at the shop came back after stepping out and turned the music down. Mark and I spotted a book about Abuna Fanous and his miracles.1

Mark immediately appeared to feel uneasy. “How can you speak of miracles performed by a man who, sorry to put it this way, hasn’t even died? His pictures are plastered everywhere more than that of Saint Paul himself!” Mark exclaimed. “What do you make of this?” I asked.

“I think it’s a form of propaganda to be honest. It’s just not right.” He replied.

When we sat at the steps of the cathedral, Mark and I recounted to Amir what he had seen at the souvenir shop. He likewise felt uncomfortable and made general comments about what we were now seeing in the desert night.2 “Look at that sign over the monastery? This is an ancient place, a holy place. I feel like I’m at a market or something. I don’t feel like a pilgrim but a tourist.” Mark

1 “Abuna,” is the Arabic word for “Father” designated for priests and monks. Abuna Fanous was an elderly monk of the monastery of St. Bola and was renowned among Copts as a “holy man” for the many miracles attributed to him. He passed away on April 19th 2017. Mark, Amir, and I had the opportunity to see him during our visit to the monastery in April 2014. This account will be included in Chapter 4.

2 The conversation below was recorded with my phone.

1 2 nodded his head in agreement and asked, “What makes visiting this monastery different from visiting the pyramids? Honestly, today I felt like I was visiting an ordinary historical site. But then again, is it about location or our inability to keep the internal peace at times when there is no external peace? When people and crowds start to come around we cannot maintain it but let the external penetrate into our hearts. Jesus always says he is in our hearts right? So why should it matter?

“Why can’t you have the same holiness somewhere else? If I have the same devotion and spiritual discipline and I’m trying very hard as Abuna Gawargios said to us yesterday, to constantly get back up, could I get that same experience anywhere I am? To me it’s almost like that’s kind of the point of the Orthodox Church as opposed to say Protestants where...”

Amir interrupts “We have tradition!”

“Not just tradition” Mark responds. “It’s not just a singular all about me spirituality, the

Church is the people we are all the body of Christ. The people that are here and the saints that walked the land before us, as well as modern day saints, they are all connected to make up the

Church. We are all participating in the body of Christ and the communion of life that we all share.

To me it is essential for us to learn from one another. This concept is already against the American notion of ego-centrism, and ‘everything about me’ way of life.”

“So are you saying that the sanctity of a place is not its geographical location, I mean Egypt, versus California?” I asked.

“I honestly feel less of an ancient connection in New Berry Springs [referring to Saint

Antony’s Monastery in New Berry Springs California] than here.” Amir says.

“That might be true.” Mark replies. “The question I’m posing though is whether not it is about the physical location or our own shortcomings. It’s not like Saint Antony confined himself

3 to Egypt.” Mark adds. “It’s not so much about the place as it is what people [monks] are doing in that place, what they have here that is not in California is history.”

Both Mark and Amir are second-generation Copts from California. Their perspectives are rooted in expectations about monasteries as sacred spaces and monks who reside therein. Mark’s attitude towards the souvenir shop, particularly the selling of books about Abuna Fanous, is based on his understanding that monasteries are sacred spaces that are homes to men who have left the world to live a life of consecration to God. Mark’s remarks speak beyond a book about miracles on display in a souvenir shop as he holds certain expectations that a monk’s exemplarity ought not to be exposed for the sake of financial gain. His interpretation of Amir’s comments about the red sign also address his concerns about monastic spaces becoming transformed into touristic places rather than places of sanctity and worship, critiquing “spiritual tourism” (Irvine 2010: 225) as detrimental to the monastic life. Both their views are rooted in a social imagination that emphasizes the particularities of monasteries and monks as exemplary. They expected that the monastery would be an extraordinary place but were quickly disappointed at how ordinary the monastery was. Their views also speak to a kind of historicity that authenticates their views of Coptic monasticism.

Based on 13 months of research in Egypt and Southern California, this dissertation examines questions of exemplarity and Coptic monks as perceived moral exemplars and the ways

Coptic monasticism is socially imagined. Furthermore, I explore the tensions between various types of exemplarity, namely monks, priests, and laity. My investigation is not solely about monastic spaces per se, but the ways in which monasticism extends to and beyond monastic space and place and comes to be articulated by Coptic Christians in their everyday life. I am interested in the tensions between monasticism as an idealised form of Christian perfection and the politics of everyday life. This thesis focuses on Coptic monasticism and its influence on the Coptic laity

4 more broadly and how monastic spaces speak to questions of the spiritual, social, political, and economic life of Copts in Egypt. My research also has a transnational focus, where I investigate the relationship between the Mother Church in Egypt and the Coptic Diaspora in Southern

California and Toronto. I address questions of social, ethical, and moral formations and the ways in which Coptic monasticism is propagated by the Coptic Church as a means of cultivating virtuous subjects in Egypt and abroad.

Coptic monasticism, I argue, is socially imagined. By this I mean that there are particular characteristics that a monk is deemed to have that make him perceived by many Copts to be a moral exemplar. The image of a Coptic monk as an exemplary figure is rooted in what Anthony

Shenoda (2010:8) has described as a “moral imaginary.” While Shenoda (2010) uses the term to emphasize “claims to moral superiority” that might implicitly made by Copts to “their Muslim counterpart” (ibid.), my concern is with the ways in which Coptic monks are perceived as morally superior by Copts themselves. I call this the “Coptic monastic imaginary.” My use of “imaginary” does not imply a sense of “fakeness” or illusory ingenuity of monasticism (Mittermaier 2010:3), but rather refers to the utopic way in which a monk is perceived. This idealized imagination has

“ethical and political dimensions” (ibid.), which come to influence the ways in which many lay-

Copts seek to emulate and cultivate themselves into pious subjects. The power of the imaginary is rooted in the fact that it is a shared representation and is “thus made social” (Meyers 2015: 15).

Shared representations mean that there are also social expectations, both of which can also be contested. This thesis speaks to how the monk is at the center of this social imaginary and how

Copts in Egypt and North America deliberate and respond to these expectations when both monks and laity fail to meet them and when they fall short. Similar to the ways in which monks are the center of the Coptic social imaginary, monasteries are social spaces at the center of Coptic

Orthodox spiritual experience.

For Copts, the monastery as a sacred place in the desert is often described and imagined as

“paradise on earth.” The image of the monk and the desert render certain expectations when visiting the monastery. The reality however is that a monastery is a place like any other social space. It involves both normative and individual expectations. It is when these expectations fail that the monk as a moral exemplar, and the monastery as an exemplary space, come to be critiqued by clergy, monks, and laity alike.

The word “example” is translated into Arabic as “mithāl.” The translation denotes that the example or exemplary ought to be imitated.3 One who is an exemplar (insān mithālī”) is one that both shapes others and is closely followed. Becoming exemplary involves a process of learning and an intention for progress and transformation. More importantly, becoming an example begins by following the example; by amplifying qualities of exemplarity through one’s actions such as obedience and submission to authority. This of course is not always easy and leads to tensions and complications such as a monk questioning the authority of his abbot or one negotiating spiritual guidance prescribed by a priest. These struggles are all part of the process of becoming exemplary.

Exemplarity in the context of this dissertation is about the force of the example. The power of the example is produced through social imaginaries and given its authority through normalizing discourses as prescribed by an institution. Exemplarity also has a spatial dimension where the hierarchy of the Church extends to monasteries, churches, and the homes of believers.

As will be made explicit, the Coptic Church is “hierocentric,” that is to say that it is rooted in the centralizing, hierarchal authority of the clergy. This view differs from Jason Josephson

3 “Mithāl.” (exemplary), “mithāllī” (exemplary figure), or “mithāliyā” (exemplarity), are very specific understandings of the word “example.” because of their use in speaking to emulation. In English the words would be closer to “role- model.” English the word “example” can also point to a symbol. The more accurate word for denoting symbolism in Arabic would be the word “mathal or ramz.” In English you can say “this is an example” or “they are an example.” In Arabic when speaking of a person the word used is “mithāl.

(2012:9), who defines hierocentric as “an established set of beliefs and tenets defining the relationship between man and the sacred.” While there is certainly a relationship between the human and the divine, the Church not only defines or authorizes tenets of this relationship but is also the guardian of morality and cultivating virtuous Coptic subjects. Monasteries as beacons of virtue also have an important relationship with the institutional Church especially regarding questions of exemplarity. How individual Copts negotiate their relationship with the Church is not usually clear cut. It is precisely in the tensions and anxieties between working on oneself and ideal virtues as dictated by the Church that this dissertation is grounded.

There is also a hierarchical relationship with the added dimension of the Coptic Church as transnational. The way in which the Mother Church in Egypt relates to its Diaspora can be described as hierarchical inclusion, a definition I borrow from Josephson (2012:26), who describes it as “an operation for dealing with alterity that works by subordinating marks of difference into totalizing ideology, while still preserving their external signs.” While Josephson (2012:27) uses the term to describe the ways in which indigenous Japanese gods were integrated within Buddhism and assimilated hierarchically, I am applying this specifically to the hierarchy of the Coptic

Orthodox Church, comprised of a synod of bishops, of whom the Pope is the head. I am concerned with the way in which the Mother Church emphasizes its unity with Diaspora further legitimizing its authority as the Mother Church. While the Coptic Church in Diaspora is connected to the

Mother Church in Egypt, it is also quite different. The most obvious difference perhaps is that the

Church in North America is not persecuted, meaning that there is freedom to construct churches in host societies that are also predominantly Christian. This also raises important questions about the Coptic identity. The collective social imagination of the Coptic Church is rooted in what I call

“the persecution discourse”, a sentiment deeply rooted in the collective identity and imagination of many Coptic Christians that they are a persecuted people.

My contribution to the fields of Anthropology and Coptic Studies are rooted in the question of exemplarity and the ways in which virtue is imagined, propagated, produced, cultivated, and practiced in the Coptic Church in relation to institutional and hierarchical authority. Until recently, contemporary investigations of Egypt rarely examined Copts (Ramzy 2015: 30). Most academic work on Copts has been in relation to Egyptology, and usually focused on Copts being the descendants of the ancient pharaohs, largely as a result of colonial and orientalist objectification

Egypt (ibid.). The first ethnographic account of Copts was perhaps by Nelly van Doorn Harder

(1995) who examined contemporary Coptic female monasticism. Since then, major scholarship on

Copts has focused on Coptic monasticism (Doorn-Harder and Vogt 1997, Gruber 2003), the production of Coptic identity (Oram 2004, Tadros 2017), images and mediation, (Heo 2009 Heo

2017), miracles and skepticism (Shenoda 2010), devotional songs and public (dis)engagement

(Ramzy 2015), political movements post January 2011 Revolution (Lukasik 2016 Elsasser 2017 ), minority rights and civil law (Mahmood 2016), and challenges faced by Copts in Diaspora (Ramzy

2017, Botros 2017, Loewen 2017, Stene 2017).

Both Nelly Doorn-Harder (1995) and Mark Gruber (2003) have proved foundational to my own research as providing “pioneering” contemporary ethnographic examinations of Coptic monasticism. Doorn-Harder (1995) focuses on the different vocations within contemporary female monasticism, helping me think through the development of contemporary monasticism (1950s to the present day) particularly that of Saint Paul’s Brotherhood in Los Angeles (Chapter 6). Gruber’s main focus is on the ways in which the ideological understanding of monasticism as a type of self- martyrdom speaks to sectarianism in Egypt. While this dissertation does address this subject, I am more interested in how the Coptic monastic imaginary and questions of exemplarity come to be critiqued, understood, and made relevant to the average Copt.

Recent publications by historians of Coptic monasticism between the fourth and seventh century have interestingly enough focused on the question of monastic ideals (Innemée 2017,

Schroeder 2017). Monks under the leadership of Saint Shenouda the Archimandrite for example were called to live the ideals of masculinity as both fathers and sons (Shroeder 2018: 184). Saint

Shenouda called on leaders of monastic communities to govern as fathers and cater to the individual needs of each of his spiritual children and exercise authority over their spiritual canon and diet (ibid.: 185). The young monk in the same light must accept the discipline from his father as an obedient son. Thus, “the monastic project of ascetic perfection, when followed properly, engenders a parallel, but more selective, genealogy, based not on biological reproduction but ascetic production” (ibid.: 187). This historical analysis of monastic ideals is useful ethnographically because it speaks to the ways in which monastic genealogy is manifest in the cultivation of virtuous subjects through hierarchical authority and discipleship. By virtue of the

Coptic Church being heavily rooted in the monastic tradition, these forms of discipleship extend to the relationship between the Coptic hierarchy and the laity. The “paradox of monasticism” is the interconnectedness of the desert and the city, where the monk seeks solitude and isolation yet he is pursued by those in the world and brought back (Innemée 2017: 195). This is clear in the opening vignette with the tensions and contradictions Mark and Amir express with their understanding of monasteries as places separated from the world but in fact appearing to be more connected. In addition to this contradiction, one way that the monk as an exemplary figure

“returns” to the world is through the cultivation of Coptic laity through monastic ideals of ascetic perfection. Furthermore, Mark and Amir speak about the contradictions of the desert and the world, collectivity and individualism, ancient history and contemporary living, and the religious and the secular. These are not dichotomies per se but “incommensurable” paradigms (Lambek 2015: 7):

“When two paradigms or terms are incommensurable this does not mean they are contradictory or

9 cannot be compared but rather that they cannot be measured against each other point-by-point according to a fixed, common grid” (ibid.). The same can be argued about thinking about the

Coptic Diaspora in North America. Continuation and rupture not always clear cut and are at the heart of debate in negotiating what it means to be a Copt in North America. My research extends to speaking to how monastic ideals travel and how they come to be reflected transnationally through a (re)imagining of the Coptic monastic imaginary. Exemplarity is not only about the virtues exhibited by an individual, but the ways in which certain spaces become regarded as exemplary because of these moral exemplars.

Examining Exemplary Spaces Coptic Monasteries are places of spiritual growth as well as liturgical and traditional preservation. Conceptually however, monasteries and monastic ideologies move beyond the desert landscape and are created and reconfigured both imaginatively and in practice among members of the Coptic Orthodox Church, making them exemplary places. In other words, I seek to challenge and move beyond the assumed function of monasteries as “spiritual spaces,” where only monks seek unity with God, and argue that monasteries play an integral role in the everyday spiritual, social, economic, and political life of many Copts in Egypt and beyond. As much as monasteries are material places, made of brick and mortar, they are “complex social spaces” that uphold and cultivate the authority of the Coptic Orthodox Church (Lester 2005: 134). In the words of Rebecca

Lester (2005: 134) monastic spaces:

contain a series of nested hierarchies of inside/outside distinctions demarcating various

levels of interiority set in relationship to various sorts of exteriors. This serves to produce

certain spaces (both literal and symbolic), each with its own rules and its own possibilities,

which may or may not be consistent with each other. Some of these distinctions are obvious

(such as the concrete walls that enclose the convent), but others are more subtle.

I will demonstrate through my ethnographic data the ways in which monastic spaces speak to a hierarchy and spectrum of exemplarity (Bandak 2012) and how monastic principles come to be used by bishops, priests, and monks in cultivating Christian subjects. I am also interested how these ideologies and ethical and moral cultivations of the self are reflected transnationally in North

America among Coptic Christians. My concerns are with the use of spatial metaphors and their articulation by North American and Egyptian Coptic Christians at a time of rapidly shifting politics. Such a spatial metaphor suggests a sense of movement in which one, like a pilgrim, continually traverses a contested landscape, or moves figuratively back and forth from margin to center as a member of a religious minority. A theoretical and ethnographic investigation of space and place between Egypt and California offers an opportunity to better understand how identity politics and citizenship are experienced, (re)negotiated and transformed.

This dissertation seeks to offer new perspectives in addressing how minority groups create meaningful places both in their homeland and in the countries to which they immigrate through an investigation of religious spaces. In the context of my research, churches and monasteries in Egypt and California play an important role in the social, political, and spiritual lives of Coptic Christians.

Both concretely and figuratively, churches and monasteries afford themselves to an analysis of how spaces become imbued with deep meaning and significance through a process of “place- making” (Tuan 1977, Casey 1996). Places tell stories (Basso 1996, Basso and Feld 1996), are sacred (Bandak 2012, Poujeau 2012), and create a sense of attachment, whether at home or in a nation (Lester 2005, Poujeau 2010, Hirschon 2010). While the desert-scapes in Coptic monasticism are often imagined as bounded and separate from the world, they are actually quite connected (Hedstrom 2017). I am interested in monasteries and churches, especially in the Coptic

North American, as spaces “in between” “home” and “host” nations which are places of social deliberation (Deeb & Harb 2013).

(Re) Considering an Anthropology of Christianity The Anthropology of Christianity has emerged as a fairly new subfield within the

Anthropology of Religion in the last fifteen years or so. While the discipline of Anthropology has largely been influenced by Christianity (Asad 2009, Cannell 2006, Larsen 2014), and Christians have certainly been examined before this time, Fenella Cannell’s (2006) ground-breaking edited- volume “The Anthropology of Christianity” hones in on the peculiar aspects of Christianity that require further analysis. Many anthropologists have investigated these peculiarities of Christianity including materiality and mediation (Keane 2006 Engelke 2009) conversion, (Robbins 2004,

Rutherford 2006), Scriptural interpretation (Bielo 2009, Harding 2000), and pilgrimage (Badone

& Roseman 2004, Coleman 2014). While all these sources fall under the Anthropology of

Christianity, they focused mainly on Western Christianity, with the majority investigating

Protestantism, giving little voice to an investigation of other Christian groups.

The lack of engagement with other Christian traditions such as Orthodox Christianity prompted Chris Hann and Herman Goltz (2010) to edit the first volume on Eastern Christians from an anthropological perspective. My thesis contributes to this conversation by highlighting, through ethnographic examples, the force of exemplarity in Orthodox Christianity. My focus is on the ways in which exemplarity speaks to both moral exemplars and exemplary spaces.

The main argument Hann and Goltz (2010: 11) make is that there have been misconceptions among scholars studying Christianity that Eastern Christians are more focused on

“mystical elements” and less focused on “this world” and questions of modernity. This is due to the conception that Eastern Christianity is heavily influenced by monastics, individuals who are deemed to have no care for this world. Rather than regard monastics as “unsocial” or “anti-socials”

(ibid.:13), Hann and Goltz (2010) and Poujeau (2010) argue that monastics are not marginal to society but are intrinsically part of it through “the transmission of religious knowledge” (Goltz &

Hann 2010: 13, Forbess 2010), the formalizing of ritual (Goltz & Hann 2010, Naumescu 2010,

Poujeau 2010), and “establishing claims to authentic belonging through their very presence in the landscape Goltz & Hann 2010: 13, Poujeau 2010).

There have been recent discussions amongst anthropologists, beginning with Robbins

(2006) and continuing with Hann and Goltz (2010) and Robbins (2012, 2013) about the role of theology and anthropology. Most recently James Bielo (2018: 33) has called for a collaboration between both disciplines. Often it has been assumed that theology and anthropology are irreconcilable because they ask fundamentally different questions (Robbins 2006). In his conclusion Robbins (2013: 336) writes: “the dialogue between anthropology and theology likely works best when it is preoccupied not with seeking agreement, but with registering what the differences between the two fields have to teach both sides.”

My point of departure differs from that of Robbins (2006, 2012, 2013) in that while

Robbins sees theology as a form of “otherness” that is of interest to the discipline of anthropology, the voices in this dissertation understand theology in anthropological terms as a form of social praxis. Hann and Goltz (2010: 14) argue that theology “in the Eastern [Christian] understanding is not a scholarly discourse on God; it is rather a liturgical discourse of and between God and human beings (p.14). In order to understand Orthodox practices such as engagement in liturgical rituals or the veneration of icons, it is important to understand the Orthodox view of the Incarnation of

Jesus Christ (Hann & Goltz 2010: 13). The paradox (paradoxon in Greek) of the incarnation is that

Christ is “at one and the same time” both fully human and fully divine (ibid.). In assuming a human body Christ is the “God-man” who reconciles humanity to God and allows for humanity to live to its full potential. To live out the potential means that theology is very much a part of the everyday life of Orthodox Christians. Thus, I am interested in the ways in which theology can be used as a framework to understand social praxis.

While my interlocutors strive to live pious Christian lives, there is no question that there are tensions and anxieties between living a virtuous life and the way they conduct themselves.

These negotiations can be understood in terms of “backgrounds” and “foregrounds” (Bandak &

Jorgensen 2012); as multiple assemblages or bundles that come to influence ethical deliberations.

Rather than interpreting this as a discrepancy of one’s actions not reflecting proper Christian piety, the constant attempt to be pious is very much rooted in a struggle through which the individual regularly examines themselves in an attempt to unite themselves with God. This process from an

Orthodox theological perspective is called Theosis, or deification—the striving of the Orthodox

Christian to live in communion with God (Hanganu 2010:43).4 This is different than Protestantism for example where there a strong emphasis on Christ paying the debt of sin on the cross and one

“being saved” when accepting Jesus as their personal Lord and Saviour. Before continuing with a discussion on theology and anthropology, it is important to speak about the ways in which anthropology has engaged with questions of morality and ethics.

Anthropology of Ethics & Morality Michel Foucault’s understanding of morality and ethics is central to the theorization of this dissertation. In short, Foucault defines morality as “sets of values and rules of action that are recommended to individuals through the intermediary prescriptive agencies” (Foucault 2014:41).

4 While the concept of deification meaning to “become like God” is a doctrine of the Coptic Orthodox Church (Kost 2012, Gergis 2015), the term is highly contested primarily because of its translation to Arabic with the term “Taāloh.” In my view this translation implies” to become God in His Essence.” This led to tensions between Pope Shenouda and Father Matthew the Poor. Pope Shenouda spoke heavily against this term, while Abuna Matta through a Patristic lens embraced the term. My own interpretation of this debate is that is rooted in the wider-socio-religious climate of Egypt where the doctrine of deification could easily be misunderstood in light of the Arabic translation and cause further persecution of Copts as a result of the emphasis in Islam on worshiping “One God.” A close reading of both authors suggests that Pope Shenouda was emphasizing what deification is not, while Father Matthew the Poor, what it is. In order not to get caught up in the debate, some clergy use the term “theopoesis” which is can be defined as “the process of being like God.” It is essentially the action-verb of the word theosis.

The prescription of these agencies or institutions such as churches, schools, or families is what

Foucault calls “moral code.” The degree to which one follows moral code is what Foucault calls the morality of behaviours.” Laidlaw (2014) understands “morality of behaviours” as ethics

(Laidlaw 2014: 111). “The ways individuals might take themselves as the object of reflective action, adopting voluntary practices to shape and transform themselves in various ways” (ibid.).

What Laidlaw calls “ethics” is essentially what “Humphrey (1997: 26) calls “moral practices.”

Both fall under Foucault’s notion of modes of subjection; “that is with the way in which the individual establishes relation to the rule and recognizes himself as obliged to put it into practice”

(pg.42).

Michel Foucault is therefore important for understanding the relationship between the

Coptic Church5 as an institution and its role in the formation of docile subjects. The ways in which the subject is formed is through “technologies of discipline,” the aims of which is to produce “docile [bodies] that may be subjected, used, transformed and improved” (1977: 136).

The docile subject according to Foucault is the one who is normalized through “correct training” and the disciplining of the individual to engage in self-surveillance to meet up to standards of what is deemed “normalized” (ibid.: 170). Foucault examines prisons as a primary example in the formation of docile subjects. The purpose of the institution is to both create a routinization for its members and assert governmentality (ibid.: 170-190).

Church communities are institutions of power in the Foucauldian sense. They seek to cultivate particular subjects within the structural powers of the institution. The Coptic Church as an institution seeks to govern its members in their everyday activities to produce and cultivate

5 While Christians in Egypt are widely called “Copts,” this thesis only focuses on those who of the Coptic Orthodox Church.

15 docile subjects. Governance is more than sovereign ruling, but is a form of prescribing, dictating, and authorizing the expectations of what it means to be a subject. In this case of the Coptic Church, governance means forming Copts into Christian subjects, both as members of the church and members of the Egyptian Nation State. In the same way that Foucault argues that disciplinary power permeates all of society, I argue that monastic exemplarity also extends beyond the monastery into the day-to-day lives of many Copts.

Foucault’s (1988:45) work on technologies of the self focuses on ascetical practices and the power-relations exhibited between the spiritual father and his disciple and argues that

“obedience is complete control of behaviour by the master, [it is] not a final autonomous state. It is a sacrifice of the self of the subject’s own will.” Foucault makes his argument through an analysis of exagoreusis and exomologesis. Exagoreusis is the literal act of verbalization where the monk discloses all his thoughts and desires to his spiritual father, and, “stands in a hermeneutic relation not only to the master but to himself” (Foucault 1988: 47). Exomologesis alternatively is modeled after martyrdom. This is to say that acetic practice is in itself a willful submission to death; death to the “world” and death to the will and self: “Whether through martyrdom or through obedience to a master, disclosure of self is the renunciation of one’s own will” (ibid.: 45).

In Foucauldian terms the submission of the individual to an experienced mentor is a means by which the individual constantly watches over and ethically cultivates themselves, both in the presence and absence of the spiritual guide, negating individual free will. In sum, Foucault uses monastic principles of discipleship to explain how power-relations are a means by which one acts on oneself through technologies of the self.

As Foucault suggests, the relationship with the self is more than self-awareness: it is a practice of self-formation (Humphrey 1997: 42-43). In other words, ethical or moral practices are formulations of oneself, through self-reflective processes by which an individual exercises their

16 free will or agency (individual choice) in relation to their respective societies (Laidlaw 2014: 102-

103). This act of free will in Christian monasticism requires a “reorganization of the soul” (Asad

1993:139) or what Rebecca Lester (205:87) describes as the “the rearticulation of self and soul.”

This organization of the soul essentially means that a monk examines himself constantly to make sure there is nothing in his vocational life that will cause enmity with God. This often means fighting against bodily inclinations (Asad 1993:140). Moral cultivation is an ongoing practice that is not achieved immediately, but is attained through constant action, performance, bodily practices and gestures (ibid.:138). Some of these actions include penance, examining one’s conscience, and critiquing the soul (Lester 2005:181-192).

Laidlaw (2014) (through Foucault) emphasizes that although moral life is a combination of both moral code and ethics, they both “must be distinguished analytically because they may change independently” (ibid.: 2011). This is certainly reflected in the case of the Jain laity that

Laidlaw (1995, 2014) describes in his ethnographic accounts. For lay Jains, there is a clear admiration for Jain ascetics and a desire to imitate their way of life as exemplified in their ethical practice of moral codes, but many people cannot attain their level of asceticism and thus engage in personal self-fashioning practices such as fasting and almsgiving, while knowing there is an impossibility for them to live the same way of life as the Jain ascetics. In the context of my research, moral codes are the rules and regulations prescribed by the Church while ethics are the day-to-day deliberations and decisions one makes. In other words, the ethical life is the way in which one makes sense of moral codes.

Similarly to Laidlaw (2014), Humphrey (1997: 44) argues that the Mongolian understanding of virtue is about the ways in which modes of self-cultivation are achieved through practice. The self-cultivation of oneself is considered to be an ideal moral state since it means

“being true to one’s own individual identity in one’s own unique way” (ibid.).

Laidlaw (1995:389) also makes this point in emphasizing that for Jains, ethics is self- formation, a means by which one establishes a relationship to oneself. What then is the relationship between the moral exemplar and one engaging in practices of self-cultivation and self-formation?

The moral exemplar becomes a means by which one engages in a self-critique of oneself. In other words, the moral exemplar is held to a particular standard by which one evaluates their moral life.

In reference to Humphrey (1997), Laidlaw (2014:83) writes that “the emphasis on the personal is such that rules tend to be thought of not as timeless and abstract but as authored by particular exemplary figures, deriving their authority from that origin.” Humphrey (1997: 38) asserts that the moral exemplar is not held to a particular moral code because they are deemed to embody what it means to be an ethical subject. With that being said, there is also a variation between moral exemplars. They do not necessarily have to be alike. A central aspect of a moral exemplar being exemplary is that they are “unique to their subjects” (ibid.). What this suggests is that different moral exemplars in the same faith might exemplify incommensurate ideals, leading to tensions of power, and negotiating authority.

Furthermore, Humphrey (1997) describes that some might not have a direct relationship with an exemplar but still hold them in admiration because of their perceived moral virtue.

Imitating or learning from a moral exemplar can also take the form of reading the narratives of

“long-dead historical heroes whom they chose as a teacher as part of their own personal development” (Laidlaw 2014: 83).

In relation to Laidlaw (1995) and Humphrey (1997). Andreas Bandak (2012, 2015) unpacks the ways in which exemplarity is articulated, modeled, amplified, and contested among

Syrian Christians in Soufanieh. An important contribution that Bandak (2015: 53) makes to the conversation on moral exemplarity is how the exemplary figure is an ex-sample who stands for the whole. To contextualize Bandak gives the example of Abuna Zahlawi delivering a sermon in

18 which he makes reference to different saints, who are ex-samples of what it means to be a virtuous

Christian. Since there is a range of saints to imitate, modelling sainthood is a matter of personal interpretation (Bandak 2012: 113, Bandak 2015). Interpretation is rooted in the individual identifying what is relatable to them. This process of interpreting suggests that there is a gap between the ideal state of virtue as exemplified in the narrative of the saint, and the reality of lived experience, which is made up tensions, anxieties, and negotiating of virtue to which the individual strives to attain. (ibid.). With that, “truly exemplary life is not just talk. Truly exemplary life is practice” (Bandak 2012: 139) Bandak’s work speaks to my parallel argument that exemplarity is a spectrum of imitation. Not only are there degrees of exemplarity, but exemplarity is a continual project of -self-cultivation and self-negotiation by which the individual juxtaposes their own life of virtue in relation to the Coptic monastic imaginary.

Similarly to Laidlaw (1995), Humphrey (1997), and Bandak (2012, 2015), many of the voices in the ethnographic details of this thesis express anxieties about failing to emulate monastics, resulting in and feelings of perpetual failure in not being able to achieve a virtuous life.

I think the fundamental difference between the understanding of virtue as expressed by Humphrey

(1997) and Laidlaw (2014) and Bandak (2012, 2015) and my own work is the aspect of institutional hierarchical authority which focuses on a normative perception of virtue that ought to be followed, rather than an individual journey or expression of virtue. Yes, there are multiple forms of exemplarity, yet they are all a part of a holistic understanding of what it mean to be a Christian respectively. In the context of my work more specifically, the ideal moral state of the individual in the eyes of the Coptic hierarchy is submission and obedience to ecclesiastical authority.

A comparison here can be made with Saba Mahmood (2005: 30-31) in respect to how women in the Islamic Piety Movement derive their moral code from the Quran and cultivate virtue within the traditional guidelines of Islamic practice, while at the same time resisting patriarchal

19 norms in Islam. Similarly, my dissertation is interested in how the applied ethics of some of my interlocutors do not necessarily conform to the hierarchical understanding of moral codes and how they opt for resisting Church rhetoric and the Coptic social imagination.6 To put in other words, some interlocutors experience an anxiety over not conforming to moral codes, while others actively resist conforming to normative understandings of what it means to be Coptic.

A question that therefore emerges in relation to the above argument is: how can we bring theology into a current conversation with the anthropology of morality and ethics? Many anthropologists, in examining religion more broadly, have focused heavily on an Aristotelian model of ethics which essentially regards ethics as a cultivation of external practices which come to affect interiority (Asad 1993, Mahmood 2005, Lester 2005, Hirschkind 2006, Lambek 2010).

Michael Lambek (2015: 5-6) makes an important argument about ethics relevant here in which he articulates that there is blurred line between ethical life as it is objectively understood and ethics as lived practice. There is a “slippage” as it were between normative discussions of ethics and how it is carried out in everyday life (ibid.: 6). Lambek’s approach is one of underdeterminism, which is to say that there are several right ways to live ethically and that one is responsible for their own ethical deliberations. This position is slightly different than Laidlaw (2014) who argues that freedom exists in relation to variant degrees of unfreedom (Victor 2018: 161). “The ethical” as

Lambek (2015: 6) defines it is a focus on the creativity of human action rather than one’s ethical

6 One of Foucault’s arguments is that power cannot be maintained or exist without resistance. Resistance of course can be manifested in different forms whether explicitly or implicitly, through direct or indirect opposition. In both cases the resistor is responding to perceived oppression. Resistors in the context of this dissertation are in opposition to certain practices and positions of clerical hierarchy but are active members within the Church (Bandak & Boylston 2013).

20 responses to rules and regulations. Ethical creativity requires some degree of judgement (ibid.: 2).

In this regard, underdeterminism is an existentialist position in his work. Thus, ethics is about how people live the gap between the ideal and the reality of what they are doing in practice (Lambek

2010, Faubion 2011, Das 2012). I see a relationship here between Lambek (2015) and Bandak and

Jorgensen’s (2012) methodological position of “foregrounds” and “backgrounds,” which emphasizes the diversity of lived experience among Christians as a set of processes and assemblages that influence the formation of the moral subject. Assemblages such as religion, politics, and social life, while appearing to be distinct, are not always clearly defined and come to be bundled, resulting in variations in ethical practices (Bandak and Joresensen 2012: 455).

In her ethnographic analysis of Eastern Orthodox monasticism Alice Forbess (2015: 117) argues that a Neoplatonic model of ethics is of particular importance for understanding Christianity because “whilst the former ethics centres on doing, on right living through virtuous practice [i.e.

Aristotelian ethics], the latter [Neoplatonism] hinges on knowing by questioning the possibility of understanding the true meaning of virtues, and yet predicating moral achievement upon gaining this elusive insight […]”. Forbess makes clear that she is not discounting the importance of the

Aristotelian model but wants to highlight that “definitions of virtues [in Platonic thought] are far from self-evident, meaning that right living involves a continual, austere struggle to discard selfish aims which disguise themselves as virtuous motivations” (ibid.).

An important element of a Coptic Orthodox understanding of monasticism (and

Christianity more broadly) is the paradox of the monk being dead to the world, while also living in the world. In the context of my research this is where the monk as a moral exemplar is brought under scrutiny. Since the monk is deemed to be dead to the world, he must therefore exhibit the qualities of a virtuous Christian. In light of Forbess’ (2015) argument, I would agree that both the

Neoplatonic and Aristotelian models of ethics are important for understanding monastic

21 exemplarity. God is known to the monk both through praxis and contemplation, though they are not always clearly distinguishable. A comparison can be made here between my work and the

Anthropology of Islam where scholars have emphasized that practice is a means by which one becomes more pious (Asad 1993, Mahmood 2005, Hirschkind 2006, Mittermaier 2012). An

Orthodox understanding of practice is that one cannot do something on their own, it is God that gives strength to perform these practices. It is God who initiates the call towards the human being and not the other way around. Father Matthew the Poor, a contemporary Coptic elder, for example, taught that the more one knows oneself, the more they come to know God and vice versa. For the monk to know himself he must continually examine himself, which in itself is a form of praxis- of doing something. Deification (Theosis) in Orthodox Christianity as explained above is a continual process that the monk (and Orthodox Christians for that matter) strive to attain. To know God is understood as an eternal process. It is precisely in this Orthodox understanding that the monk is in a constant state of bafflement because he can never fully comprehend God (Forbess 2015: 125).

The more the monk continues to discover God, the more he is baffled. I certainly prescribe to both

Joel Robbins (2013) and Alice Forbess’ (2015: 116) argument that the interaction between anthropology and theology is useful in understanding how those we study in religious communities make sense of the world, especially when it comes to the way in which their theology “informs lived practice.” In fact, I would argue with Valentina Napolitano (2018:1) that lived or “practical” theology as she has called it, “has a kindred spirit in the anthropological discipline, via the ethnographic method.”

As will be made clear, lived theology is not an easy endeavor. For both lay and clergy interlocutors alike there is a “troublesome tension between action and expectation” (Mayblin 2010:

6). In Orthodox theology the expectation is for one to reflect the Image of God daily and grow more in His Likeness. This theological understanding is rooted in questions of moral and ethical

22 formation addressed above that are not necessarily theological per se. The way my interlocutors make sense of virtue and practice is not necessarily theologizing their experiences or explicitly speaking about theology, although in some instances they do. The theology I am interested in here is that of lived experience rooted on the one hand in making sense of Christian ideals and on the other in engaging in everyday interactions and deliberations with others and oneself. My contribution to this conversation between anthropology and theology is an example of what Jon

Bialecki (2018: 1) has described as “theologically-informed anthropology.”

Theology & Coptic Citizenship in Egypt Coptic citizenship in Egypt can be linked to wider paradoxes of Christian understandings of belonging. Copts as Christians are both citizens of Egypt and citizens of heaven (Ramzy 2014), living in the world, but not of this world. This understanding of being citizens of heaven is a

Christian theological position while clearly being manifested in the ways in which Copts see themselves as members of the Egyptian Nation-State. My investigation of monasticism’s effect on

Coptic laity also fits into the paradigm of Coptic citizenship and belonging. Firstly, monasticism in Egypt predates Islam and the emergence of the modern nation-State, further legitimizing Coptic claims to equal citizenship. Secondly, the monk as one who “dies” to the world is still physically in the world and called to endeavor in spiritual struggle, rather than concerns in worldly affairs.

Lastly, the monk himself is an embodiment of the societal persecution faced by Copts because he is regarded as a “martyr without bloodshed” (Gruber 2003).

The martyrdom of Copts in the Egyptian State is manifested both figuratively, in the sense that they are treated as second-class citizens, and literally, through ongoing acts of violence and sectarianism that claim the lives of many Copts until this day. As Mark Gruber (2003:2) articulates:

“The monk, as the embodiment of sacrifice in the community, personifies the strategy for Coptic survival. He absorbs into himself the ‘violence’ of his ascetical life, just as his ethnic community

23 must absorb the violence of a persecuted minority.” Here it is useful to turn to Jonathan Spencer’s

(2007) notion of “political time.” Political time points to notions of prolonged turmoil within the

State, to which one is unable to pin-point particular moments of violence or turmoil because discourses about the State become re-articulated into collective narratives of violence, suffering, and persecution (Spencer 2007: 26). His articulation of political time is useful for addressing questions of social memory and the ways in which some minority groups use narratives of victimhood to affirm their political identity as members of the nation-State. In Spencer’s words

(p.26), “The analytic effect of this mode of presentation is to abstract the victim from the political circumstances which produced their own victimhood, and thus to make a tale of a particular suffering situated in a particular conflict into a larger allegory of suffering in general.” In the context of my research, narratives of victimhood are situated within reoccurring sectarian attacks against Copts within the Egyptian Nation State.

Linking this back to my discussion on theology and social praxis is that discourses of suffering and persecution are made similar to the death of Christ on the Cross and His resurrection from the dead, rendering the persecution discourse as a form of empowerment through which

Copts exercise political and social agency to legitimize their presence in a predominantly Muslim country. In the words of Anthony Shenoda, “If Copts have been pushed to the fringes of Egyptian nationalism, they have also developed a sense of community and identity over the last half-century that they have come to prefer, or, if not prefer, then transform into a narrative of empowerment”

(Shenoda 2010:23).7

7 I see a relationship here, though not directly related, between Shenoda (2010) and Nietzsche’s (2006) understanding of ressentiment. Nietzsche grounds his argument in the Jewish rebellion of against the Roman Empire in 70AD, where “slave morality takes weakness as a virtue, insulating the powerless from culpability in their own suffering and re- directing their frustration to a distorted image of the despised aristocracy.” (Victor 2018: 174-175). This “imaginary revenge” (ibid.) is grounded in a sense of moral superiority creating an imagined moral identity. Ressentiment as

In a recent publication Timothy Carroll (2017) makes a provocative argument comparing

Robbins’ (2002) understanding of Christianity as a religion of “rupture” and Hann’s (2010) critique of this by emphasizing the understanding of continuity in Eastern Christianity. While Hann argues that the notion of rupture is grounded in “a Western Protestant bias” (Carroll 2017: 8) and does not take into account the understanding of continuing tradition in Eastern Christianity, Carroll

(2017) responds by arguing “to claim that ‘continuity’ in Eastern Christianity does not mean

‘rupture’ is entirely unhelpful as an analytical trope […] When engaging in dialogue with eastern

Theological perspectives, ‘rupture’—though it becomes something radically different in the context of continuity—may still be a helpful analytical framework and point of cross areal comparison.”

Carroll’s (2017) argument provides an analytical tool beyond questions of theology in his articulation of continuity and rupture as expressed by Hann (2010) and Robbins (2002). Coptic monasticism is both critiqued and imagined in relation to the incommensurable paradigms

(Lambek 2015) of continuity and rupture as Mark and Amir express in the opening vignette in respect to questions of tradition and continuity. The monk is deemed to have died to the world, while at the same time being part of a living tradition of monastic discipleship: paradigms that are not always clearly distinguishable.

Contextualizing Egypt & Diaspora

As the largest group of Christians in the Middle East, Copts make up between 10-15% of Egypt’s population (at least according to Egyptian-State statistics). Often recognizing themselves as

imagined moral superiority as articulated by Nietzsche (2006) is very similar to Shenoda’s (2010:8) understanding of moral imaginary, where some Copts view themselves as morally superior to their Muslim counterparts. Shenoda (2010) does not make an explicit reference to Ressentiment.

“Modern Sons of Pharaohs,” (Atiya 1981:13), Coptic Christians emphasize their presence in Egypt predating Islam. This claim has translated into Copts seeking equal rights as members of the nation-State amidst discrimination and ongoing sectarian violence and affirming their patriotism as Egyptian nationals. From the late 1950s and 1960s Coptic professionals and business owners left Egypt due to Nasser’s national economic reforms (Botros 2005:45), while the majority of

Copts emigrated in the 1980s and 1990s due to discrimination in various professions that favoured

Muslims over Christians as well sectarian violence such as the attack on the village of al-Koshsh in 1999 (ibid.: 50).8 The most recent wave of immigration occurred after the January 25th, 2011 and June 30th, 2013 uprisings respectively.9 Many Copts were ambivalent about their safety as well as their economic future in Egypt, especially after the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood to power in June 2012, with the election of Mohammad Morsi as Egypt’s first democratically elected president.

The persecution discourse is a common thread among Copts who live in or emigrated from

Egypt. Since Copts believe that they are “legitimate” descendants of the pharaohs, a call for equal rights is thought to be more than justified and mandatory. “The trope of Sons of Pharaoh and the ideas of true Egyptianness that come with it [claims of racial purity] continue to inform the way the Coptic community in Egypt imagines itself” (Shenoda 2010: 21). When speaking about racial

8 21 Copts were killed on December 31st 1999 in the small town of el Koshsh in the Sohāg Governate as a result of a dispute between a Christian store owner and Muslim customer.

9 I am very careful not to call June 30th 2013 a “military-coup” with respect to the majority of my interlocutors who participated by going into the streets denouncing Morsi and the Brotherhood and demanding his expulsion of power. One might call it a “popular coup” by which the army intervened on account of the people’s demands. Neither can January 25th, 2011 or June 30th, 2013 be called “revolutions” because the very principles of January 25th, 2011 which called for an end to military rule, were not met in either event. For this reason, I call these events “uprisings”, rather than “revolutions.” Many but certainly not all Copts recognized al-Sisi as the “saviour” of Egypt, and the Pope alongside him and the Grand Imam as a new chapter for religious pluralism is Egypt.

“purity” and “authenticity,” “blood is important” (Napolitano 2015), because it is through proclaimed blood ties that one legitimizes one’s citizenship and belonging to a nation. It is more than bloodline but the “purity of one’s blood” that has come to be used in claims to equal citizenship” (p.57). Copts in their struggle for equal rights in the Egyptian nation-State recognize their Christian identity as legitimizing land claims. While Muslims are also Egyptians, they are perceived by many Copts to have “lost” the original roots of their heritage when their blood mingled with invading Arabs or when they converted to Islam. Renouncing their Christian faith is likened to losing their Egyptian identity and becoming Arabs (Mahmood 2015:99). It is within this rhetoric of authenticity that Copts as “the modern sons of the Pharaohs” seek equal rights in the

Egyptian nation-State, as citizens whose history existed before Islam came to Egypt. An opposing view propagated by some fundamentalist Muslim clerics is that Copts are not Egyptian because they are not Muslim, leading to connotations of Copts as “foreigners” (Shenoda 2010: 22). Here it is clear that religion becomes appropriated to propagate what it means to be an Egyptian. For some

Copts, it is their claimed pharaonic roots that make them exemplary Egyptian citizens.

Where did this understanding of the “modern sons of Pharaoh’s” develop? Malcolm Reid

(2002) offers a compelling historical analysis that frames the Pharaonic-Coptic rhetoric in relation to the rise of colonialism and Copts asserting themselves in the Egyptian national narrative.

Interestingly he argues that it was the lay-elite like Marcus Samaika who pushed for this narrative and not the Church. By asserting that the Coptic religious traditions have pharaonic roots, Coptic nationalists “enshrined Coptic identity as fundamentally and ‘authentically’ Egyptian, “positioning

Coptic Christianity as a cultural heritage from the great past and thus part of Egyptian national culture” (Miyokawa 2016:126). Today however, the Church embraces and uses this rhetoric with that of the persecution discourses to legitimize its presence. Furthermore, the Church under Pope

Shenouda and currently under Pope Tawadros refuses to acknowledge Copts as a minority but

27 equal citizens within the State (Mahmood 2014: 88). “For Coptic nationalists, the term minority reeks of the colonial legacy, and its association with international law makes minority rights a dubious instrument that compromises the sovereignty of the Egyptian State” (ibid.). Nonetheless, speaking of Copts as an ethnic minority appeals to the international community and fits into the

Euro-American discourse of minority rights (pg.102). In this regard, the Coptic Diaspora plays an important role. Following sectarian attacks in Nag Hammadi in 2010 and Alexandria in 2011, for example, I remember churches in the Greater Toronto Area and various cities in the United States marching in protest calling on the Canadian and American governments to intervene.10 Gruesome images of bloodied and dismembered martyrs were displayed on posters and banners to show atrocities committed against Copts.

In Egypt however, various church hierarchs maintained state rhetoric that Copts are equal citizens and that Muslims and Christians are both members of the Egyptian State, while Copts in

Diaspora acted as a voice of resistance. Emphasizing the persecution discourse is a means by which

Copts empower themselves amidst ongoing sectarianism and precarity in the Egyptian nation-

State.

Second-generation Copts in Diaspora however, may or may not share in the collective identity of martyrdom and pharaonic heritage. They do not necessarily share the same experience of marginalization that their parents did in Egypt. This raises wider questions about the nature of the Coptic Church outside of Egypt and how various political and social ideologies come to complicate what it means to a Coptic Christian in Diaspora (Chapter 5-7).

10 On Christmas Eve, January 6th 2010, a gunman opened fire on Copts outside of the cathedral of Saint George in Nag Hammadi killing 6 young men. A year later, “al-Kīddīssīn” or the church of “the saints” Mark and Peter the Seal of Martyrs in the district of Sīdī Bishr in Alexandria was the site of a bombing on January 1st 2011 that killed 23 Copts.

The relationship between the Egyptian State and the Coptic Church is complex to say the least. It would be problematic to say that the Coptic Church is a puppet in the hands of the State as some have suggested. I would also use caution in thinking of the Church as functioning fully independent of influence from the State. Rather, I argue that the ambiguity, tensions, and anxieties between the Coptic Church and the Egyptian State are rooted in a question of sovereignty. The

Coptic Church sides with the State on various issues in order to protect its own sovereignty and its role in cultivating Coptic Christian subjects. In the same way that Agrama (2012) argues that the

Egyptian State’s position as a secular or religious State is ambiguous and not always clear, I would argue that the same applies in the question of the spiritual role of the Coptic Church which in many instances responds to the political climate of Copts as a minority by addressing the political in spiritual terms. I must make clear that there is a difference between the relationship between Coptic leadership and the nation-state and the Coptic Church and its individual subjects. This difference is frequently blurred due to appropriating language of spiritual obedience in matters pertaining to the relationship between Church and State. One example of this is the issue of the monastery of

St. Macarius in Wadi el Rayan, which during the papacy of Pope Shenouda was regarded as an illegitimate monastery. When Pope Tawadros ascended to the papacy, he sought to bring the monastery under his direction by appointing three bishops to administrate to the monastery. During this time, the State decided to construct a highway across the Fayoum Oasis that would directly cut through the monastery’s property and destroy an archeological site of 4th century cells also located on the monastery’s property. The State made the argument that archeological sites are property of the State and not the monastery. The Church decided to side with the State, which

29 monks in the monastery protested.11 This is a clear example of the ambiguity of the relationship between Church and State in an attempt by the Church to protect its sovereignty. What this also implicitly suggests is that individual agency that would harm the sovereignty of the Church is reduced to being spiritual disobedience while in fact it is the exercise of individual political agency as members of both Church and State.

A common monastic phrase, “Ibn al-taʿa yahill ʿalaih al-baraka, the son of obedience receives many blessings” was not only apparent in monastic circles but was also used by the

Church hierarchy to prohibit Copts from participating in the January 25th uprising. Pope Shenouda spoke very sharply against taking part in the uprising and encouraged Copts not to take part. This led to a backlash by many Coptic youth activists as an infringement on their personal participation as citizens. Mina Daniel, a Coptic activist, one of the martyrs of Maspero, spoke out against the

Church’s siding with the Mubarak Regime. “The Church for me is my source of spirituality and not my political one.” The January 25th uprising brought forth a shift in many Copts not adhering to the Coptic hierarchy. This was perhaps the most notable time where the Coptic laity refused to be dealt with as a group represented by the person of the patriarch, and exercised their own choices as equal members of the Egyptian Nation-State. Daniel’s words speak directly to points of obedience in spiritual discipleship and not to political decisions. Here Daniel sought to differentiate between Church and State.

In contemporary times, especially during the papacy of Pope Kyrillos and Pope Shenouda, obedience to the hierarchy was usually affiliated with politics. Pope Kyrillos banned Copts from

11 Three of these monks were stripped of their monasticism for not being obedient to the direction of the Church, one of whom was jailed by the State for “illegal protest.” The monks of the monastery came out with documents showing the legitimacy of their land ownership and Papal documents supporting them. The Church denied the documents and said that they related to other matters, while the monks accused the State of coercing Pope Tawadros side with them, threatening to further discriminate and persecute Copts.

30 visiting the Holy Land on the premise that Israel was an illegitimate State from the perspective of

Arab countries. Egypt under Abdel Nasser played a major role in the formation of a common Arab identity across the Middle East. The ban continued under Pope Shenouda III, who became renowned for the famous statement, “We will not enter the Holy Land except alongside our Muslim brothers and sisters.” Pope Shenouda enforced a “No communion for one year” punishment on

Copts who defied his orders, meaning that one could not partake of the Holy Sacraments if they disobeyed this edict. Many Copts who did defy the pope would have a “public confession” published in El Ahram, a state-operated the newspaper, asking for forgiveness. Whether or not they communed after this public confession is not clear. Early in his papacy Pope Tawadros II has also reaffirmed this position stating that “it is treason” if an Egyptian citizen visits the Holy Land.

The ambiguity here, however, is that Pope Tawadros emphasizes “Egyptian citizen” and not Copts.

In fact, Copts in Diaspora are not reprimanded for visiting the Holy Land if they hold non-Egyptian citizenship. What I am emphasizing here is how political allegiances come to be absorbed within an understanding of spiritual discipleship, not only with respect to being Coptic but, in this example, also to being an Egyptian citizen. Personal choices to travel to the Holy Land come to be associated with one’s spiritual disobedience to the Church. One argument that has been put forth is that Pope Shenouda feared being labelled “un-nationalistic,” further pushing Copts to the margins of society. In part, I think the complexity here between the Egyptian Church and State is one that is rooted in homogenizing Copts as a single group, under the Coptic Patriarch, rather than as individual citizens.

What this led to, especially during the presidency of Hosni Mubarak and the Papacy of

Pope Shenouda, was the Coptic Patriarch becoming the sole representative on behalf of Copts.

Here the Coptic Patriarch is being recognized as not only a spiritual leader but also a national figure or statesmen. Pope Tawadros attempted to separate Church and State in his early days as

Pope, but nonetheless demonstrated a similar relationship with the State in his allegiance to Abdel-

Fatah al-Sisi on numerous occasions, especially on June 30th, 2013 when the Muslim Brotherhood was removed from power. The public transcript usually emphasizes acceptance and accommodations for all members of the State to emphasize unity and centralize its power (Scott

1989: 45).

The Egyptian national narrative especially under al-Sisi has been “religion for one, Nation for all.” Even in recent sectarian attacks the State has claimed that attacks on churches are attacks on all Egyptians. While these statements have been recognized by Copts as an indication of a more tolerant and pluralistic government, stating that attacks on churches is an issue affecting all

Egyptians discounts the very important fact that attacks on churches are attacks on Christians, which speak to questions of Copts as a minority in a predominantly Muslim country.

The Coptic Diaspora, particularly North America, in this conversation is important. The

Coptic Diaspora is regarded by the hierarchy as an extension to the Coptic Church in Egypt, not only administratively, but acting as a political voice for Copts in Egypt.

Anthropology of Transnationalism & Diaspora Many scholars in the Anthropology of Christianity and Anthropology of transnationalism have focused on diasporic Christian communities in host societies (Pena 2011, Al-Rustom 2013,

Cao 2013, Daswani 2015, Napolitano 2015). One of the most useful concepts for my examination of the Coptic North American Diaspora is “diasporic religion” as characterized by Paul Johnson

(2007). Johnson (2007: 41-42) characterizes diasporic religion as 1) a fused idealization of both religious and national identifications when representing the “home” society 2) maintaining a sense of continuity with the past through cultural practices 3) emphasizing a sense of equality in the host society as opposed to hierarcichal relationship in the homeland 4) transforming aspects of religion in the host society as a result of constraints in the homeland 5) transforming the homeland “through

32 processes of social and financial remittances, and physical return” 6) reactive to questions of tradition and authenticity, leading to “creative innovations and sometimes inventions” and 7)

“diasporic religious identifications are created and maintained through the work of memory, transit, communication, consumption, political contest and, not least, of ritual” (pgs.41-42).

The characteristics of diasporic religion are important for understanding the Coptic

Diaspora especially in relation to questions of authority, and the connectedness of the hierarchy of the Coptic Church in Egypt to the Diaspora. Diasporic religion in the context of my research is not merely a dual relationship between “home” and “host” nations, but about “in between” spaces that come to reflect particular identities and involve (re)constituting familiarity, security, and a sense of family and belonging. In respect to the Coptic Diaspora in North America, Coptic monasteries and parishes are these spaces “in between” where questions of belonging and identity are

(re)negotiated. While tensions between ecclesiastical authority and individual agency are similar in Egypt and North America, Copts in North America also experience different anxieties. While the hierarchy of the Coptic Church emphasizes the interconnectedness between Diaspora and the

Mother Church, for example, many interlocutors, especially those of the second-generation (born and/or raised in Diaspora) recognize that their Coptic identity is rooted in the faith and tradition of the Church and separated from Egyptian culture (Chapter 5-7). Many second-generation Copts seek to discover or cultivate their Orthodox identity, without Egypt as the center of their Christian identity. Thus, the core of this thesis involves making sense of the tensions, anxieties, and ambiguities between “sameness and otherness” and how sameness and otherness reflect the Coptic

Diasporic experience vis- à-vis one’s relationship to Egypt. A key aspect in negotiating questions of Coptic sameness and otherness is the “centralization” or “decentralization” of Egypt in relation to their personal cultivation into a virtuous Coptic subject. I am a part of the stories of these chapters “and not apart from them,” being both “confider and confidant.” (Napolitano 2015: 4).

It is also important to make clear that the perspectives of second-generation Copts in these chapters do not necessarily conform to the wider opinion of this generation. Second-generation Copts vary in their perspectives about the role of the Mother Church in the cultivation as Coptic Christians in

Diaspora.

Following Axel (2004), Johnson (2007) writes that the term Diasporic horizon “is an apt phrase because it connotes both a spatial edge of longing and a temporal edge of, on the one hand, nostalgia, and, on the other, futurity and desire (Axel 2004: 27, 40). In the first sense, that of a spatial edge, remembered places are sacralized as the source of deep and abiding identity, and religious power is directly measured according to the perceived fidelity of actions done here to actions done there—in the direction endowed with ‘mythical feeling value’ (Cassirer 1955: 85).”

The reality, however, is that the understanding of religious power and ethical subjecthood can often be contested, especially between different generations of diasporic communities. While some interlocutors in these chapters express a nostalgia for Egypt, others, especially those in the 2nd generation, express nostalgia in a different sense, not only for Egyptian culture but for (re)claiming a sense of Orthodox tradition that is not rooted in culture. Tradition with a capital “T” was often described as the dogma or core beliefs of the Church which speak to questions of Salvation, such as the Incarnation, Death and Resurrection of Christ. Tradition with a lower case “t” was often described as the local customs of local churches that can vary based on practice or contemplation but do not affect questions of Salvation. Oliver Herbal (2014) describes Tradition and traditions in a similar light, with Tradition being the “essence” or core of belief, of what is believed to be handed down by Christ to the Apostles up to the present day, while traditions are “practices, teachings, and opinions, that might change” (p.18). which is essentially what is believed to be the faith handed down from Christ to the Apostles. The major debate in the Coptic Diaspora in respect to Tradition and customs is to what degree should customs change to fit the diasporic context, without affecting

34 the Coptic understanding of Tradition. The introduction of Coptic mission parishes in Canada and the United States have attempted to address these questions as will be described. The issue, however, that continues to be a difficult question for the Coptic Church in Diaspora is to what extent should the Church “change”? Should pianos be introduced? Should women be ordained as deaconesses? Should women be permitted to read during Liturgical services? A close examination of these questions suggests that at the heart of the issue are questions of authentic representation

(Johnson 2007: 7) and the extent to which the Coptic Church in North America should resemble the Church in Egypt. It is with these questions in mind that I frame the chapters on diaspora.

Examining the Coptic Diaspora in North America is complex for many reasons. The first is the influx of Coptic migrants to North America as a result of ongoing sectarianism and the systematic oppression of Copts by the Egyptian government. With the increased immigration of Copts from

Egypt, parishes strategize to serve newcomers and the existent community. This strategizing is often around questions of language and church services and the degree of incorporating English,

Arabic, or Coptic.

The theological and ecclesiastical tensions between “T”radition and “t”raditon as addressed above are very closely linked to how anthropologists have spoken about tradition and culture.12 Perhaps one of the most important anthropological discussions of tradition is addressed by Eric Hobsbawm (1983) who focuses on the ways in which tradition is “invented.” By “invented tradition,” Hobsbawn (1983: 1) speaks to the ways in which repetitive practices (usually, but not limited to ritual) are understood in relation to the past, as a continuation of a particular history.

12 “Culture” is a loaded term and one that has been discussed in great depth in the discipline of anthropology (Clifford & Marcus 1986, Clifford 1986, Abu-Lughod 1991). When I speak of “culture” in this thesis I am alluding to the social norms and practices that are widely excepted within a given society.

Similarly to the above argument, Hobsbawn (1983: 2) makes a distinction between Tradition and customs. Customs are precisely the invented traditions that are “are designed to facilitate readily definable practical operations, and are readily modified or abandoned to meet changing practical needs […] (ibid.: 3). In other words customs or “t”radition vary in relation to social and cultural conditions. “Practical operations” are contentions, especially among migrant groups who try to make sense of their identity in relation to host societies.

Quayson and Daswani (2013:4) argue that migrant communities regard “nation and society as coterminous […] [M]igrants [are] assumed to ultimately integrate or assimilate into the country of settlement, with the nation then assumed to be the main horizon for understanding migrant relations across national borders” (ibid.). The reality, however, is that by affirming its identity as a migrant community, the Church negates the transnational identity of Copts who do not see themselves as Egyptians, but as citizens of their countries. While their parents may recognize that they are part of a host society, the second-generation sees it as home. For this reason, I find the term diaspora to be analytically useful because it allows for the inclusion of second generation

Copts in discussions of community identity and representation.

Positionality & Methodology My interest in examining Coptic monasticism stems from my childhood curiosity to discover the “the world of monks.” My father would tell me stories about his close friend who, immediately after graduating from the Faculty of Engineering at Alexandria University, renounced the world and entered the monastic life. When we visited Egypt, my father would try very hard to see his friend. Abuna would send a message to the monk at the gate apologizing that he would not be able to see us. Sometimes he was busy with the Abbot, other times he would simply apologize because he was “resting” and send my father word of his wellbeing, asking for prayers and assuring

36 him he was praying for our family. I would discover during research that “resting” was an ambiguous way for monks to say they were in retreat or solitude, so as not to disclose their private life. Why did this monk not want to see my father? Was my father really a distraction from his monastic canons? What was he doing? Was he conversing with Christ and the saints as I often saw in saint movies that my mom and dad brought home from church occasionally? I was intrigued.

It was not only my father who shared stories about his monk friend but my grandfather

(Gido) as well. He told me stories about his best friend and roommate at Cairo University, Nazir,

A young man originally from Assiut in Upper Egypt, Nazir moved to Cairo with his older brother.

He and my grandfather majored in History. Gido recounted how “different” Nazir was. When their group of friends went out to the cinema, Nazir would politely decline, and spend his time at home reading. If a pretty woman walked in his direction, Nazir would turn his face so as not to look at her. Gido would joke with him and tell him, “Maybe one day you will become pope and we’ll have to kiss your hands.”

After carrying out his military service and finishing university, Nazir worked for a few years as history teacher and later in the Coptic Seminary. He resigned from his job, and left for al-

Souriān Monastery in Wadi El Natroun. About three months later, his older brother received a letter in the mail from “Nazir,” now Monk Antonious al-Souriani, who stated explicitly that he would not meet anyone from the family as he had chosen to “die to the world.” Later Abuna

Antonius was consecrated as Bishop Shenouda, by the late Pope Kyrillos VI against his will as bishop of Christian Education. Following the death of Pope Kyrillos, Bishop Shenouda was ordained as Pope and Patriarch of Alexandria and the See of St. Mark. As a child, it was always fascinating to hear stories about my grandfather and his relationship with Pope Shenouda. They became a part of my family’s oral history.

My parents immigrated with me to Canada when I was 5 months old. Growing up in

Toronto they often recounted to me these stories. I also learned about monasticism in Sunday

School, where most Copts both in Egypt and Diaspora gain knowledge of theology and Church history. During every Divine Liturgy, the Synaxarium (Lives of the Saints), an account of the saints comprised of martyrs and monastics who renounced “the pleasures of this world” for the Kingdom of God, was read. I heard stories of saints who fasted for days at a time, performed ascetic labours and worship. They were attacked by demons and vanquished them by the grace of God and their strenuous patience. Some of these hagiographies were made into movies that I watched with my parents at home.

In Sunday School I was taught lessons from the life of Saint Antony, a young man in Upper

Egypt who heard the words of Christ in the Gospel of Matthew: “If you want to be perfect, go sell what you have, give your money to the poor, pick up your cross and come follow Me.” Without hesitation he sold his goods and his inheritance, placed his sister in a house of virgins, and entered into the Wilderness. He was guided by an angel into the Eastern Desert and became the Father of

Monks. I heard stories of Saint Moses the Strong, a brutal murderer, thief, and adulterer, who repented of his ways, was baptized, became a monk, and later was martyred. We were taught through his narrative that there is no sin that God could not forgive. If Moses became a saint, we could all become saints.

Why was this way of life so appealing? Could one actually live a life like this? Are all monks saints? What about those who are married? Is one who is celibate more pure than someone who has sexual relations? I asked these questions growing up and continued to ask them throughout my doctoral research.

As I began thinking through my dissertation proposal and my interest in researching monasticism, the January 25th Revolution in Egypt happened. From January 25th, 2011 to February

11th, 2011, I sat anxiously in front of my television watching crowds gather in Tahrir Square, demanding an end to President Hosni Mubarak’s thirty-year dictatorship. A part of me doubted that anything would actually happen. After police attacked and killed hundreds of protestors I was sure that crowds would begin letting up and return to their homes. Contrastingly, as days went by, more Egyptians flocked to Tahrir Square, ignoring curfews set by the Egyptian government.

Finally, on February 11th 2011, newly elected Vice-President Omar Sleiman made the announcement we waited for:

“Citizens, in these difficult times that our country is experiencing, President Hosni Mubarak has decided to resign from his position as President of State and delegated the Supreme Council of

Armed Forces to administer to the affairs of State. May God guide our steps.”

I remember jumping off my couch in disbelief, watching crowds at Tahrir Square begin to celebrate by dancing, drumming, and singing. The night skies turned red as Egyptians ignited fireworks to show their happiness. Cameras captured many individuals on their knees or in tears from the overwhelming moment in Egyptian history, while others were seen chanting “Allahu Akbar! God is Great!” My phone began vibrating with text messages to tell me the news, while on Facebook statuses of my Egyptian friends reflected the moment we would all live to remember.

This moment also raised further questions and concerns about the role of Copts and the wider Egyptian public. Would the famous slogan of the Revolution, “Bread, Freedom, and Social

Justice” reflect a transition in Egyptian society where Copts would become recognized as equal members of the Nation-State? How would Copts participate in post-revolution Egypt? Would the

Revolution mark a shift in the relationships between Christians and Muslims? With these questions in mind and realizing that I was about to begin my research during a critical time in Egypt’s modern history, I began to think about the role of monasticism in the lives of Copts post January 25th 2011.

Not only did I begin research during this revolutionary period in Egypt, but it was also a critical moment in the Coptic Orthodox Church. On March 17th 2012 Pope Shenouda III passed away, after 41 years as the Patriarch of the Egyptian Church. There was anxiety about who would become the next pope and how his political and ecclesiastical policies would differ from that of his predecessor. Would the new pontiff be elevated from among the bishops or would he be a desert monk? The overall duration of my research could be summarized as a transitional period both within the Coptic Church and the Egyptian State.

I began preliminary fieldwork in June 2011, days before Mohammad Morsi became the first democratically elected president of Egypt. I carried out research until October 2011 and returned to write my thesis proposal. My father travelled with me and stayed in Egypt for the entire duration of this trip. He accompanied me to many of my visits to various monasteries. He quickly became my “unofficial” research-assistant, often asking questions in conversations with monks I had not thought about, providing the opportunity for further discussions. After our meetings with respective monks we would talk about what we heard and he would encourage me to write down my fieldnotes immediately. Needless to say, my father helped me think through many of the questions I was asking.

I was granted an unusually high degree of access to conduct fieldwork in the monasteries of al-Souriān, St. Bishoy, St. Fana, and St. Mina. I also carried out research in the monasteries of

St. Macarius, al-Baramous, and al-Mohārrak. This access I granted was due to both being male and being recognized by monks as a researcher who is also “a son of the church.”13 While in Cairo and Alexandria, I visited several churches, attending several Bible studies and youth meetings.

13 I think part of the reason that I had access to various monasteries was because of both my gender and methodology being ethnographic. I have heard from fellow (female) Coptic academics (with degrees from Western institutions) that they had a difficult time accessing manuscripts in certain monasteries.

When I left in October, I made the necessary arrangements to return the following summer.

Everything was going well as I prepared for travel. On June 30th 2013 however the second uprising occurred that toppled the Mohammad Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood, through the help of

Abdel-Fatah al-Sisi and the Egyptian Armed Forces.

Immediately after, pro-Morsi and Muslim Brotherhood supporters began attacking and burning churches. I became increasingly worried about the conditions and was reluctant to travel to Egypt, especially since most of my work would be carried out in monasteries. I feared that monasteries would be attacked as well. My supervisors, also worrying about my security, advised me to begin fieldwork in a safer country until things stabilized in Egypt.

It was this that led me to California where I began research at Saint Paul’s Brotherhood and Saint Antony’s Monastery in the Diocese of Los Angeles, Southern California and Hawaii, with the intention to return to Egypt when it was safer. Research in Southern California quickly proved to be valuable as I interviewed Copts who immigrated during different periods, some as early as the late 1950s and as recent as 2014. I took the time to interview many clergymen including priests, deacons, and monks, spending a large portion of my time attending Saint Paul’s American

Coptic Orthodox Church, a church aimed at catering to the spiritual needs of second generation

Coptic immigrants and their families by offering all services in English. It was there that I met

Mark and Amir. In April 2014 I had the opportunity to travel with both of them to visit monasteries in Egypt and to understand how monasticism influenced their daily lives in America. What would compel two married men to leave their wives and children to spend time retreating in various monasteries in Egypt? What connected them to these monasteries? It was during this trip I realized that my research was becoming more about the transnational relationship between the Coptic

Church in Southern California and the Mother Church in Egypt and that it was important for me

41 to trace family connections, stories, and experiences between Egypt and California, many of which are documented in the following pages.

I am aware of certain “blind-spots” that my readers may identify when reading this dissertation, namely questions of gender and perspectives from Muslim Egyptians about monks and monasticism, and Copts more generally. With respect to the question of gender, social taboos and expectations of speaking with Coptic women (especially in Egypt) made it difficult to gather data from women. In attempting to gather information from nuns for example, my access was quite limited. I was permitted to visit convents during the day but was never permitted to spend the night

– with the exception of one convent where Mark, Amir, and I stayed outside of the main quarters in a section designated for male visitors. Even with this exception, acquiring information was very difficult.14

Regarding the absence of Muslim voices from this thesis, it is most obviously a result of the fact that my interlocutors were all Copts, and monasteries are Christian spaces. I did however witness Muslims visit the monastery of Saint Veni15 (Abū Fana) known as the Kahrūta (literally

“the place of crawling”). Both Christians and Muslims in the surrounding towns around the monastery regard Abū Fana as a saint whose prayers help women conceive. Muslims in the area believe that Saint Veni was actually a Muslim Sheikh and call him “Sheikh Fana,” an example of

14Similarly, in one convent, I was told that the nun responsible for the library would call me at a later time to arrange a meeting. I never received this phone call, and thus was not permitted entry to the convent library.

15 The monastery was recently re-inhabited by Coptic monks in 2002 after being a Coptic cemetery for about 500 years. The monastery once housed a monastic community in the sixth century under the spiritual leadership of St. Veni, the founder of the monastery. The narratives that were recounted to me by the monks suggest that the monastery was sacked after the Arab conquest in CE 639. Since then, the monastery became a burial site for Christians until it was revived by the late Pope Shenouda III and the efforts of the current abbot Bishop Demetrious, the Bishop of Manlawi. the monastery has also been a site for sectarian conflicts, with the most recent in 2008 when three monks were kidnapped by Muslim extremists in the area over land disputes. They claimed that the monastery had built a wall they were not entitled to and demanded the wall be taken down and the land given to them. Although the monastery had the documents to prove that the land belonged to them, 15 square kilometres were handed over. The three monks were tortured and returned to the monastery 24 hours later.

42 how Christians and Muslims relate a particular history to a particular sacred site (Mayeur-Jaouen

2012:150). On numerous occasions, I observed young Muslim women entering the monastery and going straight to the Kahrūta. On one occasion in particular I even a saw a completely veiled woman (munāqaba) walk to the site. 16

There was only one instance during fieldwork I was able to speak to a Muslim scholar over the telephone in an attempt to understand Muslim perspectives of monks and monasteries. He reiterated views propagated by some Muslim clerics that monasteries are havens for weapons intended to be used against Muslims.17 While he himself did not hold the same views, it was clear to me that he did not have much to say about monks except that they are holy men who live in the desert fasting and praying, reiterating the popular social imagination of monks as moral exemplars.

While Christians and Muslims might share certain sites, they do not know much about each other (Mayeur-Jaouen 2012). I think it is fair to argue that Copts are much more aware of Muslim practices than Muslims are about Christian ones, simply because Islam in Egypt is very public. In both cases, this lack of understanding the other’s religious practices leads to the isolation of “the other” and the creation of stereotypes and generalizations.

16 This is particularly uncharacteristic of monasteries in Wadi El Natroun and Lower Egypt more generally.

17 An example of this is the ultra-Islamic view that monasteries and churches house “weapons of mass destruction”, particularly semi-automatic weaponry that Copts will one day use against Muslims in Egypt. Prominent Salifist Sheikhs such as Salim al-Awa and Wagdi Gohneim have appeared on many internet sites and in Youtube videos making these allegations prompting a misconception about the role of monasteries in Egypt. In one video after the burning of a church Imbaba, a Salifist Sheikh appeared on television saying that when they had entered the church to investigate the damage, they (it is unclear who “they” are) found women’s clothing, books of black magic and witchcraft, and alcohol. It was confirmed by the priest of the church afterwards that the women’s clothing were donated to the church for young brides who needed help financially form the church, the “books of witchcraft” were in fact Coptic liturgical service books written in Coptic, and the alcohol was the wine used for the Sacrament of the Eucharist (Communion). It is difficult to say how many Muslims believe these fabrications but it is certainly clear that they are well publicized.

Summary of Chapters Chapter One examines the emergence of Coptic monasticism in Egypt as a lay-movement and ways in which monasticism over the centuries has been absorbed by the ecclesiastical authority of the Coptic Orthodox, largely influenced by socio-political and economic circumstances. The chapter also examines the relationship between the Church and State in the last 100 years or so from which also arose many internal tensions between the Church on the role of the laity and the role of the clergy. This chapter with its historical focus explains the ways in which the desert has influenced the social understanding of monastics as exemplary moral figures and the ways in which monastic spirituality has come to be a part of the everyday life of Copts and a means by the

Church to cultivate virtuous Copts.

In Chapter Two, I describe the daily life in a monastery (contextualized in relation to the numerous monasteries visited), with a particular focus on steps and processes one takes when choosing the monastic life and the various modes of discipline incorporated with the cultivation of a virtuous Coptic subject. I also examine the rituals which take place when one is consecrated as a monk. These rituals play an important role in the formation of the social and moral expectations of how a monk ought to conduct himself, and the wider social imaginations that influence the interactions between monks and laity. I also examine the different spatial infrastructures which function as “layers” of social deliberation (Irvine 2010) between monks and laity. Monastic space I argue extends beyond the walls of a monastery as a result of the ways in which monastic ideologies come to influence the cultivation of the Coptic subject.

Chapter Three explores the ways in which watching Coptic movies (hagiopics) as authorized by the church hierarchy come to affect the ways in which some Copts seek to be cultivated into virtuous subjects. This chapter begins to address the ways in which representations of monks in these films set expectations for viewers on how to live a pious life as well as what to

44 expect from monks. I describe tensions and anxieties that emerge from an inability to live up to the depiction of monastic saints in these hagiopics which demonstrate how monks are socially imagined.

Chapter Four unpacks the tensions between faith, and expected patterns of holiness, and the anxieties of trying to meet up to the expectations of living a holy Christian life, often influenced by the model of monastics. I examine the ways in which Coptic monks come to reflect “marked bodies” of holiness through their black clothing and their celibacy, often regarded as agencies for their life of holiness. These expectations are rooted in a Coptic social imagination that deem Coptic monastics as moral exemplars and models of virtue to be emulated.

Chapter Five examines Coptic monasticism in North America. I argue in this chapter that the imagined understanding of the monk as an exemplary figure has influenced an attempt to create the separate contemplative and service-oriented monasticism in California with the formation of

Saint Paul’s Brotherhood, a monastic order established by the bishop of Southern California. This separation is rooted, I argue, in perceived expectations of what it means to be a monk.

Chapter Six speaks about the ways in which Coptic monastic ideologies are transmitted to the wider Coptic laity. I examine the ways in which wider monastic understanding of discipleship, obedience and fatherhood are reflected in individual households and well as how second- generation Copts come make sense spiritual obedience in light of hierarchal authority.

Chapter Seven investigates the (de)centralization of Egypt in its role in cultivating what it means to be a Copt in Diaspora, addressing questions of anxiety and lived faith both as a member of the Coptic Orthodox Church and an individual in the respective host society. I also engage with questions pertaining to the relationship between the Coptic Diaspora and the Egyptian State, arguing that the Coptic Diaspora in North America plays an important role in questions of citizenship and Egyptian loyalty in the Egyptian Nation State.

Historical Overview of Coptic Monasticism, Ecclesiastical Authority, & Tensions of Power

This chapter aims to outline key moments in the history of the Coptic Church that exemplify the relationship between the hierarchy of the Church, monastics, and the laity. These relationships have often been complicated and largely influenced by the wider politics during respective periods in Coptic history, which have led to power struggles, resistance, and tensions over empowerment. Such moments eventually led to the absorption of monasticism into the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Church, and in more contemporary times, led to Coptic citizenship being reduced to the relationship between the Church and State. The contentious historical moments described in this chapter must be understood as more than struggles for power, but also a means by which monastic exemplarity became prominent and authorized by the Coptic Church.

With this being said, I will provide my reader with the necessary socio-political and economic background to understand how Coptic identity is propagated, negotiated, and resisted by various actors. As will be made evident, monasticism emerged in Egypt as a lay-movement that, while remaining as part of the Church, resisted ecclesiastical authority on the bases of seeking a more virtuous path amidst the rise of the influence of imperialism on the Church (Brakke 1995).

Monastics remained part of the Church and were not separated from it (Bandak and Boylston

2014). Furthermore, I demonstrate how over time the relationship between Church and State has led to the Egyptian State recognizing the Coptic patriarch as the sole representative of Copts. This has not only led to the Church exercising authority over questions of Coptic citizenship but also extends to thinking about the ways in which the Coptic Church proliferates a particular understanding of what it means to be a virtuous citizen and Copt.

46 47

1.1 The Emergence of Monasticism & Ecclesiastical Authority

Monasticism emerged in Egypt as a lay-movement at the end of the third and beginning of the fourth century. Saint Antony the Great, a native of Upper Egypt, withdrew into the desert in about AD 285. According to the Life of Antony written by Saint Athanasius, when Antony heard the words of the Gospel of Saint Mark – “If you want to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me”– Antony sold his possessions and withdrew into the desert to live a life of asceticism and worship. While Antony was not the first to withdraw into the desert, the title “Father of all Monks” has since been attributed to him because of a vision he had, which instructed him in conducting his daily life. Later on, many visitors who desired to live a similar lifestyle, dedicated to asceticism and worship, came to be attracted to the life of Saint Antony.

This type of ascetic exemplarity led to the development of other forms of monasticism, namely, semi-anchoretic and coenobitic, or communal monasticism. Semi-anchoretic monasticism is attributed to Saint Macarius the Great, a disciple of Antony. A monk following this rule would live in the desert and come to the monastery or church on Sundays to partake of the Holy Eucharist, assemble with the brethren afterwards for a “word of benefit” or homily by an elderly monk, and an agape or communal meal. Afterwards he would return to his cell in the desert for the remainder of the week in constant prayer and vigil. Saint Pachomius, the founder of several monastic communities in Thebes (present day Luxor), established coenobitic or communal monasticism.

Pachomius emphasized communal life—where monks pray, eat, and work together in the same vicinity. Accordingly, “the Pachomian system reflected the personality of a soldier, legislator, and holy man, to which a monk’s daily activities were confined to the monastery walls, where the monk’s personal vocation was to his brotherhood and to his full participation in the devotional

48 duties of monastic life” (Atyia 1981). Pachomius “formalized” monastic rituals and customs through the formation of his rule, which was unprecedented. In sum, monasticism emerged from an independent lay-movement from the institutional Church, primarily after the “era of Christian persecution,” and came to be reflected as “martyrdom without bloodshed.”

The role of monks in the Egyptian Church is one arguably linked to various political and theological debates. Alexandrian bishops sought to establish the orthodoxy of the Alexandrian

See18 with the aid of monks who began to grow in numbers and desired the ascetic life in the desert.

As Stephen Davis (2004:46) asserts, “the patriarchs’ cultivation of monastic support during the fourth and fifth centuries indelibly shaped the historical identity of the Egyptian patriarchate, and played a crucial role in the establishment of a Coptic doctrinal orthodoxy”. Their location in the desert also meant that they were not immediately under the authority of the bishop, thus enabling a possible form of criticism of “Episcopal Christianity” (Brakke 1995:81).19 In his book

Athanasius and Asceticism, David Brakke (1995) focuses on the ways in which Saint Athanasius incorporated ideas of celibacy and asceticism into the teachings of the Church by consolidating monasticism into the Church’s hierarchy. According to Brakke, this was a move on Athanasius’ part to detach monks from “competing Christian groups”, namely the Meletians and Arians.

(p.82).20

18 The “Alexandrian See” essentially refers to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the Alexandrian Church.

19 The expression “Episcopal Christianity” refers to the Early Church as a Church governed by different bishops as leaders of Christian communities and is not to be confused with the Episcopalian Church (a denomination of Protestant Christianity). While monks of course were part of the church, history has shown that there are times when they opposed bishops. The example of Saint Pachomius and Bishop Serapion mentioned in this chapter is one example.

20 See also Brakke (1995) pg. 102.

Athanasius asserted that monasticism was “an extension of the network of parish churches that bishops administered” (ibid.).21 Moreover, in seeking to bridge the gap between monastics and the Church, Athanasius corresponded with monastic figures in the Delta region (p. 84).

Athanasius canonized “bodily ascetic practice as part of dogma to be defined and guarded by the bishop […] By painting differences in ascetic practice as matters of heresy and orthodoxy,

Athanasius implicitly positioned ascetic Christians within the Church and under the bishop’s authority” (84, 97). Athanasius emphasized that “withdrawal from the world was not desirable in its own right but had to be undertaken in a manner that was morally responsible and attentive to the unity of the Church” (p. 107). To emphasize this position, in his biographical account of Saint

Antony the Great, Athanasius depicts Antony as one who submitted to the hierarchy of the

Church.22 What this suggests is that the ways in which the moral subject, particularly that of a monk, could be cultivated was only through the authorized discourse of the Church, which deemed what was “orthodox” and “authentic” ascetic practice. Ascetical practice could not be divorced from the theology of the Church.

Brakke (1995:81) argues that the rise of withdrawal of men into the desert was in part a result of a reaction or “protest against the worldly nature of imperial Christianity”. The irony however, is that monasteries at that time (as well as now) accumulated a great amount of wealth due to the patronage of pilgrims and laity who frequented the monasteries. This suggests that monasteries began to be a threat to the ecclesiastical authority of the Church because of their growing wealth and increasing membership (Brakke 1995). The bringing of monasticism under

21 It was often recounted to me that monasticism was the backbone of the Church, similar to the ways in which Saint Athanasius viewed monasticism as an extension of parish life.

22 See Brake (1995), p.109 for specific examples.

50 the authority of the Church was a strategy used to ensure that any threats from competing groups would be negated, while the political autonomy of the Church under the bishop would be maintained. On the other hand, it poses the question whether or not monastic communities would have been able to flourish as they did from the fourth century if they had maintained full autonomy without the influence of the ecclesiastical authority. While I cannot answer this question immediately, monasticism has certainly played a crucial role in the Alexandrian Church, in respect to both internal and external politics. What is clear from both Brakke (1995) and Davis’ (2004) arguments is that the Patriarchs (or Bishops of Alexandria) played an instrumental role in bringing monasticism under the ecclesiastical authority of the church and often relied on monks to define and maintain the Orthodoxy of the Alexandrian Church.23

Though the interaction between monk and the world was “quite common” (Brakke

1995:81), it was the “geographical and symbolic division between desert and settled land [i.e. urban space] which made the monks appear more distant from local worshipping communities

[…]” (ibid.). The withdrawal of the monk into the desert was both “symbolically and politically important” because the “great imaginative distance between the city and the desert” was powerful, while from a political perspective, the withdrawal of men into the desert incidentally resulted in

23 Another example of this is Saint Cyril of Alexandria taking Saint Shenoute with him to the council of Ephesus in AD 431 to refute the heresy of Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople. When entering the Council, Nestorius removed the Bible from a chair and sat down. Shenoute became enraged, leaped and picked up the Bible from the ground, striking Nestorius on the chest. Nestorius rebuked Shenoute and questioned his presence at the council, as he was only a monk and not bishop. Shenoute responded, “I am he whom God wished to come here in order to rebuke you for your iniquities and reveal the errors of your impiety in scorning the sufferings of the only begotten Son of God, which he endured for us that he might save us from our sins” (Besa and Bell 1983: 78). At that point, Nestorius fell from his chair and Cyril elevated Shenoute to the rank of Archimandrite (head of a monastic community). Besa, the disciple of Shenoute who is credited for writing his biography, depicted Shenoute as a proponent of the orthodoxy of the Alexandrian Church, who Cyril took with him to Ephesus because of his zeal Orthodox faith.

“the removal of competing male figures from the immediate proximity of insecure bishops” (p.80-

81).

With the rise of monasticism as articulated above, tensions arose between the institutional

Church (through its clergy) and the monastic communities. In an attempt to maintain control over monasteries, bishops sought to ordain monks as priests. In doing so, the bishop ensured that the monastic community would not act against him. A notable example of a bishop attempting to exercise his authority over monasteries in his diocese is Bishop Serapion, who tried numerous times to have Saint Pachomius ordained as a priest (Brakke 1995). When he failed, Serapion asked

Athanasius to intervene during his tour of the monasteries of Upper Egypt. According to the Coptic version of The Life of Pachomius, when Saint Athanasius arrived at the monastery to ordain him,

Pachomius hid among the monks. While it is plausible that Saint Pachomius did so out of humility,

Brakke suggests that it was a political decision to ensure that Pachomius maintained full autonomy over his community. Moreover, one of the major factors for Bishop Serapion seeking control over

Pachomius’ monastery was that many laity began visiting the monastery and financially supporting the needs of the monks. This meant that Serapion lost the opportunity to gain financial resources that could have been used to support all the churches in Serapion’s diocese. Athanasius’ lack of intervention was not so much about him siding with Pachomius, but had more to do with the fact that he had a more important issue at hand, which was to gain popularity amongst the monks of the Thebaid region against the Meletian counterpart. Sources suggest that Athanasius had a very good relationship with the Pachomian Federation, especially after the death of Pachomius, where he was able to influence reconciliation in a leadership dispute between Horsisius and Theodore.24

24 See Brakke (1995) p. 120-129.

In sum, while Athanasius recognized the autonomy of the Pachomian federation of monasteries, he sought to bring monks and monasteries under the ecclesiastical authority of the Church to secure the orthodoxy and position of the Alexandrian See.

1.2 Relationship of Monks to the World

In both the historical and modern context, it would be inaccurate to suggest that monastic communities were in complete isolation from the world (Goehring 1993, Brakke 1995). This should not discount the fact that certain monks consciously made an effort to remain within their monastic communities, without having to “descend to the world” unless in dire need or in a matter of urgency. In The Vitae Antoni for example, Athanasius writes that Antony the Great left the desert on two occasions: the first seeking martyrdom, but being preserved by God so that he may impact the world, and secondly, to take a stance with Athanasius against the Arians and affirm the orthodoxy of the Council of Nicaea and Athanasius. Many other stories of the Desert Fathers suggest that certain monks would also “descend to the world” to sell the goods produced by the monastic community, to buy foods and other provisions for the community and return, or to have a non-monastic take the works of their hands and sell them on their behalf.25

Manual labour in the Egyptian context was very important, as it was a means by which a monk fought against boredom and engaged in spiritual contemplation (Agaiby 2015:16). Manual labour was therefore a “contemplative aid” by which the monk sought to exhaust himself in bodily labour with the intention of “subduing his flesh” and focusing on God (ibid.:22-23). Peter Brown

(2016) makes a very interesting comparison between monastic labour in Egypt and Syria. The

Syrian model of the monk emphasized that he was an earthly angel and, in a sense, divinized the

25 See Agaiby (2015). Pgs. 69-72. As well as pg. 151-152 on St. John the Short or the “Dwarf”.

53 monk. In the Egyptian context, the emphasis on manual labour suggests that the monk ought to remember his sins before him at all times, remember that he was human and to “eat from the sweat of his brow.”26 Other narratives suggest that a layman would take on this responsibility, allowing for certain monastic communities to remain distant from the world. As has been made clear above however, monks would have been more visible in the world when it came to theological matters, strengthening the position of the Church. For instance, Saint Shenoute of Atripe descended from the monastery with his monks to destroy pagan idols and temples, to affirm Christianity in Upper-

Egypt (Lopez 2013:24).

An interesting examination of Egyptian monasticism in late antiquity nonetheless suggests that Egyptian monks were regarded as “living exemplars,” who in the words of Elizabeth Agaiby

(2015:12) “embodied the ideals that the scriptures described and soon set the standard for monks living elsewhere in the Roman Empire.”27 The archetype of monastic exemplarity was Saint

Antony the Great, whose narrative as stated above, was written and propagated by Saint

Athanasius, who often spoke about the blessed life of monks in his own homilies and sermons.28

Moreover, what makes Antony a moral exemplar is that he was seen to be a “living text” because his life was rooted in scripture (Agaiby 2015: 67, Bandak 2012, 2015.). In other words, he did not

26 Although it is not the theme of this thesis— knowing that there are centuries of co-mingling between Syrian and Egyptian monks in Egypt, notably in Wadi el Natorun in the Monastery of the Virgin Mary, which became known as the “monastery of the Syrians” because of the Syrian monks who inhabited the monastery— it would be interesting to trace the folklore of the monk as an earthly angel to whether or not it influenced the imaginary of the Coptic monk today.

27 The monastic imaginary described in this dissertation more broadly suggests that, as one who is regarded as abandoning the world, the monk is regarded as a foremost figure of exemplarity. While monks can be ordained priests, lay-priests who are married cannot become monks, but only those lay-priests who are celibate and not married. More will be discussed on this subject in Chapter 4 of this dissertation.

28 An example of this is articulated by Agaiby (2015) who quotes the monk Ammon, who says that “at the age of seventeen, having become a Christian, I heard the blessed pope Athanasius relating in church the way of life of the monks…Loving what I heard from him, I went out and chose their blessed life for myself” (p.59-60).

54 live by a particular monastic rule as Agaiby (2015:62) suggests, but his canon was for the love of

God and the love of the neighbour as proclaimed in the Gospel and as is reflected in the Early

Church, which was something that Antony and his disciples strived for. 29

1.3 Education, Reform & Contesting Authority

As articulated above, monasticism in Egypt emerged as a lay-movement. The role of the laity in the Church is one of vital importance, not only with respect to the majority of Copts being lay-persons, but also because their role in the Church has often been to call for institutional reform at various times. My analysis of the role of the laity will focus on approximately the last 100 years, when state politics affected the relationship between the Pope and the laity, especially with the formation of the Coptic Lay-Council which was founded in 1874. Since its formation, the authority of Coptic Lay-Council has constantly been shifting, at times having a greater influence on the

Church than others, in relation to the political circumstances of Egypt.

In 1805, Albanian-born Muhammad Ali became the viceroy of Egypt by Ottoman decree.

He was swift to gain control by killing leaders of the ruling Memluk families as well as prominent

Sheikhs, in order to ensure that no rebellion would occur during his rule. Ali was able to defeat them with the help of the Ulama30 of Cairo (Ibrahim 2011: 13). When Ali gained significant power in Egypt, he separated from the Ottoman Empire and established his own “dynasty.”

29 See also Agaiby’s (2015) articulation of Pachomian monasticism p. 90-95. In Pachomian monasteries, monks were set in houses divided by trade where they would work and pray together, providing for both the community and those in need. Peter Brown (1971:83) describes that Pachomius’ monastic community was called “The Village.” (Agaiby 2015:102).

30 The Ulama are Muslim scholars and leaders of Muslim communities.

His reforms were significant and contrasted with the preceding rulers of Egypt in that he sought to “[blur] the social, political and legal boundaries between residents of Egypt” (ibid.). His style of governance was also different than the Mamlukes when it came to dealing with minorities in several aspects. Notably, he preferred to deal with leaders or representatives of institutions rather than groups of individuals. This would in effect result in the Coptic Patriarch gaining considerable authority, as wealthy, lay-Copts who had previously influenced the administration of the Church under the rule of the Memlukes were now stripped of their power as Muhammad Ali wanted to deal only with the Patriarch (Pope Peter VII). Therefore, the status of the Coptic patriarch as representative of Copts in the eyes of governing power was re-introduced by Ali, a relationship that had been weakened since the 17th century as a result of the accumulation of wealth and power by certain lay-Copts.31 In other words, as a consequence of the centralization of authority under

Muhammad Ali’s rule, ecclesiastical authority in the Coptic Church was centralized in the person of the Pope, Peter VII. This would continue to be the relationship of the Egyptian State with the

Coptic Church until the present.32

31 See Guirguis and van Doorn-Harder (2011), Pgs 64-65 for further details. .

32 During Ali’s reign, Copts enjoyed many freedoms that they did not have previously, including governmental and administrative positions. Ali implemented a “formal” strategy for collecting taxes that relied heavily on “Coptic land surveyors, tax collectors, and scribes” (Hassan 2003: 33). What is interesting and at the same time paradoxical to Ali’s notion of equality in Egypt, is that he did not abolish the Jiziah but rather created three rates: one for the wealthy Copts and Jews in larger towns (thirty-six piasters), the poor (nine piasters), and a “special” rate for those living in rural areas where the tax was lifted from individuals but was levied on a family bases (Ibrahim 2011: 17). The Jiziah was a tax imposed on “People of the Book,” i.e. Christians and Jews, living under Islamic rule. It was not until 1856, during the papacy of Cyril IV and the Rule of Kedive Sa'id (1854-63), that the Dhimmi status of Copts and other minorities in Egypt were lifted (Guirgius & van Doorn-Harder 2011: 70). Having Dhimmi status meant that Copts could not join the army, participate in politics, or be educated in government schools. With the lift of the Dhimmi status and the introduction of "Hatt-I- Humayun” decree, Copts were granted civil equality as members of the Egyptian State, while requiring to pledge allegiance with the Empire (ibid.).

Changes and reforms took place not only at the state level, but also inside the church. The era of Kyrillos (Cyril) the IV (1853-1861), Peter’s successor, was marked by many church reforms leading to Kyrillos commonly referred to as the “Father of [Coptic] Reformation” (Abu’l Islah in

Arabic). His reforms of the Coptic Church can be categorized into three main aspects: reforming education, administrative or ecclesiastical reforms and iconography (ibid.: 22).33 Kyrillos opened up several private Coptic schools, catering not only to Christians but also to all Egyptians (ibid.).

Paul Sedra (2011:106) has also argued that Kyrillos’ papacy marked a pivotal moment in the

Egyptian education system, in an attempt to “fashion a modern Coptic political identity.” Before

Kyrillos’ leadership, clergy and laity had high levels of illiteracy. Taking the example of

Evangelical missionaries in respect to the establishment of schools, Kyrillos attempted to spread education and theological knowledge and empower both clergy and laity alike. He sought to eliminate the spread of “superstition” among Copts by educating the clergy himself (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder 2011:74, Sedra 2011:111.) Kyrillos therefore implemented mandatory courses for Coptic clergy at the Patriarchate, where they were enrolled in theology classes and participated in debates every Saturday (Sedra 2011: 111). Part of their education also included taking Coptic language classes and learning to read Coptic sources and biblical commentaries, as opposed to those written in Arabic (ibid.).

His changes also included administrative reforms, by reviewing “the church’s revenues and expenditures and created a new diwān (unit) that oversaw the waqfs (religious endowments or charitable donations), correspondence and religious work” (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder 2011:

33 I am only focusing on his educational and administrative reforms.

74). Kyrillos also sought to provide salaries for priests, as an alternative to various forms of donations from church congregants, though this policy did not take hold until the papacy of

Shenouda III (ibid.:74-75). Many of Kyrillos’ Church reforms were later undone by his successor,

Demetrius II; however, Demetrius maintained a continued focus on the building of Coptic schools such as one in Assiut, in response to Protestant missionaries (ibid.:85)

After the of death of Pope Demetrius II in 1870, the locus tenum (interim patriarch)

Metropolitan Markus of al-Beheira, decided to establish a committee of laypersons that would help the next pope in the administration of community affairs (ibid.: 88). The council would consist of “twelve elected and twelve substitute members and was to be chaired by the pope” (ibid.). The

Coptic Lay-Council was established in 1874, with the ascension of Cyril V to the Patriarchal throne of Alexandria and the See of St. Mark the Apostle. As per the committee, “the members of the resulting Church Community Council would advise the pope on Coptic financial and civil affairs

(issues relating to personal status such as marriage, divorce and inheritance), and supervise churches, schools, and the waqfs” (ibid.: 89). The papacy of Cyril V was one of the longest in the history of the Church. His era was defined as a time of Coptic “awakening” and reform (Guirguis

& van Doorn-Harder: 88). His papacy would also prove to be a continuous struggle with the Coptic

Lay-Council over Church authority. Cyril petitioned the Khedive twice, conveying that the Lay-

Council undermined his authority as patriarch and was against the traditions of the Church (ibid.:

90-91).34 The Lay-Council itself was made of reputable Copts who were well established members of the State. The Khedive sided with the Lay-Council and on September 1st 1892 and under

34 When it was formed and in order to legitimize itself, the Coptic Lay-Council turned to Church canon law of the 13th century, specifically of the “Coptic jurist Ibn al-‘Assal, according to which laymen with specialized knowledge were allowed to provide advice to the clerical hierarchy” (Guirguis & van Doorn Harder 2011: 9).

Khedival decree, Cyril was sent to exile in the Monastery of el Baramous (ibid.: 91). It was not until six months later that Cyril returned to Cairo triumphant, because he was loved by his flock

(ibid.: 91). What was clear during this time was that the State was heavily involved in the internal affairs of the Church. The recognition of the Coptic Lay-Council by the State “marked two new developments in Coptic history: it legitimized the role of the laity in church affairs and it showed a new tendency to appeal to the government for arbitration in Coptic conflicts that used to be solved within the community” (ibid.: 89-90.) An important contention relevant to this thesis occurred between the Coptic Lay-Council, the pope and monastery abbots, about revenue incurred through endowments of land. Since monasteries owned massive amounts of land, the income from the endowments exceeded the needs of the monks (ibid.: 92).35

A second point that is important to the development of the Coptic Lay-Council was the rise of Protestant missionaries and their influence on Copts more broadly. Seeing the method of democratic administration in the Protestant churches, for example, the Coptic Lay-movement looked to this style as being more appropriate, and perhaps more modern than the ways in which the Coptic Church was administrated (ibid.:92). Cyril reacted to this and sought to reform education in the Coptic Church and prevent Copts from joining Protestant churches (ibid.: 93).

Cyril was a proponent of charitable organizations which worked to educate illiterate Copts and administer various health projects such as “The Great Benevolent Coptic Society” (ibid.:94). He was also determined to increase the level of education of Copts, especially among the clergy. The

Coptic Lay-Council established the Coptic seminary in 1875, only to have it closed by Cyril a few

35Van Doorn-Harder makes reference to an example in 1926 when “around one hundred monks inhabiting seven monasteries had access to LE 300,000 in revenues from five thousand to nine thousand feddans of land” (ibid.). It was not clear how the money was spent since monk took a vow of poverty” (ibid.).

59 months later, but reopened in 1893 (ibid.:95). Both the pope and the Lay-Council recognized that there was a need to better educate Copts (ibid.).36

With Cyril V’s desire to focus on education in the Church – which he made known through a papal decree in 1899 – Habib Girgis took it upon himself to begin teaching religion to young children in al-Fajjālah, Cairo in 1900. This is widely regarded as the birth of Sunday Schools in the Coptic Church (ibid.: 75). Though Girgis modeled Coptic Sunday School after that of the

Protestant mission groups in Egypt, the focus of Girgis’ initiative was to make the content orthodox. He dedicated his life to education in the Coptic Church. Never marrying and remaining celibate, Girgis became an example to many youth who would become part of what is widely referred to as the Sunday School Movement (largely a youth movement). His students would include Nazir Gayad, who later became Pope Shenouda III.

From 1935-1942, the Sunday School Movement flourished as a lay-movement and “taught their students that what mattered most were not political and social squabbles but one’s inner- growth and individual spirituality. The ideas took hold that a new generation with a strong inner spiritual life could bring about a revival of the church” (ibid.:114). Led by Habib Girgis, the

Sunday School Movement worked not only to educate Copts, but to counter the influence of

Catholic, and especially Protestant missionaries. In other words, the identity of the Coptic Church during this period was shaped by its response to Western missionaries. Out of the Sunday School

Movement emerged two models: the Shubra school, and the Giza school. While the former was heavily rooted in education and church teaching, the latter was focused on social development

36 Perhaps the most important figure in respect to Coptic education was Habib Girgis. He was himself a graduate of the Coptic seminary in 1898 and became the dean of the college in 1918. (Surial 2014:73).

60 among Copts as members of Egyptian society. Nazir Gayad was part of the Shubra group, based out of the church of Saint Antony. A zealous young man who graduated from the faculty of History at Cairo University, Nazir and his peers exerted much pressure in reforming the Church not only through Sunday School classes but also through publishing material on Church matters. Nazir became the editor-in-chief of Majallat madāris al-ahad (The Sunday School Magazine), where he regularly published material on church reform and the direction of ecclesiastical authority.37 One of their significant activities was organizing retreats (khilwa) to monasteries amongst themselves, in order to gain spiritual insight from and enrich their own service (Hasan 1993:81, Kost 2014:

14). Interestingly both groups were largely youth movements, influenced by the monastic example of Father Mina al-Baramousy (later Pope Kyrillos VI), as will be addressed below. The spirituality of the desert and solitude of retreat not only became a means through which they deepened their services in church parishes, but would also prove to be a deciding factor for many of them becoming monks later on.

1.4 The Sunday School Movement

While it was historically customary that only monks were ordained as patriarchs38, in 1928 there was a shift in this tradition which allowed diocesan bishops to be elevated to the rank of patriarch.39 Yoannis XIX (1928-42), Macarius III (1944-45), and Yusab II (1946-56) were all

37Among his notable publications, was his stance against the ordination of a bishop as a patriarch.

38 There are rare instances where a layman was ordained as Patriarch. These include Pope Demetrious “the Vine- Dresser” (12th Patriarch of Alexandria). and Pope Abraām ibn Zaraʿa (62nd Patriarch of Alexandria).

39In the Coptic tradition, the bishop is viewed as being “married” to his diocese. For this reason, a diocesan bishop cannot leave his diocese for another, as he would be regarded as “divorcing” his diocese. Consequently, a bishop cannot be replaced, except after his death. Those opposing the elevation of a diocesan bishop to patriarch do so on the

61 diocesan bishops prior to their ascension to the papacy. Prior to the elevation of Yoannis XIX, the

Holy Synod changed this tradition with the argument that the Coptic Church was undergoing a difficult period of history and required a new patriarch with substantial administrative expertise, rather than a monk from the desert. This of course incited many tumults and divisions within the

Church, as this was widely regarded as a “clerical decision” that did not include the wider Coptic laity, especially the Coptic Lay-Council (Guirguis & van-Doorn-Harder 2011: 112). The period of their papacies would result in contentious relationships between ecclesiastical authority and the

Coptic Lay-Council, especially in matters dealing with endowments and the legalities of marriage and divorce (Guirguis & van-Doorn Harder 2011: 113). Yoannis did however continue to focus on the education of priests, and especially monks, by establishing a theological school for monks in Helwan in 1928 (ibid.: 114).

Metropolitan Yusab of Girga would succeed Pope Macarius in 1946, and had also been the interim Patriarch and candidate for the papacy prior to Macarius’ election in 1944.40 Pope Yusab himself was well educated and was part of the Coptic elite prior to his monastic vows. He received a doctoral degree at the Theological College in Athens, where he learned and became fluent in

Greek and French (ibid.: 123). Prior to his papacy, he was the abbot of the Coptic monastery in

Jaffa and later, the metropolitan of Girga since 1920 (ibid.). He is remembered in modern Coptic

bases that he would be a bishop with two dioceses of his own, (since Alexandria is considered the diocese of the Patriarch).

40 In 1944 Metropolitan Macarius of Asiut was elected as Pope Macarius III. His papacy was short, about one year. His papacy can be summarized as a “tug of war” with the Lay-Council, which continued to seek control over land endowments belonging to the church. When they did not agree and government intervention failed, Pope Macarius withdrew to the monastery of Saint Anthony where he succumbed to illness and died in 1945 (Guirguis& van Doorn- Harder 2011: 122).

62 history as “The Ill-fated Patriarch” (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder (2011: 123). Much controversy surrounded him due to his personal assistant named Milik, who essentially engaged in simony41 by which he “sold as many as sixteen of the nineteen available bishoprics” (ibid.) and accumulated

21,00042 Egyptian LE from IOUs sold to bishops (Hasan 2003:59). After much public scrutiny,

Milik was removed from his position as the Pope’s secretary along with five other associates in

September 1952, only to return a few months later (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder 2011: 125).

Consequently, this led to the formation of the Coptic Nation, a youth movement led by young

Coptic lawyer Ibrahim Hilal who would abduct the Patriarch in November 1954. Pope Yusab would return to his position for a short period of time until the Holy Synod and the Community

Council would depose him of his duties on September 20th, 1955.

From this brief incident, it was clear that the Coptic Nation was adamant on bringing Copts into the political and national landscape by demonstrating that Pope Yusab represented a corrupt system that favored the elite and itself, over the majority of Egyptians. Nonetheless, the Coptic

Nation would fail, not because of their inability to mobilize; in fact, they were even backed by a group of young bishops (Ibrahim 2011 168-174). They were unsuccessful mainly because of their militant ideologies that did not sit well with the majority of young Copts, including those of the parallel Sunday School Movement who, through education and intellectual implementations, sought to reform the Church from within.

41 Simony is a word used for the selling of ecclesiastical positions. The term is named after Simon the Magician in the Book of Acts (8:18), who offered Peter money in exchange for being able to work miracles in the name of Jesus and also be bestowed with the authority of the Apostles. Peter rebuked him and called on him to repent.

42 This amount is equivalent to roughly $1160 USD today. During the 1940s and 50s, the figure was most probably significantly higher.

The radical ideologies of the Coptic Nation were seen to threaten Egyptian Nationalism, as did those of the Muslim Brotherhood during that same period.43As the Muslim Brotherhood sought to form an Islamic nation-state, the Coptic Nation sought a Coptic one, even modeling itself after the Muslim Brotherhood. As Hasan writes, “it had its own flag and motto: ‘God is the king of the

Copts, Egypt is their country, the Gospels their law, and the Cross their insignia’” (Hasan 2003:

60). The Sunday School Movement would prove to be the victor of Coptic waves, as several of its pioneers including Nazir Gayad (Pope Shenouda III), Saad Aziz (Bishop Samuel), and Kamal

Habib (Bishop Bimen) of the Coptic middle-class, took monastic vows and were and consequently elevated to episcopal ranks about ten years later.

1.5 Revival of Coptic Monasticism

Meanwhile, the patriarchate of the Coptic Orthodox Church would remain vacant until

1959 when a solitary monk named Father Mina al-Baramousy would be chosen and consecrated as Pope Kyrillos VI.44 The Coptic Church would experience monastic and educational revival during his papacy. Originally a monk from the monastery of the Virgin Mary, al-Baramous, Father

Mina inhabited an abandoned windmill in the Muqattam mountain, east of Old Cairo between

1932 to 1936 (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder 2011: 132-133). During this time, he attracted many

43 The emergence of both groups during this time is no coincidence. With the fall of the monarchy, the Muslim Brotherhood had a particular vision of Egyptian nationalism, one rooted in religion. Pope Yusab represented the “old guard” and was part of the corrupt system. With the rise of the religious rhetoric propagated by the Muslim Brotherhood, the Coptic Nation adopted a similar approach, in which Copts would be part of the political system.

44 The process of selecting the patriarch in the Coptic Orthodox Church occurs in three stages. The first is selecting from candidates, of which all bishops, and a selection of priests and laity cast votes. In the second stage the top three candidates with the most votes are selected. The last step is the “altar lot.” The names of the three candidates are placed on the altar during the Divine Liturgy. Directly after the Divine Liturgy a young boy is selected and blind- folded. His hand is guided into a basket where the three names are placed. The name he draws is given to the acting Patriarch (usually the highest-ranking bishop in the Holy Synod of the Coptic Orthodox Church), who reveals the new Pope and Patriarch of Alexandria. This unique ritual is believed to be a combination of human activity (through the voting process) and Divine Providence, by which God chooses the successor of the Church through an innocent boy. For the historical development of the Altar Lot, see Saad et. Al (2014).

64 young men to his abode. However, at the outbreak of World War II, Father Mina was forced to evict his residence in the windmill by the British occupation. With the financial help of his wealthy patrons, Father Mina built a complex comprising of a small church and a residence within, as well a student hostel for male university students at the foot of the Muqattam, calling it the Monastery of Saint Mina45 (ibid.: 133).

He became the spiritual father of many of the youth involved in the Sunday School

Movement, who chose to live in the student hostel. Father Mina operated the hostel with specific guidelines, similar to those required of one entering a monastery. Students were required to present a certificate from the priest of their local parish that they were constant in their service and spiritual life in the church, and interestingly enough, their “devotion to the monastic rules” (ibid.:133).

Many, if not all these students would later take on positions of leadership in the Church (ibid.)

Father Mina even tonsured one as a monk on the monastery grounds, though the Church did not recognize it as an official monastery. Father Mina did this on the basis that he himself was also appointed head of the monastery of Saint Samuel the Confessor. Father Mina’s legacy before his ascension to the papal throne was one of reviving monasticism among highly educated youth and effectively “monasticizing” urban space, by establishing the Saint Mina complex (monastery) in the heart of the city. His ability to live a monastic life while being in the city challenged the notion that monasticism was only found in the desert. Looking at his nomination to the papacy however, it is not surprising seeing that he embodied the characteristics that the last three patriarchs,

45 Father Mina (Pope Kyrillos) was renowned for his love for Saint Mina, his patron saint. Pope Kyrillos would later establish a monastery in his name in Mariout, near Alexandria. Saint Mina was a soldier in the Roman army during the Diocletian’s reign as emperor. He lived as a solitary in the desert before he returned to be martyred. Saint Mina offers an interesting model for monasticism seeing that he was both a solitary and a martyr. Monasticism is often called “martyrdom without bloodshed.”

65 especially Yusab II, did not have. First and foremost, he was not a highly educated bishop, but a simple monk with merely a high school degree; and second, he was a man of prayer, isolated to a certain extent from the politics of the Church. He reflected a new form of leadership by which the church would be renewed. The Sunday School Movement became solidified under his papacy with his ordination of Bishop Samuel as the bishop of social and ecumenical affairs, and Bishop

Shenouda as the bishop of education.

Parallel to the revival of the monasticism by Kyrillos VI was that of Father Mathew the

Poor (Matta el Meskeen), who was heavily influenced by Pope Kyrillos and often visited him while he was a solitary at the windmill in al-Muqattam. He also worked alongside the Sunday

School while living in Shubra, though was never formally part of their group. What he and those of the Sunday School Movement had in common was that they were the first (beginning with

Mathew the Poor, in 1948) to have university degrees and enter the monastic life.

Before he left for the remote monastery of Saint Samuel the Confessor in 1948, Youssef

Iskander (Father Matthew prior to his monastic vows) established “Beit al-Takrīs ,” or “the house of consecrated servants,” in which laymen lived as quasi-monastics in a communal house in Cairo, also engaging in their services in various churches.46Though the House of Consecrated Servants was not fully sanctioned by the Church, at the heart of the models of both Father Mina and Father

Matthew is the notion of consecrating service, by which one’s spiritual life is intimately tied to everyday services in the church as well as the community. The centrality of this consecration was a life influenced by monastic principles and ideologies by which the individual came to live as a

46 Many from Sunday School movement also joined this house, including Kamal Habib, who later became Bishop Bimen of Manlawi (Hasan 2003:89).

66 monastic while being an active participant in the world. They propagated monasticism as a spiritual way of life, as more than just membership in a monastery. In this way, Father Mina and Father

Matthew not only influenced those who desired the monastic life, but those who continued living in the world, who sought to learn from their call for inner-spirituality and emulate them in their daily lives. Before this period, monasticism was mostly frowned upon and regarded as a vocation for “fallouts” from society.47 In particular, Father Matthew the Poor broke this stereotype by selling his pharmacy, car, and possessions, and leaving for the desert.

1.6 Political Tensions & Marginalization

Gamal Abdel Nasser died on September 28th, 1970, six months before the departure of

Pope Kyrillos VI on March 9th, 1971. Anwar Sadat succeeded Nasser, while Bishop Shenouda, the

Bishop of Christian Education, would be elevated to the rank of Patriarch on November 14th, 1971.

This period would mark a shift in Egypt’s socio-economic policies as well as Egypt’s competition over Egypt’s national identity. Sadat sought to adopt neo-liberal policies and create an open market system that allowed for private sector investment (Infitāh). Sadat’s economic reforms differed greatly from that of Nasser, whose socialist ideologies were a direct result of his detestation for the Egyptian monarchy. Furthermore, Nasser was largely thought of as the “father of the Arab world” through his Pan-Arabism and desire to unite Arab countries against Israel. The Muslim identity of the region was used as a means for this unification.

47 Some Copts I spoke with held this view of monks today, yet the vast majority hold monks in high regards.

It is important to mention here that Nasser’s pan-Arabism had substantial effects on the role of Copts in the political landscape of Egypt. As Guirguis and van Doorn-Harder (2011:134) write:

Nasser stressed the value of religious minorities for the nation, while at the same time, the

foundation was being laid for the cultural supremacy of Islam. With the new regime, the

Copts lost much for their political influence: There had been no Coptic officers leading the

coup and only one Copt was given (a relatively insignificant post) in the resulting cabinet

[…] Furthermore, the Islamic heritage that was foundational to Nasser’s pan-Arab ideology

(with its premise that Arab nations are unified by language and history) was disconcerting

to the Copts.

What this led to was the Coptic Church itself becoming the political voice of Copts. In exchange for security, the Coptic Church would promote loyalty to the regime through the millet-partnership

(Sedra 1999: 225). As Hasan writes, “President Nasser’s authoritarian regime unwittingly schooled the church for a political role, by weakening the Christian secular aristocracy as well as liberal institutions like Parliament and the Communal Council [Coptic Lay-Council], in which they had played an important role” (Hasan 2003:103). The position of lay-Copts in politics weakened with

Nasser, dissolving the Coptic Lay-Council and recognizing Pope Kyrillos as the sole voice for

Copts (Ibrahim 2011:177).48

48 After being consecrated Bishop of Christian Education, Bishop Shenouda continued to gain popularity among youth and held weekly Friday meetings at the Cathedral. His sermons were a combination of biblical teachings and their application to social, political and economic life. Shortly after these meetings began, Pope Kyrillos forbade Bishop Shenouda from teaching in the Cathedral or any other dioceses in Egypt for the matter.

When Egypt was defeated in the Seven-Day War in 1967, “there had been a tendency to attribute the defeat of Israel to an absence of meaningful ideology in Egypt that would motivate youth. (Hasan 2003: 105). Thus, when Sadat became president he would use Islam as a means to position himself as “al-Rais al Mo’men”, the pious or “believing” President (ibid.), and “a Muslim leader for an Islamic State.”

Pope Shenouda initially refused to form a “millet partnership” with Anwar Sadat. In 1972,

Sadat attempted to gain support by modifying the second article of the Egyptian constitution and assert Islamic Sharia as “the source for the Egyptian constitution” rather than “a source for the

Egyptian constitution” and initiate Islam as the official religion of the Egyptian State. Shenouda vehemently opposed this. The fear was that since Sharia was the new source for legislation, Copts would not be regarded as equal members of the Egyptian State and revert back to their dhimmi status, as they had experienced before 1855. Although dhimmi status was never prescribed

“formally” on Copts, the emphasis on the Sharia as the source of the constitution and the declaration of Islam as the official religion in Egypt led to the further marginalization of Copts in the public sphere. Sadat’s modification of the second article of the Egyptian constitution and the sectarian tensions that ensued resulted in voices from the Coptic Diaspora emerging.49When Sadat visited the United States in 1979, Coptic immigrants protested against him and demanded an end to the ill-treatment of Copts as secondary citizens. Sadat was embarrassed by this incident, notably because he was coming to sign the Camp David Peace Treaty between Egypt and Israel. It appears that these protests heightened tensions between Sadat and Pope Shenouda (Marize Tadros 2013:68,

Kost 2014:33), leading to Pope Shenouda’s forced exile to the monastery of Saint Bishoy in Wadi

49 I will speak about the history of Copts in the Diaspora in Chapters 5 & 6.

69 el Natroun in 1981, one month before Sadat’s assassination (Sedra 1999:227). Pope Shenouda would not be released until 1985 by Sadat’s successor Hosni Mubarak. In sum, Pope Shenouda refused State rhetoric and was a proponent for altering the public transcript by affirming the position of Copts, not as a minority but equal partners in the Egyptian State. Consequently he was placed under house arrest in the monastery of Saint Bishoy. Under the 30 years of Mubarak’s regime, it is clear that Pope Shenouda’s position shifted, as an apparent millet partnership became evident between the Church and State.

When the January 2011 uprising began to gain momentum, Pope Shenouda urged Copts not to take part in the protests (Guirguis 2017:3). Many Copts chose to defy his orders and did in fact protest. What this has led to, especially after both uprisings in January 2011 and on June 30th

2013 respectively, as well as after the passing of Pope Shenouda on March 16th 2012, is a re- emergence of Copts seeking to be recognized as individual political citizens and not as a singular group with one political voice headed by the Church. This is especially evident with the emergence of Coptic activist groups, such as the Maspero Youth Movement. Feeling threatened by the Muslim

Brotherhood coming into power, the Church under the leadership of the interim Patriarch,

Metropolitan Pachomius, encouraged Copts to vote for the candidate they felt most suitable. An interesting occurrence in relation to my argument above is that as the ecclesiastical authority of the Church sought the help of monks for various political or theological matters, hundreds of

Coptic monks from across Egypt descended from their monasteries to various cities in order to vote. Their votes would prove to not be enough, as Mohammad Morsi became the first democratically elected president in Egyptian history on June 24th 2012.50

50 Many Copts I spoke with, including monks, considered Morsi’s election fraudulent on the bases of conspiracy theories that The Muslim Brotherhood vowed to “burn Egypt down,” especially churches and monasteries”, if Shafik

On November 18th 2012, Bishop Tawadros was elevated to the rank of Patriarch as Pope

Tawadros II. In many interviews before his elevation to the papacy, Pope Tawadros positioned himself as wanting to take the middle ground between Pope Kyrillos and Pope Shenouda, emphasizing that there should be a clear separation between Church and State. The relationship between Morsi and the Church was ambivalent, though Pope Tawadros raised concerns and criticized the constitution drafted under Morsi’s government. It appeared in the beginning of his papacy that he would take a similar position to that of his predecessor in 1971. This stance of rejecting the millet partnership with the State ended shortly after. When the military regained control of the government by a “popular coup”51 on June 30th 2013, Pope Tawadros was seen alongside the Grand Imam of al-Azhar, standing behind al-Sisi when he announced the army’s takeover of government on national television.52 Today, the Church continues to side with the al-

Sisi regime. While al-Sisi uses the rhetoric of national unity and no differentiation between

Muslims and Christians, Coptic citizenship continues to be in a precarious state with the increase of sectarian attacks, especially in 2017.

1.7 Citizenship & the Coptic Subject in Egypt

One point I think is clear from the above analysis is that the relationship between the Coptic

Church and Egyptian State is complicated to say the least. In attempting to protect its sovereignty, the Coptic Church as an institution has benefited from being recognized as the sole voice of Copts in the person of the Patriarch. For the Church, alternative political Coptic voices “destabilizes the

was the victor. A few monks in Wadi el Natroun recounted how several days before the elections, they would hear the sound of rocket-launchers in the distance, as if people were training to use them. One monk suggested that these were probably members of the Muslim Brotherhood who wanted to intimidate the monks.

51 See footnote 52. I am aware that many Egyptians would not agree with this term.

52 See footnote 9.

Church’s monopoly over the community” (Lukasik 2016:3). The efforts of the Coptic Church to homogenize the voices of Copts under its hierarchy is a means to protect its own sovereignty from the interference of the State. While many choose to follow the political direction of the Church freely, there is certainly a concern with the ways in which individual agency is reduced to a homogenous Coptic nationalistic discourse. Often what this means is that adhering to the political direction of the Church is a sign that one is a virtuous subject. The hierarchy as both monks and members of the clergy are often looked to as moral exemplars. For one to cultivate themselves into a virtuous subject, one must never question the authority of the Church and remain obedient to what the hierarchy dictates.

As will made clear in the duration of this thesis, many of my interlocutors challenge this assumption. One can be anti-clerical but remain faithful in their Orthodox faith. The issue in the

Coptic Church is that anti-clericalism is often conflated with rhetoric of being unfaithful. While some Copts refuse the political stance of the Coptic Church with the Egyptian State, they remain faithful members of the community.

It was a warm night on August 14th, 2012 when I met with George, a twenty-three-year- old Copt living in Alexandria. I had first met him about a month earlier in the monastery of Abu-

Makar,53 where we were introduced to each other through a mutual friend. As we walked on

Alexandria’s Corniche (boardwalk), we discussed George’s participation in the January 25th uprising and how he envisioned his role as a Christian and an Egyptian citizen amidst the Church’s urge not descend to the streets.

53 “Abu-Makar” is the Arabic name for Saint Macarius.

“When you see that you are oppressed, and those in power are doing nothing to help, you

have no alternative but to speak up. I think this all goes back to how you view Christ. Does

the person see Christ as someone who was passive and remained silent when seeing

oppression? On the contrary! He spoke up against the society of that time and against the

priesthood that was oppressive. He was never afraid and spoke openly against them. This

is what led Him to the cross. They could not accept that he spoke out against them. Ya

Joey, Christ was a revolutionary! He came out and spoke against injustice. When priests

told their congregations to stay home because this was the teachings of the Church, I

refused to agree with them. People at church would rebuke me and ask ‘how can you defy

the pope!?’ I frankly saw that the pope was involved in politics when he shouldn’t have

been. How can he tell people not to participate? Perhaps it was his secretariat that advised

him, or that he supported Mubarak. Whatever the case might have been, this is not the

point. The point was that he did not experience what we experience at the ground level. He

never had to wait for transportation, he always had access to healthcare, and he never

waited in line for hours for bread. We got to the point where we had enough. I was one of

the people that threw tear gas at the central security unit and wore a mask soaked in water

and Pepsi in order not to be affected. We began peacefully, and we did not throw anything

at the police until they threw the tear gas canisters at us with no sense of control. The

protests had people of all ages. There were women and children. I saw young children in

front of me fall to the ground after being struck by the tear gas canisters. When the police

saw that the people would not give up, this was the point of no return.”

As our conversation continued, George began to speak of the hope he saw in the future for Egypt.

“The Islamists had to win. It was their time; they were organized and knew what they

wanted. The time will come when this country will be ready for progress. They [Egyptians

and the rest of the world] need to see the filthiness of the [Muslim] Brotherhood first. It is

inevitable. To experience change, we have to pass through harder times. Until this moment

I’m not afraid of the Brotherhood. I’m not the kind of person to escape. I’m not going to

react as many Copts who want to flee Egypt. This is my country, and I belong on this soil.

We [Christians] have been here for thousands of years, and we have not depleted in

number. We passed through periods like those of the Fatimids and the Mamlukes, Will the

Brotherhood be any worse? I don’t think so. Moreover, what good did Mubarak do for

Copts? He controlled us by dealing only with the Pope, so whatever the pope instructed

everyone would follow. What justice did he [Mubarak] do for Copts? What justice did he

bring for [the martyrs of] al-Koshsh, Nag Hammadi, Alexandria? Nothing. No one was

tried, and justice was never served. I had to raise my voice against these injustices. Being

a Christian is not only a Sunday thing. When I partake of the Body and Blood of Christ

[The Sacrament of the Eucharist], I am to be like Him and live this union with Him daily.

For He, Himself [That is Christ] tells us that whoever eats My Body and drinks my Blood

abides in me and I in him.”

It is evident from his words that George sees a disconnection between the hierarchy and administration of the Coptic Church and the daily experiences of Copts in their daily lives. George interprets the direct involvement of the Coptic in State affairs as an infringement on his rights as an Egyptian citizen who experiences daily economic, social, and political infringements with other

Egyptians, both Christians, and Muslims. Those in positions of authority, whether in the Church or State, do not experience the same moments of turmoil. Many young Copts like George who held this position were also met with resentment by fellow Copts, who perceived that disobeying

74 the orders of Pope Shenouda was nothing less than disobeying the authority of the Coptic Church.

George, however, separated the role of the Coptic Church as the Body of Christ from the Coptic

Church as an institution that seeks to influence his political positionality. Bandak and Boylston

(2014:38) are useful here in their articulation of “perfection” and “imperfection” whereby they argue that “churches are partial and imperfect realizations of an eternal Church in whose perennial presence Christians can partake by means of the sacrament of communion.” As far as George was concerned, Church and State should never intermingle. In fact, by interfering in his right as an

Egyptian citizen to exercise his own political autonomy, the Church fails in its moral role as a spiritual institution (Bandak & Boylston 2014:26).

What is particularly interesting to me is George’s notion of being a political subject and an

Orthodox Christian who lives the Divine Liturgy daily by abiding in Christ not only at the moment of Eucharist when partaking of the Body and Blood of Christ, but daily. Here George is speaking to a very particular form of self-cultivation in which his theology is intimately linked to abiding in

Christ, his everyday life, and political choices. For George, abiding in Christ is not at all separated from being an Egyptian citizen and political subject. George was “living the revolution”

(Mittermaier 2012), not merely through his political activism, but through his lived faith. His views of “abiding in Christ” meant also being revolutionary.54

What is more interesting to me, however, is that although George refused the direction of

Coptic hierarchy to not participate in the protests against Mubarak, his Christian faith, interpretation of the Bible, and view of Christ as a revolutionary influenced him to take an active

54 Mittermaier (2012) describes how one of her interlocutors relates “living the revolution” as something that is lived a few hours a day.” If practiced, “Egypt would be a better place.”

75 role in the Revolution. To put it in other words, the Coptic Church as an institution, which George is opposing, is the same institution that provides George with his Christian faith. George is anti- clerical yet he is not unfaithful. Bandak and Boylston (2014:28) maintain that “anti-clericalism does not necessarily equal a position outside the church; more often it represents a dispute from different perspectives within a Church more broadly construed.” George’s perspective is one where processes of tradition, theology, textual interpretation, and socio-politics intersect in his formation as a Coptic socio-political subject. These processes are also a means by which my interlocutors in North America such as Gregory and Marcos come to understand their own Coptic subjectivity as Coptic youth living outside of Egypt. The question of Coptic subjectivity in the

North American Diaspora will be discussed in detail in Chapters 5 and 6.

1.8 Brief History of Coptic Diaspora in North America

Coptic Christians began immigrating to North America as early as the late 1950s. In 1954,

Father Makary el Souriāni (later to become Bishop Samuel of Public and Social Affairs) remained in the United States after representing Copts in the Assembly of the World Council of Churches in Evanston, Illinois. During this year, Father Makary traveled across North America carrying out liturgical services and catering to the pastoral needs of the small Coptic communities scattered across the continent. He began a database for all the Copts he met during his visits to maintain contact with them. It was also during this time that Father Makary received a scholarship from

Princeton University where he received a Masters degree in Christian Education (Marcos 2015:3).

He continued his pastoral care for the continent, visiting once or twice a year. In 1962 Father

Makary was ordained as a General Bishop overseeing Public, Ecumenical, and Social Affairs by

Pope Kyrillos VI with the name of Samuel. When he returned to North America in 1963 for a pastoral visit, Bishop Samuel recognized a need to ordain a priest for the growing communities.

Various Copts in North America nominated Wagdi Elias Marcos for this position, recommending him to the Bishop. Marcos had already spent some time in the United States from 1957-1962, where he had obtained a bachelor’s degree in Divinity and Comparative Theology and an M.A.

Psychology and Christian Education from Princeton University. When he returned to Egypt in

1962, Marcos took on a teaching position at the Coptic Theological Seminary. Marcos accepted the calling and was shortly after that married and ordained as a priest by the name of Father Marcos on August 9th, 1964. Pope Kyrillos delegated Father Marcos to represent the Coptic Church as observers at the Second Vatican Council in Rome, alongside Bishop Samuel. While in Rome,

Father Marcos waited to hear back from both the United States and Canada as to whether they would accept him as a landed immigrant. The Canadian government granted him and his wife the status of landed immigrants while the United States approved them for multiple Visa entries.

Trusting that it was God’s will, Father Marcos and his wife settled in Toronto, where the first

Coptic Orthodox Church in North America with the name of Saint Mark the Apostle was established. In his book on the first 50 years of the Coptic Orthodox Church in North America,

Father Marcos writes about a group of Copts in Toronto who opposed the idea of having a Coptic

Church in Toronto, let alone North America. According to Father Marcos, they preferred to create a Coptic Club where they could have various social events.55 This group initiated their meeting coinciding with the first spiritual meeting Father Marcos had with the congregation. While Father

Marcos describes this as resistance from “the enemy of All Righteousness,” it is clear to me at

55Interestingly as I read in the history of the Coptic Church in North America by Marcos (2014), in 1977-78 the board of St. Mark’s parish in Chicago sought to sever ties with Mother Church in Egypt (what the disputes were about is not clear). The situation escalated to civil court in the State of Illinois, where the court recognized that the Coptic Church is a hierarchical Church under the Pope of Alexandria in Egypt and not a Congregational Church, therefore warranting that the parish and the Mother Church could not be separated (p.126-127). As Marcos notes, the ruling resulted in a precedent that churches outside of Egypt, and particularly in North America would be recognized as being connected to the Mother Church in Egypt

77 least that their rejection of the Church was mainly rejecting the presence of religious authority

(disciplinary force), thus establishing themselves as non-religious Copts and separated from the authority of Church.56 Nonetheless, Father Marcos continued his services though this group resisted him for seven years (p.68).

For the first three years of pastoral service, Father Marcos divided his month by presiding for the Divine Liturgy for no more than 2 Sundays in Toronto, 1 in Montreal and the other in New

York. During the week he would pray the Liturgy with small communities in towns and cities in between (p. 71). Southern California was also one of the places that Father Marcos visited, though only once a year. Between 1967 and 1969 priests visiting their children in Los Angeles tended pastorally to the community (Khalil 2008:4).57 In 1963 there were around 50 Copts in Los Angeles, rising to several hundred in the next 5 years (ibid.). As Elhamy Khalil (2008) articulates, new

Coptic immigrants gathered around each other, often living close by, and often engaged in various cultural activities such as Egyptian festivals and eating Egyptian food. Feeling a lack of a “spiritual atmosphere” they enjoyed in Egypt, the small community registered a Coptic Association in

California, which became responsible for Bible studies and other recreational activities to meet the need of Copts. An influx of immigrants to the United States happened in 1965-1966 after the Arab-

Israeli war. In November 1969, Father Bishoy Kamel from St. George in Sporting Alexandria

56 While it is not the focus of this chapter, A critical dimension to examining the Coptic Diaspora is also looking at the role of Coptic secular groups who advocate widely for Copts in Egypt, which usually entails lobbying Western governments for support. A major point I have articulated in this chapter is that Copts are not homogenous. While the Coptic Orthodox Church has come to speak for and be recognized by the State as an institution representing Copts, many secular Coptic groups, especially in Diaspora, challenge both the Church and State in their attempt to advocate for the rights of Copts as citizens of Egypt away from the Church.

57 In his book, Father Marcos makes mention of Father Mankarious Awadalla who served in LA for some time after visiting his son residing there.

78 stayed for 10 months returning in August 1970, followed by his colleague priest Abuna Tadros

Malaty for 20 months. What was interesting about this group of priests was that monastic spirituality highly influenced them. Father Bishoy encouraged many of them to become monks, and a couple of them returned to Egypt and were consecrated as monks and later ordained bishops.

One of them who wanted to be a monk was convinced by Pope Shenouda to go back to California and serve as a priest.

As was recounted to me by early settling Copts in Southern California, the 1970s and

1980s, proved to be a difficult time for their children who were born there. The latter found themselves being isolated and marginalized since they identified with neither the language nor the culture of their parents. Some interlocutors suggested that many of the youth growing up in the

1960s and 1970s in California stopped attending church altogether or began attending Protestant or Catholic churches where they felt more culturally accepted. A further dimension was that since they recognized themselves as American, they began marrying outside of the community. It was quite uncommon to find non-Egyptians joining the Coptic Church unless they married one. From conversations with intermarried couples, it was evident to me that they identified the main issue for them regarding integration into the Church was a cultural gap within which they felt marginalized. They felt that culture and faith were intertwined and integral to one another.

Converts I spoke with expressed that one of their main hurdles was feeling that their becoming

Orthodox felt more like them having to become culturally Egyptian.

In 1995, Pope Shenouda III ordained Bishop Serapion as the Bishop of Southern California and Hawaii. After a few years of Bishop Serapion’s pastoral leadership in the diocese, debates about language and liturgy were less intense as Bishop Serapion sought that all new immigrants be acculturated accordingly by calling on priests to give more sermons in English, and having

Sunday School services solely in English. It was not until after the January 25th, 2011 uprising that debates about language and identity began to resurface because of the influx of new immigrants from Egypt.58

Many parishes in Southern-California started catering to the needs of the new immigrants by increasing services in Arabic, resulting in many second-generation interlocutors feeling marginalized and prompted Bishop Serapion to establish solely English-speaking parishes. The first English-speaking parish founded was Saint Paul’s American Coptic Orthodox Church in

2012.While St. Paul’s was the first parish to be called “American Coptic Orthodox,” Saint Verena and the Three Holy Youth Coptic Orthodox Church established in 1999 was founded and primarily formed as an English-speaking parish for second-generation youth. The church attracted a significant number of congregants, which resulted in the parish beginning to cater to the needs of those whose primary language is Arabic. Some of my interlocutors have suggested that this development sparked internal debate within the community as to its purpose and mission, which some suggest led to the establishment of Saint Paul’s. As I came to understand, the reason Bishop

Serapion added “American” to some of these English-speaking parishes was to ensure that there would be no debates as to why the congregation carried out its liturgical services in English. The aim of Saint Paul’s as well as other “American Coptic parishes” is to serve the needs of second- generation Copts as well as non-Egyptians baptized into the Church.59 These parishes focus their mission on maintaining Orthodoxy in a “Western” way through conducting church services entirely in English (as opposed to mixing Arabic and Coptic) and shortening melismatic

58As one priest told me, “we moved back 15 years in the conversations we were having [about language] because of the influx of newcomers.”

59The first Coptic “missionary church” was established in Toronto in 2007.

(long/great) hymns. This change in hymnology is what Paul Johnson (2007) defines as

“telescoping and hooking”— the process of “transformation and sometimes ritual reductions”

(p.57). What is important about the telescoping of Coptic hymnology in this context is that it is very much a (re)invention of Coptic hymnology on the premise of making it accessible to Western ears. While English services were an important aspect of my interlocutors’ experience, some expressed that what was more crucial was holding on to the Orthodox faith without needing to have solidarity with Egyptian culture. While I would say that the majority of parishioners at Saint

Paul’s hold this position, some desire to have a more nuanced approach to the language debate by incorporating some Coptic as a means to retain the liturgical tradition of the Church. Consequently, some of the other American Orthodox parishes incorporated some Coptic hymns in their Liturgical services on the premise that they did not want to lose the Coptic language entirely. In the case of both models of American Coptic Orthodox Churches, the emphasis or focus is a theologically based approach to understanding the Orthodox faith, making it more accessible to second- generation Copts and the wider American society who might join the Church.

1.9 Coptic Diaspora & Egyptian Politics

As explained above, there has been an absorption of the Coptic community into the figure of the Coptic patriarch, especially during the last 150 years of Egypt’s modern history. What this has led to is that the patriarch has become a figure in the eyes of the Egyptian as one representing all Copts. The Church has offered “normative guidance” (Napolitano 2015:11) beyond its spiritual role to the laity, also influencing the political, and social agency of as individual members of the

Egyptian nation-State. This development has implications for Copts in Egypt but also for those in

Diaspora, who find their religious identity entangled with Egyptian politics, whether they choose to or not. An obvious example of this occurred in September 2016 when Pope Tawadros II sent a

81 delegation of bishops to the United States before President Abdel-Fattah al-Sisi’s address to the

United Nations in New York, urging Copts not to engage in political protest. In fact, a message sent via social media and Coptic Church websites from the Pope’s office stated:

“The dignity of Egypt is expressed by the dignity and honorable reception of Egypt’s

President as His Excellence deserves. Many people can be victimized as a result of wrong and incorrect information fed by the media that publish lies and slanders against the true lives of

Egyptians, both Copts and Muslims[…]Let us welcome Egypt, which is represented by its beloved

President, as His Excellence enters into the land of immigration, and before all the nations with respect, honor, and dignity.”60

When al-Sisi came to power in June 2013, the majority of Coptic Christians both in Egypt and Diaspora supported him because of their opposition to the Muslim Brotherhood. I remember parishes in the GTA organizing bus rides to the Egyptian Embassy in Ottawa with the intention of voting for al-Sisi. Whether or not the Church in Egypt directed these initiatives, or whether or not it was a group of parishes that collaborated, I am not entirely sure. What is particularly important to me is the fact that parishes across the GTA were the meeting points for traveling to the Egyptian embassy in Ottawa. By unifying the voice of Copts in the Diaspora (broadly speaking) with the

Mother Church, the Coptic Church’s position with the Egyptian State strengthens because it demonstrates that Copts are loyal nationals regardless of where they are in the world. A separation from the Mother Church in Egypt would compromise the position of the Church as a national

Church and its call for Copts as equal citizens. Thus, the statement above clearly points to the

60This statement was published on the LA Diocese’s website: http://lacopts.org/news/a-message-to-all-copts-from- his-holiness-the-pope-concerning-receiving-the-egyptian-president-and-dignitaries/

82 perceived role of Copts in Diaspora and assumptions that their advocacy on behalf of Copts has consequences for the relationship between the Church and Egyptian State.61 The quote also points to the hierarchy’s attempt to connect Copts in Diaspora to Egypt, to unify “the Coptic voice” under the direction of the Church, negating the individual political and social agency who might not agree with al-Sisi’s politics, further enforcing the millet partnership between the Patriarch and head of Egyptian State as described in Chapter 1.

1.10 Conclusion

What is apparent in the history of the Coptic Church is that there is a constant tug-of-war to grab power between the Coptic hierarchy and the Coptic laity. The two main examples I have identified were the emergence of monasticism as a lay movement, and the desire of the Church through St. Athanasius to consolidate its power by seeking to absorb monasticism into the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Church. In the contemporary context, we see the absorption of monasticism into the hierarchy of the Church in a different manner, namely the ordination of bishops as abbots of monasteries, rather than a Hegumen (Proto-Priest). What this means in part is that as a member of the Holy Synod of the Coptic Orthodox Church, the bishop becomes a part of theological as well as administrative discussions, suggesting that by ordaining a bishop as an abbot of a monastery, the monks of various monasteries are kept in-check, especially in respect to ecclesiastical debates. In respect to finances it also means that the bishop is responsible for the

61 What this suggests is the Copts are a unified group of people under the leadership of the Church, whose relationship is rooted in adhering to instructions given by the Church hierarchy, discounting their political agency as citizens of the United States. While I do not discount that many Copts in Diaspora share these sentiments, many second- generation youths do not, finding themselves struggling to maintain their Orthodox identity and citizens of their respective societies, because of tensions of having to retain aspects of Egyptian culture they do not share with their parents.

83 endowments of the monastery (Guirguis & van Doorn-Harder 2011: 125). What many of my interlocutors have suggested is that this has resulted in the bishop focusing more on administrative duties rather than his role as the father of the monks. Some interlocutors suggested that the role of the bishop as a father has led to the decline of spiritual discipleship, since the bishop subsumes the role as the spiritual father of the monastery. In Foucauldian terms there is a fear among these interlocutors that the inability of the abbot to fully reflect the characteristics of a father eventually leads to disordered monastic life, rather than yielding virtuous monks.

In respect to the wider Coptic laity, the role of the Coptic Lay-Council since its establishment in 1874 reflects the inner-tensions of the community, including the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the church as well as the complex relationship between the Church and State. It is clear that various rulers and governments since Muhammad Ali have often used their relationship with the patriarch as a means to control the Coptic Orthodox community at large. On the other hand, the educational interests of State leaders such as Muhammad Ali coincided with the educational renewal in the Church by Pope Kyrillos IV and the patriarchs who preceded him.

These changes did not happen ad hoc but were clearly influenced by reforms in the State. This led to the eventual role of Habib Girgis and the Sunday School Movement, who used education as a means to renew both the clergy and laity of the church. What is evident from this historical overview are the ways in which different actors have contested what it means to be a Coptic citizen, as well a virtuous Copt. While the Coptic Orthodox Church endorses a specific kind of ethical subject obedient to the Church, the accounts in the following chapters demonstrate that there is no singular way to negotiate one’s Coptic identity. Many of the voices in this ethnographic monograph resist the normative rhetoric of the Coptic Orthodox Church, while remaining faithful members. Different voices and opinions about what it means to be a Copt suggest that there are different types of exemplarity (Bandak 2012, 2015). The following chapter examines how monks

84 become exemplary figures by describing the daily life of monks in the monastery in relation to the

Coptic laity and hierarchical structures of power in the Coptic Orthodox Church.

Monastic Spaces, Rites, & Making Coptic Monks It was a day in mid-August when I arrived at the monastery around 6pm. It was my first visit back after a month of spending some time in Alexandria doing fieldwork with youth I had befriended while retreating at a monastery. At this time Mohammad Morsi had been president for about 2 months. Many Copts I spoke with were ambivalent about the future of the country, especially how the Muslim Brotherhood government would treat them as a Christian minority.

I called Abuna Athanasius (whom I describe in detail below) a day before, to make sure there were accommodations available for me if I wanted to spend a few days. Abuna mentioned that the monastery was unusually empty for that time in the summer. I would be staying in the palace, 62 the same as the last time I visited.

I hired a driver through an independent car rental company to take me to the monastery.

Refaʿat happened to be Copt and was excited to take me.63 We exited off the Alexandria-Cairo

Desert Road, entering the town of Wadi el Natroun. It was hustling and bustling as usual, with cars, mini-vans, and infamous Vespa bikes turned into carriages called “takatik” (Took-Took for singular). We followed signs for the monastery. During the duration of our trip Refaʿat played mixed Arabic music of Egyptian artists such as Amr Diab, Sherine, and Mustafa Amar. When we finally made it through the town, a code-switching occurred. Refaʿat quickly changed the CD to that of Coptic chanter Būlis Malak, who sang songs and hymns of glorification to the Holy Virgin

Mary. This was an indication that our trip to the monastery was not a regular trip, but one that

62 The “Palace” is a guest-house for visitors and family members of monks who are not necessarily coming for retreat.

63 This vignette is a combination of two separate trips I made to the monastery.

85 86 required a spiritual atmosphere since we were going to a spiritual place. It was not clear whether

Refaʿat did this because I was with him in the car, but it was certainly intentional. The drive from the desert road to the entrance of the monastery was roughly 12 kilometers. Before crossing into the monastery’s property, we met a security checkpoint where the guard asked if everyone in the car was Christian and if there were any foreigners. There was no cross on the rear-view mirror, or any indication that the car belonged to a Christian. Refaʿat showed him the cross on his wrist and told him I was also Christian. The guard motioned for us to proceed. At the monastery gate, the door-keeper asked for the name of our parish. Refaʿat told him that he was from the church of al-

Kidiseen in Sidi Bishr.64 After he recorded the information, we continued to drive a second time.

The monastery’s cathedral was in front of us and the ancient monastery was to our right. The minaret and the monk’s cells were visible from the elevation. From that distance, one could make out the more modern buildings from the 6th century enclosed within the ancient walls of the monastery. We went around the circular road and parked in front of the ancient monastery.

The main door of the monastery is intentionally lowered, so that one must bow one’s head in reverence to the sacred ground one are entering. I touched the door of the monastery and kissed my palm and made the sign of the cross, a sign of veneration and reverence for the holy place. I walked to the church which was about 200 meters from the monastery’s gate. I entered the church through the middle chorus and made my way to the altar. I prostrated in front of the altar and venerated the icons of the saints. The church was covered with frescos dating from the seventh century. I made my way to the south-west corner of the church to the cave of Saint Bishoy, which was now part of the church. I slouched through the narrow door into the vestibule where the saint slept in the fourth century. I stood upright in the wider part of his cell where he spent countless

64 see footnote 10.

87 hours in prayer. I watched him pray all night, tying his long white hair to the rope that descended from the small opening he had hewn from the rock. In the solitude of the desert he made supplications to God asking Him to rid him of his irritability. After this night vigil he rested for a few hours and awoke to read from Scripture. He was reading from the book of Isaiah. He was confused about what he was reading. Isaiah the Prophet appeared to him and explained the meaning of his prophecy. I came back from my imaginative gaze, asked for his prayers and exited the cave from a back passage that was made to direct the flow of visitors. On a busy day, crowds rushed in and out quickly to make room for more pilgrims entering the Church.

I left the church and turned to my right and walked a few meters to the palace located next to the church and the monastery library. I made my way to the palace kitchen, which was on the main floor of the building. I walked in to find Brother Karam with his sleeves rolled up, cleaning tables. His skull cap was darker at his brow, sweaty from the apparent hard work. “Hamdila al

Salama, Welcome back. It’s good to see you again.” After cordial exchanges, he invited me to sit down. Brother Karam continued: “I’m really sorry but you're going to have to a share a room with another visitor. He’s out now and will be back later with the key. I have to leave the room you had last time empty because the bishop might be expecting guests tonight. Just wait here until your roommate comes.”

The only issue was that he didn’t know when my roommate would arrive. I told him it was fine (though I remember feeling frustrated). I asked him if I could use the phone to call Abuna

Athanasius, who asked me to call him once I arrived. Abuna answered, welcoming me back and asked me if I settled in my room. I spoke to him in English telling him of the circumstances. He asked for Brother Karam. “Aghabī Abuna” I heard him say. “But the bishop needs the room free”

He continued. “Ok Abuna. Forgive me. I will find a solution.”65 He said as he finished and handed me back the phone.

“What did you tell him?! You were speaking in English on purpose so that I wouldn’t understand!”, Brother Karam said angrily.

“I told him exactly what you told me, I didn’t mean to offend you by speaking English.” I replied.

“Do you know what can happen to a brother if a monk has it out for him (lau hāto fī demāgho)66?”

He asked me rhetorically.

“He might make his novitiate very difficult, even make sure he doesn’t get tonsured as a monk!” he said answering his own question.

“I’m sorry, forgive me” I replied, as I tried to kiss his hand. He pulled it away in dismay, “No forgiveness or anything. Just forget about it. Here are the keys to the room. I’m going to my cell now. Good night.” He said, disappointed.

This was the first time I heard a novice worry about being rejected from the monastery. I, of course, knew of monks falling out with each other, but was surprised that personal grudges could lead to a monk not being consecrated. Looking at this event in hindsight, I do not think

Brother Karam was afraid of Father Athanasius per se. Abuna would not have the authority to do such a thing. In making sense of the situation, Brother Karam was really worried about disobeying the bishop's instruction to keep a room ready for a potential guest. Abuna Athanasius’ demand put

Brother Karam at risk of being regarded as disobedient to the bishop and undermining his spiritual and administrative authority as abbot of the monastery. This meant that Brother Karam would not be recognized as an exemplary novice. During the novitiate rite of passage, the novice commits

65 “Aghabī” is the Arabized form of “Agape” in Greek, which means “peace.”

66 The literal translation is “if he puts him in his head” which is to say “he has it out for him.”

89 and engages in practices of ordinary ethics, deliberating ways to cultivate himself into an ethical subject (Lambek 2010). This interpersonal misunderstanding with Brother Karam and myself is a source of anxiety for him on the premise that he is not adhering to his public declaration of obedience to the abbot. At best, he would be rebuked by the abbot and, at worst, he would be kicked out of the monastery. In this example there is a tension between the discontinuous and continuous aspects of ethical life (Lambek 2010). More specifically, this otherwise ordinary interaction speaks to the tension around the way in which virtue is reproduced and enacted. The phone conversation between Brother Karam and Abuna Athanasius is an example of the ways in which ethics are implicit in ordinary speech and action (Lambek 2010).

This chapter is about monastic space and what Rebecca Lester (2005:132) has described as “technologies of enclosure.” Monastic spaces are more than enclosed spaces. They are about the ways in which monastic bodies are trained in relation to questions of performativity and ethical practices. Monastic space plays a central role in the cultivation of a monk into a moral exemplar because of the imaginative social understanding that monasteries are exemplary places separated from the rest of the world. By virtue of this imagined status, the infrastructure of monasteries plays an important role in the mediation of holiness. The average lay Copt visits a monastery in order to partake of this holiness yet is only allowed access to certain areas. Infrastructure in this regard

“produces different levels of enclosure” (Lester 2005:134) and more importantly creates a hierarchy of holiness where the monk is placed at the summit of exemplarity and Christian perfection. The overall aim of this chapter is to demonstrate how a monk comes to be regarded as a moral exemplar and the role of hierarchical authority in producing monastic subjects. In this light, my description points to how monastic ideologies extend beyond monasteries and become a part of the daily life of Coptic Christians, both in Egypt and the United States. This chapter takes

90 into account monastic spaces both in Egypt and the United States, with the exception of my discussion of agricultural land and anchoretic cells, which are pertinent only to Egypt.67

As explained in the introduction, the word “mithāl” in Arabic or “example” carries with it the meaning that the individual in question ought to be imitated. To become exemplary, one must engage in various forms of training that shape one’s vocation. To become an example to others the novice must also imitate the example of an exemplary monk himself in a chain of discipleship and submitting to authority. The force of the monk as an exemplary figure is produced through the

Coptic monastic imaginary, which is authorized and normalized and by the hierarchy of the Coptic

Orthodox Church.

To understand the contradiction and dissonance expressed by my interlocutors one must first understand how normalized perceptions of monasticism are deeply rooted in the ritualization processes and rites of passage of becoming a monk. The more a monk is separated from society, the higher his degree of exemplary status. The paradox of Coptic monastic initiation rituals is that while the monk symbolically “dies” to the world, he is still very much a part of society because of his role as a Coptic moral exemplar. In other words, a monk’s “death” to the world is an agency of his holiness. In the sections that follow, I highlight the processes for becoming a monk in the

Coptic Orthodox Church and the ways in which the one seeking monasticism becomes transformed into an exemplary figure.

67 My focus on Coptic monasticism in the United States was predominantly through the retreat house, and the interactions that transpired with lay-visitors. Agricultural projects were miniscule compared to monasteries in Egypt. The monastic communities in United States are coenobitic, as they are still relatively new. Anchoretic life is regarded as an experienced stage of monasticism, and one must spend several years in a community before becoming a solitary monk.

2.1 First Steps to Monasticism The process of being consecrated as a monk may take up to several years before the person is permitted to dress in the habit of a novice. A youth seeking monasticism is encouraged to retreat to the monastery regularly, in order to test himself in respect to whether or not it is God’s calling for him (of which I will speak about in detail below), and whether or not he can live the monastic life. More than being a change in clothing and location, monasticism is described as an internal conviction, through which the individual seeks full heartedly to live a life in communion with

God.68 Choosing a monastery can be likened to “choosing a bride,” as one monk told me. One spends time evaluating the monastery in which one wishes to be tonsured69 in order to see if it is the right fit for them, akin to a courting couple who would want to get to know one another before deciding to get engaged. The “engagement period” would be an individual’s time as a novice, when he is not fully committed to the monastery until he is tonsured as a monk. One seeking the monastic life is highly encouraged to live as a monastic before entering the monastery. Living as a monastic involves getting accustomed to a life of meditation and contemplation by dedicating prolonged periods of time to the reading of scripture and lives of the monastic saints, as well as increased periods of abstinence from food.70 Though many might not be able to practice this way

68 I did not encounter any monks whose families encouraged them or placed any pressure on them to become monks. On the contrary, most monks I spoke with faced resistance from their families for choosing to enter the monastery. While monasticism plays an important role in the cultivation of the Coptic subject, I am inclined towards the position that those seeking monasticism are discouraged by their families because of cultural norms that place a great emphasis on family responsibility.

69 Tonsuring refers to the moment in which some strands of hair are cut from the monk’s head, in the shape of the cross during his consecration as a monk. The cutting of the hair or tonsuring signifies a dedication to a way of life as will be described below. 70An example that was recounted to me was a story of Pope Kyrillos VI, who prior to his consecration as monk in the monastery of al-Baramous, lived as though he was in a monastery for 5 years prior to being admitted. After returning from work each day, he would enter his room praying, reading scripture, and making vigil. These practices of his youth are also depicted in the hagiopic about his life (Chapter 3). One who would live as Pope Kyrillos did while in the world would effectively have an easy transition into the monastery.

92 of life consistently, they are encouraged to visit a monastery regularly and become accustomed to life therein. In this way, the layman becomes a monk without being dressed in a black cassock. A common expression I encountered from monks at one monastery in Wadi al-Natroun was: “Yā rāhib al-bariyya, mish bi-lon al-gallabiyya”, or “O monk of the desert, it is not by the colour of

[your] gallabiyya [clothing]”. This vocalization emphasizes that monasticism is a way of the heart and not just an external appearance. While monasticism is regarded as an internal way of life, it is clear that it is also cultivated over time and involves power-relations, namely the role of the abbot and father-prior (symbols of institutionalized monasticism) who function as a gate-keepers for maintaining monastic ethical life. The cultivation of the monastic subject begins in the Retreat

House.

The Retreat House or “Beit al-Khilwa,” plays an important part in this process, for monasteries in both Egypt and the United States. Intended not just for those seeking monasticism,

Beit al-Khilwa is essentially a house or living complex for laymen visiting the monastery.71 The house is usually managed by a more experienced monk, who becomes a guide for these youth by instructing them in spiritual matters as well as answering any questions they may have about the monastic life. The monk responsible for Beit al-Khilwa or the “guest master”72 is usually the first point of contact for an individual seeking monasticism.73 Staying at the retreat house has specific

71Women are not permitted to sleep over in the retreat house, though some monasteries permit women to stay overnight in special quarters. Saint Bishoy’s monastery has a designated building outside the ancient monastery and away from the monk quarters for women to spend the night. Saint Mary & Saint Moses Abbey in Corpus Christi, Texas allows women to retreat in the monastery in designated quarters – however, this is permissible only if a parish priest or an immediate male family member accompanies them. Most Coptic monasteries only permit day visits for women, without spending the night. 72There is no formal title for a monk who is responsible for the retreat house. The closest expression in English most suitable is probably “guest master,” as described by Richard Irvine (2010).

73Historically speaking, one who wanted to become a monk had to first go to the city headquarters of the respective monastery they wanted to join and spend some time there before being allowed to go to the monastery. With the advent of roadways to most monasteries, this is now seldom the case. Today, monastery headquarters in main cities such as

93 conditions. The individual must bring with them a letter of consent, signed by their Father of

Confession, granting his blessing for the retreat. The individual must also agree to fully abide with all rules of the monastery. Most monasteries have guidelines as to how long an individual can stay and how frequently they can visit. “Retreating” is quite rigid, with specific times for eating, working, and sleeping. The daily schedule of retreatants also revolves around full participation in the liturgical life of the monastery, where the retreatant becomes a “quasi” or “pretend monk.” In the event that there are prayers exclusive to the community of monks, an arrangement is made for the retreatants to pray together as if they are their own community. It is through these instructions from the guest-master that the individual is cultivated into a “pretend monk” and is in a broader sense cultivated into a virtuous subject, as he seeks to apply what he learns in the monastery in a more personal way. Since the retreatant does not take on any formal monastic vows, their participation in the words of Richard Irvine (2010:223) “could be described as imitation without commitment: a form of pretend play”. But even in this form of “pretend-play,” there is the reality that the retreatant, to some degree or another, takes what they have learned in the monastery and tries to practice it when they return home, a continuous project of self-making. The retreatant as a guest is a “peripheral participant” (ibid.:224) who becomes an exemplar to his family by diffusing the monastic mode of life to others as a “communicant of the form of life to the outside world”

(ibid). This participation is best described in Foucauldian terms as following a set of “moral codes” and engaging in ethical practice. Morality is essentially the rules and regulations set down by an institution while ethics are self-reflective practices by which the individual shapes oneself into a virtuous subject (Laidlaw 2014:111). Following a set of moral codes is itself a means of ethical

Cairo and Alexandria function as a residence for monks who are in the city for medical attention or carrying out tasks for the monastery.

94 formation, by which submission to hierarchical power-relations allows the individual to be cultivated into a moral subject. This self-reflective process involves stepping back and critiquing oneself in relation to moral mandates prescribed by the monastery.

There are two main forms of retreatants. Those coming for retreat (khilwa) who engage in the “cycle of short term exchange,” which includes those who are coming to recharge spiritually, or perhaps even coming as a form of “spiritual refreshment” during holidays. Members of the other category engage in “long-term exchanges,” and include those who frequently come to the monastery for short visits because they are considering the monastic life (biyataraddid ʿallāl deir).

There are different temporal expectations for both categories of visitors. For the first, they imitate the virtuous life of monks for a short duration of time only. For the latter, imitating virtue extends beyond their individual desires, but reflects the wider Coptic monastic imagination in their desire to not only emulate monks as exemplary figures, but to also become exemplary themselves.

In this sense, power is prescribed to the example when the example is imitated. In both categories of visitors, however, morality is reflected through obedience and submitting to hierarchal power- relations in the person of the guest-master. Tensions between expectations and practice are manifested in the individual’s desire to meet up to the expectations of being a virtuous subject and their own ethical decisions and deliberations.

I encountered youth in many instances who, while wanting to benefit from the liturgical life in the monastery, would attempt to skip services for a couple of hours of extra sleep, a risk they took knowing they could be sent home. For the retreatant seeking monasticism, part of their training is learning to accept the authority of the guest-master and being obedient to his instructions. If any retreatant is perceived to be irresponsible or disobedient to the instructions given, they risk being sent home and being shamed in front of the rest of the retreatants. Here the guest-master as a symbol of monastic authority works to produce docile bodies, individuals that

95 are crafted and developed into virtuous subjects through various techniques of discipline (Foucault,

1975: 136).

2.2 Experiencing the Retreat House “Young man with the cell phone! If you want to talk, please go outside!”, Abuna shouted.

The youth walked out to make his phone call. “Let’s stand up to pray”, Abuna continued. After we prayed, the group of retreatants responsible for making food began serving us. Abuna stood at the head of the table. “Brothers, if you finish your food please do not get up and leave, but wait for everyone to finish.” We began eating as Abuna skimmed through the “Paradise of the Fathers”, a collection of narratives about the Desert Fathers, searching for something to read. Looking around the table, there was a wide range of ages among the youth and men in the retreat house, visiting this monastery in Wadi al-Natroun. The youngest I would say was about 13, the oldest probably

35. Abuna began reading from “Paradise of the Fathers”. Among the names I recognized were

Moses the Strong and Isaac the Syrian. Abuna finished reading once everyone had stopped eating.

The meal lasted about 15 minutes. Abuna then asked for the names of the new arrivals, and those who were leaving the same day and the time they would depart.

“I welcome everyone who has just arrived. If any of you would like me to keep anything

of importance for you, you can give it to me after I finish and I will lock them up for you

in the safe.74 The schedule is as follows: from now until 4:30 there is free time. From 4:30-

5:00pm we will pray Vespers and Compline together in the church of Saint Karas, which

is located in the retreat house complex. Afterwards we will walk in the desert from 5:30-

74This is not just to simply prevent distractions but precautioning of possible theft. Though uncommon, theft may occur, particularly if the retreat house is busy. Ironically, the monastery – understood to be a place where Christian moral virtue is cultivated – can still be a place where immoral practice can occur.

6:30. At 6:45 we will return and pray the midnight prayer together. Afterwards there will

be a short talk by Abuna Maximos, who will bless us today. Dinner is at 9pm. Lights must

be off at 10 pm in order for you to wake up for Tazbiha at 4am. You are adjourned.” Abuna

finished abruptly.

We all got up from the table and another group of retreatants delegated to wash the dishes collected our plates. I observed another group of youth approach Abuna to ask questions. One of them asked,

“Abuna, I want to stay one more day.” “Next time you can stay an extra day,” Abuna responded.

“Can I come next week?”, the young man pleaded. “You can come again in two months,” Abuna replied sternly. “It seems Abuna is upset with me,” the youth said to another in an attempt to sway

Abuna’s decision, but to no avail. After Abuna catered to the needs of the youth, he took me to a small office where we caught up.

Abuna told me that he had been assigned responsibility for the retreat house earlier that year by the abbot. I had not seen him since my last visit to the monastery. It was interesting to observe how Abuna dealt with the Egyptian youth, as I knew him to be very calm and gentle, which was how he carried the rest of our conversation. Perhaps he dealt with them this way because of the stress of his position, having to deal with youth with different personalities and intentions for visiting the monastery, or perhaps merely enacting discipline.

The schedule put in place by Abuna was structured quite rigidly. The day was packed with many things to do. I suppose the reason for this was to keep retreatants motivated throughout the day and leave no room for boredom. What I found interesting about my experience at the retreat house was that there was time allocated for walking in the desert. To me, this signals the importance of the desert in igniting the monastic imagination and allowing for the visitor to become a part of this imaginary. The image of the monk as an exemplary who spends his time in

97 prayer in the desert is (re)produced by allowing the individual to participate in this imaginary of being in the desert and “walking reflexively” (Slavin 2003:5-6).75

Abuna and I continued our conversation while walking outside. As we exited the retreat house, we were met by one of the youths I recognized from the day before, during the Tasbeha.

He was now wearing a blue gallabiyya, signifying that the abbot accepted him as a novice. Abuna greeted him with congratulations: “Rubina ye sabitak we sabitnī” (may God confirm the both of us), petitioning God to grant them both strength on their path of monastic life.

Apparent from this account is the role of the monk as a spiritual guide, who becomes both a father and a mentor. This not only applies to the guest-master, but also to other monks who are invited to speak to the youth about spiritual life, further demonstrating how the Coptic monk functions as an exemplar to the visitors. Similarities can be drawn here between my ethnographic description and Richard Irvine’s (2010) account of the guesthouse in the Benedictine monastery where he carried out his fieldwork. Irvine (2010: 225) argues that the role of the guest-master is not only one of offering the monastery’s hospitality to guests but is also to act as “the point of first contact between the guest and the monastic community.”

One’s participation in the retreat house therefore points to a kind of institutional mimesis through which the individual engages in self-discipline and the cultivation of a virtuous self.

There is a certain element of what can be thought of as scales of virtue, by which different retreatants are more serious in their “pretend play” than others. For some, like the recently accepted novice described above, his engagement in the retreat house is effectively play, through which he disciplines himself in the life he aspires to live (Irvine 2010). In this regard, the hospitality of the

75 There is no immediate transformation for one visiting the monastery or walking in the desert, but the practice of walking in the desert is a means to an overall self-cultivation.

98 monks through the guest-master, is “deeply moral” (Meneley 1996:4). There are rules set by the guest-master through which the visitor cultivates a repertoire of moral practices, such as obedience and prayer, with the expectation of becoming more virtuous. In other words, in exchange for hospitality, the individual must work towards becoming a virtuous subject by imitating the exemplary moral character of the monk.

2.3 Calling or Individual choice? As articulated above, the process for being accepted into the monastery may take several years and is mostly contingent on the individual continually frequenting the monastery for short durations.76 During these visits, the individual will often meet with his spiritual guide in the monastery (usually the guest-master) and discuss their progress in spiritual exercises since their prior visit. As a guide, the monk who is appointed guest-master will continue instructing them until they both feel the individual is ready for the monastic life. While there is no clear age limit for entering a monastery, the majority are between the ages of 20 and 35.77 Motives for becoming a monk differ from one person to another, but what was made clear to me during fieldwork was an ambiguity in distinguishing one’s motives as a “calling” from God, and one’s individual choice to

76 A pattern I noticed with most monks and novices I spoke with was that they were very much saturated in the life of the church, serving in their capacity as deacons and Sunday School teachers.

77This contrasts to nuns who cannot be accepted into a convent after passing the “age of marriage,” which I would say is no older than 30 years old. This is because nuns are considered “brides of Christ,” and akin to this allusion, a bride cannot be wed to the bridegroom unless she is serious in her love towards him. Because of this, a woman who has called off her engagement to enter a convent is usually rejected, as opposed to men who might be in a similar position. While older men are also not permitted to enter the monastery, exceptions are made if the monk is known by the abbot and is aware of the circumstances that prevented him from entering the monastery earlier. It is quite clear to me that there are more leniencies in the case of men than there are for women. Though I do not have the current space to address monasticism and gender, there are certainly different expectations for women that I think are heavily rooted in cultural norms and the perception of women in Egyptian society. Similarly, the less-strict conditions for men are also rooted in what I see as Egyptian cultural and societal norms. For example, it would be a legitimate reason for a monk to delay his entrance to the monastery because of commitments to his parents. His and subsequent acceptance to a monastery would be rooted in societal norms that a man must provide for his family, particularly if he is the only child or only son, he has familial and social obligation to his parents.

99 become a monk. This is an act of discerning virtue and qualifying one’s potential for reproducing the example.

A “calling” refers to when a monastic feels that they are being invited by God to live out a particular vocation and “respond to the call to follow Christ” (Farag 2012:13). There is the perception that God wants this way of life for them, and that there is an individual choice as well.

One must decide whether they will accept this calling or not. Yet, there is an internal concern that

God must be involved with the individual in the decision to become a monastic.

Abuna Yacoub explained to me that “the calling to monasticism is a personal invitation from God. It is like one who is invited to a wedding. You have a choice. You have the choice to attend or not to attend the wedding. God is not angered or upset, but one would miss out on experiencing God through this way of life.” In other words, the calling precedes individual choice.

This understanding of “calling” is important because it suggests that the individual is different than others in that God is choosing him to live an exemplary way of life.

Lois Farag (2012), an Early Church historian, extrapolates that at the heart of the monastic call is not only responding to the call, but also accepting it and being transformed by Christ. She writes, “know[ing] Christ and accepting His call… is always transformative…[and] varies in form and intensity” (p.13). In anthropological terms, this transformation is not only the influence of divine will but also a social transformation by which the individual participates in various rites of passages to become a monk. These experiences are both an internal conviction for living a life of dedication to God as well as an internalization of hierarchy through an expected submission to figures of monastic authority.

Different monks recounted to me their motives for becoming monks, or what they interpreted as their calling to live the monastic life. Some described their calling as feeling a sense of peace towards celibacy and a desire to live for God. Some described their desire as a gradual

100 process, from teenage years, sometimes from childhood, into adulthood. Others were engaged to be married, but felt that their path was changing, feeling called towards monasticism and celibacy the more they prayed. Most monks I spoke with attributed the emergence of their calling to their love of reading hagiographies (biographies of the saints) and their exemplary way of life, or being affected by the powerful words of the Scripture and wanting to dedicate their lives to the study of

Scripture and the works of the Church Fathers.78 Some also spoke of how they had developed relationships with certain monks and wanted to emulate their way of life. While it was never said to me explicitly, Sana Hassan (2003:68) has suggested that hagiopics (Chapter 3) have also been a factor for Coptic youth to dedicate their lives to the Church. These examples speak to ways in which exemplarity takes form, is shaped, and is (re)produced.

One monk’s desire for monasticism struck me as particularly peculiar. Prior to his monastic life, this monk indulged in many worldly pleasures and “lost his purity.”79 When he felt that he was not being fulfilled, “he came to his senses and wanted to repent.”80 He saw that the monastic life was the best means for his repentance and attaining salvation, so he quit his job and was accepted into the monastery, which he has not left for twenty years. When I asked monks if socio- political and economic reasons affected one’s decisions to become a monk, my question was usually dismissed saying, “these are not the majority, but a select few.”81 To admit this would risk the social monastic imaginary of the monk as a moral exemplar.

78 See Irvine (2010b) for comparison with Benedictine monks.

79The expression of a “loss of purity” that this monk spoke about it was probably meant to imply some sort of sexual interaction.

80 He used the same words as in scripture in the parable of the prodigal son.

81 My inference from these kinds of answers is that monks are afraid to “tarnish” the image of monasticism, as they would suggest that some monks enter the monastery for reasons which are not spiritual. Even if a monk did enter the monastery because of socio-economic or political circumstances, he would probably not reveal such idiosyncrasies.

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Other monks I spoke with felt a strong connection to a saint and wanted to be “their child.”

Abuna Yosab Ava Mina for example, felt a strong connection to Saint Pope Kyrillos VI from his childhood and, when making the decision to become a monk, chose the monastery of Saint Mina since the body of Saint Pope Kyrillos is buried there. One who chooses to become a monk in a monastery named after their patron saint is, in a sense, following a kind of spiritual discipleship, since the monk seeks to emulate the life of the saint and follow their example. Emulation in this context exemplifies a pattern of authority and mimesis by which sainthood is reproduced, through what I would describe as “spiritual kinship,” by which all monks of a particular monastery become children of the monastery’s saint(s), seeking to emulate their patron’s way of life.82 The individual develops a relationship with a particular monastic saint. While the general understanding is that one can learn from the saints and become pious, the majority of my interlocutors are of the opinion that monks in the past were “more” pious than those of today. This spiritual kinship can be understood as a patrilineal or patriarchal transmission of authority over time, giving power to the exemplarity status of a monk through the monastic imaginary.

One Bishop has described the calling to monasticism as a feeling where the individual finds

“nothing else more important [than this desire from which] no one can hinder your decision.”83

His answer also suggests that this cultivation takes time and is not immediate, hence he warns against “temporary urges” that might not be genuine. Discovering the call also requires a Father of Confession, who directs the individual throughout this process.84 Most importantly, the basis

82 All monks for example are described as “children of Saint Antony” who is the “Father of all monks.”

83 http://www.suscopts.org/q&a/index.php?qid=1189&catid=582.

84 This applies to both monks and nuns. Similar to monks, nuns can have spiritual guides who are not necessarily their Father of Confession. Her spiritual guide can also be an experienced nun.

102 for discovering one’s calling is rooted in self-scrutiny, by which the individual is called to be honest with themselves in determining whether or not their desire for monasticism is one with genuine motives; that is, seeking monasticism for the sake of solely living a life of prayer and solitude. This self-discovery is lined with the authority of the priesthood. One cannot know oneself without submission to a spiritual father. Discipleship is a form of pedagogy and the ‘“primal scene of ethics,’ the locus of becoming of the ethical subject in relation to an exemplar (Laidlaw

2014:150-151). In other words, what the answer of this bishop suggests is that Coptic monastic ethical formations are a combination of one’s personal choice and a calling from God, which can only be understood through discipleship. In emulating a saint or submitting to the direction of a spiritual guide (who himself, is a model of emulation), the disciple seeks to imitate the virtue of the exemplar by submitting to their patterned way of life.

In sum, the choice of becoming a monk is framed within the context of a relationship with

God, reflected through the calling a process of examining oneself to hear God’s voice. This inner calling is confirmed through submitting to the spiritual authority of the Father of Confession or the abbot of the monastery as a form of external validation outside one’s own thoughts and intentions. The role of the guide here is one of mediating spiritual authority and (re)confirming this calling by getting to know more about the individual over a period of time. In this way there are three forms of power. The first is rooted in the Coptic imagination whereby the individual cultivates themselves in relation to certain criteria and expectations of exemplarity (Bandak 2012,

2015). The second is institutionary power, which involves guidelines and rules and producing expectations of what it means to be a virtuous subject. The third is self-disciplinary power, which is one’s own ethical formation. Work on oneself is the result of internalizing both imaginary and institutionary ways of power in attempting to transform oneself into a virtuous subject. Power and practice are conceptually separate but also linked when thinking about ethical formation.

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The decision to enter a monastery requires deliberation and self-critique but also involves the kind of choices one makes in everyday life (Lambek 2015:6, Das 2012). To know how to live an ethical life, the individual is cultivated in relation to the structures of power that produce the moral subject. Furthermore, the ethical life is guided by the choice one makes given their relationship to authority. There are clearly competing voices of authority which influence the individual taking the decision, whether the abbot or the person’s Father of Confession. At the end, however, submission to a spiritual guide or abbot is submission to the authority of the Church as the regulator and cultivator of virtuous subjectivity. Discovering God’s voice is more difficult to understand since the abbot holds the power of allowing or denying him entry into the monastery.

This can lead to rejection, anger, and frustration on the part of the individual seeking the monastic life, especially if he is rejected from the monastery.

I met Makram in the retreat house of St. Bishoy. He was a tall man, with a moustache and a darker complexion. He appeared to be in his early thirties. I noticed that he had a wedding band on his left hand, indicating that he is married. He had a calm demeanor and appeared approachable.

He arrived on the third night of my stay. I did not really chat with him when he arrived, except for a few greetings here and there. My first impression of him was that he was a good chanter. I was particularly impressed with his ability to chant the melismatic hymns.85 We did not really get acquainted until one night after dinner. After being served our food, I asked if I could sit next to him. “Please, it would be my blessing!”, he expressed sincerely. I sat next to him and began to eat my bowl of black beans. I used bread as a spoon along with it. Makram and I began to chat. “Where are you from?” I asked. “I’m from Ismailiyah”, he responded. “I’m here for a short retreat to focus

85 Melismatic hymns are the technical word used by the Church to describe “long” hymns. Usually they are much longer than their shorter variant but can be chanted when there is more time.

104 on myself and ask [for] God’s guidance. Where are you from?” He asked. “I’m actually visiting here from Canada, but my family is originally from Alexandria. I am here in the monastery doing research on the monastic life and its influence on Copts,” I responded with my generic answer to anyone who asked me who I was and where I was from.

“You’re from Canada? How marvelous! But, you don’t have an accent and are fluent in

Arabic. I have relatives that emigrated to Australia long ago and they are completely foreigners!

They know nothing about Egypt. It is great to see that you still retain your identity.” I explained to Makram that it was my parents who insisted I speak Arabic at home and it was for this reason that I speak the language. We continued learning about each other. When I felt comfortable enough

I asked him, “Makram, I notice a wedding band on your finger. What brings you to the monastery?”

“Can I share my story with you, if you would allow me? I feel I can confide in you and share with you my experience of monasticism. It may be of benefit to your research,” Makram said to me.

“I’m happy to listen and learn from your experience,” I responded.

“OK, let’s clean up and go for a walk.” He said smiling happily.

We cleaned up and asked permission from the father responsible if we could walk. He permitted us and we walked towards the ancient monastery. The sun was now set. The green lights of the mosque’s minaret were now apparent in the distance. As we left the retreat house, Makram began to tell me his story while the Adhān (Muslim call to prayer) echoed off the monastery walls.

Makram was 31 years old and contemplated living the monastic life when he was a teenager. He went to a certain monastery and disclosed his desire to the abbot. The abbot received his wish happily, but told him that he was still young. The abbot expected him to finish university and work for a period of time, so that Makram would not be tempted by the devil with thoughts of being unsuccessful when he entered the monastery.

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The abbot requested that Makram visit during school breaks and test himself. Makram agreed and went to the monastery for a period of 3 to 5 days about once or twice a year for 10 years. Every time he visited, Makram would meet with the abbot who seemed to be happy with his progress and seriousness. On one of his last visits to the monastery, Makram felt a strong inclination to stay for good. He obeyed the abbot’s initial conditions and was already working for about 4 years and making good money. He was ready to leave everything and consecrate his life.

Makram was shocked, however, when the abbot refused to accept him, telling him that he was not yet ready for the monastic life. Makram returned home dismayed but thought that perhaps the abbot was testing him to see if he genuinely wanted to become a monk. Makram decided to go on another retreat later that year to speak with the abbot again and to show his seriousness.

To his surprise, Makram felt that the abbot’s attitude towards him had changed. The abbot conveyed to him that he would not accept him as a monk and that he should get married.

At this point in our conversation, Makram’s tone changed as he expressed his anger and frustration towards the abbot. Makram went on:

“‘But why would you make me come here for 10 years, only to tell me this now? I want to become a monk.’ ‘You are just not fit, we cannot accept you.’ The abbot responded. Devastated I returned home grieving. I discovered after that my refusal was probably influenced by the Father-Prior, who I sensed simply didn’t like me.”

“Why didn’t you go to another monastery?” I asked.

“I just felt choked. I felt like I wanted nothing to do with monasticism. I wasted ten years of my life for something that I thought was my way. Until today, I feel cheated by the abbot and the monastery, but I learned to move on. I married a wonderful, pious woman and decided to live a life of piety in wedlock, praying, fasting, attending liturgies, and Midnight Praises at my church. I am here on retreat because the priest in my church asked me to consider ordination to the

106 priesthood. I told him I need to pray and ask God’s guidance. If I feel by the end of this retreat that

God wants me for His service, I will tell the priest, who will recommend me to the bishop. This is my story. Do you think I made the right decision, doctor?86 Should I have tried another monastery?”

I really did not know how to responded to Makram. Who was I to give advice on someone’s life choices, let alone someone I had only begun to know? I paused for a moment and went on to give the generic answers I heard from bishops or priests regarding this “the will of God” in one’s life by saying, “I can’t answer that for you Makram. What I can tell you is to do what certain priests and bishops have said, ‘pray until you feel peace.’ Perhaps God wants you to serve him in the world, not in the monastery. Time will tell.” Satisfied with my answer, Makram thanked and hugged me, and asked me to pray for him. I asked him to do the same and we returned to our rooms.

Makram’s story is a good example of the complexities between hierarchal authority, monasticism and one man’s experience wanting to become a monk. It was clear to me that the normative description of hearing God’s calling is far more complicated when understanding one’s vocation is often relational to hierarchal power-relationships and the changing responses of abbots and bishops. Though Makram was now praying for God’s will for the priesthood, what is clear from his account is that moral exemplarity in the Coptic Church cannot be understood apart from hierarchical relationships and Church authority. Today, Makram is a parish priest, renowned for his pastoral care to youth and mastery of church hymns. This vignette also speaks to the ways in which practical judgment and discernment are not only practiced by laity or novices desiring to become monks but also on the part of the bishop and abbot who uses his judgment to separate

86 PhD candidates in Egypt are called “doctors” though they have not yet completed their studies.

107 aspiring monks as deserving or underserving become novices. This authority further strengthens power-relations and ecclesiastical authority.

2.4 Heading to the Monastery When the individual is finally ready, having taken care of all their responsibilities to their family and any other commitments, the guest-master will arrange a meeting with the abbot of the monastery.87 As described above, the guest-master is in a position of power and plays an important role in the life of one seeking monasticism. He is a kind of gatekeeper in his capacity to connect the aspiring monk to the bishop in authority. Abuna Arsanius for example, has been a guest-master in one of the monasteries of Wadi al-Natroun for about two years. He has been a monk for 10 years. Prior to being the guest-master, Abuna Arsanius worked in the monastery’s bookstore.

While Abuna is sociable, he prefers solitude, and would often enjoy periods of seclusion in his cell during the Great-Fast.88 When the abbot selected him to be the guest-master, Abuna agreed in obedience. Abuna’s role is very important because he is essentially the one who recommends the individual to the abbot if the abbot does not already know him. Having known the individual for several years, Abuna vouches to the abbot, on behalf of the individual, that he is ready to enter the monastery.

87The conditions for being admitted into most monasteries in Egypt, especially Wadi el Natroun, is that an individual must be a university graduate with a bachelor’s degree. One must also have completed their mandatory military service. However, exceptions can be made depending on the individual and their circumstances; one may be exempted from Egyptian military service if they are the only son of their parents or if their father is above 60 years of age and retired. The reason for the second exception is that a son is expected to be the provider for his family in the event his father cannot. This is specific to men seeking monasticism. However, for women, similar conditions must also be met, including having a bachelor’s degree; however, a novice will not be accepted after the age of 30 on the premise that she has “passed the age of marriage.” As a “bride of Christ,” she must marry when she is young. 88 The Great Fast is also called “Lent” in Western Christianity.

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From what I learned during fieldwork, many individuals are rejected because of a lack of space in the monastery.89 Rejection from a monastery can also happen for several reasons; for instance, if an individual is hesitant and is torn between marriage and monasticism, they will be rejected. Another case for rejection is if an individual was a novice in one monastery and left for another. Some monasteries require that an individual only frequent their monastery when thinking about monasticism and that they do not look into any other monastery, emphasizing that monasticism is not only the wearing of a black habit, but commitment to the rule or way of life of that specific monastery. Lastly, some are rejected based on social obligations to their families.90

In all these cases above, exceptions can be made depending on the circumstances of the individual and the discretion of the abbot.

A novice can also be kicked out of a monastery for inappropriate behaviour, such as raising his voice or refusing to follow his abbot’s orders, although this is quite rare.91 Novices who leave the monastery do so of their own accord, after testing themselves and determining they cannot live as monks. They are then permitted to leave and return to the world, and subsequently marry or live as regular laymen.92 Bishop Theophilus, the late Bishop and Abbot of Saint Mary’s Monastery al-

Souriān, was renowned for a plethora of ways of testing individuals, to discern whether they were

89 Many monasteries such as Saint Bishoy and al-Souriān are regularly building new cells to accommodate the growth of monks I remember the number of novices in one monastery in Egypt in 2012 was 15; when I returned the next year, the number of novices had doubled to 30. It is unclear whether the reason or the increase was the abbot’s desire to expand the monastery or as a result of the socio-economic and political situation between 2011-2013. Overcrowding is more of an issue in Egypt, than it is in the United States.

90 See footnote 21. 91 I myself never witnessed or was told of a circumstance where one was kicked out of a monastery for bad behaviour. 92 I witnessed this happen several times during the course of my fieldwork, though I have never witnessed a monk return to the world as a layman. The return of a tonsured monk to the world and leaving the monastic life would be quite scandalous and perceived by others as a failure. See Abuna Estephanos’ reflections (Chapter 4).

109 truly sincere about the monastic life. Many of these methods were quite humorous. One, in particular, was recounted to me several times:

A young man came to Bishop Theophilus wanting to become a monk in his monastery.

Bishop Theophilus told him “You look like a nice man; this way of life is too hard. Instead of monasticism, I think you would do better as a priest in the world. I would like to arrange a marriage for you with my niece in my village. Go there [He gave him the specific location] and ask to meet

‘Mabrūka’ [literally ‘blessed one’] and I will work out the details for your ordination.” The young man agreed and went to the village, to the location instructed to him by the bishop. He asked for

‘Mabrūka’ and was directed to a stable behind the house, where he found a donkey (“Mabrūka”) grazing. He subsequently returned to the bishop, who told him that he was not fit to be a monk because he did not seek monasticism but position. Even with much insistence, the man was rejected. In this regard, monasticism is framed as a way of life that is not about power or position.

The irony however is that monasticism socially speaking, is very much about power-relations. One entering the monastery is expected to submit their life in full to God through the person of the abbot who has the power to ordain and authorize the practice of self-cultivation.

To contextualize the ways in which one is further accepted as a novice, I turn to Abuna

Athanasius. Abuna Athanasius is a monk I characterize as unconventional. He is blunt and never shies away from making his opinion known. His sense of humour is very easily misinterpreted as sarcasm and has left me and others who encountered him confused – only to enjoy a good laugh with him later. The story he told me about how he became a monk is one of these examples. Abuna

Athanasius left for the monastery after working as a professional for many years. While he wanted to consecrate his life much earlier, he felt that he had to be faithful to his responsibilities at work and commitments to his family before taking a final step towards monasticism. Upon completing his commitments, Abuna Athanasius asked his Father of Confession to speak to the abbot, even

110 though Abuna knew the abbot quite well. The abbot responded to his request after several months.

When Abuna arrived to the monastery, he asked the abbot directly: “Will you accept me or not? If not, let me know and I will go home.” The abbot then gave him a letter to stay in the retreat house, without a specified duration of time. After three days, the guest-master asked him to leave. Abuna then went directly to the abbot after midnight praises, demanding a straightforward answer. The abbot had apparently told the guest-master to send him home to test Abuna’s seriousness. After a few more days of testing, the abbot received Abuna as a novice. As in the narrative of Bishop

Theophilus above, the abbot engaged in a series of tests to make sure the individual was serious about entering the monastery.

Abuna Athanasius was then dressed in a blue habit or cassock (monastic uniform)93 and was given a new name, though this is not mandatory.94 Most Coptic monasteries use two colours for novitiate cassocks. When one is first admitted into a monastery, they are dressed in a blue or grey gallabiyya. After a year or so, they are permitted to dressed in a white gallabiyya, prior to their consecration as monks.95 This may take about another year. Some monasteries use only one colour for all their novices prior to their consecration as monks. The time between being accepted into a monastery as a novice and being consecrated a monk is usually around three years. This, however is not mandatory for each monastic candidate, and may vary depending on the abbot of the monastery and the readiness of the individual. The change in clothing reflects a certain level of virtue and commitment that the novice is deemed to have achieved by the abbot. Whether the

93In the Coptic tradition, there is no traditional word for monastic or clerical uniforms such as “habit” or “cassock.” Rather, it is usual that any uniform worn by monks or priests are recognized as a “gallabiyya,” or tunic, which are common amongst Egyptians, especially in Upper-Egypt. However, there is a difference denoted by colours; Coptic clergy wear black, while white liturgical vestments are identified as “tonniyya” or “tawānī” (plural) and not “gallabiyya” or “gallālīb” (plural). 94I was told that the name of a novice is changed only when they have a name that is not shared with a Coptic saint, but is also a name shared with Muslims – for example, “Osama,” or “Nadim.” Some monasteries change the name of all novices upon acceptance to their monastery, as well as when they are tonsured as monks. 95Generally speaking, the individual who reaches the stage of being dressed in white is tonsured as a monk.

111 novice may or may not be exemplary, the clothing he wears, like a monk, reflects a degree of moral exemplarity. This exemplarity is rooted in obedience to the monastery’s rules, which lead to the novice being “promoted” from one stage of exemplarity to the other. The novice is always cautious, perhaps even paranoid, that he might not be accepted to the next level,96 as described in the opening vignette with Brother Karam.

2.5 Day of Consecration A new monk’s consecration may coincide with special feast days associated with monastic saints or the monastery itself. Monastic consecrations signify the novice's “death to the world.”

Consecrations begin during the evening vesper prayers, during which the abbot calls the novice(s)

- who is sometimes made aware of his consecration the day before, although not always - and asks if the novice is ready to live the monastic life. The abbot also asks the assembly of monks if anyone disapproves of the consecration. The reality however, is that even if someone in the monastery had problems with a specific brother, they would never publicly declare it. I know of one case where a novice’s behaviour was brought into question, especially in his inability to get along with a few monks. One of the monks who had issues with this particular novice told me they could never display their disapproval in front of the rest of the monks because it would appear as though he was undermining the authority and discretion of the bishop, a risk he could not take. What this demonstrates to me is that the gesture to ask monks if they approve or not is more symbolic than it is a consensus, as the final decision belongs solely to the abbot.

96 A friend of my cousin was admitted into a monastery as a novice. During my stay at the monastery I ran into him and asked how he was doing. After we chatted I asked him if he would like to talk to my cousin. He was excited to and then hesitated, looking around him to make sure no one saw me handing him the phone. He told me though he wanted to speak to my cousin, he could get in trouble if someone saw him on the phone. The irony however is that once a monk is tonsured he is permitted to have a phone in contrast to the Coptic monastic imagination which upholds that the monk is “dead to the world” and cuts himself off from the rest of society. In practice, passing the novitiate is a kind of promotion, whereby the new monk gains access to certain privileges such as owning a mobile phone.

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The novice(s) are then asked to recite his monastic vows. If there is more than one novice, one of the bishops (if present) or other monks will read out the vows, which are then repeated by the novices. In summary, the monastic vows stipulate that the monk will: 1) be steadfast in the

Orthodox faith to his last breath; 2) declare his submission to a) the authority of the Church as reflected in the person of the Patriarch, who is recognized as the head of monasticism, and b) submission to the authority of the abbot of the monastery. The monk is to do this while living in peace with his fellow brothers; 3) recognize monasticism as his “death to the world”, by which he vows to live a life of purity and chastity and denounce any love of money and financial dealings with his family; 4) remain faithful in confession and obey the rules of the monastery, while remaining meek and humble; 5) work diligently in the work assigned to him and fulfill his monastic canon by attending the Divine Liturgy and other church services; 6) never receive a layman in his cell; and 7) not descend to the world, except under exceptional circumstances in which the abbot has granted permission.97 After the vows are recited, the abbot calls the novice(s) forward where he is blessed in the name of the Trinity and given a new name.98 This ritual is the beginning of the novice’s change in status. The novice is fully recognized as a monk after the funeral ritual, which will be described below.

In a general sense, the taken vow expresses different forms of kinship amongst the monks, the abbot and the patriarch, each with its own set of expectations and levels of commitment. With

97 According to Abuna Athanasius, Pope Shenouda III developed the monastic vow in its current form. Before this period, anyone desiring monasticism was tested in a similar way, to which Bishop Theophilus mentioned above, that tested the character of the individual and seeing their reaction. While the vow in its current state focuses on authority to the patriarch and the Church more broadly, vows were understood as one living a life of virtue and excelling in the Fruits of the Spirit to which a monk constantly seeks to work on.

98 Bingham-Kolenkow (1997:106) makes an interesting argument that the new name given to the monk after a particular saint is “in fact a reincarnation of that saint for each community to keep the ideal alive in the carrier of the name.”

113 respect to the patriarch and the abbot, there is a commitment of full obedience to their authority, while amongst the brotherhood; the monk is to live in harmony without raising his voice in anger to anyone. Vowing to work in the monastery is a means by which the monk will not be a burden on the monastery. He is not coming to live in the monastery without responsibilities, but rather is vowing to participate in its social life by attending communal prayers and working. The vow signals the renouncing of one form of social life for another. The monastery is very much a micro- society, where the monk participates as an active member. In respect to not receiving a layman in his cell, the emphasis is on the monk’s private life where he will not be distracted with news from the outside world. In this way, the monk’s public declaration and commitment to the community is a form of moral obligation.

2.6 The Funeral Service The ritual of the funeral service99 is perhaps the most important rite of passage in the initiation process, as it takes the novice from the stage of liminality to reintegration (van Gennep

1996).100 After the naming ritual, the monks and other novices congratulate their brother, while the bishop starts the Evening Praises (tazbehet ʿashiyyia) and the Raising of the Incense, in which the entire brotherhood participates. The novice remains in the church until the morning. The monastic habit he will wear is placed on the relics of the saint(s) of the monastery until the bishop

99 The particular funeral service ritual described below was one I witnessed at Saint Mary & Saint Moses Abbey in the United States.

100 Arnold van Gennep (1996) identifies three stages of rites of passage: Separation, Liminality and reintegration. In respect to Coptic monasticism, the first stage of separation occurs when the individual leaves for the monastery, “passing a threshold into a new land” (pg.532). He enters the liminal stage when he is accepted as a novice. In the words of Victor Turner (1996:512), it is in this stage the individual is ““neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arranged by law custom, convention and ceremonial.” The liminal stage is also one in which previous social statuses and distinctions are stripped away and all novices are regarded as equals. A group sharing this new status is what Turner (1996:513) characterizes as communitas. It is in rites of reincorporation like the funeral rite prayed over the novice that his status changes to that of a recognized monk in the community.

114 dresses him after the “funeral service.” If the monastery contains no relics, then the habit is placed on the altar (St. Mary and St. Moses Abbey 2006: 1) for the new monk to receive the blessing of the monastery’s saint. During the night, the brother prays and contemplates his new life, and is frequented by older monks who provide him advice and expectations about his new life. Monastic texts and hagiographies may be read as a means of instructing the new monk. The midnight prayers are then recited about an hour before their usual time, in order to accommodate more time for the

“funeral service.”

The abbot then asks the novice to lie on his back, next to the relics of the saint(s), with his feet toward the east (the altar), where he is subsequently “buried” under a large cover similar to that of an altar curtain. The “corpse” is prayed over with a prayer akin to that of a deceased lay person, although scriptural readings are selected to reflect the monastic life.

I asked one monk in the United States how he felt about this ritual. He replied to me that it was as if he was “literally” attending his own funeral: “At that moment, I died to the world.”

“Death” to the world as explained above means that the monk no longer lives for himself but is a consecrated vessel to Jesus Christ. Theologically speaking, this ritual practice symbolizes the monk being “buried” and subsequently “risen” in and with Christ. I would like to pause a moment and reflect on the ways in which becoming a Coptic monk encompasses two important theoretical points: 1) the power of the ritual 2) technologies of the self.

Joel Robbins (2004) argues that one way of understanding Christian ritual (in the context of the Urapmin of Papua New Guinea) is through a Foucauldian lens, particularly the latter’s notion of “technologies of the self” by which the individual constantly works to a virtuous subject.

Following Robbins (2004), the paradox of the monastic initiation process is that the monk is ritually dead while physically alive. It is precisely this paradox that distinguishes Christian rituals more broadly from technologies of the self. While rituals are a means by which a new status is

115 recognized, the individual must continually work on themselves amidst moments of weakness and difficulty in their self-formation (Robbins 2004:254). Catherine Bell (1997:181) summarizes this paradox with the following words:

this devaluation of the world and the worldly self, in tandem with a deep-felt submission

to obedience and discipline, leads to the cultivation of a sense of separation of oneself from

others and, concomitantly, the separation of the whole sphere of religious activity from

other forms of human behavior.

In the context of Coptic monasticism, the messiness and tensions between religious activity and human behaviour are exemplified through the monk constantly negotiating between living up to the standard of the Coptic moral imagination (as expected of him through the ritual) and everyday practices, decisions, and deliberations (processes of technologies of the self) the monk must make in cultivating moral exemplarity.

Continuing with the funeral rite, the large cover placed over the monk is removed. The monk is asked to stand up, and the abbot cuts locks of hair from the new monk's head, while signing the cross and invoking the Trinity. The monastic habit is then removed from the relics of the saints and the abbot begins to dress the new monk with his monastic habit or cassock. This habit consists of a black gallabiyya, a colour which represents his “death” to the world; a monastic hood called the kulunsuwa, which symbolizes the “helmet of salvation”; and a girdle or belt, signifying discipline and ascetic life.

There is a special prayer that the abbot prays over the new monk while dressing him with each article of the habit. He says, “put on the garment of righteousness and the shield of light and bring forth a fruit meet for repentance […] Put on the hood of humility and the helmet of salvation

116 and bring a good fruit […] Gird your loins with all the bands of God and the power of repentance

[…]” (Saint Mary & Saint Moses Abbey 2006).101

After the new monk is fully dressed, the monastic ritual is fully consummated. He becomes reincorporated as a consecrated member of the monastic community. The abbot then celebrates the Divine Liturgy with the congregation of monks, who all partake in the Holy Eucharist. This ritual in both a symbolic and social sense demonstrates exemplary status by which the novice is recognized as reflecting the characteristics of a virtuous subject. The black habit is a means by which this exemplary status is bestowed, transforming and marking the monk as exemplary, though in practice he may not be regarded as exemplary by fellow monks. Giorgio Agamben

(2013:16), in his work on monastic rules, describes how the habit of a monk reflects his habit of life. In other words, the monks’ clothing must reflect the essence of his moral conduct and exemplary way of life. The monk must always remain virtuous. In this sense, a monks clothing holds a “completely moral meaning” (ibid.), by which his relationships with non-monastics is foregrounded in expectations and assumptions that he is a moral exemplar.

Vlad Naumescu (2014) offers a compelling argument in respect to the novitiate of Eastern

Orthodox monks, in that much of their training is rooted in both embodied practices and works of the imagination. Both are situated cognitively within and through social technologies. I am interested in Naumescu’s approach to mediation and the cultivation of the self through cultural technologies as products of historicity, emotionality, and materiality. In other words, monastic imagination is rooted in a particular history and discursive practice that comes to be interpreted by monks today in their search for salvation and unity with God. At the center of Naumescu’s argument is the notion that the cultivation of the self is a means by which the monk is able to

101 Derived from Ephesians: 6.

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“sense the divine” and “make it real in themselves.” This begins when he enters the monastery as a novice and continues into his monastic life.

Interestingly, Father Athanasius also describes prayer as a kind of sensibility, whereby the monk enters into the presence of God. A monk’s prayer rule as a form of adoration is the beginning of sensing the divine. Prayer as opposed to adoration is a continuous awareness of being in God’s presence and comes with much patience in a desire to progress in one’s relationship with God. As one seeking a virtuous life, the monk progresses in different levels of exemplary prayer, the first of which is adoration and the goal of which is union with God.102

2.7 Monks & Priests: Degrees of Exemplarity A key difference between the monk and priest is the funeral prayers that are recited over the monk, rendering him “dead to the world.” While a priest is consecrated for the service and

“separated” for the Gospel of Christ, he does not vow a life of celibacy. Unlike the Catholic

Church, Orthodox priests are permitted to marry. Some lay-priests (i.e. not tonsured as monks) may also remain celibate.103 While both priests and monks are regarded as exemplary figures, the celibacy of a monk is regarded as a sign of spiritual power, which the monk or celibate priest embodies (Chapter 4).

102 How a monk prays is difficult to know apart from how one observes him pray in public. Even in my close relationship with Abuna Athanasius for example, he would not reveal the idiosyncrasies of his prayer life.

103A candidate for the priesthood is married before he is ordained. If one is ordained as a celibate priest, he cannot marry later. In a case where an individual is celibate and ordained, it done with the knowledge of the patriarch or bishop ordaining him that the individual has chosen a life of celibacy. It is important to note that there is ambiguity around the role of the celibate-priest because they are neither monks nor married priests. Additionally, a married priest cannot re-marry if his wife passes away. This is because, culturally speaking, a father marrying his daughter is prohibited; the priest as a “spiritual father” cannot re-marry a “spiritual daughter.” If a priest chooses however to marry, he is no longer permitted to be a priest, for these same reasons. Interestingly, I have come to learn that because of the shortage of priests in the Armenian Apostolic (Orthodox) Church, one can be ordained a priest and must marry in the first 2 years of his priesthood. This offers an interesting analysis of how logistical reasons have changed the practice of ordination.

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The monastery also plays an important role in the life of the priest. Every ordained priest in the Coptic Church spends 40 days in a monastery before beginning his service, resembling

Christ’s 40 days in the wilderness, before the start of His ministry. During this time, a delegated monk teaches the priest(s) how to officiate the Divine Liturgy, while also offering him practical advice on how to deal with the spiritual life of his flock.104 In this way, monasticism is instrumental in the training of priests not only in respect to Divine Liturgy and Church Services, but also in the ways the priest himself is cultivated into becoming a spiritual guide to his flock. In other words, the monk becomes an exemplary figure for the priest alluding to a hierarchy of exemplarity of which the monk is on top. More importantly is that the priest is imitating Christ who is believed to be both the True High Priest and “Exemplar of all Exemplars” (Brown 1983:6).

When analyzing the monastic vow and the reality of lived monasticism today, there are several observations. Firstly, there is the assumption that the monk is completely isolated from society. This, as I have argued above, is rooted in a Coptic monastic imaginary which assumes that the monk is the most virtuous of Coptic subjects because of his isolation and celibacy. As argued in Chapter 1, monasteries – both historically and contemporarily – are not separate from society but very much a part of it (See also Poujeau 2010). Many monks I came to know during fieldwork are visited by their parents and kin in the monastery and in some instances may go and visit them.

In a few instances, some monks allowed me in their cell for research purposes, while others invited me because of friendships we developed over the course of my fieldwork. In the following chapters, I continue to illustrate the paradoxes, contradictions, and ambiguities between the Coptic monastic imaginary and lived practice. In this next section, I describe the infrastructure of most

104The word “flock” here essentially means “congregation.” As a minister of the Holy Mysteries (Sacraments), the Patriarch, Bishop, and priest, as ordained clergy, represent Christ as the “Good Sheppard” (John 10) who looks after His flock (The Church).

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Coptic monasteries and the ways in which spatial separations speak to different layers of exemplarity.

2.8 Monastic Infrastructure A general division of Coptic monasteries includes the following parts: 1) guest grounds, which encompass ancient churches; 2) monastic quarters reserved for monk cells; 3) plantation fields and farms; and 4) anchorite cells on the outskirts of the monastery. Each of these areas has distinctive functions that facilitate the social interaction between monks and those visiting the monastery (Irvine 2013:28). In sum, the spatial infrastructure of the monastery can be described in the words of Richard Irvine (2010: 225) as “layers within layers of ‘enclosure,’ and different layers of contact between monks and outsiders.” The size of each section or layer differs from monastery to monastery, depending primarily on the size of the overall monastery. In short, the more private the space, the more exemplary it is deemed to be. Churches are exceptions to this hierarchy of space where all come to meet Christ the True Exemplar (Brown 1983).

When visiting a monastery, some individuals go directly to the guest-house upon arriving to the monastery for a meal, while the majority visit the church(es) in the ancient monastery before breaking bread. Upon entering the main church, visitors take a blessing of the relics of the saint or saints associated with the monastery, light a candle, say a short prayer, or offer alms. Some monasteries have multiple churches, some more ancient than others, and can have multiple liturgies on one day. In al-Baramous monastery for example, the relics of Saints Moses the “Black” or the “Strong” (Al-qāwi al-Anba Moussa al- aswad) and Isidore the Priest (Anba Isīzeros al-qiss) are on the north side in the first chorus of the church. Visitors are often seen venerating their relics by prostrating and kissing them, as well as singing hymns of veneration to the saints. Sometimes a monk would join large groups and explain the architecture and the history of the church and

120 monastery, as well as the life of the saint(s) of the monastery. The retreat-house described above is also usually part of the guest-grounds, although there are some exceptions.105

The guest-house is essentially a meeting place between monks and their visitors. An assigned worker (or workers) prepares a small meal for visitors, usually comprised of beans and bread (fuwl we ʿaish). The beans offered by the monastery to guests play an important role in the experience of those visiting. More often than not, it was described to me that the beans offered in the monastery (fuwl al-deir) are exceptionally tasty, different than beans one might cook at home.

When I would ask why, people would reply saying that the beans have a different taste because they have been seasoned with the prayer of monks. Upon consumption, there is a sense of satisfaction and delight, even if they only ate a small portion. The importance of beans described by visitors points to the ways in which they feel blessed. To eat the beans is a form of blessing

(Baraka), by which the monk and the individual are connected. The monk prepares and prays over the food, while the individual partakes in their labour. While this is a part of the wider understanding that beans offered at the monastery are blessed and tastier, the irony is that sometimes a monk might not even come into contact with the beans, as he only oversees workers in the cooking process. When I raised this point with some visitors, they dismissed it as irrelevant, emphasizing that the beans were still cooked for them in the monastery where perpetual prayers are offered.

2.9 Cells & Monk Quarters The area reserved for monks offers the opportunity for the monk to be in isolation from everything and everyone in the monastery. There were some monks with whom I was able to meet

105At al-Souriān for example, the Retreat House is in its own complex within the area reserved for monks.

121 that, regardless of the number of visitors and business of the monastery, remained within the isolation of this area, choosing to remain in their own cells. The monk’s cell is the single most important and exemplary space for the monk. Though the monk’s cell is private to most, it is exemplary in relation to the Coptic monastic imagination, as the place where the monk struggles in ascetic labours and devotion to God.

The Arabic word for cell, “Qālaiyya”, literally translates as “fryer.” The spiritual and metaphorical understanding of this word is rooted in the understanding that the monk is constantly tested by fire, which is to say that the monastic is continuously engaging in spiritual warfare with demons, as well as their own desires, which might prevent them from experiencing the fullness of

God. A monk fights his thoughts and seeks to purify himself by uniting himself with God through prayer. As one monk told me, “the monk is tested in the oven of trials. His toils and determination rise up as sweet incense to God. It is by testing that he is purified and by purification that he is drawn closer to God”.

Most modern cells are constructed with two sections. The inner room, or the “mahbasa,”106 is the monk’s private space, reserved for prayer and for sleep. The outer room is where the monk receives guests, and often includes a small kitchenette and a bathroom. This depends however on the monastery and the way they construct their cells. It is not usual for the monk to allow any lay person in his cell. In fact, it is part of the monastic’s vow that they not mingle with laity lest they be drawn away from God and become entangled with matters of the world. Throughout the duration of my research, a few monks allowed me to enter their cells, even those who adhered to the rule of no laymen entering their cell very strictly. They allowed me as an exception, in order for me to understand how they live and communicate to the outside world – something which is

106 The literal transition is “where on is locked up,” to denote that a monk “locks himself up” inside his cell to pray.

122 usually unseen (Irvine 2010). Some of these had modest furniture; others were even quite untidy; while a select few had nothing in them except a bed and a desk for the monk to write his personal contemplations.

2.10 Agricultural Land & Anchoretic Cells

The expansion of monastic properties today can be largely attributed to the implementation of neoliberal policies by Anwar Sadat.107 Monasteries responded to changing socio-economic conditions by embracing technology and developing agricultural, industrial, and manufacturing projects. Most monasteries today own large pieces of land for developing agriculture. The produce from the agriculture is used to sustain the monks and is also sold to visitors (sometimes even exported throughout Egypt) as a form of income for the monastery. Labourers that the monastery hires usually sustain these plantations and farms.108 There is usually one monk responsible for overseeing each of the plantations or farms. Some monasteries have also developed projects where they manufacture certain goods to be exported outside of the monastery. Saint Antony’s Monastery in the Red Sea for example, produces electric wiring that is exported to cities across the country.

These areas of the monastery are closed off to the laity, with the exception of the workers who sustain the land. It is common to find housing for labourers near or around the surrounding agricultural lands they are responsible for. Some monasteries even construct churches especially for their labourers, minimizing the need for them to come to the main churches for liturgy. It is

107 See Medvedeva (2016) for a cross comparison and analysis on Russian Orthodox Monasticism in relation to the development of a capitalist economy in Russia.

108While the majority of labourers are Copts, Muslim workers are also hired. This is different from the ethnography of Medvedeva (2016), where the monastery where she conducted fieldwork only hired “believing” and “pious” Orthodox staff.

123 also a means of allocating space for the workers, so that they do not interfere with the monks, a division that implies a social and moral hierarchy, of which the monk is on top.

Lastly, anchoretic cells are located on the outskirts of most monasteries. These cells are built on land owned by the monastery. The average landmass of the more populated monasteries in Egypt is about 1000 sq hectares.109 These include both agricultural land and desert cells. Most modern cells are connected to main generator of the monastery, which in turn is charged by the

State.110 There are monks however, who choose to live in cells hewn from rock or built by brick and mortar, without the use of any technology, using oil lamps for light, and basic utensils for day to day use. These however are exceptional cases.

2.11 Conclusion I have described the ways in which the monk comes to be regarded as a moral exemplar in relation to the Coptic monastic imaginary. As argued in Chapter 1, monasticism began as a lay movement and later became absorbed into the clerical life of the Church. In this chapter, I focused on how monastic spaces today function not only as spiritual places, but also as central modes of

109This is roughly the land mass of St. Bishoy’s Monastery and al-Souriān. al-Baramous is a little larger, while the Monastery of Saint Macarius owns 5 times more than St. Bishoy’s Monastery or al-Souriān. 110The price of electricity is 25 Egyptian piasters per kilowatt for the cells in the desert, similar to those of residences in urban centers. A discount of 11 Egyptian piasters per kilowatt is charged for agricultural land. The average monthly cost of electricity at one monastery in Wadi al-Natroun for example is about 60,000 LE. Expansion of monasteries today usually occurs as a private sale between the monastery and the individual who owns land. Expansion of this kind not only occurs by purchasing land adjacent to the property of monasteries but can also occur in the form of purchasing land in another location and using it as a farm away from the monastery. Many new monasteries especially in the area of al-Khātātbā were established this way. They began as a sale of private property and the establishment of a farm or agricultural land affiliated with the monastery, and then later building small buildings, which eventually led to the construction of monasteries. The value of land in the desert around Wadi al-Natroun has increased significantly within the last thirty years from about 10 LE per square hectare to 150,000 LE per square hectare. The reason for this is that monasteries have added value to these areas through agricultural projects and expansions, adding value to land that would otherwise be barren.

124 power and exemplarity. If this is not reflected through social interaction between laity, clergy, monks, abbots, and bishops, it is very clear in the spatial division of monasteries. Coptic monasteries have come to reflect an important part of the everyday life of Copts. The regularity of visitations becomes a means by which monastic ideologies come to be transmitted to the laity from monks. It is important to remember that the position of monks in the desert separates them from urban society, or “the world.” A monk, when joining a Coptic monastery, is believed to “die to the world” and becomes an “earthly angel”; that is, he becomes someone who ministers to the work of heavenly beings by praising God day and night and detaching himself from material possessions, all while still living in the material world. By choosing to become a monk, he symbolically, imaginatively, and physically “crosses a threshold.” This threshold can be described as a “continuous space” by which one symbolically separates themselves from profane space, a rupture required to enter into the realm of the sacred (Boylston 2012).

By consequence of a monk’s vocation, his life of prayer is also understood to consecrate the desert and monastic space, rendering monasteries places with spiritual power and charisma, attracting visitors who seek to be empowered by these blessings. Monasteries may imaginatively be understood as being at the margins of society, but they are certainly not “marginal to” society

(Poujeau 2012:208). The interconnectedness between urban and monastic spaces comes to reflect a kind of ambiguity in which monasteries become spaces for everyday interactions. The boundaries between the sacred and profane is one that is socially imagined, rooted in what I have described above as the Coptic monastic imaginary. Understanding monastic topographies cannot be divorced from thinking about questions of power-relations and hierarchical structure, which complicate the image of the monk as a moral exemplar and monasticism solely being a spiritual vocation one chooses for themselves.

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As will be made clear in these next chapters, the cultivation of the Coptic moral subject is one that is ambiguous, with monks often being regarded as moral exemplary figures, and monasteries being spaces where Copts come to negotiate what it means to be a virtuous- subject.

The following chapter in particular examines Coptic monastic saint movies and the ways in which

Coptic monasticism is both idealized and imagined and how the Coptic monastic imagination influences the formation of Coptic subjects.

Coptic Monastic Hagiopics: Cultivating Coptic Subjects & Expectations of Virtue Emad, a young man in his late twenties, came to the monastery to support his family as a labourer. Abuna Archillidis took me to meet him after Liturgy. Abuna Archillidis stressed that many of the workers and monks stay clear of Emad because of his personality. He does not have many friends in the monastery. The monk in charge of the labourer’s quarters frequently visits the kitchen while Emad is working, to ensure conflicts (sometimes physical) do not ensue. He took me to the kitchen where Emad was working and asked him to make sure I was comfortable and cater to any of the questions I might ask. After brief introductions, I began to ask Emad about why he chose to work in the monastery, and to recount to me his experience.

Emad told me, “I came to the monastery in January to be close to my family. I had spent two years in Cairo, but my mom fell ill and I needed to be close to her. She has sacrificed so much for me. I had to do the same. I came to the monastery here with the expectation that it is a holy place. I worked in many restaurants but working in the monastery kitchen for other workers like myself is a challenge on its own. Please, stay here for lunch with me. You’ll see for yourself. Look at how people come here and ask for food. They’re so rude. To be honest, I have a temper and I’m quite an aggressive person. What frustrates me more is they don’t respect your space. They can walk in to your room without permission. What really bothers me is the way some monks treat you. He might be driving by the kitchen and honk at you to come out. They think you’re slacking or being disrespectful but in actuality I’m cooking rice and I’m afraid it will burn. One time he [a monk] was honking and I didn't get up. I’m a little proud to be honest, but I expected monks to be humble. He came and asked me why I didn’t get up. I was eating. If we were somewhere else, it

126 127 would be disrespectful to make them get up from their meal. I was working in restaurants before and served famous people, soccer players, movie stars, and the like. They always said ‘please and thank you’ or ‘if you please.’ I know that the monastery is the monk’s house, but can the owner come in and just take bread from those that work for him? I expected monks to be ascetic, humble and always praying. I seriously don’t know what he does in his cell, but I’m telling you what I see.

After watching saint movies, you expect something different from monks. Have you seen the movie of Abuna Yostos? Where have those days gone?”

Emad’s words in the above vignette speak to the kind of interactions I observed between labour workers and monks. Emad pointed to social hierarchy within the monastery that places monks at the top, senior labourers second, and younger children last. While power relations between monastic elders cannot be ignored in the formation of docile subjects, the notion of a monk (who is not a spiritual guide) exercising authority over a lay-worker sits in contradiction to the picture of a monk himself as an obedient son.111

I could gather from Emad’s words that he was speaking about a particular monk that he begrudged. Emad had a strong personality and had a difficult time following instruction. It was clear that Emad was influenced by a romanticized view of monks as portrayed in the saint movies he watched. Emad’s critique of monks was rooted in the assumption that monks are moral exemplars (Chapter Four) who should not behave like those in the world. There is a dissonant relationship between established criteria for cultivating a virtuous subject and ethical formation as

111 Speaking from many instances I witnessed myself, such as a monk yelling at a worker, I would say that the relationship between the monks and the labourers working beneath them (in various monasteries) was very much a transactional one, akin to that of a business owner and his employees. This also speaks to the question of monasteries as not merely sacred spaces, but commercialized ones (Chapter 2).

128 experienced in everyday life (Lambek 2015, Schielke 2014, Bandak 2012). Emad was disappointed with the monk he worked for because he did not embody the characteristics of a virtuous subject, which Emad believes all monks should possess. In other words, the tension for

Emad is between the Coptic monastic imagination (Chapter 2) and ethical life, the everyday decisions and deliberations one makes in their formation as moral subjects, and how “human life as it is actually lived, experienced, and reflected upon” (Lambek 2015:6). Emad’s account speaks to the paradox between the Coptic monastic imagination as rooted in an understanding of a historical continuity and current monastic practices. Interlocutors such as Emad perceive a disconnect between imagined history and the present.

Extending David Morgan’s (2005) articulation of the sacred gaze, this chapter is interested in examining the way in which watching Coptic movies as sensory films (Meyer 2015) has affected the cultivation of Coptic moral subjects, particularly the social imagination of the Coptic community surrounding monks, and the ways in which saints in these films become subjects of emulation. From now on I will refer to Coptic saint movies as hagiopics (Grace 2009; Armanios

& Amstutz 2013), films that depict the lives of saints.112 Grace (2009:1) distinguishes hagiopics from biopics or biographical films in that they do not merely function as a representation of an individual’s biography but that “the hagiopic is concerned with its hero’s relationship to the divine; and the world the conventional hagiopic portrays is a place found in no other genre of films, a place where miracles occur, celestial beings speak to humans, and events are controlled by a benevolent God, who lives somewhere beyond the clouds.” By virtue of hagiopics depicting the relationship between God and the saints, I would also argue that Coptic hagiopics are produced

112 Although this work was developed independently, please see Armanios & Amstutz (2013) for similar discussions and findings on Coptic hagiopics.

129 with the intention of cultivating a kind of spiritual experience by which the individual watching the film is invited to experience a life with God beyond the movie, and affectively connect to the otherworldly.

A central argument made by Andreas Bandak (2015: 54-57) about exemplarity is that mediators such as priests who sermonize about saints as moral exemplars not only present believers with a model to be emulated, but work to make the story of the saints relatable. The believer negotiates this exemplarity through processes of interpretation, attempting to become like the saint. The responsibility is on the listener to discern and practice virtue. How they respond relies on whether or not they are “good” or “bad” listeners. Additionally, Bandak argues that sainthood and the lives of saints more broadly are framed “through entextualizations, whereby the life of some is made into texts which others are told to emulate” (p.48.) In this light, hagiopics can be interpreted as visual sermons and are a type of what I call “envisualizations,” visual productions that call on viewers to not only live according to particular moral codes but discern how to be virtuous subjects.

Coptic saint movies set a kind of expectation for their watchers. David Morgan (2005) argues that “seeing is an operation that relies on an apparatus of assumptions and inclinations, habits and routines, historical associations and cultural practices” (2005:3).

Elsewhere, Morgan (2012:182) suggests that while “ways of seeing” are routine and “repetitive procedures,” there are specific characteristics for appropriate gazing through which the body of the individual is socially cultivated. “Seeing” or “gazing” he argues, cannot be understood outside

“cultural and individual idiosyncrasies” (ibid.). Sacred gazing in the context I am discussing is a sense of awe or bafflement when seeing something or someone exemplary.

Coptic hagiopics as mediums for sacred gazing are not only a means for the viewer to emulate the saint, but also produce expectations of contemporary Coptic monks. Failure to emulate

130 the saints portrayed in these films or witnessing a monk who does not appear to embody the same qualities as those in monastic hagiopics becomes a form of anxiety for viewers (or gazers, see

Chapter 4). There is a negotiation between their own desire to cultivate themselves into moral subjects and the social imagination of the saintliness of monastic figures. The monk as a moral exemplar or holy man in this respect, is a living icon of Christ who is regarded as a mediator

(Boylston 2012, 2018) bestowed with spiritual gifts, such as the working of miracles and clairvoyance (Shenoda 2010), the ability to perform exorcisms (Naumescu 2010), and is recognized for possessing wisdom and discernment (Forbess 2010, Naumescu 2012). If one’s relationship to a monk is rooted in imitating their way of life, then by consequence, they too will draw closer to God. Thus, one’s relationship to the holy man and other icons is a form of amplification and a means by which they cultivate their ethical selves in everyday life.

Whereas Armanios & Amstutz (2013) focus on the portrayal of gender roles and the ways in which the Coptic Church propagates these roles through Coptic hagiopics, my focus in this chapter is aimed at discussing the ways in which Coptic monks are portrayed, imagined, and come to be models of wider Coptic (Christian) virtues and conduct. In relation to Armanios & Amstutz’s

(2013) argument, Coptic hagiopics come to reflect what it means to be “a believing Christian” and an imagined Coptic identity (p. 514). Hagiopics are one means by which one might be cultivated into a virtuous subject. Although these hagiopics are predominantly a means by which Copts are educated about saints in the Church, there is also an underlying emphasis on Christian conduct and they ways in which Copts should live their lives among a Muslim majority in Egypt and as national citizens in respective countries in Diaspora.

Narratives of saints are not only found among Christians but are also used by other religious groups. An interesting parallel between my discussion of hagiopics and Pnina Werbner’s (2016) work on a Sufi-Muslim hagiography in Pakistan is the ways in which both Copts and Sufis as

131 minorities use narrative as a means to emphasize a particular understanding of identity. Werbner writes about the comparison between her ethnography of a living Sufi saint in Pakistan and a hagiography written about him. She states that there is “far too great a gap” between Zinapir’s hagiography (the moral exemplar) and her own ethnographic account of him (ibid.). In the context of my research there is a gap between hagiopics as mediums emphasizing a particular social imaginary and the reality of lived ethics (Lambek 2015).

Outlining theories of mass-mediation and religion is important for grounding my discussion of Coptic hagiopics. In relation to my wider argument that Coptic monastic exemplarity extends into society, hagiopics are mediums that allow the Coptic monastic imaginary to permeate beyond the walls of the buildings and indeed out of Egypt itself. My contribution speaks to recent work in the anthropology of religion that has suggested that religion extends beyond assumed private spaces (Bandak 2012; Hirschkind 2006; Mahmood 2005; Meyer and Moors 2006;

Mittermaier 2010; Moll 2010). These sources demonstrate that religion does not work “in reaction against, but instead along with information technology” (Meyer and Moors 2006:5). Within an ethnographic context, Egypt sheds light on the ways in which religion and the public sphere are not separated (Agrama 2012, Asad 2003; Meyer and Moors 2006). Whether through audio- cassettes (Hirschkind 2006), Islamic Televangelists (Moll 2010), Christian worship music (Ramzy

2014) or Coptic hagiopics (Armanios & Amstutz 2013), the cultural forms of Egyptian religious audio and visual technologies are a means by which the ethical subject is both imagined and cultivated (Meyer 2015).113 The reason why I have chosen to focus on hagiopics is because of their availability, not only in the form of CDs or DVDs, but also on social media platforms; for

113 An example of another Coptic technological media form includes spiritual or Christian songs (taraneem). These songs also speak to a Coptic counterpublic. See Ramzy (2014).

132 example, it is not uncommon to find clips of Coptic saint hagiopics on Facebook.114 Short excerpts are readily available for the viewer and allow them to learn about specific events or virtues’ in the life of the saint.115 Similarities can be made with Charles Hirschkind (2006) and the ways in which sermons on cassette tapes function as a means to discipline Muslims into pious subjects. Coptic hagiopics are also a means by which the Coptic viewer is religiously cultivated.

One of the arguments I want to make here is that while Coptic hagiopics are viewed in private and are thus domestically consumed, their role in cultivating the Coptic ethical subject is clearly manifested in public spaces. This will be made most apparent in my ethnographic account of Abanoub below. Additionally, I argue that hagiopics are films that are gazed upon, and this can be regarded as an alternative form of mediating God’s blessing. While hagiopics are not icons in the traditional understanding of Orthodox worship (Hanganu 2010), there is certainly an element of a sensory engagement on the part of the viewer as the viewer becomes connected to the saint.

In their work on submission and hierarchical power in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church,

Malara & Boylston (2016:47) describe the relationship between saints and their venerator as a

“logic of clientalism” by which the saint’s closeness to God is a means by which the venerator receives divine favour. Extending this understanding to my context of Coptic hagiopics, the viewer and the saint participate in a reciprocal relationship by which the saint intercedes on behalf of the individual and evokes God’s blessing, in exchange for the viewer emulating their way of life. In

114 Similarities are evident here between my examination of hagiopics and the ways in which Ethiopian Orthodox Christians use technological mediums such as YouTube to circulate odes and venerations for the Virgin Mary. See Malara & Boylston (2016:45-46).

115 On Facebook for example there is a page especially intended for streaming both full-length hagiopics and short clips. The page has 51,607 followers. If there is a hagiopic produced of a particular saint, this page will stream it on their feast day. Saint Demiana’s hagiopic for example was streamed on January 21st 2018. The film had 13,000 views and was shared 348 times. Another hagiopic of St. Simon of Akhmim had 22,000 views, showing popularity of saint films among Copts.

133 effect, monastic hagiopics speak to the ways in which Coptic monasticism today is both

(re)imagined and critiqued by my interlocutors. At the same time, monasteries are also projected out into the world, while monks themselves do not have complete control over such representations.

There is a transnational aspect that emerges in thinking about the ways in which religion becomes mass-mediated and present in the public sphere (De Vries 2001, Meyer and Moors 2006,

Englund 2011). My concern here is with how religion, through processes of mass-mediation, cultivates a particular kind of religious and national subject, both in Egypt and in the Coptic

Diaspora. I am interested in two main dimensions of Coptic hagiopics: 1. The ways in which

Christian and “authentic” Egyptian identities are affirmed, and 2. The production of a counterpublic that (re)inserts Copts into a grand-narrative of the Egyptian nation-state. In this sense Coptic hagiopics are “circular narratives” (Connerton 1989), by which Copts (re)affirm their

Egyptian identity. Coptic films are used to articulate counterpublic discourses of citizenship and are also appropriated in some form or another by the hierarchy of the Coptic Orthodox Church.

My use of the term counterpublic here is similar to Charles Hirschkind’s (2006) use of the term, which suggests that counterpublics are not merely spaces or mediums that offer alternative narratives, but are also spaces that have a goal in cultivating a particular kind of ethical person.

These media forms are produced by Copts to speak about themselves, and mainly for themselves, since they are not aired on State television. In this chapter, I will focus on Coptic (monastic) hagiopics and their role in what I call “Coptic counterpublics,” discourses that reinsert Copts as equal members of the nation state, as opposed to the prominent view of Copts as a minority.

The Church reserves an implicit editorial role in what is broadcasted, while maintaining a necessary distance from the broadcasting media and by extension the public sphere that it addresses. Coptic satellite channels such as Coptic TV (CTV), Aghaby TV and ME Sat are funded

134 by the Coptic Church or prominent Coptic businessmen supported by high-ranking Coptic bishops.116 A news program on CTV called Fil’Nour (“in the light”) for example, speaks daily about political issues that all Egyptians face, but in many instances focuses on the rights of Copts within the Egyptian State. Here the Church, through the program hosted by Coptic laypersons, interjects its opinion on political matters by “unofficially” stating what would not be spoken of by the Church in the public sphere. This is an example of how media technologies “extend authoritative religious discourse” (Hirschkind 2006: 105). Programs such as Fil’Nour are used to express resistant voices while using the state rhetoric of unity.

I argue that Coptic hagiopics are mediums for not only cultivating docile subjects but also a means by which the Coptic Church engages in religious and national discourses, resulting in the production of a counterpublic. Coptic hagiopics as a way of seeing (Morgan 2012:182) is a means by which the Coptic social identity is imagined, cultivated, “generated and anchored” (Meyer and

Moors 2006: 11).

3.1 Brief History & Overview of Coptic Hagiopics The first Coptic hagiopics were produced and financed in the 1980s, while the majority were produced in the 1990s. “Between 1993 and 2010, it is estimated that up to 175 hagiopics were produced” (Armanios & Amstutz 2013: 520).117 These films are produced and financed by various Coptic parishes, and in some instances by the Coptic Patriarchate and individual donors

(ibid.). Whereas some minority groups may reflect a counterpublic through the medium of national television (Ginsburg 2006), Coptic hagiopics are never aired on national channels; instead, they

116 See also Heo (2017) in her chapter examining the role of media in Coptic Studies.

117 Most of the information on Coptic Hagiopics in this section is derived from my conversation with Coptic actor and TV host Ehab Sobhy, whose account is depicted below.

135 are circulated and sold in parish libraries in the form of DVDs or VCDs (earlier VHS cassettes) across Egypt (and in the Diaspora), as well as in some monasteries. Some are even available on

YouTube. Profits made from the selling of the hagiopics go directly to the parishes responsible for the production of the hagiopics for future productions. When hagiopics were first produced, there was minimal funding from the Church. Pope Shenouda was very fond of the idea of producing films that documented the lives of saints, particularly monastics, as it allowed for a wider audience to learn monastic virtues without one needing to read monastic books or literature. Although hagiographical literature is used as a point of reference in Coptic hagiopics, there is a large degree of interpretation that allows for inserting current day themes that viewers can relate to. In this way,

Coptic hagiopics not only became more accessible, but also more relatable for the Coptic laity

(Armanios & Amstutz 2013). A further element of such media is that they raise important questions about imagined communities (Anderson 2006), a point I will come back to later in this chapter.

In the early days of Coptic hagiopic production, actors could not be paid because of the lack of funding. Many actors regarded their work as service to the church. Affluent Coptic-

Egyptian actors such as George Sidhom118 would buy lunch for the entire crew he worked with at his own expense. Coptic actors such as Ehab Sobhy (see his reflections below) attribute much of the success of Coptic hagiopics to individuals like Sidhom.

Today all actors are paid. Nonetheless, their salaries cannot be compared to the salaries of actors in Egyptian cinema. Hagiopic filming involves several methods which help cut production costs, including having all actors practice the scene immediately before filming it, so that fewer

118 George Sidhom is a prominent Coptic-Egyptian actor and comedian renowned for his role is several Egyptian movies and theatrical performances. He has also acted in several Coptic hagiopics.

136 takes of that scene are needed.119 The average number of actors and actresses in each production is about 130 people. Filming usually takes about 10 days, with each day averaging about 15 hours of labour after the actors have practiced. Monasteries are very supportive and play a crucial role by serving as locations for filming.120 The location of monasteries is important not only with regards to recreating the narratives of saints, but also in reviewing the script. The abbot of the monastery where the filming takes place usually reads the hagiopic’s script in its entirety. He is responsible for checking the script for its theological, spiritual, and historical content. The National

Board of Egyptian Cinema, also reviews Coptic hagiopics. This vetting process is related to

Foucault’s (1977) articulation of “surveillance,” which he explains is more than monitoring by institutional or hierarchal authorities but also a form of “acquiring knowledge” which translates into the “very practice of pedagogical activity” (p.176). Foucault writes, “A relation of surveillance, defined and regulated, is inscribed at the heart of the practice of teaching, not as an additional or adjacent part, but as a mechanism that is inherent to it and which increases its efficiency” (ibid.). In other words, surveillance is not only about the individual learning what it means to be virtuous but also a means to form the ethical subject through the disciplining of their body through the viewing of the film. Here there is a specific disciplining not only of bodies but also of the sacred gaze by which the individual develops a relationship with the saint. The Coptic

119 The quality of films is one of importance for many viewers of Coptic hagiopics. Films depicting the lives of Abuna Yostos al-Antoni, and Abuna Faltaoes al-Souriāni, for example, were hailed by many Copts I spoke with for their quality of meeting the standard of motion pictures in Egyptian cinema. I do not have the information as to how many movies are produced per year and the dollar-amount of sales.

120 Beyond the monastery, there are other locations that are used for these productions, including tourist areas that look old, or locations in Fayoum (Upper-Egypt) such as old villages that have an ancient feel to them. Other places include the Anaphora, which is a Coptic retreat house in Wadi al-Natroun modeled after 4th century monastic structures.

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Church seeks to produce Coptic subjects with the perspective that it is it is the gate-keeper of

Coptic morality.

Coptic hagiopics are usually introduced by the pope or a bishop, priest, or monk, who gives some background about the saint of the hagiopic. In addition, the clergyman references biblical texts and concludes with words such as “may this film or production be a source of blessing for those who view it, and may the blessings of [the saint of the movie] be with us all, amen.”121 Such an introduction authenticates and legitimizes the film by asserting that the dramatization is in accordance with the beliefs of the Church and that it is in line with the hagiographical texts of the saints. Thus, these films function as authorized Church discourse, “consuming and thus re- appropriating and transforming the meaning of the officially produced sacred, the constitution of which appears to involve both its production by the managers of a saint’s charisma [The Church] and its consumption by the saint’s devotee [The viewer]” (Mesaritou 2012:100). Such biblical referencing and the labour of constructing authenticity (or creating exemplarity) calls on viewers to emulate and be blessed by the saint by practicing the virtues of the monastic saints or martyrs portrayed in the film. In theory, films can be blocked from being produced if they do not adhere to authentic representations of exemplarity as prescribed by the Church. Similar to the ways in which those in the Islamic Piety movement listen to sermons and cultivate a sense of piety

(Hirschkind 2011), watching hagiopics is a means by which Copts are cultivated into virtuous

Christian subjects. In seeing the viewer is provided with an example of how to pray, how to speak, and how to act. In this way, hagiopics function as “interactive devices, objects that invite their

121 See Meyer 2006: 302-303, for a discussion on how authoritative texts are appropriated into media forms.

138 viewer’s engagement” (Morgan 2014:87). Consequently, hagiopics are mediums which construct a particular understanding of exemplarity that can also be contested.

3.2 Mediating Baraka Several scholars studying Orthodox Christianity have focused on the notion of blessing or

“Baraka” and the ways it is mediated.122 Baraka is often regarded as a quality of authentic exemplarity (Bandak 2015). Blessings can be mediated through icons of Christ and saints

(Hanganu 2010, Mahieu 2010, Heo 2008), the relics of saints (Heo, 2008 Shenoda 2010), sounds

(Engelhardt 2010, 2015), and through living moral exemplars (Bandak 2012, Bandak and Bille

2013, Boylston 2012, 2018, Heo, 2013, Naumescu 2010, 2012, Poujeau 2010, Shenoda 2010).123

What is clear from all these sources is that in Orthodox Christianity, the divine is not separate from the material world, but rather is manifest in and intrinsic to material things. One’s relationships with material objects such as icons and relics are regarded as relationships with God vis-à-vis the material object. This understanding of mediation is different than forms of mediation in Protestant

Christian ideology, where God’s blessing is mediated solely through the word of God – that is, through the Bible and reading of scripture (Bielo 2009, Harding 2000), or directly through the

Holy Spirit and mediated through lived faith (Engelke 2009). In Protestant Christianity, there is a rejection of images and relics as objects which mediate God’s blessing as they are considered a form of idol worship. In some Protestant denominations such as the Masowe Friday Apostolics of

Zimbabwe described by Engelke (2009), there is a strong emphasis on a living faith (immaterial).

122 I am grouping both the Oriental and Eastern Orthodox Churches under the category of “Orthodox Christianity” to simply make a distinction from “Western Christianity.”

123 Some of these scholars have explicitly discussed baraka, such as Bandak (2012), Heo (2008), and Shenoda (2010). Others have discussed the way in which blessing is mediated in Orthodox Christianity more broadly.

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For them the Bible (material) is just a book written 2000 years ago that is irrelevant to the current conditions in which they live (p.7). Engelke (2009) argues that the Christian paradox of God being both present and absent is the central issue to how his interlocutors negotiate their relationship with God (who is not seen) and the Bible (believed to be His words). This is what Engelke (2009:9) describes as the “problem of presence,” or “how a religious subject defines and claims to construct a relationship with the divine through the investment of authority and meaning in certain words, actions, and objects.”

In Orthodox Christianity, however, reconciling the immaterial with the material is hardly a problem of presence. The icon or relic of a saint is believed to be imbued with a spiritual power and blessing because of the saint’s own relationship with God. It is important to note here that in

Orthodox Christian worship, the act of prostration or the kissing of an icon or relic does not mean that the individual is worshiping the icon or relics, though when watching some individuals it may look like they are. Orthodox theologians would in fact interpret this as heresy. What is important here is how the saint, through their icon or relics, acts as a mediator between God and the venerator.124 The spiritual cultivation of an Orthodox Christian is often articulated in relation to and with icons and relics as material manifestations of the saint themselves. Hanganu (2010:42) argues that icons and the relics of saints alike are “physical objects charged with spiritual power.”

What this means is that icons and relics function as objects beyond their material form and offer those who use them in Orthodox worship a gateway into the spiritual realm of the heavenly and transcendental by juxtaposing one’s body with the object. This often entails prostrations and the kissing of the icons or relics. In the words of Anthony Shenoda (2010:46-47), “material objects do

124 In the Orthodox Church saints are regarded as mediators or intercessors for the believer. This is contrary to Protestant Christians for example, who emphasize that Christ is the only mediator to the Father. For discussions on Orthodox and Protestant views of icons and iconoclasm, see Luehrmann (2010).

140 more than reveal an otherwise concealed set of beliefs and ideas […] they collide (sometimes literally), with the bodies of religious practitioners leaving signs of otherworldly agency, revealing a network of relationships between heaven and earth.” I often witnessed individuals speak to icons and relics of saints as if they were carrying out a conversation with a living person.

For example, I observed a woman in al-Mohārrak Monastery in Assiut utter supplications in front of the relics of St. Mikhail el Beherī, saying “A’salamalak yā Abuna Mikhail, uzkurnī amām al-rabb likai awsal zay mā inta wasālt, Peace to you Abuna Mikhail, remember me before the Lord that I may arrive [to salvation] as you arrived.” On another occasion, I saw a woman appearing to gaze at the icon of Pope Kyrillos. A sacred gaze is “more than a merely passive means of receiving sensory impressions of the physical world [… but] a selective and constructive activity, a way of making order, of remembering, and of engaging people and the material world in relationships” (Morgan 2005: 48).125 The woman was exhibiting characteristics of a sacred gaze as though she and Pope Kyrillos were friends, smiling and gently moving her hand up and down the icon, as if caressing the saint. Both the example of the woman at al-Mohārrak monastery and the other, with the icon of Saint Kyrillos, allude to the argument that “religious objects comprise a particular category of objects that are meant to be employed for prompting and facilitating people’s relationship with God” (Hanganu 2010:45). The individual supplicates to God through the saint who is regarded as a communicant with the Divine (Meltzer & Elsner 2011). Saints in this respect are regarded as “living icons,” since they are “quintessential images of Christ” (Heo

2008:182).126 The essential image, therefore, is understood to be Jesus Christ, who is the ultimate

125 See also Anthony Shenoda (2010: 105), who describes this in the context of the Virgin Mary’s apparition in Zeitun, Egypt.

126 The relationship between a saint and a venerator might also entail a certain ethics of giving, where the pilgrim provides a promise to the saint, often times a financial gift, in return for the saint’s intercession. These exchanges often

141 model to be imitated.127 This notion of imitating Christ in the writings of the Church Fathers is quite apparent. Early Christian Monastic historian David Brakke (1995:167) focuses on Saint

Athanasius of Alexandria (the Apostolic) and the way in which he called on Christians to conduct themselves in what Brakke calls, the “ethics of imitation,” in relation to Christ. In the words of

Brakke (1995: 167), Saint Athanasius believed that:

[Because of the] unstable character of human behaviour, the Christian life required

continual ‘formation’ of the self through imitation of an eternally consistent ‘form’ or

‘pattern.’ The available patterns included the biblical saints and more recent virtuous

Christians, but the ultimate pattern was God and his Word; thus, self-formation through

imitation, in that one became as like God as possible, was the ethical facet of the process

that Athanasius called ‘divinization.’ For created human beings, such likeness to the

Creator God, according to Athanasius, could never be complete for perfect come only

approximation by imitation: ‘Although we cannot become like God according to essence,

yet by improving in virtue we imitate God.’ […]

As the moral exemplar, the Holy Man is regarded as a living saint who, like saints depicted in icons or whose bodies lie in churches, is deemed to reflect the image of Christ in the most “perfect”

entail the individual obtaining baraka by “leaving a piece of themselves” in the form of a prayer note in the shrine of the saint or under their relics, and they might also ask the monk overseeing the church to place a piece of paper with their name on it to be placed on the altar so that they and their families could be prayed for during the Divine Liturgy. This form of prayer in a sense “guarantees” that the individual will obtain blessing from the monastery, even when being physically in it. At the shrine of Pope Shenouda III in the monastery of Saint Bishoy, I often saw individuals writing notes and leaving them at the site while bringing with them pieces of tissue paper and wiping it over the shrine as a form of baraka after leaving the monastery. See Boylston (2012:210) for comparison to the Ethiopian Orthodox context.

127 George (Chapter 1) interpreted one of the exemplary qualities of Christ as being “revolutionary.” George participated in the January 2011 Uprising on the premise that he was imitating Christ’s example.

142 way possible. As Peter Brown writes, “the Exemplar of all exemplars, a being, Christ, in Whom human and divine had come to be joined” (Brown 1983:6).128

Relating this all back to my discussion on Coptic hagiopics as extensions of sensory and iconic mediums, they come to reflect a particular image of the monastic as an exemplary figure.

Hagiopics, like icons, songs, and hymns, are part of “assemblages” of experiencing the sacred

(Morgan 2014:92). Sacred assemblages can be understood as “a kind of ideological integration, such that they operate in tandem to enable one another[...]” (Morgan 2012:481) in ways that are used to produce social and religious beings. Hagiopics are intended to be “participatory and immersive” in their portrayal of saintly figures who are to be “engaged with [as] agentive social beings” (Bandak & Boylston 2014:36). The portrayal of saints in hagiopics is clearly endorsed by the Church, further extending its authority in an attempt to cultivate Coptic subjects. The image of the monk as an exemplary figure is one that is revered and emulated by certain interlocutors, suggesting that knowledge of the saint’s narrative and trying to live like them as best as one can is a form of accessing the Baraka of a saint. With that being said, the hagiopics create certain expectations about what it means to not only be saintly, but also how to conduct oneself as a virtuous Copt. The failure of meeting these expectations and the anxieties around falling short of what is exemplified in Coptic hagiopics is one rooted in the formation of the moral Coptic subject as will be addressed below.

3.3 The Typical Coptic Monastic Hagiopic The saint as the protagonist of the film is depicted as a pious child (usually male), who in their early years displayed spiritual tendencies and a yearning for Christ. The parents appear to be

128 See Andreas Bandak (2012), pages 108-115.

143 happy with his progress and are thankful to God, as do other family members or towns-people.

When the saint is at the age of marriage, his parents suggest a suitable bride, or say that they have arranged a marriage for him. The saint refuses to marry, professing that monasticism has been in his heart for many years and that he yearns to live as a monk. In some of these hagiopics, the parents are happy with their son’s decision, while in others they are displeased and try to dissuade him from what he desires, with the emphasis that he can live a life of prayer as a married man and bring forth an offspring that is also pleasing to God. The saint rejects this suggestion, and insists on a monastic life, sometimes fleeing during the night while his parents sleep. There appears to be an active effort by the saint to renounce social norms of getting married, instead choosing to remain celibate. The depiction of the saint, walking out to the desert, “forsaking the world,” is one that holds a symbolic emphasis that a monk ought to be separated from the world by literally traversing across barren landscapes to join a monastery. Once arriving at the monastery, the young saint is portrayed as being mesmerized by its beauty, sometimes kissing the walls in admiration. The saint then knocks on the door of the monastery or picks up two stones and bangs them together if there is no door, and waits for someone to greet him. In hagiopics where monasteries are used, a gatekeeper opens the door to find the saint and asks if he is visiting or seeking monasticism. When the saint conveys his interest in becoming a monk, the gate keeper asks him to wait until he informs the abbot. The saint waits anxiously for the door to open again. The gatekeeper then returns to the saint and gestures for him to come in. The saint thanks him in jubilation as he is directed to the abbot. Scenes depicting the early life of a monastic saint usually incorporate some aspect of the saint working around the monastery, receiving guidance from the abbot, and praying privately in their cell. When the probation period is complete, a monk or a group of monks come to congratulate the saint for his acceptance. The scene that follows is usually a rendition of the rites of initiation (as described in Chapter 2), by which the saint is consecrated as a monk. To some

144 extent, monastic hagiopics depict the daily life of monks today by portraying the saint praying in the Divine Liturgy (al-Quddās) and participating in the Midnight Prayers and Praises (Tazbiha); however, in many instances, the actors are actually wearing the contemporary monastic habit that was adopted more recently by Pope Shenouda III. Hagiopics also usually depict scenes of intense prayer and warfare, with demons trying to scare the saint who then vanquishes them with the sign of the cross and the name of Jesus Christ, persevering in their spiritual test. While the viewer might not be exposed to the same kind of trials, they are reminded that they must remain steadfast in their faith and can also defeat the devil if they strive to live in Christian virtue. Most, if not all, monastic hagiopics, depict scenes of miracles performed by the saint intermittent between scenes of prayers, sometimes even back to back. The final scene usually depicts the saint bidding his disciples farewell, while incense fills his cell as Christ, the Holy Mother of God, and the angels arrive to carry his soul to paradise.

Overall, the hagiopic genre emphasizes particular moral values. The saint is depicted as one who is attempting to live a pious Christian life by trying not to upset anyone and is always honest, immersing himself in the liturgical life of the Church and memorizing psalms. In many instances, there are no historical texts or other sources to suggest that the hagiopic accurately depicts the life of the saint. Rather, the creativity involved in creating certain scenes suggests that the hagiopics are more about cultivating moral subjects, rather than historical accuracy. The saint is encouraged to be emulated through proper moral conduct, such as remaining chaste, actively developing a relationship with God, while simultaneously submitting to the direction of a spiritual guide who represents the hierarchy of the Church. Submission to the will of the spiritual father is recognized as a submission to the will of God Himself.

In these biopics, saints are depicted particularly as docile bodies that are “subjected, used, transformed, and improved” (Foucault 1977: 136). Through the process of discipleship to an elder,

145 the monastic body is both molded and monitored. The concern of the elder over the young monastic is based on the process of discipline and not the result (p.137). This is not to imply that the result does not matter (in this case, the salvation of the monk’s soul), but suggests that the process of producing a monk (and viewer of the hagiopic for that matter) is one based on power relations between the elder and the monk, by which the monk constantly works on producing and reproducing himself into a virtuous subject under the influence of the elder (who is effectively in control of his body). The result of this ethical production is a “monastic panopticon,” wherein the monk, while on his own, remembers the instruction of his elder and seeks to obey every word as if he were being surveilled by his elder.129 The viewer is reminded that they should always heed to the voice of a spiritual guide, and if they do not have one, they are encouraged to seek one out in order to be cultivated into proper Coptic subjects. As Armanios & Amstutz (2013) argue,

“Coptic hagiopics encourage men’s and women’s obedience to the clerical hierarchy, demand a rigorous form of piety from all laypeople, and showcase the suffering of male and female martyrs as a way to uphold steadfastness in the Coptic faith” (p. 515). This suggests that Coptic hagiopics are also a means by which the status quo of the clerical hierarchy of the Coptic Church is maintained and reproduced, through what Foucault (1980:39) has described as “capillary power,” power that is decentralized or defocused from the main source of authority, yet extending into “the very grain of individuals [and] touches their bodies and inserts itself into their actions and attitudes, their discourses, learning processes and everyday lives.” Capillary power in respect to Coptic

129 While Medvedeva (2016) offers an interesting parallel to what I have called the “monastic panopticon” by examining how certain quotes by saints are visible in the monastery’s kitchen (what she describes as a “shadow zone”), reminding readers of appropriate Christian conduct (see pages 100-102). Though the individual is not in the direct presence of a spiritual guide, these quotes function as a means for self-discipline and cultivation. Interestingly, in the context of my fieldsites, I also saw these quotes in other ‘shadow zones” such as dormitories in the monasteries of St. Antony in California and St. Mary and St. Moses respectively.

146 hagiopics also suggests the ways in which the Coptic Church propagates notions of citizenship and national identity.

3.4 Hagiopics & (Re)Producing the Coptic National Subject Not long after Pope Shenouda III passed away, a hagiopic was created to commemorate his life. Similar to the general description of monastic saints above, there is an emphasis throughout the hagiopic of “making” Nazir Gayed (Pope Shenouda before becoming a monk) into a saint.

Scenes depict him practicing Christian virtues from a young age until his “calling” to live a monastic life. Particular scenes show a young Nazir memorizing psalms, reading the Bible, and spending nights in vigil praying to God. Nazir is depicted not only as a virtuous Christian, but also as a good citizen who enlisted as an officer in the military and participated in the Arab-Israeli War of 1948. In one particular scene before leaving on a military assignment, Nazir tells his older brother Rofail that it is necessary that Egypt participate in the war against Israel because “the land belongs to Palestine.”130 In this regard, the film not only depicts Pope Shenouda as an Egyptian nationalist (and consequently, the Coptic Church as a national Church under his papacy), but also calls on viewers (who are presumably majority Coptic) to emulate a life of Christian virtue while steadfastly maintaining their national identity. Thus, the film functions as a medium for counterpublic discourse by asserting that Copts ought to be recognized as equal members of the

Egyptian nation-state.

130 Here it is important to mention that after the Uprising on January 25th 2011 and the ascension of the Muslim Brotherhood to power, certain rumours circulated in reference to Copts conspiring with Israel to bring down the Brotherhood. Although I cannot say for certain if the intention of the film-maker was to address this rumour, it is clear from this scene that there is an emphasis of young Nazir as a virtuous Christian and Egyptian citizen who adheres to the Palestinian cause as an Egyptian national.

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One last scene clearly demonstrates a form of Coptic counterpublic when two wounded soldiers, one Christian (Girgis) and the other Muslim (Hassain), die in the infirmary while Nazir is present. Their hands simultaneously drop with a clear shot of blood dripping from both their wrists (Girgis being clearly identified with a Coptic cross tattooed on his wrist), forming a pool of their mixed blood. My interpretation of this powerful image suggests that the intent is to demonstrate that a Christian and a Muslim have one thing in common: they are both Egyptian.

Here, a counterpublic is represented by emphasizing that Copts are equal members in the Egyptian state who maintain their identity as Egyptian nationals. It is through this example and through my articulation above that religion and notions of Egyptian nationalism become “reconfigured” through this process of mass mediation, by which religious and national discourses become appropriated in the form of these technological mediums (Meyer and Moors 2006:7, Heo 2008).

Hagiopics, as renditions of figures within Coptic history, allow for creative forms of (re) interpretation, by which an imaginative history is used to speak about political issues in the present, rendering these films as tools for forming an imagined community (Anderson 2006). Although they would not be labeled as “political” per say, whether by the Church or producers of hagiopics themselves, there are similarities between my analysis here and other minority groups who use media forms such as television to “create their own representations as a counter to dominant systems” (Ginsburg et. al. 2002: 9).

3.5 Hagiopics & Self-Cultivation: An Actor’s Perspective It was the fourth day of Pope Tawadros’ visit when I met Ehab. He is well known to Copts in Egypt and in the Diaspora for being a TV host on CTV’s program “Fil-nour.” Besides his TV program, Ehab is also renowned for playing roles of saints in Coptic hagiopics, such as St. Bishoy and Abuna Yostos al-Antoni. He came to Toronto to document the 30-day pastoral visit of Pope

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Tawadros to Canada for CTV. Many congregants were “star-struck” when greeting him, some even saying “Hi Abuna Yostos!”

I introduced myself to Ehab after the Divine Liturgy. My intention was to interview him about hagiopics, but unfortunately did not get around to it during his time in Toronto. I was able to get his number in Egypt through a mutual friend and texted him on Viber asking if I could speak with him about his role in Coptic saint movies. He was quite enthusiastic and we arranged a time to speak over the phone. I asked him about his thoughts about acting in hagiopics.

Playing the roles of monastic saints is truly a blessing. I played for example the role of St.

Antony the Great in the film of St. Macarius. He is the one who offered monasticism to the

whole world. As one playing the role of these blessed saints, it is imperative that I make

sure to learn from their lives, their saying, their lives of sacrifice and strife. These films

have given me the opportunity to truly contemplate on the lives of the saints. They are not

supernatural as some might think. They were human beings like us. The Holy Spirit is in

us as He is in them. They reached their spiritual level because of their acceptance of the

Holy Spirit in their life and submitting to the will of God. The main purpose of these films

is for one to draw closer in their relationship to God. Both for those who are acting and

those who are watching the film. I always remember the words of the famous [Coptic]

actress Awatif Takla of blessed memory, ‘We join the [film] institute so that we can preach

the word of God in spiritual films. Our goal is not to become famous but to benefit the

Church [through our talent].’ This phrase is continually on my mind. All is for God. More

than one monk has approached and recounted to me that some of our films affected them

deeply, to such an extent that the film impacted their own decision to become monks! This

is the work of God, not mine. Everything we do in the film from selecting actors to

locations, is done with prayers. All the names of the actors for example are placed on the

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altar during the Divine Liturgy and we pray and ask God to choose the individual that will

be best suit for the role of the particular saint or character.

Much can be taken from Ehab’s experience in Coptic hagiopics. Not only do his above comments speak to the cultivation of viewers into religious subjects, but it is clear that, in his own experience as an actor, he himself sees these films as an opportunity for his own self cultivation. An important aspect of Ehab’s comments is that acting in hagiopics is another form of exemplification, where the actor temporarily becomes (the face of) the saint to viewers as both learn to contemplate and draw closer to God. At the same time however, Ehab’s narration is also a form of self-disciplining in the way he chooses to describe the filming of the movies in a positive light, not revealing the idiosyncrasies of his own acting.

It is also interesting to me that in his articulation of monks as ideal Christian figures, Ehab is presenting both an idealized view of acting and a normative perspective of ethical formation in line with Church rhetoric. His articulation of saints and their lives is very much rooted in relating to the saints through personal experience and his own idealization. His view of saints is embedded in emulation, in which he not only seeks to embody the saint, but also to develop a personal relationship with them and become like them, thereby himself becoming a kind of mediator between the saint and the viewer. What is also important here is that Coptic hagiopics are not just regarded as “any film,” but as ones with the purpose of bringing viewers and actors closer to God.

The very act of asking a priest to place the names of actors on the altar to ask God for guidance in choosing the best actor for particular roles is an indication that Coptic hagiopics are regarded as films that are “not ordinary.” In this regard, Coptic hagiopics as technological media forms can be understood as extensions of literary mediums, particularly scripture and hagiographical texts.

What I also found intriguing about Ehab’s comments was how hagiopics influenced certain monks to become monks. Ehab as a layman influences a person to become a monk through

150 mediatic exemplarity. While it was never explicitly mentioned to me by any monk that their decision to become a monk may have been influenced by watching a hagiopic (although one did explicitly mention monastic hagiographies as having influenced his decision), it was actually recounted to me by a few monk-interlocutors that the decision for certain novices to leave their monastery was because the reality of monastic life was nothing like what they had viewed in hagiopics or read in hagiographies. A few monks took issue with hagiopics as well as monastic hagiographical texts such as the Paradise of the Fathers (Chapter 2), suggesting that they created an illusionary and romanticized view of monasticism that does not exist. In their view, a virtue of a saint depicted in a hagiopic or read in a hagiography should be regarded as an exception and not the norm. Abuna Archillidis for example felt the pressure that hagiopics placed on him because of the connotation and thus expectation that because he was a monk he was virtuous. In his words,

“these films [hagiopics] make people assume that I am a saint, when the reason I came here was to repent from my sins. When I yell at a guest for not abiding to the rules of the monastery, I am assumed to be a ‘bad monk.’” While hagiopics are propagated by the Church to produce ethical subjects who imitate the saints, they place a burden on monks like Abuna Archilidis who feel they cannot live their monastic life adequately because of the expectations hagiopics make of him as a monk. The burden is not so much the monk’s inability to cultivate certain virtues such as humility, patience, and obedience, but normative assumptions that he is has already perfected these virtues simply because he is a monk. Normative assumptions are another form of hyper-exemplarity that cannot truly be imitated, leading to tensions and anxieties for the monk who must negotiate between normative and lived expectations.

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3.6 Coptic Hagiopics, Workers & The Critique of Monks & Monasteries In this section of the chapter, I will focus on the ways in which labour workers understood contemporary monasticism in relation to the depiction of monastic saints in hagiopics. Labour workers hold an essential role in monasteries today and are perhaps the people most exposed to monks, making their perspective in this chapter one of great importance. The accounts of Emad in the opening vignette and Abanoub below allude to two points in respect to hagiopics. For Emad, hagiopics are a means by which he evaluates monks today, as to whether or not they reflect monastic virtues. In the case of Abanoub, hagiopics are a means by which he himself his seeks to be cultivated into a Christian subject. In both cases, there is an expectation of how a monk ought to conduct himself, as is portrayed in hagiopics.

Before turning to Abanoub, I think it is important to provide the context for those who work in monasteries as labourers. In the context of monasteries in Wadi al-Natroun and the Delta, many workers are young children from Upper Egypt who come during the summer to make money for their families. Monasteries in Upper Egypt also hire workers, however the majority travel north

(especially Wadi al-Natroun) because the monasteries there are bigger in size, meaning that there is more opportunity for work.

Monasteries cover the accommodation and meals of labourers to encourage them to continue working in the monastery. Older workers usually carry out heavier labour. These jobs include construction and farming. Younger children and youth might work in the “oven” (forn), bakery, kitchen, or transport goods around the monastery. One monk I spoke to who was in charge of handing out wages for workers told me that he keeps a portion of their salary aside in order to teach them how to save money. He tells them that they can use this money on their education, which will help them with their families. One monastery in particular has a very different system

152 in that they provide insurance for their workers, and they regard their work as a full or part time job. I also met a university student who spends his summers working in the manuscript library in order to support himself.

The conditions for these workers are not always the best. They work long hours and might spend many months before being allowed to take a vacation. Contrastingly, there are no labourers in monasteries in North America, unless a contractor is hired for a job the monks themselves cannot do. In many instances retreatants are asked to engage in various kinds of labour. In one instance during retreat at Saint Mary and Saint Moses Abbey, a group of retreatants including myself, were required to clear a plot of land so that the monks could make a garden.

Throughout my fieldwork in Egyptian monasteries, I spent most of my time with monks, although I frequently observed their interactions with labour workers. Some monks treated labour workers under their direction with respect, while others treated them with much disdain. For some of the labour workers I spoke with, Coptic monastic hagiopics were the point from which monks and monastic life were critiqued. In other words, they often juxtaposed how monastic saints are portrayed in Coptic hagiopics to how they were treated by monks in their everyday work.

It was a warm evening in August when Abuna Archilidis introduced me to Abanoub, a young man, 22 years old, who spent his summers working in the monastery. Abuna Archillidis exclaimed joyfully, “I want you to meet different kinds of workers, so that you have a full picture of how they view the monastic life…today I have arranged for you to meet Abanoub. He’s a good kid. I want you to meet him because he is one of a few workers that come to the monastery because they want to become monks. I think it would be helpful for you to meet him.” I happily agreed and thanked Abuna for his efforts.

We went to the olive plantation to meet Abanoub. The lights had turned on after about an hour of an electricity outage. This was a recurring problem in all of Egypt, with Mohamad Morsi

153 being suspected by many Egyptians of supplying free electricity for the Gaza Strip. Abanoub and

I greeted each other in the customary way that monks greet each other and pilgrims in the monastery, by placing the palms of our hands against each other and then kissing our own palms afterwards. After Abuna introduced me as he usually does, Abanoub was eager to ask me questions about my research. Abuna Archilidis interrupted firmly, “Please. We are not here to ask the doctor questions. He is here to ask us his questions, of which we will be more than happy to answer. Let us not waste his time. Why don’t you guys go for a walk?”

“My apologies doctor, please let’s walk. Ask me whatever you like!” Abanoub exclaimed in embarrassment. Telling him it was no problem at all, I awkwardly proceeded to provide the context of my questions as we left Abuna and walked into the desert night.

We crossed the monastery gate onto the path leading out from the plantation area, which was dimly light. At the beginning of the path, Abanoub found a small tree branch that he picked up and began using as a walking stick. At that moment, I realized how much my legs and back ached from having already walked a number of hours during the day. I made a comment to

Abanoub that it would be nice if I found another branch to lean on while we walked. Abanoub stopped abruptly, lifted his hands, while holding the branch under his right arm, looked towards the heavens and petitioned “My Lord Jesus Christ, your son [referring to me] wants a stick.” I did not know whether this plea to God was an act of faith or a kind of comical performance that

Abanoub was engaging in. By act of faith, I do not mean to imply that he was acting or being insincere, but rather I ask whether he was engaging in a kind of practice characteristic of what one would see in monastic hagiopics. Later in our conversation, Abanoub made reference to the life of

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Abuna Yostos El Antoni, and the film that portrayed his life.131 Abanoub desired to live a life of unceasing prayer as he saw in the movie. In respect to his work in the monastery, Abanoub worked to practice monastic virtues such as obedience, as he had read in the lives of monastic fathers and as he had seen in Coptic hagiopics.

I came to understand that the importance of hagiopics for many youth desiring monasticism was rooted in their reflection of an ideal state of monastic life. For Abanoub, his words and actions displayed that he was attempting to imitate and embody what he saw in these films – not only in his form of request, but also in the very way he was holding the walking stick, suggesting the importance of sensory affects of hagiopics on one like Abanoub, whose viewing of hagiopics is also practiced bodily through imitation.132 Abanoub becomes exemplary by imitating the mannerisms of the monastic exemplars he sees in Coptic hagiopics.

As recounted to me by Abanoub, from his childhood he heard about the lives of monks in the desert and wanted to grow up and become a monk. When he was a teenager, he began working in the monastery closest to his hometown. As his desire to become a monk grew, he decided to spend every summer after each school year to work in different monasteries – to not only provide

131 Father Yostos al-Antoni was a monk in from Saint Antony’s Monastery in the Red Sea. He was renowned for his silence and clairvoyance. He passed away in 1976.

132 A staff or walking stick in Orthodox monasticism more broadly, is a sign of one being an elder or experienced monk. Pastorally, the pope and bishops carry a staff. There was a clear moment when I learned about “staff etiquette,” when a younger monk I knew came to pick me up from the cell of a monk who had been in the monastic life for about 30 years. As we left the senior monk’s cell, I noticed that the other monk picked up his staff, which he placed against the cell of the older monk. Before I could ask him why he left his staff outside the cell of the elder, the young monk emphasized that while in the presence of an elder, it is improper for him to carry a staff, because the staff is a symbol of experience and wisdom in the monastic life. Because the younger monk had only been in the monastery 12 years, he recognized that he still had much to learn in his monastic life. When I asked him why he carried a staff, the monk responded that his spiritual father who reposed a few years earlier gave it to him. He carried it for his blessing and to bring to remembrance all the things his spiritual father instructed him. What I found particularly interesting is that while we walked “up the mountain,” anytime the monk passed by an elderly monk, he would lift his staff off the ground and place it behind his back and bow in reverence, a sign he recognized the monastic experience and fatherhood of that monk.

155 for his family, but also so that he could determine which monastery was most suitable for him to become a monk. I was intrigued by this because most of the workers I met were either very young and worked during the summer to provide for their families, or were men with families who worked for periods at a time, doing labour work in monasteries while only visiting their family every few months. Abanoub used his experience as a labourer to learn about and get a sense of monastic life in various monasteries. This is peculiar, seeing that most youth who desire monastic life are encouraged to visit one particular monastery over a period of time; they are only allowed to stay in the retreat house for short durations. “What are your thoughts on monks today?” I asked, after Abanoub recounted this to me. “They are a blessing. Even if sometimes one of them might give me a hard time, I remain obedient and remember that they do this in love and that I ought to learn from them. Look what happened with Abuna Yostos! He was kicked out of the monastery

[of Anba Bola] and mistreated! He remained faithful and loved everyone! He did not give up his goal for becoming a monk and went to the monastery of Anba Antonios!”

In this regard, Abanoub not only takes on the example of Abuna Yostos’ hagiopic for understanding his own path towards monasticism and the ways in which he ought to conduct himself, but it is also clear that the hagiopic plays an essential role in his daily interaction with monks in the monastery. For other laity who do not seek the monastic life, the hagiopic serves as a medium for learning how to be a virtuous subject as articulated earlier in this chapter.

For Abanoub, the monks serve as exemplary figures and are symbols of Church authority who should not be questioned, but rather submitted to (Bandak & Boylston 2014, 2018) with the knowledge that in doing so, Abanoub will cultivating himself as a virtuous subject.133 I also find

133 Angie Heo (2017:57) argues a similar point in a recent chapter on the role of media in Coptic Studies. She emphasizes that the beyond the fact the religious authorities use media as a means to “progress their aims,” media

156 it particularly interesting that Abanoub’s work in various monasteries can also be juxtaposed to

Abuna Yostos’ journey from one monastery to another. David Morgan (2012:480) uses the metaphor of “mediation as consumption” whereby “what one consumes [i.e. views or gazes upon] becomes part of oneself.” In this regard, by imitating Abuna Yostos, Abanoub is effectively becoming saintly like him. In his path to find his monastic calling, Abanoub’s work as a labourer becomes the means by which he seeks to become a saint like Abuna Yostos.

Abanoub’s and Emad’s examples show how their experiences of Coptic hagiopics moved

“beyond the living room” (Ginsburg et al 2002:1). For Abanoub, Coptic hagiopics are the basis for that which he understood monasticism to be and what he wanted to become. He desired to imitate in his own life what he saw in hagiopics. For Emad, his critique of current monasticism pointed to nostalgia, a desire to return to the way monks previously conducted themselves. For both these interlocutors, the saints portrayed in Coptic hagiopics were in fact moral exemplars and the standard by which the monks Abanoub and Emad worked with in the monastery were measured. Perhaps Emad, more than Abanoub, expressed a sense of disappointment and frustration in his dealings with monks, because of expectations placed on contemporary monks in lieu of

Coptic hagiopics.

3.7 Coptic Hagiopics: The Perspective of a Bystander on Set A consequence of Coptic hagiopics that I did not immediately think about when analyzing them is that in the process of seeking to (re)create history by using monastic spaces, these productions disrupt the daily life of the monastery. In one way, there is a kind of structural violence that takes place by monastic spaces being reconfigured into familiar spaces, spaces of popular

“often transform[s] the contents and structure of ritual practices such as prayer and performance, as well as the ways they cultivate new bodily sensibilities and new arenas of social and political engagement” (p.57).

157 culture. Hany, a pharmacist from Medinat Nasr (Nasr City), a district of Cairo, whom I met in the monastery of Abu Makar, brought this idea to light. He spent his summers in various monasteries organizing their respective pharmacies. He was present in Saint Antony’s Monastery at the time of the filming of al-rāhib al-sāmit, Abūnā Yustus al-Antūnī, (The Silent Monk: Father Yostos al-

Antoni). His perspective is one that adds an interesting dimension to my analysis. Though most of the scenes were filmed at the gate of the monastery, Hany described how the calmness of the monastery was disrupted by the hustle and bustle of the filming crew and actors. One of the things that Hany noted was that the equipment that was used for the filming was highly professional and sophisticated.134 He was also fascinated by the way that the monks debated between one another about whether or not the replica of Abouna Yostos’ cell should be constructed exactly as it was

(as described by the older monks who lived with Abouna Yostos), or if they should make it a little bigger in order to have the larger cameras fit inside for scenes of the saint inside his cell.135 Their aim was to make the film as close to “real life” as possible.

Since the monks’ pharmacy is near the gate of the monastery, actors would often come inside where Hany worked to escape the heat. Hany described the actors as “coming in as one person and going out as another”. In his assessment, Hany felt that while the actors portrayed saints in the films, they were not all that religious themselves.136 It also seemed to him that there was a level of awkwardness in the ways actors interacted with the monks, as if they had never met actual

134 When comparing Abuna Yostos’ hagiopic to most Coptic hagiopics, it is clear to the viewer that it is of much higher quality in production.

135 Hany explained how Abuna Yostos’ cell was demolished after his departure. It was behind the monastery’s ancient fortress.

136 Similar to this perspective, one monk recounted to me a time when they were was a filming a hagiopic in his monastery, where actors would take cigarette breaks while dressed as monks, making the abbot furious because visitors thought they were “actual” monks.

158 monks before.137 As Hany iterated, “it was clear to me that they were completely out of touch with their way of life. With that being said, the regular schedule and system of the monastery was interrupted. This happened for about a week. The timing of prayers and liturgies was changed to accommodate the actors. It wasn’t uncommon to see monks and workers watch the filming. Anba

Yostos138 (the abbot of the monastery) at one point even came and watched! You know growing up, we were taught that it was inappropriate to watch secular films because they promoted ‘bad morals.’ It was interesting to see the labourers and even some monks approach actors such as Ehab

Sobhy as a celebrity. In all this, I was really fascinated by how spectators sat and watched the filming, most of whom never saw Abuna Yostos. This was a rare opportunity for them to see how he might have lived.” 139

Hany’s experience sheds light on two points of analysis. The first is that there was a disruption to the daily lives of the monks as a result of filming hagiopics, and second, that there is both a personal and professional life of the actors of hagiopics. The contradiction between personal and professional life speaks to how little the actors know about monks and monastic life. Both points are rooted in expectations that Hany has for both the monks and the actors. The daily

137 In his words, “they sort of reminded me of how some Muslims who, when seeing a priest, don’t know how to interact with him. Their interaction is awkward.”

138 Bishop or Anba Yostos is not to be confused with Abuna Yostos of the hagiopic being discussed. Prior to becoming a bishop, Anba Yostos’ name was Abuna Shenouda al-Antony (Father Shenouda of St. Antony’s Monastery). Because of his love for Abuna Yostos, Father Shenouda chose the name “Yostos” when he was ordained as a bishop in 1993.

139 One of the aspects that Hany discussed with me that does not really fit into the body of the vignette was that he saw that Ehab Sobhy, who played the role of Abuna Yostos, appeared more “natural than the rest of the actors” in that he did not really put up a front. Hany also discussed that Ehab was one of the few who studied theatre and drama and was able to play this role by “humanizing” Abuna Yostos. Hany was also fond of Maged Kidwani who played the role of Abuna Andrawes al-Samueli in another hagiopic and was able to play the role in a way in which one could relate to the saint. Hany’s critique of Coptic hagiopics was rooted in a problem he understood in wider Egyptian cinema in that many actors are not able to play the parts “naturally,” as in Hollywood films for example, where the one who plays a particular role embodies the role of the character they are playing.

159 schedule of monks being interrupted is not merely a result of the filming, but is also a failure on the part of the monks for not maintaining their spiritual canon. With respect to the actors, they fail to exhibit the characteristics of one portraying saintly figures.

What is interesting here is comparing Hany’s critique of the actors to Ehab Sobhy’s idealistic depiction of acting, as described above. In one point in our conversation, Hany described how he witnessed Ehab “living the role” of Abuna Yostos by speaking to monks the same way when he was in character. In Hany’s words “Ehab seemed to be reenacting what is perceived as an authentic manner of how monks speak.” In other words, Ehab spoke in the same way that laypersons expect a monk to speak to them when conversing. The interaction between the monks and Ehab as articulated by Hany also warrants attention. Hany describes the monks as being dazzled when speaking with Ehab, as if with Abuna Yostos himself; as if with a sacred gaze

(Morgan 2010). In this regard, the actor of the hagiopic functions as a mediator between the monks and laity, and the saint as an exemplary figure. Though the majority of the monks never lived with

Abuna Yostos, the image of Abuna Yostos as an exemplary figure personified through Ehab Sobhy becomes a means by which the blessings of the saint are transmitted to the monk.

3.8 Coptic Hagiopics & Diaspora Another purpose of Coptic hagiopics as recounted to me by Coptic actor Ehab Sobhy is that they connect those in the Coptic Diaspora to their motherland. Ehab suggests that Copts in

Diaspora view and enjoy Coptic hagiopics because they see monasteries that are familiar to them, as well as other spiritual places, which give them “a scent of when they lived in Egypt.” Ehab also believes that Coptic hagiopics have an educational role, especially for second and third generation

Copts who really do not know anything about Egypt. “An aim of the film is to present Egyptian folklore and connecting this lost sentiment from these generations and their parents.” Ehab recounted to me that during his visit, “I have been approached by numerous people who have told

160 me how Coptic films have impacted their children in loving the saints and wanting to visit Egypt, let alone teaching them Arabic [since many hagiopics are subtitled in English].” In my own experience, Ehab’s comments hold true, knowing that two of the outcomes of watching hagiopics as a child were me connecting the hagiopics to the monasteries’ I visited when my family returned to Egypt on vacation, as well as the ways in which hagiopics helped me learn Arabic.

Ehab conveyed a story to me, which he described as a miracle that took place in California as a result of the Abuna Yostos hagiopic.140 A bishop, upon his return to Egypt from the United

States, recounted this miracle to him: “There was a youth who was far from the church. Anytime his friends or one of the servants asked him to come [to church], he would refuse. One day, a friend of his told him to come to watch the first screening on Abuna Yostos’ film in one of the churches, and that he would not ask him to come again. The youth agreed and went with him. During the film, he began weeping and asked the priest of the church if he could give a confession to him after it had finished. After that he repented and even became a servant in the church. When we hear stories like these we thank God and see their benefit in our lives and the lives of others.”

The miracle retold here by Ehab is not one of an extraordinary event (for example an individual being healed from sickness) but is one that recounts the changing of one’s life from living away from God to being an active member in the church. The change of this youth’s moral character is one that does not follow the characteristics of a cultivation of piety over time, but

140 In a very real sense, miracles take place because of these films. Ehab iterated for me what a bishop recounted to him. While in California on a visit, the bishop was approached at two different times about the Abuna Yostos film (which Ehab acted in). The first miracle had to do with a lady who was sick with cancer. While sleeping one night Abuna Yostos appeared to her and told her that she would be healed of her illness. She did not know who he was and asked him. He said ‘I am [the] monk Yostos. You will know about me after watching my film.’ The lady woke up and asked about the saint and they told her that a movie was just produced about him and that it would be coming from Egypt. Later that week, she visited the doctor and discovered the cancer was gone. She asked for several copies of the film and distributed them at her own expense. See Heo (2017: 61-62) for the ways in which TV screens mediate baraka and healing power.

161 rather, it is a moment of rupture and discontinuity. On one hand, this miracle alludes to the argument in this chapter that Coptic hagiopics are a means by which one is cultivated into a pious

Christian subject, while on the other hand adding a transnational dimension to my analysis that also speaks to the diasporic elements of a Coptic imagined community. The saint’s narrative that transformed the life of this young man is not just any saint, but a monk who, although he did not live in society, was able to touch his life so that he repented and lived a godly life in an immoral society. As in other ethnographic examples about diaspora, host societies are often regarded as

“less-moral” or “less-authentic” than one’s original homeland, prompting parents to seek out a means to connect their children and future generations to the cultivation of moral character

(Daswani 2015). Sometimes, this even requires parents to send their children for visits home (see

Daswani 2015). Coptic hagiopics as technological mediums allow for one to traverse long distances without having to leave home (Yang 2002), connecting them to a wider Coptic identity, while also promoting Christian morals by which those in the Diaspora can remain “good

Christians” in “loose” host societies. For example, I remember that there were “viewing fundraisers” in various parishes in Toronto for the hagiopic “Hadathat fī dhāka al-layla,” It

Happened that Night, three stories based on a book written by Pope Shenouda III.141 I remember one family purchasing the film when it was released and inviting my family and me to come watch it with them again. From an analytical point of view, this suggests that Coptic hagiopics are one way of several ways in which an imagined Coptic community is formed, maintained, and comes to understand itself (Anderson 2006).

141 Two of those stories were about monks.

162

3.9 Conclusion Coptic saint movies were very much a part of my childhood and upbringing. My parents saw saint movies as an opportunity for my spiritual growth and edification. From a young age, these films taught me that as a Copt, I inherited the legacy of a Church of Martyrs who were persecuted for their faith. With the exception of some of these movies, the actors spoke colloquial,

Egyptian Arabic. As an immigrant family to Canada, these films helped my parents, particularly my father, teach me the language and religious tradition. The circulation of these films in the

Diaspora played an intrinsic role in connecting, me, as a son of 1st generation immigrants, to my history. I visited my parish bookstore every Sunday to see if a new film was available for purchase.

As soon as we got home from church I would watch the hagiopic, sometimes with my parents and brother, but often by myself. Over the span of about 20 years I collected most hagiopics produced by the Coptic Church.

I was taught that Egypt was the mother of monastic life and that the most pious and righteous of Christians were monks in the desert, who were perfected in the wilderness through their ascetical labours and patience. In turn, God rewarded them with eternal life.

These were the images of monks I had in my mind growing up. When my family went back to Egypt on visits, monasteries were at the forefront of our visits, after family and friends. My parents took my brother and me to monasteries to give us a glimpse of spaces that were much different than what we were used to, yet also quite familiar because of our exposure to hagiopics.

There was always something so remarkable and beautiful about seeing ancient churches, and venerating the relics of the saints I had seen portrayed in saint movies. To stand in Saint Bishoy’s cell, in the monastery of the Virgin Mary, al-Souriān, where he tied his hair, I immediately would think of the hagiopic depicting his life. At al-Souriān, I was also able to identify locations in monasteries where scenes had been shot. Similarly in St. Macarius’ Monastery, I could identify

163 the arched stairway that was often used to depict a palace of an emperor or a governor, where they pondered ways to rid themselves and the world of Christian deceit. I was dazzled when I saw a monk praying, and connected him to the saints I saw in films. The films helped me connect the imagined Coptic past to the present, and were a means for me to understand what it meant to be

“Coptic.” These films invited me to live like the monastic saints and martyrs I saw portrayed in them, by trying to emulate their lives. They connected me to the land where I was born, and invited me to be proud of my identity.

I use this personal ethnographic vignette as a form of methodology and positionality. It is a vantage point from which I explore Coptic monasticism and the ways in which media forms are socially produced, propagated, and authorized by the Coptic Orthodox Church as methods of

Coptic discourse and Church education. Hagiopics are clearly a form of social reproduction that attempt to dictate particular subjectivities of what it means to be a good Coptic Christian as well as an Egyptian citizen, from the perspective of the Church. This chapter has unpacked the ways in which Coptic hagiopics speak to a wider Coptic identity, while also addressing how the portrayal of monks is imagined. This imaginary is translated into social expectations one has for monks, who become moral exemplars and figures of emulation, as I have also argued in the previous chapter. In the next chapter, I turn to analyzing and explaining the ways in which the Coptic monk functions as a moral exemplary subject and the ways in which my Coptic interlocutors negotiate their expectations of meeting a monastic exemplar.

Exemplifying the Exemplary: Tensions & Anxieties in Relation to the Holy Man I met Mark and Amir at Saint Paul’s American Coptic Orthodox Church during my first visit on October 6th 2012. It was not really until March of 2013 that we got to know each other very well. Both of them are 2nd generation Copts born in Egypt but raised in California, emigrating with their parents when they were young children. Mark had only visited Egypt once since then, while Amir had never been back. It was the middle of March when Mark stumbled upon cheap tickets from Los Angeles to Cairo for only $800USD. Excited at the opportunity Mark immediately called Amir and both booked time off in April after receiving blessings from their wives. Both were very eager to go on pilgrimage to various monasteries in Egypt.

On the Sunday I found out that they had booked their flight, I joked that it would be nice to go with them. My joke was met with a serious plea for me come with them. Amir thought that my connections in monasteries would make for an interesting pilgrimage, and at the same time it would help with my research. After receiving advice from my supervisors, I booked my ticket on the following Tuesday. The three of us travelled a month later, for what would prove to be a rich experience of ethnographic fieldwork.

Mark is neither tall or short, fair skinned, and medium built. His work in law enforcement makes him quite rigid when it comes to punctuality, something that would come to irritate him as a result of Egyptian timing. Amir is a little stubby, with a darker complexion and a well-kept beard which he shaved periodically during my stay in California. His loud deep voice was an easy identifier of his presence in a room.

164 165

During our trip in Egypt, Mark, Amir, and I woke up and left for St. Bola’s Monastery from St. Antonios’ Monastery at 9am.142 We arrived at Anba Bola around 10:15am. We were eager to arrive before the monastery was flooded with visitors, seeking to meet Abuna Fanous, an elderly monk, renowned among Copts as a holy man and miracle worker, who had achieved a high degree of holiness because of his ascetical labours, which included long periods of fasting and vigils in prayer.143 He would leave his cell once a week on Saturdays to meet visitors in the chapel of the cathedral, who flocked to him for blessings. The monastery gatekeeper directed us to the south side of the cathedral, where the entrance to the chapel on the ground level was located. We entered the church to find seats set up facing each other. Many visitors were already waiting for the monk. Not knowing where Abuna would enter, we sat in the middle of the church. Suddenly, as we chatted about our experience in St. Antony’s cave the night before, we heard movement behind us.

Thinking Abuna Fanous had arrived, we turned back to find that a fight had broken out between two men. One of the men supposedly entered the church without removing his shoes. The other asked him to remove them. The first man was enraged at this request and began to shove the other man who was still sitting and threatened to hit him with his shoes. Surprised, I took out my phone and handed it to Amir to film (I was embarrassed while Amir was not). As Amir began filming, one of the men standing behind us exclaimed, “Stop recording! You are embarrassing

142The monasteries of St. Antony the Great (Deir al-Anba Antonios) and St. Paul the First Anchorite (Deir al-Anba Paula or Bola Awāl al-Sowāh, as is commonly pronounced by Egyptians because there is no letter “P” in Arabic), are located in Eastern Desert near the Red Sea. They are about an hour drive from each other.

143“Abuna” is the Arabic word for “father,” used to recognize priests and monks. The word “Anba” is used for the patriarch and other bishops. The word “Baba” or “Pope” is solely reserved for the patriarch. The word “Siedna” or “master” is used to address the Pope and other bishops. In the Orthodox Church, it is understood that the pope or patriarch is “first among equals.” Abuna Fanous passed away on April 19th 2016.

166 us!”, recognizing that we were “foreigners” since we conversed in English. Amir responded in his broken Arabic, “You are embarrassed of me recording and not embarrassed that these guys are fighting in the church!?” Amir handed me back the camera to avoid any more problems.

The brawl was de-escalated and everyone waited once again. About 12:00pm we noticed people beginning to storm the front door of the chapel. Abuna had arrived and sat in the shade outside the church. People kissed his hand and received a piece of holy bread as others behind them continued to push and shove. Many also tried to cut the line, going so far as to boldly accuse

Mark, Amir, and me of jumping the line ourselves. The monk looking after Abuna came in and asked for order. That was the only moment organization was apparent. After about 30 minutes we finally made it to Abuna. An old man in his eighties, Abuna Fanous sat on a wheelchair with a look of exhaustion. Next to him was a pile of small notes of paper that people slipped into his hands. Prayers were probably written on them, with a particular wish or desire; maybe a woman unable to conceive sought a child and requested a prayer in this form of a petition. His disciple took these note-petitions from Abuna’s hand and placed them next to him. Each of us went to greet the monk. I was first, followed by Amir, then Mark. Abuna Fanous’ eyes met mine (I didn’t see any crosses).144 I kissed his hand and received holy bread from him. Before I could ask him for a prayer; his disciple pushed me to keep the line moving.

As we watched people continue to swarm Abuna Fanous, Mark turned to me and asked,

“Joey, as an anthropologist, what do you make of what is going on? Are these people really coming here for the blessing, or is this more cultural?” Being the anthropologist, I directed the question

144 Some youth from St. Antony’s Monastery told us that if you look deeply into Abuna Fanous’ eyes you can see crosses. Anthony Shenoda (2010) also makes reference to this.

167 back to Mark, wanting to know his thoughts. “What do you mean by this?” I replied. Mark continued:

Well, you would expect that people coming to take a blessing from a holy monk would do

so with utmost respect and organization. They don’t seem to care that this is a frail old man

who is not in the best of health. I mean, if I knew I was coming to visit a holy man, would

I fight in the church before I met him, or smother over him knowing he was ill? Are they

really here on a pilgrimage or are they swept away by his popularity? I’m not questioning

whether he’s a saint or not. I’m questioning whether or not the people we see here came

because they had faith or because of a kind of ‘cause and effect’ that ripples over time and

make him popular. I mean think about it.145 One person goes to Abuna Fanous and a

miracle happens. They tell someone else and another miracle happens. He gains popularity

and people begin flocking to him. I can understand that they come to the monastery because

the country is in turmoil and they’re looking for some kind of hope [referring here to a

hope for the betterment of the country and amidst social and economic precariousness], but

I don’t know if they’re here with true faith in God. Amir interjected, “Honestly, I see a man

who when he looked into my eyes was telling me that he wanted to get out of here! He

looks like he’s had enough of people. He’s tired, exhausted, and looks like he was forced

to come down to see all these people.

This vignette suggests that there are requirements and expectations in the relationship between a pilgrim and a saintly figure. The pilgrim is required to know how to behave and how to

145 I did not really know how to answer Mark’s questions at that time. Reflecting back I remember feeling uneasy about reducing the event to a kind of cultural phenomenon and making an ethnocentric judgment about the behaviour of those we witnessed, while at the same time feeling overwhelmed by the number of people crowing around Abuna Fanous, and feeling a sense of frustration myself.

168 receive blessings from the saint. One of these categories for Mark, is “true faith” in God. In return,

God through the saint offers a blessing. Mark, Amir and I had expectations. We were disappointed and became anxious because others around us did not conform to our expectations of what we deemed to be proper conduct. The same would have probably happened if a holy figure visited

North America. The question at hand is not so much about the disorder being cultural misconduct

(for that would be an ethnocentric accusation) but about expectations and anxieties around failed events. What happens when the event fails? What happens when the expectations one has of the holy man are not met? At the heart of these questions are what I will call “patterns of holiness”— specific qualities that reflect the characteristics of a saint and the expectations an individual has when interacting with moral exemplars. These expectations can be regarded as part of “moral rubrics” (Deeb & Harb 2013), social behaviours shared by society.

Patterns of holiness are rooted in a kind of social authority. That is to say that, to a very large degree, a monastic is distinguished as a saint, through social recognition. Expectations are foregrounded in the Coptic monastic imagination of the holy man (Chapter 2) through narratives and hagiopics (Chapter 3). It is when a monk or pilgrim does not conform to the pattern of holiness that the relationship between him and the individual is brought into question. In one sense the monk not meeting the expectation of his visitor is a breaking of a reciprocal relationship between him and the one coming to him. The visitor is expected to behave appropriately (as exemplified by Father Fanous’ disciple asking for order), and perhaps offer alms to the monastery as well, in return for a blessing or special prayer from the holy man. The monks and the pilgrims alike did not meet our expectations during this event.

At a later time I asked Mark and Amir about their respective expectations for meeting

Abuna Fanous. Mark anticipated that we would sit with Abuna in a small group where Abuna would give a short word of benefit (kilmit manfʿa) and that he would say or do something

169 extraordinary that would point to a level of holiness and spirituality that Mark had never experienced before. Amir was also expecting to sit alone with Abuna Fanous without a crowd, more silence, stillness and inner peace, and in his words “did not expect the hessa [rowdiness], uneasiness and chaos of the group,” though this is common in many holy places in Egypt. Amir felt that the atmosphere did not allow for us to experience inner peace. In contrast to Mark, when

I asked Amir if he was expecting a clairvoyant event, or something that would be directed personally at him, he stated that whether or not something extraordinary came to be revealed to him by Abuna Fanous was God's will. Amir had full reliance on God’s will and trusted that God would continue to draw closer to him as Amir continued to struggle in his spiritual life.

For myself, I was eager for Abuna Fanous to place his hand on my head and say a short prayer as a form of personal blessing. I was disappointed when his disciple pushed me away to keep the line moving. I remember feeling that I did not receive a “proper” blessing from Abuna

Fanous. Some interlocutors might disagree with me on the basis that by simply kissing Abuna’s hand I received a blessing. However, as an anthropologist and as a pilgrim I had expectations, anxieties, and at certain times during this experience, felt uncomfortable and disappointed

(Hammoudi 2006, Young 2010). I do not think these expectations were produced because of living in North America, but because of hearing about Abuna Fanous’ extraordinary encounters with pilgrims. My encounter with him was rather ordinary.

What this event speaks to is individual frustrations and anxieties, debates about comportment and holiness and the authenticity of monks as exemplars, are grounded in ethical projects as being intersubjective, internal to one’s self and in relationship with God. While the holiness of the monk is regarded by the laity as an effect of the other-worldly realm, which is beyond the physical world and influenced by a spiritual relationship with God, the voices of some monks in this chapter suggest that they see themselves as worldly and effectively see their ethical

170 self-formations in ordinary and mundane ways. Thus, there is a tension between popular notions of holiness prevalent primarily in Egypt and transcendence and the ethical lives of the monks themselves.

Following Carolyn Humphrey (1997) and James Laidlaw (1995, 2014) this chapter explores the ways in which contemporary Coptic monks come to be regarded by many lay-Copts as exemplary Christian subjects.146 Drawing on ethnographic data, I am interested in how my interlocutors in this chapter have conflicting views about the virtue of Coptic monks, in relation to the Coptic monastic imagination (Chapter 2). While on the one hand my interlocutors see Coptic monks as being moral exemplars (Humphrey 1997, Laidlaw 1995, 2014), the same individuals critique contemporary monks as being “un-monastic.” The monk as a figure of spiritual authority is at the center of socio-religious imagination, sought by the ordinary person for empowerment

(Kirsch 2014). This chapter aims to unpack questions of sainthood and skepticism in relation to what my interlocutors perceive as patterns of holiness and how this is translated into how they come to understand what it means to be a virtuous Coptic Christian. Skepticism, I argue, does not imply that one is “unbelieving” but rather that the particular event of perceived holiness is brought under scrutiny in relation to patterns of holiness. In the provocative words of Anthony Shenoda

(2010: v), “faith without skepticism is dead.”

The relationship between the holy man and his visitors can be described as a “‘chronically unstable co-production’ [of virtue] between leaders and [their] followers” (Kirsch 2014: 48), in the layperson’s desire to emulate the monk. The social image of a monk as a moral exemplar is a

“co-production” between the layperson and the holy man, in the sense that the layperson

146Coptic nuns also fit within this category and there are contemporary nuns who fit would be regarded as holy women, such as Umina Irini who departed in 2012. My lack of access to convents is the foremost reason for my inability to speak a great deal about Coptic nuns as moral exemplary figures.

171 recognizes the holy man as a virtuous subject (i.e. through their virtuous qualities such as asceticism and prayer), while the monk must uphold this image by remaining a virtuous subject.

The “instability” of this relationship is manifest when a monk does not exhibit patterns of holiness in meeting expectations as well as in the constant state of anxiety of the layperson who is unable to emulate the life of the monk. The relationship between the monk and the layperson is one that is “chronic” in the sense that it is continuous: the layperson remains in a perpetual state of seeking virtue, which is sought in the person of the monk as an exemplary figure. While there are instances where one can meet a monk outside of his monastery, the majority of encounters with a monk happen within its walls.

This chapter is also about the ways in which moral exemplars come to reflect a particular kind of moral and ethical subject who is esteemed by followers and regarded as a virtuous model to be emulated. While Abuna Fanous was only one example in the vignette above, the various ethnographic accounts that follow will demonstrate how monks are perceived as “saints” simply for being monks. Many interlocutors such as Sameh and Michael in this chapter regarded monks as models of Christian virtue because of their ascetical labours and assumed proximity to God. A monk’s black habit for many lay interlocutors came to be associated with an assumed degree of holiness, one that they as a layperson could not achieve. In other words a monk’s black habit reflects a “marked body” read to be a sign of holiness (Laidlaw 1995: 1), a habitus of assumed ascetical experience “set apart” from the ordinary person (Kirsch 2014: 48), yet always desired to be emulated. In a few instances during fieldwork, interlocutors expressed that they preferred to seek the blessings of a monk rather than a lay-priest, because they believed that a monk was closer to God, since he would not be distracted with family matters. Interestingly enough, celibacy was

172 also regarded as a primary means for experiencing proximity to God.147 Some interlocutors are skeptical about the ways in which Coptic monks are represented by the laity, perhaps more so than whether or not a monk can in fact be deemed to be an exemplar or not.148 I would suggest however that while the conduct of the monastic saint is certainly regarded as a form of virtue, the majority of Copts I encountered in the field regarded spiritual gifts of clairvoyance and prophecy as a high form of virtue resulting from the monk’s proximity to God.

A few hours after we left Abuna Fanous, Mark, Amir and I walked by a line of people as we were entering another church in the monastery. People appeared to be waiting for someone or something. We entered the church and found that there was a monk inside seeing visitors individually. We took the blessings of the church and happened to walk out as that same monk was exiting the church. To our surprise, the people who were in the line began to gather around the monk. I was directly behind the monk when a woman grabbed his hand, pulling him towards her and her husband. “Abuna please! We are unable to have a baby.” The woman whispered shyly.

“Do you have faith?” I overheard the monk ask. Yes, Abuna I do!” The woman exclaimed. “Next year like right now, you will have Youssef.” The monk responded as he smiled and walked away.

I immediately thought to myself. Will this actually happen? What happens if the woman does not have Youssef next year? Is this monk as holy as he is portraying himself? By what authority can this monk make such a claim? Was it this monk or the faith of this woman that would grant her a child? These questions emerged out of what my interlocutors and I witnessed as a kind of performance that appeared to be one in which a monk was believed to embody the virtues of a

147Specific examples will be discussed in a section of this chapter below.

148Compare here with Anthony Shenoda (2010) and his articulation of the scepticism of his interlocutors towards contemporary moral exemplars such as Abuna Fanous and Umina Irini.

173 saint.149 If a monk was to acclaim himself as a holy man, he would effectively be drawing attention towards himself, and away from Christ, “rendering his sanctity fraudulent” (Bandak 2013: 130).

The skepticism that Mark, Amir, and I experienced was certainly not one of being “unbelievers” but as I have argued above was relational to what we understood as patterns of holiness. This particular monk’s behaviour was unorthodox in respect to what we interpreted as monastic sanctity whereas the majority of local Copts would view find this kind of interaction quite normal.

Much of this woman’s interaction with the monk is grounded in notions of relying on

Divine Providence, and God's will. This understanding of reliance on God is not only a Christian virtue, but also found in Islam. Al-tawakkul or trusting in God’s will in both Christianity and Islam can be understood as technologies of the self in Foucauldian terms. As Sherine Hamdy (2012: 30) articulates, reliance on God is not a passive decision or a form of irrationality, but an active form of agency by which the individual “consciously and rigorously train[s] themselves to accept God’s will in regard to that which they could not change without unacceptable costs.” While I do not know whether or not the woman did indeed have Youssef the year after I saw her with the monk, the very decision to visit the monk was deliberated in faith, presumably praying to God that He would grant her request to have a child through the monk. However, the woman and other Copts would probably grow skeptical of the monk if what he said would happen did not occur. This skepticism I would say is irrespective of her faith in God, but would point to the monk as a fraudulent exemplar.

Reflecting on this event, it is clear to me that patterns of holiness are manifested in different ways. While there is a general understanding of how individuals I encountered interpreted

149Monastic virtues described by interlocutors widely included a life of prayer, fasting, and asceticism through prostrations and night vigils. Miracles attributed to monks were often interpreted as the result of a monk excelling in one of these virtues.

174 sainthood, moral exemplarity can mean different things for different people. For some it is about emulation, while for others it is a reciprocal relationship whereby the individual receives a blessing or baraka (Chapter 3) from the saint in exchange for having faith and trusting in what the saint has promised. Baraka as a category of analysis is important for understanding how the sacred “enters everyday life” (Bandak & Bille 2013: 6). In the case of this woman and others standing to wait for the monk for example, they came with certain expectations based on their understanding of what a virtuous monk is: one who bestows God’s blessing.

In his ground-breaking work on ordinary ethics Michael Lambek (2010: 2) argues that such a form of ethics is “ordinary” because it is rooted in everyday practices rather than “knowledge or belief.” The woman’s active decision to visit this monk and submitting to his call on her to have faith is an example of ordinary ethics because she is working towards submitting to God’s will. In exchange for a child she promises to be a virtuous subject by exhibiting a life of faith. My interest in this narrative is not about whether or not this monk is or is not a saint, but rather how different understandings of patterns of holiness came to reflect our own interaction with this monk (as skeptics) and how the woman and other visitors interacted with this monk, with the expectation of receiving a form of baraka.150

The emulation of Coptic monks by certain laypersons is in many cases not so much one that is about an impossible state of achievement (Laidlaw 1995: 172), as much as one of trying to be as virtuous as one can be. Abuna Barsoum for example emphasized to me that, “all Christians are called to be ascetic. Asceticism is not so much about depriving oneself from something, as much as it is about living a balanced life. For example, you should eat merely out of sustaining

150 See Thomas Kirsch (2014) for an excellent analysis of religious leadership among Pentecostal Charismatics in Zambia. Kirsch’s articulation of the “precarious center” is one useful for my analysis and thinking about the precarious relationship between monks and laity.

175 yourself and should not over-eat. At the same time you should not starve yourself and say you are fasting. We are told that when Saint Antony the Great departed at 105 years of age, he had a full set of teeth. He was not over-weight and he was not skinny.” Abuna Barsoum’s example here reflects the understanding that Saint Antony as a historical exemplar is still regarded today as a model by which one can live their Christian life as moral characters.

Humphrey (1997) writes that “there needs to be a social space for deliberation about ways of life, amid the pressures that circumscribe the instantiation of personal ideas” (ibid.: 26). In the

Mongolian context, moral exemplars provide guidance to their followers amidst the Communist government who have “attempted to hijack exemplary precedents to their own ends” (ibid.).

During fieldwork it became clear to me that the ways in which some Copts spoke about monasteries and monks suggested a view that monasteries were authentic Christian spaces and monks were “true” models of Christian virtue. Often, contemporary monastic figures renowned for their gifts of prophecy, clairvoyance, and the working of miracles such as Saint Kyrillos VI,

Abuna Abdel-Mesih al-Habashi , Abuna Yostos al-Antoni, and Abuna Faltaoes al-Souriani, were referenced as moral exemplary figures.151 There are no official rules or procedures of canonization in the Coptic Orthodox Church as in the Roman Catholic Church. Saint Kyrillos VI is one of these examples. A popularized rule is that fifty years must pass before the Church can “officially” recognize one.152 There are however exceptions to this rule as in the example of St. Kyrillos VI,

151 It is well known for example that before an exam, students would visit Saint Kyrillos carrying their textbooks. He would open random pages and bless the study material. The student would go home and study the pages he opened to later find on the exam the same material from pages the saint identified.

152This 50 years “rule” seems to be have been influenced by the Catholic Church since the Orthodox Church generally speaking does not have such conditions.

176 who died in 1971. Even during his lifetime, he was recognized to be a “holy man.” A pattern I think is apparent within the Church is that the laity recognizes someone as a saint before “official” canonization, prompting their “official” canonization by the Church (Rey 2012).153 In the case of

Saint Kyrillos VI, the Holy Synod canonized him along with Saint Habib Girgis the Archdeacon in 2014. There are other examples of modern monastic fathers who are expected to be canonized within the next fifty years. For example, Abuna Abdel-Mesih al-Habashi154, an Ethiopian recluse who lived as a hermit in Wadi El Natroun from about 1932-1971. In a biography of Abuna Abdel-

Mesih, the author Bishop Macarius (2012) emphasizes that what makes Abuna Abdel-Mesih a saint are not the miracles he performed during his lifetime, but his way of life and his constant desire for unity with Christ. In this respect, the “trajectory” of the saint’s life towards God is both a reason for their sainthood and a desired emulation (Rey 2012:92). As a result of these narratives and visiting sacred places, Copts I spoke with, such as Abanoub in the previous chapter, sought to emulate the lives of monks they heard of, read about, or saw themselves, in their everyday lives.

4.1 Moral Exemplars & Baraka It became more evident to me throughout the course of my ethnographic research that monks are idealized to such a high degree that many Copts assume that all monks embody these divine energies and are “chosen vessels” (Bandak 2012: 43). If this was not said directly in conversation, it was clearly evident in practice, specifically in how I saw visitors rush to receive a blessing from a monk they did not necessarily know personally.

153 In other words a saint is socially accepted as a saint, long before the Church “officially” recognized them as one. See Rey (2012) for a comparison with the making of saints in the Greek Orthodox Church.

154“al-Hābāshī” is Arabic for “the Ethiopian.”

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In one instance, my father and I were walking with a monk when an elderly man came running behind us to kiss the monk’s hand. The man stopped the monk for a blessing. As the monk and my father continued walking, the man turned to me asking, “low samāht, Abuna meen da? If you please, who is this father [monk]?” “Abuna so-and-so.” I replied. “Howa quww’is yʿanī?, so is he “good”? [Meaning to ask if he was saintly or known to work miracles.] Not knowing how to respond to him I nodded and walked off awkwardly. On other occasions I witnessed Copts seeking the advice of certain monks for particular problems, such as finding employment, whether or not they should marry a suitor or a bride, and whether or not they should emigrate to another country.155

Visiting a moral exemplar for such issues is a means by which the individual seeks to make both a right and good decision, one that is consequently related to being a moral person. The deliberation of becoming a moral subject occurs not merely in spaces that are deemed to be moral, but also in spaces that are effectively social (Humphrey 1997: 26). For Copts monasteries can be regarded as both spiritual and social places where the moral subject is cultivated. What this means in relation to my discussion on the “holy man” is that interactions with monks for some Copts are rooted in a desire to obtain a form of baraka (Chapter 3) or, “divine blessing or favour” (Bandak

& Bille 2013: 6), from the monk, whose spiritual energies are believed to have resulted from a special proximity to God.156 The monk in this regard is characterized as a prophet, one who possesses charisma and provides hope to visitors (Weber 1978: 242). The monk as a “holy man” is thought to have acquired spiritual charisma, by living a life of worship and mysticism (Forbess

155 See also Humphrey 1997: 26, and Bandak 2012: 23.

156Baraka is essentially the Arabic word for “blessing” and is similarly mediated in Islam. See Crapanzano (1980) and Mittermaier (2010) on contemporary understandings of Baraka in Islam in Morocco and Egypt respectively.

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2010). Charisma is the acquisition of spiritual knowledge through an experiential relationship with

God (Naumescu 2010). It is a gift from God given to the exemplar, to discern things of the heart and provide spiritual and physical healing to those who come to acquire blessing (Forbess

2010:132). The holy man as a prophet and bearer of charisma is always open to processes of refutation and scrutiny. As a prophet he must continue to prove himself exemplary. Through the interaction with a holy man, the individual is able to take this blessing of strength and encouragement in their everyday lives.

One way to analyze the relationship between a visitor to monasteries and monks is to understand the social condition of the visitor seeing the monks. By saying this I certainly do not intend to “[…] reduce spiritual experiences to questions of social cohesion, where pilgrims and sainthood primarily become sites for shaping social networks, ties, and claims” (Forbess 2010: 5).

Rather, in following Bandak and Bille (2013) I would suggest that the subject of sainthood is one that is contested and “encompasses a wide variety of ways by which ideas of the holy charismatic and extraordinary […] are invested in and with narratives, materiality and form” (ibid.). At the heart of what I see as the complex relationship between Coptic monks and laity is a critique by interlocutors such as Amir and Mark in the opening vignette of what it means to be a virtuous

(Coptic) Christian subject. The Coptic monk as a moral exemplar is deemed to embody characteristics of one who has a particular kind of divine knowledge and access to God that the

“everyday” layperson does not have. Consequently, the layperson enters into a state of anxiety in two ways. The first is through their inability to embody the same virtues of the holy man and the second is being unable to identify characteristics of exemplarity when they meet a monk deemed to be saintly.

The saintliness of a moral exemplar is not always recognized and may in fact be called into question. Bandak (2013) discusses questions of evidence in respect to Myrna Akhras, a woman of

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Damascus who began experiencing divine revelations from Christ and the Virgin Mary. Myrna herself began to experience stigmata similar to Saints Francis of Assisi and Padre Pio.157 Her experience attracted many skeptics as well as a pious following of individuals who gathered at her house for prayers and weekly services (Bandak 2013: 129). Those who were skeptical of Myrna, mainly Greek Orthodox Christians, often attributed the illegitimacy of miracles happening with and around her to an impious lifestyle, such as swimming in a bikini, recognized as a lack of chastity and purity in relation to nuns and monastic austerity. A further point raised by Bandak’s

(2013) interlocutors is the issue of private and public miracles. In one instance, one of Bandak’s interlocutor’s suggests that when the oil-dripping icon was taken to a church (Greek Orthodox church of the Holy Cross), the icon did not shed oil (ibid.: 132). Since the miracle did not occur in the church it must therefore be untrue, since the Church exemplifies true faith, extending the authority of the Church in its prescription of what should and what should not be deemed to be miraculous (Rey 2012). Furthermore, a major sign of holiness and sanctity is expressed when an individual works a miracle in private. As stated previously, the public display of piety, or the revealing of virtues by a means that draws attention to oneself in a willing manner, is deemed to be fraudulent because the individual draws attention to himself or herself and not to God. At the heart of what I think Bandak (2013) is alluding to here is a question of authenticity in relation to the private and public display of miracles.

Sameh, a young man in his late twenties, came to visit his cousin, a lay-priest who was spending his forty days in the monastery.158 I discussed with Sameh my research interests and my

157Stigmata is the experiencing of the pains of Christ during His Crucifixion through the literal manifestation of bleeding from one’s hands and feet. These miraculous usually occur in the Catholic Church, which may also be a factor in deeming Myrna’s experiences as “inauthentic” by Bandak’s Greek Orthodox interlocutors.

158“lay-priest” is a term used to identify a parish priest who is married and not a monk.

180 interest in his views on the influence of monasticism in the lives of Copts today. I told him that I was doing research on the influence of monasticism on Copts and he asked me, “Would you like to know the positive or negative aspects?” I responded “whatever you like, what do you think?”

“Monasticism in Egypt played a very important role in keeping the faith and preserving it.”

Sameh responded. He narrated the story of Saint Samuel the Confessor and asked me, “Do you know why his eye was plucked out?” I asked him why. “Because he would not call St. Mary the mother of Jesus and insisted on calling her the Mother of God [pointing to the role of Coptic monasticism in preserving Orthodoxy].159 Today people go to monasteries looking for miracles.

Women who want to get pregnant and individuals who want to find a job. They want a solution to their problems in the world without doing anything about it themselves. El nase’t darwasho! People have gone crazy!160 When you go to the monastery of Saint Bola, you see many people waiting to take the blessings of Abuna Fanous who is supposed to be a holy man. His hands light up and people come and ask him for a sign. ‘Abuna should I immigrate or not’ he would respond with a

‘yes go’ or ‘no stay.’”

Interested in where this conversation was going I asked him, “Do they come true?” He responded, “It has to be a coincidence, if it happens with one-hundred people, there are a thousand that don’t get their prophecies fulfilled. There was another monk in Saint Bola’s monastery, and I saw this with my own eyes telling a woman: ‘next year at this time, you will be married.’ Does this make him a prophet all of a sudden? I don’t think so.”

159Although Sameh’s narration of St. Samuel’s life was to make the point that the role of monasticism is to preserve the Orthodox Faith, Sameh confuses the Nestorian Heresy with the Christological profession of the Council of Chalcedon (451 AD).

160“Darwasha” also implies a kind of “brain-washing” usually referring to one becoming more of a religious fundamentalist, or rather“dervish-like.”

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As we walked back to the rest house and talked about meeting each other in Cairo, Sameh joked, “I’m probably not the best one for your project, once your professors hear what I have to say, they might fail you because of me.” I laughed and responded, “Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Your opinion is no less.” Sameh responded more seriously:

“If you would have asked me before last year about monasticism I would have probably have given you a different answer. I was unemployed and needed a solution. I went to the monastery of Saint Bola and lived with them for some time [he did not specify how long] and saw them. This does not mean there are no good things about monasticism. Monasticism for sure has its positives.” Unfortunately our conversation was cut short because of the meal with Abuna’s family and we were unable to discuss “the positives.”

Sameh’s thoughts raise an implicit correlation between the social and economic conditions of Copts in the nation-state and visiting monasteries (as suggested by Mark in the opening vignette.161 A discussion of monastic spaces is not separate from understanding the role of the

“holy man” because often the “holy man” becomes a means of negating feelings of economic or social inferiority by offering hope to the individual. In his own life, Sameh spent a period of time in a monastery to pray about his economic situation. As another interlocutor put it, “the monastery gives you the opportunity to reflect without the noise of the world, so you can focus on yourself and relationship with God.”

Sameh suggests that others come to monasteries because they are places of hope, where they search for miracles in lieu of the economic and social conditions of the nation-state. Being in contact with “spiritual people” is a means by which they might feel closer to God. Before spending

161A point raised by Sameh in this vignette that will be a subject in the following Chapter (5) is the anxiety of many Copts, especially youth, in critiquing monasticism as a movement within the larger Church Institution. This fear is rooted in being ostracized by the community for “criticizing” the Church.

182 time in the monastery, Sameh felt the same way. He came to understand the monastery as a place that people visit, simply to get answers for their troubles. His skepticism of the holy man brings to light how the authenticity of a virtuous monk is often imagined with his performing of miracles, one that Sameh refuses. Sameh senses that people are looking for miracles without thinking for themselves, limiting their relationship and experience of God simply to their relationship with a monk.

4.2 Monasticism & Holiness Many Copts throughout the duration of my study associated a life of holiness with hagiographical texts they read or were exposed to in a sermon at church. Texts about modern monastic fathers such as Saint Pope Kyrillos IV, Abuna Faltaoes al-Souriani, Abuna Abd-al-

Mesīh al-Manaheri, and Abuna Abd-al-Mesīh al-Habashi, are widely popular in church book stores and have became models for Copts today for what monasticism should look like.

Similarities can be noted here between Humphrey (1997) on the ways in which narratives of Mongolian Saints are juxtaposed in contemporary times and Donna Young (2010: 357), who argues that narratives in the Bible are a means by which the Sisters of Zion interpret what it means to be an ethical Christian subject. This was certainly the case for both my Coptic monk and lay interlocutors, who juxtaposed their own Christian vocation to scripture and the hagiographical accounts of monastic saints and martyrs as rooted in the Coptic monastic imagination.162

Interlocutors, both monks and laity, described monasticism as “the way to Christian perfection,” by which a monastic willingly sacrifices their life for the sake of Christ. Monasticism was often described as the means of “forsaking all to unite with the One.” The goal of the monastic

162 Theological understandings and interpretation of scripture will be articulated more in Chapter 7.

183 is unity with God, both in this life and the next. The monastic engages in acts of strenuous asceticism and bodily labour. Abuna Yoakim, a recently ordained hiero-monk (a monk who is also a priest)163 put it for me in these words:

If his [the monk’s] goal is not Christ than he will fail in the monastic life. Every time he

looks at the walls of the monastery he will feel that he is locked inside a prison. For this

reason, when one chooses to become a monk they must do so with the desire to spend the

rest of their lives with Christ. If this is his goal, the monastery becomes his paradise where

there is no one except him and God. For this reason, monasticism is not the goal; Christ is

the goal: Monasticism is the means by which he [the monk] will reach his goal. If Christ is

not his goal, he will grow miserable. This is why we can say that the experience of

abandoning the world and the decision [to lead the monastic life] is considered the basic

foundation of his [the monk’s] future experiences with God. The monk must constantly

struggle to guard his heart from anything that will prevent him from Christ.

The words of Abuna Yoakim are not new to Christian monastic thought. The Sayings of the Desert

Fathers also contains accounts of spiritual fathers who instructed their disciples to excel in ascetic worship and guard their hearts.164 Abba Cronius, for example, once advised his spiritual son that

163The term “hiero-monk” is not used by Coptic Orthodox Christians, rather they commonly use “priest-monk” to recognize a monk who is a priest. I choose to use it here as a technical word also used in the Eastern Orthodox Church. In most monasteries a system is set up where most if not all monks will get ordained as priests, a few years after their consecration as monks.

164 The Paradise of the Holy Fathers and the Sayings of the Desert Fathers are two texts that make up part of the Coptic monastic literary canon. Both contain oral instructions and sayings from early Desert Father from the beginning of the 4th to the 5th century CE. The sayings were most probably handed down orally in Coptic, later recorded by the disciples of these monastic fathers into smaller collections (Coptic Encyclopedia 1991). The antidotes were later divided into two main forms, namely alphabetically and by theme and subject matter (Coptic Encyclopedia 1991). They were later translated into Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Arabic. The version of the Paradise of the Fathers translated into Arabic and English today comes from the Syriac translation and the Sayings of the Desert Fathers from the Greek. The two texts are often assumed to be the same text because of the overlap between the anecdotes and narratives of the Desert Fathers found in them.

184 in order to instill within himself the fear of God, the brother ought to “withdraw from all [worldly] business and give himself to bodily affliction and with all his might remember that he will leave his body at the judgment of God” (Ward 1984: 115). Abba Orsisius says, “I think that if a man does not guard his heart well, he will forget and neglect everything he has heard, and thus the enemy, finding room in him, will overthrow him. It is like a lamp filled with oil and lit; if you forget to replenish the oil, gradually it goes out and eventually darkness will prevail” (ibid.:164).

Acts of asceticism often involve fasting, prostrations, and vigils in an attempt to “mortify the passions of the body” and emptying oneself of carnal desires so that one may be filled with

Christ. In order to live this life, one must be deemed to have a living relationship with God, by guarding one’s heart from sin and evoking the grace of God to satisfy the self. The monk is called to live the Christian life of kenosis—emptying one’s self of one’s own will for the sake of God, similar to Christ who emptied Himself through his Incarnation and death on the cross (Naletova

2010:240). For the recluse in particular, this can only be achieved in the desert.

4.3 Clothing & Celibacy: Monasticism & the Marked Body In this section I examine moral exemplarity through the monk’s “marked body.” Two of the symbols of a monks’ marked body are his black habit and his celibacy as argued above. Abuna

Estephanos and I enjoyed many meetings during my visits to the monastery in the United States.

A soft-spoken young monk, Abuna Estephanos always answered my questions only when asked, and never deviated from the subject we were discussing. On the last day of my stay in the monastery our conversation developed to speaking about visitors and his interaction with them.

“Honestly, I use to get very irritated with the number of visitors who came to the monastery,

but I came to realize that is important for the laity to come and visit to see how we live. I

appreciated many retreats to the monastery as a layman, why would I want others to be

deprived? My only issue with visitors is how they see me. They make me out to be some

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kind of saint running from a distance to come and kiss my hand. I didn’t come for this. Just

because I am wearing black it doesn’t make me better than you. I hate these clothes!”

Abuna exclaimed as he pulls at his cassock as if wanting to rip it off, cringing with his teeth

as tears begin to build in his eyes. “Why can’t we have monasticism without this clothing?

If a married man divorces his wife it is less scandalous than if a monk leaves the monastery!

If there was no formal attire, and we understood monasticism as a way of life we would be

more focused as monks. What has happened is that we have focused on the rule, which has

bound us from experiencing freedom in Christ.”

Abuna Estephanos’s comments speak to anxieties of patterns of holiness from the perspective of a monk. In his comments Abuna Estephanos implicitly critiques monasticism today as having failed in its purpose of experiencing Christ to the fullness of its potential because of a focus on a system of rules (namely the monastic habit) which for him reflect a constant anxiety of carrying out the monastic life as an interior way of life. His comments call to question the Coptic social imagination that monks are all holy men. He interprets his monastic life as ordinary, and finds himself struggling to cope with laity who view him as an extraordinary figure, simply for being a monk. His monastic habit marked him (against his will) as a holy man.

During the duration of my fieldwork I had the opportunity to meet many lay-priests who came to monasteries with members of their parish for a spiritual day (yawm rūhī). I would often meet them in the guest house of respective monasteries and begin discussing my research after brief introductions. One of these priests was Abuna Bishoy, a lay-priest in his mid-thirties who was recently ordained. As we discussed my research and drank mint-tea (shai bil nʿanʿa), Abuna

Haroun came into the guesthouse and greeted us. Abuna Haroun was one of my monk interlocutors whom I had met the previous summer. Abuna Haroun called to Samuel, the worker responsible for the kitchen, to prepare for him a cup of tea. Abuna Haroun went on to ask Abuna Bishoy where

186 he served. After Abuna Bishoy told him the diocese to which he belonged, Abuna Haroun began to express his dismay with another priest in Abuna Bishoy’s diocese who, when visiting the monastery in the past, prayed a liturgy and did not offer Abuna Haroun to be the celebrant-priest, and offered the Sacrifice instead of him.165 It was obvious that Abuna Bishoy did not want to engage in this conversation and gently tried to move the conversation in other directions, but to no avail. I felt embarrassed and awkward to say the least. After about thirty minutes, Abuna Haroun excused himself saying that he had to return to his work in the chicken coop, thanked Samuel for the tea, and bade us farewell.

Abuna Bishoy opened up to me and expressed how he felt:

“Some monks want to position themselves as better than lay-priests and try and make their

way into service so they can be hierarchs or take leadership roles. When I was in my Forty-

Days in the monastery the monk teaching us told us that monks who are priests [hiero-

monks] outrank a married priest even if he has been a priest one year and the married priest

for fifteen.166 He does not however outrank a married hegoumen [proto-priest]. I was

surprised with this implication and responded to the instructing monk that I didn’t think

this was the case and that the late Bishop Gregorius wrote explicitly about this in his book

on priesthood to clarify this misconception. I even had the book with me as a source for

meditation during my Forty-Days, and turned to the page where it stated this and showed

165The celebrant-priest in the Coptic Orthodox Tradition is the one who presides in the sanctification of the bread and the wine (understood to be the action of the Holy Spirit through the priest) into the Body and Blood of Christ. “Offering the Sacrifice” is the expression used to state that the celebrant priest is the one who will choose one bread or host to become the Body of Christ. A co-celebrant priest assists in the various prayers of the Liturgy. If the Patriarch or Bishop is present, he will preside over the Divine Liturgy as the most senior clergyman.

166 It was after this comment that I understood that Abuna Haroun implied that he as a hiero-monk outranked the priest he was speaking about.

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it to Abuna. His response was dismissive. ‘Regardless of what Bishop Gregorius wrote,

this is how it is.’ Quite frankly this opinion annoys me because according to the Church,

monasticism is not a priestly rank. It is only the monk ordained as a priest who becomes a

member of the clergy. Why then do some monks insist on this form of ranking? I’m sorry,

but let me put it for you bluntly, khallīnī a’ulak bil-ʿarabī,167 do you want to tell me that a

married priest who sleeps with his wife is not pure? On the contrary! A priest who sleeps

with his wife can be pure because he does not look at other women lustfully, while a monk

could look at a woman lustfully and sin. Who is better than whom? The priest who sleeps

with his wife or the monk who has a lustful eye? Monasticism is a way of life and not the

clothing a monk wears.”

Abuna Bishoy was right to point out that there are no church teachings that places celibate priests or monks in a higher rank than married priests, yet Abuna Haroun’s comments suggest that there is in fact an emphasis on celibacy as being of a superior state than marriage that has become popularized in the Coptic Church today. While priests such as Abuna Bishoy are considered moral exemplars, they do not embody the same degree of exemplarity as monks because they are both married and are deemed to be unable to pray perpetually because they live in the world (Chapter

2). On numerous occasions I heard individuals ascribe the attributes of a monk’s holiness to the fact that he was celibate. Even if one is celibate and lives in the world, the monastery as a location supposedly isolated in the desert becomes a means by which interlocutors associated a higher degree of holiness and purity with monks.

Abuna Bishoy challenges this assumption however by distinguishing between chastity

167This is an idiom that when translated literally means “let me tell you in Arabic.”

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(ʿeyfa) and virginity or celibacy (batuliyya). Chastity for Abuna Bishoy is reflected not in refraining from sexual intimacy, but remaining pure to oneself and one’s spouse by remaining faithful, whereas virginity or celibacy is the abstention from conjugal relations. A monk can be celibate by never having physically engaged in sexual intercourse, but can lose his chastity, which is the purity of his heart and mind, by defiling them with sexual fantasies. In this regard, chastity is recognized as a spiritual state of the heart and mind and not a physical one, or in the words of

Paul Southgate (2001: 248) “celibacy is a discipline; chastity is a virtue.”168

Similarities can be made here between my ethnographic context and Tom Boylston’s

(2012: 119) discussion of Ethiopian Orthodox clergy. Boylston writes that “The power of monks is widely understood to be a function of their celibacy” and that a “special status adheres to those who have never had sexual relations […]” As reflected by both Boylston (2012) and my ethnographic context here, there seems to be an assumed correlation between chastity and celibacy.

This is to say that if one is celibate they must be chaste, which means that because of their higher spiritual state, they must be closer to God, leading to anxieties for the “ordinary” lay person.

4.4 Imitating Monks as (Im)possibility To contextualize this notion of celibacy and holiness further, I will turn to my conversations with Michael, a twenty-nine-year-old doctor living in Cairo. We first met in the monastery of Anba

Bishoy in Wadi el Natroun, when Abuna Makarios flagged down Michael’s car as he was leaving the monastery, asking if he was headed for Cairo and if he could take my father and me with him.

Michael consented and even offered to drive us home to Masr al-Gadida (Heliopolis). After a brief discussion in the car, I came to know that Michael was engaged and in the process of moving to

168Although Abuna Bishoy did not draw directly on early Church Fathers in his distinction between chastity and virginity, much of what he said can be drawn from some of them, particularly Saint Athanasius’ letter to Serapion.

189 the United States with his fiancée, having already obtained his Green Card. He was beginning the process of studying for medical equivalency exams so that he could practice as a family doctor in the States. What would have been just a three-hour car ride or so from Wadi al-Natroun to

Heliopolis became a thought-provoking conversation, in which Michael opened up about his experience in the Church and how monasticism, monks, and saintly monastic figures were a constant obstacle for him in understanding his relationship with God.

Growing up, Michael was not very religious. It was more recently that that he began developing a relationship with God. Reflecting on his childhood, Michael states that a major obstacle in his views about God and religion were stories recounted to him by his family, priests and church servants about, monastic saints as models of Christian virtue who loved a life of holiness, resulting in them sacrificing everything and living in the desert.

“It came to a point in my life that I felt that the message that they were selling me was that

it was unholy to have dreams of marrying a pretty girl and driving a nice car. Sex in general

is frowned upon in Middle Eastern society and I always had the impression that sex was

an unholy thing and that those who are truly saints are them one’s who remain celibate and

refrain from sexual intercourse. Even for married couples, there is a general rule they taught

us that for the first year of marriage, a married couple is absolved169 from refraining from

intimacy during their first year of marriage.170 I grew up struggling in my relationship with

169 “Absolution” refers to the forgiveness of sins or special permission given by a priest for an individual to take Communion. The biblical roots of absolution are found in the Gospel of John 20:22-23, when Christ says to his disciples “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” The Orthodox and Catholic Traditions both believe that this moment is the institution of the Priesthood, by which Christ gives the authority to His disciples to bind and loose sins. The issue in Michael’s context is that absolution is essentially the forgiveness of sins, suggesting that sex during periods of fasting is regarded as a sin, a misconception that Michael identifies as an anxiety.

170 I have heard about this absolution given to newlyweds from several people, though I myself have never come across an official Church teaching on this matter. I think it is largely a popularized speculation based on the position

190

God because I thought monasticism was my way of life, not because I wanted to become a

monk, but because I was worried that God would not accept me if I could not live this way.

Another stumbling block for me was that when I visited monasteries I would see monks

who were virtuous and saintly, while others were not very monastic and behaved

differently than how we imagine monks. I realized that not all monks are holy. I even

became afraid of Anba Antonios [Saint Antony the Great] when I looked at his icon

because I did not want to become like him. I was afraid God wanted me to be a monk like

him. What I began to feel growing up was that sex was an unholy thing. They [Michael’s

family and parish community] were able to sell this message and make me feel that there

was something wrong with me and that I’m unholy. I have come to peace with these

thoughts now after having talked with some people and understood that celibacy is not the

only way to be holy. In my experience, there is little emphasis on the ways in which one

could live a life as a holy man. Even in some of these examples, the married couples remain

celibate! There is always the emphasis on Paul who was celibate and little attention paid to

Peter who was married. There needs to be a more balanced approach to living a holy

Christian life while also being married.”

This conversation with Michael is one example that points to monasticism as an impossible state of achieved emulation (Laidlaw 1995). Similarities can also be made here between Michael and

Muslim youth in Samuli Schielke’s (2009, 2015) research on the ambivalence and anxieties of cultivating moral character. Schielke’s (ibid.) interlocutors “want to conform with norms and a project of moral self-disciplining” (Bandak & Boylston 2014:30), yet are always anxious that they

of some priests who instruct that a married couple should not engage in conjugal relations during periods of Church fasting. The Coptic Church does not officially have a clear stance on this matter.

191 are not behaving properly as moral subjects. Schielke (2015:62) states that many times there is an anxiety in upholding a certain moral reputation. “Morality especially in terms of respect and reputation” he writes, “often takes the shape of predatory moralism, of crediting and discrediting people according to their perceived qualities and shortcomings” (ibid.). In Michael’s case, he is not so much judging the moral practices of others, but what he perceives as his own shortcomings in relation to the Coptic monastic imagination and upholding patterns of holiness through emulation. His desire for married life puts his reputation at risk of not meeting up to the expectations of his parents and others wanting him to live up to monastic moral values.

Consequently, an awkward relationship is formed between him and Saint Antony, where the saint’s moral exemplarity becomes a form of tension and anxiety in Michael formulation as an ethical subject.

Reflecting on his relationship with God prior to his engagement and taking the decision to be married, Michael is in a constant state of anxiety in his relationship with God because he does not want to become a monk. Even after his engagement, Michael is struggling to distinguish between marriage as a consecrated way of life where sexual intimacy is permissible and should not be regarded as impure, and the idea that the most holy individuals that were propagated in his life were monastics, the ultimate example of holiness.171 What this points to, as other scholars have articulated (Schielke 2009, Laidlaw 2013), is that while modes of piety are encouraged and taught to bring fulfillment to one’s life, they are also a source of anxiety and self-scrutiny in an individual’s search for religious perfection.

171 While I do not have the space to address my thoughts on the influences that have led to these views being widespread in the Coptic Church, early Christian scholars and theologians such as Augustine of Hippo (not recognized as a saint or Church Father in the wider Orthodox Church, although he is regarded as a saint in the Coptic Church) viewed the act of sexual intercourse as inherently impure. Some have argued that his views of sex come from his beliefs as a Manichean, prior to his conversion to Christianity. See Southgate (2001) for a further discussion.

192

4.5 Walking “Up the Mountain” I asked Abuna Athanasius one evening about my desire to visit one of the anchoretic monks in the desert surrounding the monastery. He made the necessary arrangements and told me we would be visiting one of these monks the following evening. Abuna and I walked for about twenty- minutes “up the mountain” (into the desert). In the distance I could hear the sound of the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, and spotted several green-lighted minarets signifying, spatially, society’s encroachment on desert monasteries. There were several cells along the way. Many were large, villa-like structures that had fences around them. We approached the fence of the cell of the monk we were visiting when Abuna Athanasius shouted out for someone to open the gate. A worker met us who related that Abuna (the monk we were visiting) had not yet arrived and that we could wait for him in the garden. As we entered I noticed a car parked in front of the cell. I joked with Abuna, pretending to write on a notepad “My first observation as an anthropologist Abuna,

‘a car parked in front of the anchorite’s cell.’” “No, please you cannot write this!” Abuna exclaimed, looking very serious. “This would not be accurate.” I thought Abuna was offended that

I made the comment and that by me suggesting I would write it in my notes, I would make monks appear to be “unmonastic”. “Please write down the truth. Abuna in fact has two cars but the other one he is currently having car-washed.” Abuna and I began to laugh as I realized he was joking with me. The young worker escorted us to the garden where we sat down on a cement bench that was the bottom part of the cell. The young man and asked if we would like to drink anything. We said we would wait for Abuna to return.

The entire area outside the cell was green with agriculture, surrounded by a circular fence.

I observed two workers doing some sort of agricultural work. The monk we visited arrived about thirty minutes later. He was short and lean, appearing to be in his fifties. Abuna Athanasius introduced me to him and told him about my research and why it was we had visited him. “I am

193 no monk.” Abuna told us. “Monasticism has changed. It’s not what you read in books. Technology has affected our life as you can see. I live here and try to practice what I can from the life you read about the Desert Fathers, but I am certainly nowhere near that way of life.”

When meeting monks for the first time, many were generally very cautious of what they told and gave me superficial answers regarding their way of life. It was not until I got to know them that they started opening up to me. With this monk, it was different. He appeared to me to be honest and genuine and did not want to romanticize monasticism, though skeptics may simply dismiss him as a lazy monk. What is important for me here is not whether or not this monk was

“good” or not, but rather how technology was clearly evident around his cell, whether the electricity, the automobile or irrigation system. I describe what I observed as a “modernization of the desert.” With the advancement of technology comes the consequence for the need for more labour. Labour workers now play an important role in the infrastructure of the Coptic monastery.

Without labour workers, the monastery would lack financial resources to sustain itself (Chapter

2).

It was clear to me from this visit that the monastic landscape imagined by Copts was in fact very rare. The encroachment of urban life around the monastery and the evidence of technology was a clear indication of the socio-economic effects of society on monasticism, a point

Abuna Athanasius wanted me to understand by taking me to visit this monk. The monk we visited was speaking directly to the wider Coptic monastic imagination (Chapter 2) and critiquing himself as an inadequate model of moral exemplarity.

4.6 Conclusion This chapter has examined the role of the Coptic monk as a moral exemplar. While Coptic monks today are often regarded as exemplary Christian subjects, they are also subjects of critique for not meeting the standard of a holy man as exemplified among ancient and modern monastic

194 figures. These critiques are based on patterns of holiness a monk is considered to possess. Such patterns as argued above are influenced by the Coptic monastic imagination, and come to reflect what it means to be a virtuous monk. Since monks are regarded as models of exemplarity, the individual lay person finds themselves in a state of anxiety over their inability to achieve a virtuous life like the monk. As much as some of the interlocutors in this chapter sought to emulate the lives of monks and cultivate their Christian subjectivity in relation to them, they also articulated feelings of skepticism towards those who hold monks in high esteem. Those looking to monks as moral exemplars do so with the understanding that they are close in their proximity to God because of their life of prayer and asceticism, rendering them to be virtuous subjects. I have also addressed the idea that the monk’s distance from the world is a means by which he draws closer in his relationship to God. The more marginal the monk is deemed to be from society the more he is regarded as having a higher spiritual capital. The paradox however is that while monasteries are imagined as being distant from the world, they are very much in it, warranting the critique by some interlocutors that monasticism has lost its authenticity in that a monk is no longer dead to the world as he might believe.

Monasticism in the North American Diaspora: (Re-)Creations & (Re-)Negotiations

I remember the first time I drove up to the monastery on the I-15 feeling a sense of nostalgia for the Egyptian Desert. The desert landscape along the highway brought me back instantly to traveling along the Cairo-Alexandria Desert Road, en route to the monasteries of Wadi el Natroun.

The difference perhaps was that there was a continuous change of altitude, especially when driving through San Bernardino. The mountains were majestic in the horizon. I embraced the silence of the landscape, in preparation for the inner stillness of the desert. I felt at peace. About two hours later, the serenity I was experiencing was disrupted by anxiety over my GPS signal being lost.

Luckily, I had made it to the exit I was supposed to use. I found a gas station and asked if they knew the directions to the monastery from where we were. The attendant did not. Growing anxious,

I called Abuna Zosima who had arranged for my stay in the monastery. I was nervous as the phone rang, hoping he would pick up, knowing that reaching him usually meant leaving a voice mail, in anticipation for him to return my call. I was relieved when he picked up the phone. He gave me directions as he stayed with me on the line.

I was not going immediately to St. Antony’s Monastery, but to a retreat center for families, which was previously a Byzantine Rite Catholic Monastery.172 Knowing that I was coming for research, Abuna Zosima suggested that I sleep at Holy Resurrection Monastery (the retreat center) to get a different experience than the main monastery, while at the same time having an opportunity to write in seclusion. I agreed, thinking that since I was researching monasticism, it would be an

172 It was purchased by St. Antony’s to accommodate families who wanted to stay close to the monastery, and it is a 20-minute drive away.

195 196 interesting opportunity to experience a more solitary life in an attempt to make sense of it. I made it to Holy Resurrection Monastery at around 3:30 pm. Abuna Zosima was not there at the time but directed me to room #9, where I would stay during my duration in the monastery. He invited me to roam around the monastery and get acquainted with the space. He also instructed me that if I were to get hungry, there was food in the fridge–prepared by a Coptic woman living not far from the monastery, who would come every day to cater to the needs of the guests.

After I parked, I took my luggage to my room, and proceeded to the chapel named after

Saint Paul the Anchorite, which was adjacent to where I was staying. I prostrated in front of the sanctuary, venerating the icons of the saints, as well as the relics of Saint Theodore the Soldier. I continued my tour of the monastery and noticed an ancient looking cell in the distance, about 100 meters away. Abuna Zosima would later allow me to stay in the cell for the duration of my stay, figuring that my presence there would also mean the maintenance of such a cell. It was newly renovated with a bathroom and shower that were previously not there. Abuna told me that there was a Byzantine monk who occupied the cell before the monastery was purchased, and he had, in fact, built it himself and enjoyed its seclusion from the rest of the monks’ cells. Abuna described him as a very saintly and ascetic man. He would sleep on a wooden frame and would shower and wash his clothes with a hose outside the cell.173 I felt honoured and blessed to stay in the cell of such a saintly monk. Abuna asked to arrange the cell to my liking and to rest comfortably.

I designated one of the rooms as a prayer room, placing the icon of the Resurrection and other saints on a table, as well as and portraits of Pope Shenouda and Bishop Karas upon it as

173Abuna also told me that when they came to leave the monastery, the monk was quite saddened because he did not want to leave his cell.

197 well.174 I designated the other room as a closet, where I stored my luggage. I initially wanted to sleep inside the prayer room in my sleeping bag, but I quickly realized how cold the cell was at night. I drove to Barstow a few days later, where I purchased a heater from Wal-Mart as well as seat cushions to sit a little more comfortably inside the prayer room. I would begin my day around

4am, driving to the main monastery for midnight prayers and praises. There were times when I felt too tired to drive, and would pray the services myself, as if I were a solitary monk in my cell. Every day, I would follow the road signs for “St. Antony’s Monastery,” until I was directed to make a right-hand turn onto the dirt road leading to the monastery. The rugged road reminded me of the route leading to Saint Samuel’s Monastery in Maghāga in Upper-Egypt, remote and isolated from the rest of the world. I would drive on the road for about 6 miles, with the minaret of the monastery’s cathedral becoming more visible as I approached. I would spend my time in the monastery with the retreatants and monks, returning in the evening around 9pm. While there were moments where I enjoyed the seclusion in the monastery, I experienced many moments of fear, especially at nighttime. I was utterly alone. Nothing but darkness surrounded my cell. I struggled with my thoughts. I would spend time inside the inner room, trying to read and contemplate scripture and the writings of Church Fathers to preoccupy myself. I remember reading advice from the Desert Fathers to novice monks on how to deal with similar experiences I myself was facing.

Of course, if I was a solitary monk, I would have had to spend several years with the community before being permitted to live a solitary life. However, I was just a young anthropologist living the life of a desert solitary, perhaps against my better judgment. I often wondered how solitaries were able to cope with this lifestyle. I had the luxury of being able to leave when I desired and was not

174 These were objects already in the cell, so I merely rearranged them.

198 completely cut off from the world. Very often I would think about and miss my fiancée (now wife) and my family. Since cellphone reception was poor in the area, I would be able to speak to them for no more than five minutes while in the cell. How does a solitary detach himself from such feelings as yearning for loved ones or experiences of extreme boredom? These were thoughts that regularly occupied my mind when thinking about my experience in the cell.

5.1 Introduction: When the Anthropologist becomes a Solitary My experience in solitude also made me think about the ethnographic method. Much of what I have described above may not be typical “participant-observation” because I was not observing anyone except my own inner thoughts and feelings. Other anthropologists may look at my experience in the cell as “navel-gazing”: but the fact is that much of a monk’s day is spent alone in his cell. My experience in the cell was effectively doing what monks do. Though the particular arrangements made for me would be unorthodox to regular visitors, this opportunity provided me with a glimpse into the solitary life that I often read about in monastic writings.175

Reading about solitary monks was completely different than trying to live like one. There was a gap between the history I registered as true monastic experience and the history I was trying to live (Ralph 2015:7), raising important questions in the wider context of my research about the ways in which monasticism is socially imagined and the ways in which the monk as a moral exemplar is sought to be emulated by some laity, but can never be fully achieved. Overall,

175 While this experience certainly provided me with a better understanding of monastic detachment and the individual struggles a monk goes through, I am aware that not being a monk and not having undergone full initiation makes my experience much different than a solitary monk, who is expected to reach the solitary stage after many years. Being in a privileged position as an anthropologist and ethnographer, I was able to get a glimpse into the solitary life, without having to go through the obligatory steps and practices to attain this status. With this privileged position, the same rigor as a solitary monk was not expected of me.

199 throughout periods spent in various monasteries, I learned commitment to maintaining a set schedule, which at times felt quite mechanical and repetitive. The key to overcoming these feelings, as I came to learn from the monks I spoke with, was to diversify my day with different forms of prayer and contemplation and by changing the order of things to remain motivated. For example, if I felt after a week that I was getting bored of praying the 1st hour of the Agbeya in the morning, I would read from scripture or from the writings of the Fathers before praying. Not only would this change my routine, but I would also find inspiration from what I read to contemplate on during my prayers. I found that their advice generally worked for me. It was something that I did not immediately achieve but continually practiced.

These next three chapters focus on the Coptic Diaspora in North America, particularly

Southern California and Toronto. This chapter in particular examines how moral exemplarity is not only manifested by individuals emulating exemplary figures (Laidlaw 1995, Humphrey 1997) but extends to thinking about the ways in which diasporic religion is (re)imagined in host society.

An important theme that kept emerging during my fieldwork was “authenticity.” I use the word

“authenticity” as a comparative term to discuss the ways in which different interlocutors speak about what they interpret to be the “correct” expressions of both the Coptic monastic tradition and the Orthodox faith (Chapter 7). As Johnson (2007:234) argues, claims to authenticity are more than questions of aesthetics but rather are political, as will be made evident in these chapters.

In this chapter I am specifically interested in the distinction between contemplative- and pastoral-oriented monasticism with the establishment of Saint Paul’s Brotherhood, as will be detailed below. At the core of this distinction is the social imaginary of the monk as a moral exemplar, who is in the desert separated from the world. Asceticism and contemplation are often attributed to monks who live in the desert, more than hiero-monks or lay-priests who cater to the pastoral needs of believers in urban society. In other words, pastoral- or service-oriented

200 monasticism is critiqued by some of the voices in this chapter as being inauthentic because it does not fit the exemplary model of isolation and contemplative monasticism (Chapter 4). Pastoral care

(khedma) involves visiting laity in their homes, visiting the sick in hospitals, and catering to the day–to-day needs and problems of lay-persons. A monk who spends more time with people, whether in a monastery or by serving in a parish, is often criticized for not living to the fullness of his vocation, perceived to be rooted in contemplation and isolation from others.176 As in other chapters of this dissertation, I am not interested in arguing for or against one form of monasticism over another, but rather how the Coptic monastic imaginary (Chapter 1) is heavily rooted in the social and ethical cultivation of many Coptic Christians as a moral community (Rogers 2009).

While Coptic monasteries in North America are predominantly outside of urban areas, they are not marginal to urban society (Poujeau 2010). An examination of the desert as a metaphor in the urban context of North America speaks to the ways in which monasticism is (re)invented in

North America today. One of the characteristics of diasporic religions, as will be detailed shortly, is that they are reactive to questions of tradition and authenticity, leading to “creative innovations and sometimes inventions” (Johnson 2007:9). This is certainly the case for thinking of monasticism in the Coptic Diaspora and an attempt to (re)claim the monastic principles of anchoretic monasticism, while at the same time creating new forms of vocation that incorporate principles of contemplative monasticism while serving parish communities in urban society.

When the situation in Egypt worsened after June 30th 2013, I was nervous to go back for fieldwork. I cancelled my plane ticket twice. My advisors also expressed second thoughts

176 This is not to say that historically pastoral care and monasticism were separate. In fact, Saint Shenouda the Archimandrite in the fifth century often housed visitors and in particular an entire town persecuted by barbarian invaders. In the last 60 years, especially under the papacy of Pope Shenouda III (1971-2011), more monks have been attending to the pastoral care of the laity by being sent to serve in different parishes in Egypt as well as diaspora.

201 concerning my travel and asked me if there was anywhere else I could begin fieldwork temporarily.

I thought about Saint Mary and Saint Moses Abbey in Texas as my first option, but was hesitant because the monastery is relatively isolated during the week. On weekends there are some visitors, though most of my interviews with laypeople would be conducted during summer, Christmas, or spring breaks. I had decided during my pilot research that I did not want my work to be solely about monks. I wanted to examine how monasticism could be understood within the framework of wider Orthodox praxis of both clergy and laity. While I was thinking about next steps, an acquaintance (who would later become a very close friend) joined Saint Paul’s Brotherhood (SPB) in California. I had heard about this group before but was not sure what they were about. All I knew that they were a group of celibate priests who live a “monastic life style.” I followed a link on Facebook to the news of his ordination to the Coptic Diaconate as a member of SPB. What I read on the website made me curious. SPB was described as “a life that combines the communal life of the desert fathers, the service of the parish church, and the evangelism of Orthodox missionaries. The life of the brotherhood is similar to the house of consecrated deacons established in Egypt, the life lived by Deacon Habib Girgis, as well as the brotherhood and various orders in

Catholic Lutheran, Episcopal and other Christian communities.” The fact that I could make a link between this form of monasticism and society in Southern California was important because it would show how monastic moral exemplarity could be (re)understood within a diasporic context.

I spent eight months of extensive research in Southern California between October 2013 and August 2014. I returned to Toronto in September 2014 for the historic visit of Pope Tawadros

II (Chapter 7). During my time in Southern California, I mostly lived with my Uncle Magdy and

Aunt Sahar in Calabasas. I spent most of my time in Orange County, where the majority of Copts in Southern California are situated. I spent one month at Saint Paul’s House near Pomona

California after which I spent another month in Saint Antony’s Monastery. I would visit the

202 monastery regularly for day trips and short retreats throughout the duration of my fieldwork, often with friends. Before travelling with Mark and Amir to Egypt in April 2014 (Chapter 4), I stayed in a house belonging to one of the parishes in Orange County for one month. From July to August

2014 I lived with the Faltaoes family (Chapter 6), whom I also visited frequently throughout my stay in Southern California.

5.2 The Coptic Californian Landscape Coptic immigration to North America began in the late 1950s and early 60s. The number of Copts in Southern California in 1963 were about 50 people and increased to several hundred in the next five years (Khalil 2008:4). This early wave of Coptic immigration to Southern California was largely made of young professionals, such as doctors and engineers who left Egypt as a result of the changing economic landscape under Nasser and the “liberalization of immigration policies towards people of non-European descent” in the United States and Canada (ibid.:3-4).

The majority of Copts in Southern California today are largely from the middle class. Most churches are located in Orange County, an area comprised of suburban neighborhoods such as

Anaheim, Santa Ana, Irvine and Mission Viejo. The Diocese of Los Angeles and the Southern

United States has 42 churches, as far north as Fresno, and as far south as San Diego.177 In 2010 the

U.S. Religion Census reported 24,208 adherents to the Coptic Orthodox faith in California with

17,026 identifying as regular attendees.178 The number has certainly increased today with the increase of Coptic migration after the January 2011 and June 2013 uprisings in Egypt.179

177 The State of Hawaii is also part of the Diocese.

178 http://www.usreligioncensus.org/compare.php

179 Statistics for the size of the Coptic community and church attendees in North America are very difficult to determine as the church does not keep adequate records. In order for a parish to know how man attendees it has they

203

5.3 Coptic Monasticism in North America Saint Antony’s Monastery is about 3 hours from Los Angeles. The closest town is Barstow, which is 26 miles away. It is about 6 miles off the I-15 between Barstow and Los Vegas. It is located in the Mojave Desert, which gives it the aura of an Egyptian monastery. It has been called the “Californian Skeet” by the monks and some Copts. The major difference between Saint

Antony’s and other monasteries in Egypt is the architecture. With the exception of Saint Moses’

Cathedral, which is near the entrance of the monastery, most of the structures do not follow a

“traditional” style of Coptic monastic buildings. In fact, the majority of monk cells as well as the retreat house are large portable buildings. There are roughly 25 monks in the monastery.180

Saint Antony’s is the first Coptic monastery established outside of Egypt and the first monastery in North America. It was established in 1989 and was officially recognized by the Holy

Synod of the Coptic Orthodox Church in 1993.181 That same year, Pope Shenouda III ordained Fr.

Karas al-Anba Bishoy as bishop and abbot of the monastery.182 He was renowned as a holy and clairvoyant man and attracted many to become monks. During his tenure as bishop, the monastery attracted a significant number of visitors and pilgrims. In 1998 Bishop Karas was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away in January 2002. The monastery went through various transitions in

must register as members of the parish, but not everyone does. With that being said, the number of those who no longer go church is also very difficult to know.

180 10 monks were assigned to serve in different parishes in the United States and Canada, prior to Bishop Serapion taking charge of the monastery in 2011.

181 At present there are five Coptic monasteries in North America namely Saint Antony in Yermo, California, Saint Mary & Saint Moses Abbey Sandia, Texas, Saint Shenouda in Rochester New York, Saint John in Pennsylvania, Saint Antony in Perth Ontario. There are also two convents: Saint Mary and Saint Demiana in Georgia and Saint Mary and Saint John the Beloved in Pennsylvania. At present only three of the Saint Antony’s in California, Saint Mary & Saint Moses, and Saint Mary & Saint Demiana’s convent are recognized by the Holy Synod. What makes a monastery of convent recognized by the Holy Synod is that they demonstrate both administrative and financial stability and that the monastery or convent is sustainable.

182 Bishop Karas was one of four monks sent by Pope Shenouda to begin the monastery in 1989.

204 leadership after his death and needed stability. One of the reasons that the monastery lacked stability was that the majority of the monks served outside of the monastery as priests in various parishes in North America and Europe. Pope Tawadros II appointed Metropolitan Serapion

(Bishop at that time) as the abbot of the monastery shortly after Pope Tawadros’ ascension to the papacy in November 2012.

When Bishop Serapion took responsibility of the monastery, he designated spaces solely for monks with the intention of retaining a more contemplative environment for them.183 Even before his appointment as abbot of the monastery, Bishop Serapion recognized that there is no formal order within the Church that allowed for a young man to remain celibate and serve in the world unless he were consecrated as a monk. For this reason, Bishop Serapion initiated a newly consecrated service which aimed at allowing for those who desired the monastic life but also had the disposition to serve, the opportunity to do so by founding Saint Paul’s’ Brotherhood in 2001, as explained above.

Bishop Serapion emphasized that living a celibate life needs to happen within a community. The concept was that a brother would have support in a community and would not live alone. SPB being formed in Coptic Diaspora and not in Egypt is important in two respects.

The first is that it is a direct response to life in monasteries in Egypt today, which are typically more pastoral than contemplative. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it reflects a

(re)imagination of monasticism which is not directed from the Mother Church, while at the same

183 While this was already a practice in place, Metropolitan Serapion enforced this more strictly by designating one of the churches on the monastery ad one solely for monks. While I was there, an area was also being prepared that would be exclusive for monks’ cells.

205 time being canonical because of the authority of the Bishop, whose legitimacy is recognized by line of Apostolic succession (Orsi 2016:216).184

I find Talal Asad’s (2015:1) articulation of tradition as “discursive,” to be particularly important in the context of this chapter and dissertation more broadly. Discursive tradition is:

“[P]rimarily a matter of linguistic acts passed down the generations as part of a form of

life, a process in which one learns and relearns how to do things with words, sometimes

reflectively and sometimes unthinkingly, and learns and relearns how to comport one’s

body and how to feel in particular contexts.” (ibid.)

SPB as a hybrid form of monasticism combines both modified and new practices while being rooted and passed down as a form of life. Coptic Monasticism as this dissertation has demonstrated thus far, is not static, but continuously adapting, and (re)invented in light of socio-economic and political circumstances in Egypt (Chapters 1 & 2). The same can be said about Coptic monasticism in Southern California where the formation of SPB was a response to the changing dynamics of monasticism in Egypt, while creating avenues for serving the pastoral needs of parishioners in the diocese.

With the permission of Bishop Serapion I had the opportunity to live at Saint Paul’s

Brotherhood (SPB) for a month from October and November 2013.185 The house was located in a

184 Though Bishop Serapion initiated the idea of SPB to address the local needs of his diocese, he still took the blessings of Pope Shenouda to form this order. While the bishop has complete jurisdiction, autonomy and authority within his own diocese, Bishop Serapion seeking guidance from Pope Shenouda at that time suggests the importance of maintaining ties to the Mother Church. I will elaborate more on authority, power and Apostolic legitimacy in the next chapter.

185I spent only one month at SPB due to the ordination of two of the deacons as priests and their travel to Egypt to spend their 40 days of retreat (Chapter 2). Arrangements were made for me to live in a house belonging to one of the churches in Orange County, where I could be close to Saint Paul’s American Coptic Orthodox Church and my interlocutors, the majority of whom resided in Orange County.

206 suburban neighbourhood close to the diocese headquarters in Pomona California. In comparison to staying in monasteries, living at SPB was more difficult in the sense that everyone was in extremely close proximity. Before my arrival, no laymen were permitted to visit, let alone reside in the house unless they were accepted as novices. My presence challenged and, in a sense, changed the dynamics of the place. My adjustment to living there was difficult for a number of reasons. The first is the amount of time I spent by myself while living in the city. In many instances

I felt bored and unmotivated to work. On the other hand, I kept trying to adapt by maintaining a prayer schedule as well as time for reading and writing. At times I felt that I was “forced” upon the brothers by the bishop, although they were very welcoming and accepting of my presence.

Staying at SPB was my first real experience of realizing that ethnography can be intrusive, and it was perhaps the only time I felt more like an outsider rather than native anthropologist. It was one of the most important experiences during fieldwork that taught me how to skilfully navigate the private life of a community without imposing myself on them through my ethnographic research and in the words of Shah (2017:45) making sense of “the dialectical relationship between intimacy and estrangement (befriending strangers).”

During the time I was at SPB, there were two priests and two deacons.186 The Midnight service and praises were celebrated once a week, followed by the Divine Liturgy the next day.

Each brother187 has his room (cell) in the house, as would a monk in the monastery, where each carries out their daily prayer canon. If a brother is needed for pastoral service in a far location, they

186With the exception of the eldest and most senior priest, the rest of SPB are 2nd generation Copts.

187 I use “brother” to identify fathers and deacons who are part of Saint Paul’s Brotherhood. In actuality priests are addressed as “Father” and deacons as “Deacon” and in some instances “Father-Deacon,” though the latter is used by those familiar with this title predominantly used in the Eastern Orthodox Church. Many Copts also abbreviate archdeacon (or archdiakon in Greek and Coptic) and simply call a deacon or archdeacon “Arshi.” This title is perhaps the most common expression.

207 carry out their service and return once a week. An integral part of their service is the notion of community, whereby anyone serving in further areas would return Tuesday evening to celebrate

Vespers and the Midnight praises, followed by the Divine Liturgy with Bishop Serapion on

Wednesday morning. After Liturgy we would have breakfast together, followed by spiritual instruction by Bishop Serapion. After his spiritual word, Bishop Serapion gave the opportunity for anyone to sit with him privately if needed. I spent most of the day alone in the room allocated to me, reading, writing and contemplating similarly to my time in monasteries both in Egypt (Chapter

2) and at St. Antony’s as will be described below. I did however go to Starbucks to record fieldnotes when I felt I needed a change of environment. Most Sundays I would attend Liturgy at

Saint Paul’s American Coptic Orthodox Church (Chapter 6) with one of the deacons assigned to serve there. I continued to attend and carry out fieldwork there after I left SPB.

When he became the abbot of Saint Antony’s monastery, Bishop Serapion directed some laymen to SPB rather than the monastery to help them fulfill their potential in service while preserving the contemplative life of the monastery. The conditions for accepting a novice in the monastery are similar to those described in Chapter 2, though the conditions for SPB are slightly different. Firstly, for one to be accepted as a novice at SPB, the individual must have a desire for the monastic life and have spent some time frequenting a monastery.

The individual will not be accepted if they have considered marriage.188 Before being ordained as a deacon, the novice remains for a period as a layman and is assigned a specific role in a particular parish. While my investigation of SPB came at a time during its growth, my understanding is that those who are accepted as novices today spend between 2-3 years as a

188 During my stay, one of the brothers commented that he liked me and that it was too bad I could not stay. Bishop Serapion responded jokingly but with an implicit seriousness, “Since he has contemplated marriage, we cannot accept him.”

208 consecrated servant before being ordained as deacons. One of the brothers emphasized that whether or not ordination would continue to be a practice for all members of the Brotherhood who are accepted is not yet determined, as it depends on the growth of the community and a more permanent location.189 There was also the potentiality of all of them being consecrated as monks so that they are more visibly recognized in the community.

In 2005 Bishop Youssef established the second Coptic monastery after the names of Saint

Mary and Saint Moses the Strong. From its very beginning, Bishop Youssef set up strict rules for those entering the monastery. It is one of the few (if not the only) Coptic monastery that does not permit any of the novices or monks to carry a cell phone, except the Father-Prior who carries a mobile phone solely for his responsibilities as overseer of the monastery in the absence of the

Bishop. Furthermore, it is made known to those who are accepted in the monastery that they are expected to remain in the monastery and will not serve in the world. If they are ordained as priests, their service would remain in the monastery. Also, any novice or monk that needs to leave the monastery for any reason must do so with the permission of the abbot.190 As a frequent visitor to the monastery since 2006, I noticed that there are more spaces allocated exclusively for monks, allowing for deeper and longer times for contemplation away from the laity who frequent the monastery for retreat.

189 On April 2014, 20 acres of land with two existing buildings on the land were purchased for the permanent home of SPB. Since I finished fieldwork at SPB, three more novices have joined, and one of them is now a priest.

190 While this is technically supposed to be implemented in all Coptic monasteries, to my knowledge it is not strictly followed in most monasteries in Egypt.

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5.4 Monasteries as “Places in-Between” One means of thinking through the formation of Coptic monasteries in North America is to regard them as spaces in between “home” and “host societies.” Following Deeb & Harb (2013), space is used in reference to abstract society in general, while place is used to refer to “practiced or social space” (ibid.:26), whereby the individual is cultivated into a Coptic subject. This definition of space is related to Michael Lambek’s (2011:217) definition of the “local” which he regards not as an “empty homogeneous space” but one that constitutes the “place for ethical life”.

Spaces in between the assumed binaries of home and host societies allow for an investigation of the ways in which diasporic communities negotiate questions of identity amidst anxieties of continuity and discontinuity. For some communities home is re-established in

Diaspora and may be deemed “more authentic” than home if not “just as” authentic. Examples of this are reflected by Eiselohr (2006) with the Shivratri pilgrimage to the Grand Basin in Mauritius

(Ganga Talao Mountain) as an alternative to the Sacred Ganges River in North India. Here we see that there is a creation of authentic experience that is part of a wider understanding of what it means to be Hindu. In a sense, there is a (re)making of sacred water. Saint Antony’s Monastery and Saint Mary and Saint Moses Abbey are examples of the ways in which the community seeks the continuity of sacred landscape by replicating sacred geography in Diaspora. Like their contemporaries in Egypt, many Copts make pilgrimages to monasteries in North America engaging in what Elaine Pena (2011) has described as devotional labour, which is more than engaging in pilgrimage and the veneration of saints in sacred spaces but connecting to “histories and traditions across several boundaries: geopolitical, social, and institutions” (ibid.:10). By doing so, the pilgrim acquires “devotional capital” (ibid.: 11) though which the individual acquires the favour of the saints through religious practice. Pena’s (2011) use of devotional labour is closely connected to what Tweed (1999:132) has described as “diasporic nationalism” which “entails

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‘geopiety,’ or an attachment to the natal landscape” and “[…] the imagined contours of the liberated homeland as well as affection for the remembered traditions.” Monasticism in this regard is not just about the imagining of a moral exemplarity but also an intimate connection to the desert landscape as a symbol of Coptic identity and tradition.

On Saturday November 23rd 2013, while at Saint Antony’s Monastery, I participated in a procession commemorating the Vespers of the Feast of Saint Mina. There was a church named after him in the monastery where a portion of his relics were also held. His feast day as I was told usually generated visitors from across Southern California. Since it was a weekend, the monastery was particularly busy. The procession began at his church and circulated around the monastery grounds. Priest-monks took turns censing Saint Mina’s icon and relics, while men alternated in carrying the icon and relics. Women ululated in celebration while hymns and praises were chanted as individuals continually venerated and kissed the icon and relics of the saint. As described in

Chapter 3, venerating icons and relics of the saint in the Orthodox Church is a form of obtaining

Baraka or blessing from the saint, who acts as an intercessor on behalf of the patron. The desert climate and atmosphere made it feel as if I were in Egypt and not in Southern California. Johnson

(2007:9) argues that “To announce a diaspora is not simply to express authentic origins but to actually press them into existence”. This is how I felt during this event. Similar processions are carried out in Egypt through which the individuals participate by singing hymns and spiritual songs

(tarateel) as forms of veneration and piety (Ramzy 2014). What I participated in can be described as a performance of memory through which diasporic religions reinscribe religion in space

(Johnson 2007:11). In this case, the desert landscape was not only recreated, but was an opportunity for pilgrims to engage in familiar practices of cultivating piety which in this instance could only be deliberated in monastic space. This reinscription makes people from Egypt feel at

211 home while at the same time educates US-born Copts on what it feels like to go to a monastery in

Egypt.

5.5 Negotiating Monastic Inclinations John is a second-generation Copt who emigrated with his parents from Egypt at a young age. In his mid-twenties, John graduated with a degree in engineering and was pursuing postgraduate studies when we first met in October 2013. We met at various youth outings and even enjoyed a retreat together at Saint Antony’s monastery in January 2014. The thought of monasticism emerged from a “very early age”, as he described it to me, wanting to consecrate his life to God. He is heavily involved with youth ministry in his parish, making himself readily available to anyone that needs his help. In many instances, he receives phone calls in the middle of the night from troubled teens. While he continues to serve in his parish today, he described to me how his desire for monasticism flourished to the point where he left for Egypt to become a monk in 2012. He preferred Egypt over the United States because he felt monasteries in Egypt were rooted in the historical legacy of the early Monastic Fathers, something he felt was lacking in the United States, especially in the case of discipleship.

The thought of monasticism pressed him. He relied on his Father of Confession to guide him in making the decision. John wanted to become a monk in Egypt. He made the necessary arrangements and traveled to the monastery of Saint Macarius. He chose Saint Macarius because it was one of the earlier sites of monasticism. He spent three months there. John described his time in the monastery as “both emotionally and mentally wearing”, though he loved the monastery very much. Like any retreatant (Chapter 2) John participated in the life of the monastery by attending

Tazbiha daily and carrying out the work assigned to him. The rest of his day he spent in khilwa

(retreat). While he was sure he wanted to stay, some doubt kept him from committing to the monastery. He described examining himself and realized that his hesitation to enter the monastery

212 was a result of his love for service. John enjoyed being part of parish community and being dedicated to serving youth. He felt bitterness when thinking of having to withdraw from the service he loved. He considered SPB a vocation, but felt that pastoral care is best lived in one parish community and not based on temporary need in a place.

John revealed these thoughts to a monk in the monastery who said that Saint Paul’s would add warfare that was not necessary and advised him against it. I understood warfare to be both tempted with lustful thoughts as a result of being in the regular contact with women his age as a result of service, as well as being preoccupied with service such that John would have little time for contemplation and self-examination and remain unfocused. He decided to leave the monastery.

Through continual self-examination John realized that his desire was to serve and not to remain celibate. His Father of Confession advised him that he should consider getting married since monasticism was not John’s calling. John firmly believed that if God wanted him to be a monk that He would pave the way for it.

John remained prayerful in frequently expressing to God his desire to serve Him.

Eventually John met a woman at church to whom he was betrothed a few months later.

Much can be derived from John’s account of seeking the monastic life. His desire for monasticism in Egypt points to a kind of authenticity that he sees both in the physical and spiritual landscapes of the Egyptian desert. It is the historical significance of monastic landscapes in Egypt in particular that influence this notion of authenticity. This view of authenticity is rooted in what I described previously as the expectations and normative discourses that come to define moral exemplarity.

More specifically the Coptic social imaginary is one that holds monks as moral exemplars to a particular standard based on expectations of virtue that historicize monasticism as an exemplary way of life.

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John’s views point to questions of ambivalence and contradiction between the Coptic social imaginary and monasticism as a lived practice between Egypt and the North American

Diaspora. Ambivalence as argued by Kierans and Bell (2017:25) is the “product of taking stances.”

It is in locating contradictions and paradoxes that ambivalence becomes useful for social analysis

(p. 26). John’s positionality is inconsistent. He was interested in contemplative monasticism, realized he preferred service-oriented monasticism, and later decided to be married. Richard Irvine

(2016: 14) argues that that “inconsistency is not just something observed, but a phenomenon that is experienced and furthermore this experience is one of discomfort.” Rather than examining ambivalence and inconsistency as one stance over another, Irvine suggests that that consonance and dissonance is more productive. In other words, inconstancy is more of an experiential process which fluctuates in relation to factors both inside and outside the individual. In the case of my research, inconstancies are reflected by my interlocutors as dissonance. There is dissonance in particular between historical accounts of moral exemplars and current monastic practice, between celibacy and married life, and contemplative and service-oriented monasticism. In John’s particular case there are tensions experienced both internal and external to him. The struggles he experiences can be described in the words of Webb Keane (2016:146) as “the inner clash of ethical voices” which he defines as the ways “by which ideological and moral positions come into clash with lived practice as the individual negotiates their identity” (see also Berliner et. al 2016). These tensions John experiences are both a result of external factors, the influence of spiritual guides in particular, and internal forces, namely his desire to serve beyond the scope of the SPB paradigm.

Bandak (2012) is of particular importance in relation to the positions of Irvine and Keane above, in that he argues for understanding moral exemplarity as a spectrum of imitation. At first the only real contradiction is between living in a monastery as a monk or serving as a celibate priest. In both cases he would have to remain celibate. It is after realizing that he prefers a life of service

214 that a more pressing contradiction is immanent; to live a life of celibacy or get married and start a family. What is clear from John’s narrative is that while he rejected monasticism as a way of life, he continues to embrace it as a practice, even as one to be married. His ethical position is one of evaluation (Lambek 2016). In other words, he rejected monasticism as a way of life but replicated the moral exemplarity of monasticism by maintaining a life of contemplation. Monasticism in this regard is exemplified not through entering the monastery, but through inviting monastic ideologies into the home. John remains on a spectrum of exemplarity through imitation.

5.6 Critiquing SPB The model of SPB, while creating an opportunity to address the issue of monasticism in

Egypt becoming more service-oriented, was also critiqued by some of my interlocutors, both monks and laity. Some monks in Egypt and the United States I spoke with did not recognize SPB as a form of monasticism, and while the brothers are ordained clergy, they are “not monks.” The question this raises is what constitutes monasticism and how is SPB an “inauthentic” expression of monasticism? The social imaginary of the monk as one living in the monastery—wearing the black habit and kolonsowa—has become the standard in prevailing views among Copts as to whether or not one might be regarded as a monk. If monasticism is an internal way of the heart, why are clothing and location so important? Is it the desert and the withdrawal of a monk into the desert that makes them a monk? At the heart of these questions are wider debates on ecclesiastical authority and diasporic and transnational transformations.

SPB addresses the broader tensions about the relationship between clergy and the laity. As mentioned in Chapter 1, the role of the laity in the administration and decisions of the wider Church decreased significantly with Muhammad Ali’s reign, who preferred a millet partnership with the

Church through the Patriarch solely. The reduced involvement of the laity over the years has led to the authority of the Church residing predominantly in the hands of the Coptic Patriarch, as well

215 as the Holy Synod. In the 1950s Father Matthew the Poor established “Beit al-Takrīs”, The House of Consecrated Servants (Chapter 2), for laity who wanted to serve the Church in their capacity as lay persons and not as clergy, namely as teachers and theological educators. The House was never fully accepted by the Church because it challenged the status quo of the clergy.

In our discussion on SPB, one of my interlocutors in the United States began by giving the historical context of Beit al-Takrīs as a precursor to the ways in which SPB operated. The main reason for Beit al-Takrīs’ failures, in his view, was fear from the Church hierarchy that incorporating laity in administrative and pastoral roles would change the hierarchical landscape of the Church and monasticism more specifically. Historically speaking, there were celibate laity who were ordained as bishops and even patriarchs without having to become monks.191 He iterated that

Beit al-Takrīs only went so far as celibate priests. Some laymen who were selected to become bishops had to be consecrated as monks before being ordained bishops.192 In speaking about SPB he was critical of the fact that the trajectory is currently of ordaining brothers to the priesthood rather than having them serve in their capacity as laymen.

“How can you call it a Brotherhood when they are all clergy? How many of them are laymen? In his words: “The mentality [the Church hierarchy] continues to be clear; you cannot teach unless you are wearing black. The bishop is addressing the problem of monasticism being service oriented, by giving space for those who want to live a celibate life to service, but at the same time is devaluing the role of the layman serving, teaching, and educating.”

191 Examples in history include Pope Abraam ibn Zaraa.

192 One example was Bishop Gregorios, General Bishop of Higher Education.

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The main critique here is that, with the ordination of laymen as deacons or priests for Saint

Paul’s, the role of laymen as part of the Church is no longer significant. The ordination of laymen as clergy into consecrated service suggests that service is only possible under the authority of

Church hierarchy, rather than giving an opportunity for laymen to serve without having to be ordained. In this sense, the black garb of clergy and monks is a symbol of authority. Moreover, monasticism holds a particular kind of ecclesiastical authority in that the bishops of the church must be monks. For example, Father Isaac Boulos (Paul) and Father John-Paul of SPB were consecrated as monks in Saint Antony’s monastery in anticipation for their ordination as auxiliary bishops in the diocese with Metropolitan Serapion. Though they were both celibate priests, they could not be ordained as bishops without first being consecrated as monks.

5.7 Needing Elders So far in this chapter I have discussed the ways in which the Coptic monastic imagination has (re)configured monastic practice in North America by distinguishing between contemplative and pastoral forms of monasticism. One of the core aspects of Coptic monasticism that my monk interlocutors in North America lamented over was the absence of exemplary elders and living under their guidance. While both Metropolitan Serapion and Bishop Youssef visit their respective monasteries regularly, monks I spoke with suggested that they wanted an elderly monk to remain with them so they could learn from his experience. The absence of monastic elders in these growing communities is what can be widely described as “a discipleship to books,” meaning that through his readings of the Desert Fathers, the young monk cultivates a relationship to the experience and instructions of monastic figures.

For Abuna Polycarpos, however, this is not enough. He wants to learn through the lived experience of someone he can converse with and one who can direct him in times of need.

Emulation of a moral exemplar is something he sees as requiring lived experience and not

217 something that can be attained through books. Having a moral exemplar with him at all times helps his own spiritual cultivation in the monastic life. Monastic emulation for Abuna Polycaros in other words is very much about seeing and imitating the way in which monastic exemplars live (Chapter

3). Abuna Polycarpos noted:

“The monastic life has lost its purpose by being distracted doing other things. The monk

must place himself in the presence of God to be filled more. The more he takes from God,

the more treasures he can give to others. This is the role of the spiritual father, but to be

honest, the role of the spiritual father in monasticism is not the same as before. Discipleship

today is the disciplining of books because discipleship as a tradition of receiving from an

elder no longer exists, or if it does, it is very scarce. The education a monk might receive

today is self-learned from what he reads in his cell. The only thing I want an abbot to

concentrate on is the spiritual state of the monastery. I want the abbot to focus with me as

a father. How can I grow if my father is barely in the monastery? When the abbot who is

supposed to be the spiritual father is barely in the monastery how can I learn? I am given

the tools but not the spirit of monasticism [through emulation]. It’s exactly like a father

who is seldom with his child. The outcome is that the child is not raised well. To grow in

the monastic life, we need more guides who can take care of our spiritual needs. We have

shifted from the focus on monks to focusing on raising cattle [business projects]. Bishops

as abbots of monasteries have diseased the monastic life because he [the abbot] has other

commitments that keep him from his monastery and the spiritual growth of his children.”

According to Abuna, the model of discipleship has decreased based on two factors, both of which paradoxically are because of the presence of the bishop. The first is in respect to absence of the bishop in the monastery to cater to administrative matters. In monasteries like Saint Antony and

Saint Mary and Saint Moses, both abbots are also Diocesan Bishops, meaning that a number of

218 churches fall under their administrative and pastoral responsibilities, including these respective monasteries. Because of their many responsibilities they visit their monasteries less frequently than they perhaps desire. The above statement suggests that the presence of the bishop as an authoritative figure instills a sense of order in the monastery, otherwise absent when the abbot is not present. While Abuna desires that his abbot remain in the monastery more frequently for spiritual guidance and order, he is also critical of bishops as abbots of monasteries in the first place.

I see a parallel here with O’Neill’s (2010) articulation of “Cultivating a Christian Nation” where Guatemalan fathers are recognized as being central actors for transforming the nation-state.

As the father is performing and practicing acts of self-governance on himself, he is actively teaching his child or children to be good Christians. Here the monk as a spiritual father is instilling similar values. One could also draw on the Foucaultian notion of governmentality and the family, where “an ordered family yields an ordered society” (O’Neill 2010:119).

The second factor for the decrease in discipleship according to Abuna and at least four other monk interlocutors (both in the United States and Egypt) is the absorption of monasticism into the ecclesiastical ranks of Church through the ordination of bishops as abbots of monasteries, rather than a Hegumen as the spiritual leader of the community. This absorption has resulted in the bishop coming to represent the sole spiritual guide in the monastery and concerns that monasticism rather than being a vocation rooted in discipleship is becoming further institutionalized by the Church. At the heart of reform that some of my interlocutors in this chapter have called upon is a kind of “un-institutionalization” of current practices that have led to what they interpret as being against the principles of monastic life. These practices include the decreasing influence of desert elders. The bishop as an abbot of a monastery is also a point of critique in that with his administrative duties, he is less focused on his role as a spiritual father.

These perspectives invite us to think once again about the Coptic monastic imaginary and the

219 expectations associated with the abbot as a moral exemplar. It is when expectations of the moral exemplar fail that one negotiates what it means to be a virtuous subject (Chapter 4).

5.8 Conclusion I have examined the ways in which Coptic monasteries in North America seek to extend the sacred landscape of the Egyptian desert in light of questions of monasticism and authenticity.

Monastic landscapes in North America are not simply replications of monasteries in Egypt, I would argue that the Coptic monasteries of Saint Antony and Saint Moses and Saint Mary respectively, under the guidance of their abbots, are reimagining the understanding of monasticism by distinguishing between service- and contemplatively-oriented monasticisms. The role of the

Coptic hierarchy, especially during the papacy of Pope Shenouda III, in institutionalizing monasticism has led to the understanding among both clergy and laity alike that monasticism is unitary. The institutionalization of monasticism has consequently resulted in perceived understandings of the monk as a moral exemplar. I have demonstrated that there are various forms and understandings of monasticism among Coptic monks and laity. I am not arguing that service- oriented monasticism, for example, is inferior to contemplative monasticism.

It is clear that many of these debates are rooted in wider socio-political conditions in the

Egyptian State, which have led to the absorption of Coptic monasticism into the ecclesiastical structure of the Church, especially in the last 60 years or so. What is clear about the social monastic imagination is that it is not a singular idea that emerged at a particular time but rather it appears at critical moments and particular historical junctures. The formation of SPB for example coincides with a monasticism in Egypt appearing to be more service-oriented than contemplative. As suggested above, SPB was formed on the premise that there could be a distinction between the two types of vocation. What cannot be ignored nonetheless is that SPB at this moment is not a lay- movement, since the trajectory thus far is that all brothers eventually be ordained as clergy,

220 whether deacons or priests. The collapse of Beit al-Takrīs in Egypt as a lay-movement points to the model of SPB being more likely to succeed in the ecclesiastical climate of the Church today because it is under the authority of the Church.

Coptic monasticism is continuously reimagined both in Egypt and in Diaspora as I have argued here and in previous chapters. In turn, the (re)imagining of monasticism in Diaspora, in particular through the creation of SPB, addresses different aspects of transnationalism and cultural intersection in the North American Diaspora. SPB in its current phase conforms to the ecclesiastical structure of the church while also offering an opportunity for men who want to remain celibate an opportunity to serve, without taking on the complete life of the monastery.

In sum, the examination of monasticism in North America points to some of the tensions and concerns described in the previous chapters, and the ways in which bishops, monks, clergy, and laity alike seek to (re)invent and (re)negotiate their identity to reflect a more “authentic” understanding of what it means to be a good Coptic Christian in North America. Some interlocutors frame authenticity through Egyptian referents, while for others it reflects a more Americanized sensibility (Chapters 6 and 7). Chapter 6 will continue with a discussion on discipleship and the extension of monastic ideologies beyond monastic spaces into family homes, including the effects of January 2011 on some lay Copts. Chapter 7 will focus on the role of Egypt in cultivating Copts in the Diaspora.

Family, Discipleship, & Technologies of Obedience I lived with Jonah and Macrina and their two children Charlie and Theodore for two months in their home in Orange County. During this time, I observed their daily efforts to cultivate their children into good Orthodox Christians. I first met Jonah in 2012 at a theological conference in upstate New York. We managed to keep in touch through email and met again the following year at the same annual conference. When Jonah knew that I was coming to California for fieldwork, he invited me to stay with him and his family and introduced me to the bishop after Liturgy on

October 5th 2013. I received Bishop Serapion’s permission to stay at Saint Paul’s Brotherhood for the week to follow. That was also the first time I met Macrina, who was trying to keep up with

Theodore’s energy as he sang hymns and venerated the icons around the church.

When we left church, I followed Jonah home. I found myself in an anxious state for the first few hours, as the reality that I was officially doing fieldwork came upon me. I was in

California with my plans changed from going to Egypt, staying with a family I barely knew. I remember feeling awkward and trying to be myself. My presence was also different for the

Faltaoes,’ who were not used to having guests over for prolonged periods of time. I remember

Macrina telling me of a conversation she had with Jonah where she expressed her uncertainty as to whether or not I would be able to fit in with their particular lifestyle. Time would show that we were all very happy and comfortable with one another. By the end of the trip Jonah and Macrina would become like older siblings, and Charlie and Theo like nephews.

On most days when I stayed with them, Jonah, Macrina, and I would enjoy what Macrina would formally call “loopy hour” after the boys went to bed around 7pm. This time usually involved eating ice cream and conversations where we vented, shared experiences and opinions on church matters, laughed, joked, and really enjoyed each other’s company. It was really during

221 222 these times we got to know one another. At times when I was frustrated with fieldwork they would listen attentively and offer me advice. When I felt I had no clue where my project was headed, they assured and encouraged me.

On one particular late afternoon, the children washed their hands as I helped Jonah and

Macrina clean up after lunch. As we conversed the boys began to play. This was no ordinary play.

They were re-enacting the Divine Liturgy; one brother would be the priest, the other a deacon.

Both wore their liturgical vestments.193 Disputes would usually occur during liturgy as to who would be the priest. Charlie would usually give in and let his brother be the priest, while occasionally snatching the hand-made censor from Theo’s hand to take a turn censing around the altar-table. On this particular evening, a procession took place. Theo entered into the kitchen.

Asking me to participate in the procession, he handed me a paper icon. Charlie was already holding one. Charlie and I walked backwards as Theodore the celebrating priest sensed the icons with a censer Macrina made for him, singing the “hiteniat” or “intercessory hymn,” a hymn chanted during the Divine Liturgy evoking the prayers and intercessions of specific saints. We asked for the intercessions of the Holy Mother of God, Archangel Michael and the choirs of the angels, Saint

George, and we even created a verse for Saint Seraphim of Sarov, one of Theodore’s favourite saints. All of this was chanted in Coptic. After we finished, Macrina asked the boys to clean up as we were going to begin evening prayers before the boys would take a bath and head to bed.

The boys cleaned up and stood in front of the icon corner setup between the living and dining rooms. We prayed “O Heavenly King” followed by Psalm 148, which we chanted in one of many Byzantine tunes. Jonah and Macrina were adamant about their children being exposed to

193 This form of “play” is not uncommon. A video circulated on Facebook in 2016 of a boy of about 10 years old, reenacting the Coptic Divine Liturgy of Saint Basil, wearing altar vestments, while members of his family participated and “assisted in the service.

223 the richness of the Orthodox Church regardless of the tradition. Each day we would alternate between Coptic and Byzantine hymns. After we finished, each of the boys would take turns petitioning God with a list of those to pray for. Though they often rushed through the list, making it hard to hear names, I would feel happy when I could make out “Uncle Joey.” Prayers were always concluded with “our Father” in Arabic, after which each member of the family and their guest took turns prostrating and venerating the several icons on the wall. The boys would then go for their bath and then to bed. To help them fall asleep, Macrina would either read them a short story from the lives of the saints or play a hymn that the boys requested. On that particular night,

Macrina read to them from the life of Saint Silouan the Athonite.

The above vignette speaks to a particular way in which monastic ideologies and Orthodox spirituality more broadly are cultivated beyond monastery walls. The Faltaoes family often visited a monastery where Jonah and Macrina received spiritual direction from a monastic whom they described as holy and spiritually discerning. They implemented the spiritual advice given in their own home. While the Faltaoes family did not practice anything monastic per se, Jonah and Macrina worked towards instilling in their children a way of life rooted in Orthodox practice. Similarities are evident between the daily life of monks in the monastery and the Faltaoes’ way of life in that there are times during the day dedicated to communal prayer. The daily regimen is practiced with the intention of the children cultivating a desire to pray continually. I see this as an example through which spiritual geographies extend beyond the desert and into the Christian home in the form of practice.

As argued in previous chapters, the Coptic monastic tradition has shaped the Coptic Church into an ascetical Church (Chapters 1 and 2). While Coptic laity are not monastics, the influence of ascetic thought on the wider Church results in certain practices such as such as prostrations and fasting as part of the daily ascetic worship of the lay-Copt. Many families I met during fieldwork

224 dedicated an area or corner in their home for prayer similar to the Faltaoes family. I know of a few other families whose children also play church. It seems to me, at least, that this is a result of constantly attending church services. Allowing their children to engage in such pretend-play is a means by which Jonah and Macrina immerge their children in the life of the Church, not only on

Sundays but as an everyday way of life. It is important to mention as well that their choice for a hybrid of worship between the Coptic and Byzantine traditions is unique. It is the norm for families to solely engage in practices they are accustomed to in the Coptic tradition. The question of ecclesiastical authority in this respect cannot be ignored. The majority of Copts engage in forms of piety as dictated by a priest or bishop.194 There are priests I know, however, that would have no problem with a hybrid form of prayer, mostly from the second generation who have been exposed to other Orthodox traditions. Those who would discourage a hybrid form of Coptic and Byzantine traditions would probably do so on the grounds of preserving Coptic identity the “right way”

(Engelhardt 2015).

For the Faltaoes family, however, the issue is about preserving and cultivating an Orthodox foundation for their children without being limited to culture. Being exposed to Eastern Orthodox saints is a means by which their children not only learn about the saints but imitate their example

(Chapter 2). Tying this all back to questions of Diaspora, the account of the Faltaoes family is one that demonstrates an Orthodox way of life that does not necessarily conform to the cultivation of piety in Egypt and is very much a (re)formation of personal cultivation as a result of being in contact with other Orthodox churches and traditions. Switching between Coptic and Byzantine prayers is similar to the “hooking” of hymns (Johnson 2007) at Saint Paul’s American Orthodox

194 Jonah and Macrina did not seek the counsel of a priest or bishop for the way they developed their family’s canon of prayer.

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Church (as will be described in the next chapter). My interest here is not in whether hybrid practices are “right” or “wrong,” to the disappointment of some interlocutors, but rather how authenticity is (re)framed within the Coptic Diaspora.

As argued above, the desert plays an important role both in its literal location on the margins of society as well as in a figurative sense in its necessity for creating the image of the ideal monk. The desert is a space through which spiritual authority is both claimed and maintained

(Chapters 1 and 2). Coptic monastic space-making in the Coptic Diaspora is more than (re)creating monastic space, but involves the relationship between spiritual geography and technologies of power in the cultivation of the Coptic subject. I examine this in two ways. Firstly, through the role of the spiritual guide for both monks and the laity in cultivating a virtuous subject. Secondly, I am interested in the ways in which monastic spirituality and authority transcend the Egyptian Desert and come into influencing Coptic subjecthood in the Coptic Diaspora. I am interested in the ways individual Copts respond to this authority. Foucault (2014) describes morality as “sets of values and rules of action that are recommended to individuals through intermediary prescriptive agencies” (Foucault 2014: 41). Agencies such as churches prescribe a “moral code.” The degree to which one follows a moral code is what Foucault calls “the morality of behaviours.” I am particularly interested in the way some interlocutors exercise their “moral behaviour” on a personal level, in relation to the hierarchy’s call for obedience to the Church.

Moral cultivation, as has been argued throughout this dissertation, is largely a project of emulation through forms of discipleship (Chapters 3 and 4). The concept of discipleship is central to Coptic monasticism and one that can be linked to wider understandings of kinship. Monks and nuns are effectively called “fathers” and “mothers.” In monasteries, the role of the abbot as a father and authority figure is a means by which the monk is cultivated into a virtuous subject through discipleship and obedience. This same spiritual authority is effectively given to parents to disciple

226 their children, inviting monastics into the home in the form of the mimesis of ascetical practice and communal worship. Many Copts also take the advice of their parish priest on how to instill virtue in themselves and in their children at home. The home, like the monastery or the local parish, becomes a place where subjects are morally and ethically formed, where Jonah and Macrina take on the role of spiritual guides instructing, guiding, and disciplining their children.195 Thus, monastic and church practices are part of the family’s core values and intimacy.

6.1 Monasticism, Discipleship & Ecclesiastical Authority Monasticism was founded on the premise of discipleship. Although monasticism is commonly attributed to Saint Antony the Great, before heading for the desert he spent time with an anchorite living on the outskirts of the village. When he learned of other anchorites near the surrounding villages, Antony visited and stayed with them for some time learning from their virtues. He did not leave them until he surpassed their way of life. After spending some time in the desert, Antony grew weary and bored of his monastic life. An angel appeared to him and taught him how he ought to conduct such an existence; through prayer and work. Saint Athanasius, who is said to have written the biography of Saint Antony, identifies himself as a disciple of Antony for three years. From Antony’s hagiography, it is clear that there was a strong emphasis on monasticism being a way of life that is modeled after the mentorship of an experienced elder. The emulation of a desert elder is a means by which a young monk cultivates in himself a desire to unite with God. Submission to an elder in the act of obedience is regarded as obedience to God himself. The elder is considered to be an icon of Christ (Chapter 3), who strives for the salvation of his children. Similarities can be drawn with Robert Orsi’s (2016:216) description of the priest

195 In the Coptic rite of Holy Matrimony, the husband is clothed with the liturgical cloak (Bornos) worn by a priest, signifying his spiritual role as the “priest” of the new home or “church” being established.

227 as the “‘alter Christus,’ the other Christ ‘configured to Christ ontologically’ […]” It is through the priest that the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ.196 In other words, Christ is made present through the priest, and it is in the Eucharist that the priest receives authority form

Christ (ibid.) and should be obeyed unconditionally (ibid.:218). Obedience to an elder is a means by which an individual “kills” his ego and cultivates humility. Humility is regarded as the “mother of virtues” since it is the way in which the Christian is filled with Christ. As long as pride takes hold of the individual, they cannot be filled with the love of Christ.

Therefore, discipleship in Christian monasticism is a dual practice of both submitting to the will of an elder and negating one’s own ego. Submission to a spiritual guide is viewed as an act of self-emptying, by which the monk purifies himself by exposing his thoughts to the experienced Abba. By not disclosing his thoughts to his spiritual father, the young monk is believed to fall victim to the snares of the devil.

A story that was recounted to me frequently when I asked questions to monks about pride and obedience was a story for the Paradise of the Fathers about a young monk who began to excel in ascetic virtue. Slowly he began praying by himself and missing communal gatherings. When approached by his brothers and asked why he was not attending with them, the young monk would respond that he was preoccupied with God. His brothers then went to his spiritual guide and recounted to him what the young monk had said. The elder decided to pay his son a visit. When asking him why he did not attend the Synaxis with the other brothers, the young monk responded with the same answer, that he was preoccupied with God and could not bother to be disturbed. His spiritual father warned him that this was deceit from the Evil One and that the monk ought to return

196 In the Orthodox Church there is an emphasis that Christ Himself is the one who offers His own Body through the priest.

228 to pray with the brethren. The young monk maintained his way of life and did not heed the advice of his father. After a few days, a demon appeared to the young monk in the form of an angel, praising him for his virtues and ascetic life, claiming that after three days, the monk would be taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elijah the Prophet. The supposed angel warned him not to disclose what would happen to his Abba because he would be jealous and prevent the monk from going to heaven. The monk obeyed and did not reveal what he had heard to his spiritual guide. On the night he was to ascend to heaven on a chariot, the monk crept out of his cell quietly so that no one would see him.

At that time, his spiritual father was out for a walk and saw him heading for the monastery walls. He asked the young monk where he was going. Hesitant to respond, the monk attempted to sway the conversation, remembering the commandment of the angel not to disclose to anyone what would happen. After much persistence from his father, the monk recounted to him that an “angel of the Lord” appeared to him and told him that he would be carried off into heaven on a fiery chariot. He was on his way to climb the wall of the monastery to be taken up into heaven. Advising him that this was the snare of Satan, the Abba begged him not to go. Insisting, the monk pushed his father away and began his ascend the wall. The Abba held to his son as he made it to the top of the wall while the demons tried to pull the monk away from the grasp of the elder. Unable to pull the monk away, the demons grabbed his skull cap and dropped it on the rocks as the chariot vanished. The Abba then turned to his son and told him that his fate was about to be that of his skull cap, dashed upon the rocks. The young monk wept, asked for forgiveness and remained obedient to his father from that day forward.197

197 A variation of the narrative reads that the monk stepped off the wall when he saw the chariot. At that moment, the chariot vanished and the young monk plummeted to the ground. He remained unconscious for a number of days.

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The intent of this narrative is to emphasize that a monk should do nothing by himself. In this narrative, it is apparent that there are four parties: the disobedient monk, the monastic community, the disguised demon, and the spiritual father, who is to be assumed here as a kind of prophet who is an image of Christ. The monastic community is an essential element of a monk’s life. Without the direction of an experienced elder and his direction, anything that a monk does apart from the community is regarded as a vice of pride. Within a monastic community, it is expected that all monks remain as equals. Should one exceed in a particular virtue, it is not to be boasted. As mentioned above, anything that pertains to a self-seeking ambition is understood as a temptation from the devil.

I share the above narrative not only because of the frequency with which it was recounted to me but also to illustrate the way in which “blind obedience” has come to be reflected not only among monastics but the laity as well.198 While spiritual discipleship predominantly takes its influence from monasticism, having a spiritual guide as a layperson is more than simply encouraged, it is strongly advised in the Orthodox Church.

The spiritual father is usually different from a confessor father. However, most priests today have taken on the role of both confessor father or “father of confession” and spiritual father.

The vast majority of laity today take their advice from married priests, while some have monks as spiritual fathers or even confessor fathers. It is advised that monk-priests do not take the confessions of laymen and take a vow during in their Rite of Ordination as priests not to take the confessions of women. The reason for this is for him not to be caught up in the affairs of the world.

During this time his spiritual father remained alongside his bed. When the monk gained consciousness, he saw his father and wept confessing his sins. A few days later after being absolved by his father, the monk died.

198Abuna mentioned that at a certain point during the 15th century Agbeya was banned from laity use sometime in the 15th century because it was recognized as a monastic canon, fit for one living the monastic life.

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The above discourses on obedience and spiritual discipleship are of course the ideal vision and normative principles prescribed by the Church. The Church emphasizes that in order to be virtuous one must first be obedient. What I learned from close ethnographic observation, however, is that this understanding of obedience is not always adhered to, and sometimes not even practical.

Tensions particularly arise when one receives advice from one’s spiritual father that does not seem practical such as praying a certain number of psalms a day or fasting a certain number of hours during fasting periods such as Great Lent and the Nativity fasts. While the hope would be that the spiritual father would prescribe a spiritual regimen that fits the practical and daily life of their children, some of my interlocutors expressed anxiety over the methods by which spiritual guides prescribe regimens for their everyday life. As argued in previous chapters, The Coptic monastic tradition has influenced the Coptic Church into being an ascetical Church (Chapters 1 and 2).

While Coptic laity are not monastics, the influence of ascetic thought on the wider Church results in certain practices such as such as prostrations and fasting as part of the daily ascetic worship of the lay-Copt.

On one Sunday after Liturgy, Abuna made an announcement for anyone interested in meeting with me for my research. Several people approached me afterwards asking how they could help. Among them was James, who looked about my age. He was quite eager to speak and asked if we could grab lunch at a nearby chicken and waffle chain called Bruxie’s. We drove there after the adult meeting at around 12:30pm. We ordered food and sat to chat.

He began telling me about his childhood and his upbringing in the Coptic Church. The more we spoke the more I got the sense from James that much of his relationship with the Church stemmed from his relationship with his family, particularly his father. He described his experience at church as not very pleasant, particularly because it felt like he was forced to go. His father, as

James described him, was always rigid in his desire to cultivate him and his siblings in to good

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Christians. At times it felt that the way of life his father desired for him was kind of monastic.

When James went to church, he was expected to wear long sleeves and was not allowed to talk during church services. If there was any form of misbehaviour, he would be disciplined there at church or at home. He iterated that his experience of disconnection with the Church was mainly because of his father. At home, there was a designated room for prayer where the family would pray at least once a week. His father would tell him what to say and how to pray. As he grew older,

James resented both the Coptic Church and his father. As a young adult, James had problems with some of the views that some servants in the church. He shared with me a story of one of Sunday school teacher’s whom James had high regards for, whose wife would not have sex with because she regarded it as “impure.” Many Copts in his view put a stronger emphasis on celibacy rather than sexual intimacy as a reflection of holiness in the Sacrament of Marriage (see also Michael’s experience in Chapter 4). These are things that frustrated James as he drew further away from the

Church.

For a long period of time, James would associate only with friends from a non- denominational Christian group who became his support system. He often went to the Saddleback

Church to hear Rick Warren preach and was particularly fond of the fact that there was an emphasis on social issues such as drug addiction and pornography. Saddleback offered more practical advice that he could apply to his life.

The turning point in James’ life or rather his reconciliation with the Coptic Church happened after the January 1st, 2011 bombing of al-Kidīsīn seen Church in Alexandria. He described this as the defining moment where he began to reclaim his Coptic roots and identity. He began to see the Coptic Church as a basis of Orthodox faith and not Egyptian culture. It was interesting to me that a second-generation Copt who knows nothing about Egypt immediately

232 found connection to the Coptic Church through a sectarian attack in Egypt. I asked him “Why was it this particular event that touched you and not the stories of martyrs who died for their faith?”

He responded: “This really touched me in the sense that the other stuff you don’t really know about. You only read it in books. With this event, I saw the video for myself and was able to resonate to it because I attended the Christmas celebration at church realizing that this could happen to me at anytime.” James now attends church regularly and is more focused on his Christian faith.

James’ upbringing speaks to the monasticization of some Coptic homes, similarly to the

Faltaoes family in the opening vignette. James’ father was very particular about family prayer time in a dedicated room in the house. This vignette also shows how notions of exemplary church etiquette come to be reflected in the way one dresses and the way one stands in church. In fact, the prayer room in James’ house was a kind of micro-church where James and his brothers were expected to behave and pray properly as they would when they went to church on Sundays. James’ resentment of his father translated into a rejection of the Coptic Church and Egyptian culture more broadly. For a long time, James’ rejected the Coptic tradition because it did not speak to his everyday life, leading him to the Saddleback Church. After the attack on the Saint’s Church in

2011, James relates to the persecution discourse (Introduction) and realizes that his Christian faith must be something real if others are willing to die for it. It is at that point that James chose to learn more about his Orthodox faith and focus less on Egyptian culture.

One of the benefits of doing fieldwork in Southern California was having the opportunity to enjoy hikes in valleys and canyons, a pastime I regularly enjoyed with interlocutors. Abuna

Theopan and I met on a warm October night. We regularly met during my fieldwork and enjoyed conversations, many times while hiking. Abuna is one of several young priests in the diocese.

What I was particularly fond of in him was his blunt honesty. Though he was a member of the

233 clergy, he did not shy away from expressing issues he saw when it came to how certain practices in the Church have become normalized. On this particular night, I discussed with him his views on the influence of monasticism on the Coptic laity. Abuna’s particular concern was over ideas of discipleship.

“While spiritual discipleship is necessary, I feel that each is expected to be made a carbon

copy of his or her Father of Confession. It is an influence of monasticism on the laity, but

the fact of the matter is most Fathers of Confession these days impose what works for them

on their children without giving them practical advice. Each connects to God differently,

something that is forgotten.”

Abuna Theophan went on to discuss prayer rules that are prescribed by clergy to the laity and how the Agbeya, though originally a prayer canon for monks, is a primary resource for the laity as well.

Abuna’s main concern is that, while monks have consecrated their lives through their vocation, the length and regiment is simply not practical for the everyday lay-Copt.

“People feel depressed or tense that they cannot follow the Agbeya simply because it is

overwhelming. The alternative would be to see the needs of each of my spiritual children,

how they connect with God and help develop this connection. One, for example, might

enjoy reading, the other going on service-runs. I would certainly not tell them not to use

the Agbeya in prayer, but I would guide them to a necessary amount for them to benefit

while helping them develop that, which connects them to God. You also have Tazbiha,

which is essentially part of the monastic canon. Why should churches pray Tazbiha once a

week? It is certainly not wrong to do so, but in some churches, parishioners are forced to

attend. In the parish I grew up in, the priest never forced us to pray Tazbiha, we did so out

of our free will because we saw that it was beneficial. He never stopped us. However, at

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the same time, if we missed a week, He would not question us and say why didn’t you pray

Tazbiha? You should have.”

What Abuna is suggesting here is that spiritual council often takes the shape of the father of confession or spiritual father setting canons for their children. While most priests I spoke with would agree with Abuna that the prayer rule of Copts should be modified to fit their schedule, he pointed to the notion that the way in which many priests prescribe prayer rules becomes a form of anxiety, rather than a means by which they draw closer to God. This anxiety according to him is rooted primarily in what I would describe as a “cookie cutter” model of discipleship where priests, in their attempt to cultivate moral Christian subjects, overlook each other’s personal strengths and desires as a means to connect them with God. Many youth from the second generation I spoke with also reflected similar sentiments with Abuna Theophan’s views on pastoral care and the relation of clergymen to the second generation.

I would like to turn now to Gregory, a young professional who lives in Toronto. He can be described as a “youth who reads,” an expression used to describe Coptic youth who are deemed to be intellectuals. This is not necessarily a positive description as it often implies that the individual is a “rebel” (Bandak and Boylston 2014) because they are usually outspoken and opinionated about church governance. Gregory is certainly outspoken. His confidence and demeanor when conversing is easily perceived as arrogance. During his university years, Gregory found himself developing a profound love for Patristic writers such as Origen, Justin Martyr,

Athanasius, and Cyril. This interest was a result of being unsatisfied with normative answers provided by the clergy in his parish, which led him to read more. The more he read, the more he felt a desire to share his knowledge with others in expressing what he described as the “treasures of our Church.” When he was invited to speak at university or graduate meetings, he would often quote the Church Fathers.

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Johnson (2007: 22) describes factions of Garifuna in his ethnographic study as interested in the “revivalist growth of discourses and practices of traditional ritual events, whose meanings are transformed as the rituals are revived.” The “revivalist growth” in the context of Coptic youth in North America is manifested in a revival of patristic and theological curiosity. Interestingly, this revival is very much amongst the youth of the second generation like Gregory, who do not read or write Arabic, and in many instances lack fluency in the language. For them, their (re)imagining of

Coptic identity is not rooted in the Egyptian culture but in a concrete understanding of the early

Church Fathers. As he became more popular as a youth speaker, Gregory increasingly drew the attention of the clergy. After his talks, he would find himself debating with priests about various topics such as Original Sin, Biblical allegory, evolution and creation, and other topics he found interesting from the literature he read.

At home, Gregory’s would have heated debates with his parents when they read and interpreted scripture together (a practice that continued from his childhood). They feared that his curious personality would eventually lead him to heretical beliefs as he scrutinized Bible verses in his search for deeper meanings. Gregory described how some clergy regarded him as “too critical” and at times “lacking faith.” For a period, he was not invited to speak at youth meetings. Gregory has since refrained from his more confrontational approach with both his parents and clergy and has focused more time on his individual growth. He will occasionally give talks to university audiences in various parishes in the Greater Toronto Area.

We sat at Tim Horton’s where I asked Gregory about his views on spiritual direction. He gestured with his right hand and tightly grasped his cup of coffee with his left as he described his experience. His choice of vocabulary reflected that of one who reads a lot. He only ceased eye contact when he appeared to be thinking about how to answer my questions. He described his experience of spiritual guidance as oftentimes a series of instructions on “action verbs (do this,

236 read that, attend here, serve there),” rather than instruction on how to think about matters in a way that may encourage positive behaviour. In other words, Gregory feels that his spiritual guide is often prescriptive rather than descriptive. “Growing in spiritual life” Gregory iterated:

“Often means increasing the dose of the Agbeya, of Bible readings, of Communion, of

confession, or liturgical prayer. The more I am thought to draw closer to God. We believe

there’s a dose-dependent response between ritual and spirituality. Although we’d like to

think that we're all about quality and not quantity, the former comes from descriptive

teaching; the latter is a result of prescriptive instruction. I think clergy [especially those

born and raised in Egypt] need a ‘philosophical adjustment’ of sorts on how second-

generation Copts are trained to think as youth who grew up in the West (perhaps a course

on psychology could help). As much as we are Christian, we are also children of the

Enlightenment, raised to be critical and ask questions. We question, yet are expected to

accept edicts from clergy without question. This approach is unsustainable and driving

youth away from the Church. Priests have often accused me of being arrogant for asking

questions, but in all honesty I am asking genuinely to benefit. More youth are finding it

harder to relate with priests because of this non-questioning discipleship approach. I don’t

want to be cloned into my Father of Confession; I want him to help me find my calling in

Christ and not only to tell me “do this and that.’ The ‘blind obedience’ model may have

worked in Egypt, but it doesn’t work here.”

Borrowing from Saba Mahmood (2003: 855), blind obedience “elicits the critique” from some of my interlocutors like Gregory, that the Coptic Church (re) produces its authority which is “socially dictated, preventing one from distinguishing their ‘own desires and aspiration’”. While Gregory addresses his potentiality as a Christian and his freedom in Christ and the hindrances he feels from some clergy, at the centre of the matter is an implicit discussion about the ways in which social

237 authority prescribed by the church hinders his own self-realization. Gregory, like the youth in the respective works of Samuli Schielke (2009) and Deeb & Harb (2013), recognizes that “piety and attaining moral behaviour are a process, locating [himself] somewhere between them” and “hoping to improve along these axes of valuation” (Deeb & Harb 2013: 18), while being within the parameters of the moral system of the Church.

Gregory is not only speaking against normative Coptic discourses, but implicitly uses

Kantian notions of ethics in the cultivation of his Coptic Christian identity, by identifying as a

“child of the Enlightenment.” Kantian notions of ethics are rooted in reasoning and objective thinking and deliberations (Lambek 2010:7), which Gregory is both doing and speaking about. His comments are very much about autonomy and his desire to experience the fullness of his life in the church freely, without being contained by “social coercion” (Mahmood 2003:856). Saba

Mahmood makes the important argument nonetheless, that “the distinction between the subject’s real desires and obligatory social conventions, a distinction at the center of liberal, and at times progressive, thought-cannot be assumed, precisely because socially prescribed forms of behaviour constitute the conditions for the emergence of the self as such and are integral to its realization”

(ibid.: 857). In other words, the tensions and anxieties faced by the individual when cultivating themselves is a mode of experience through which they come to self-realization through a critical self-reflection, relational to society (ibid.:858). The anxiety in Gregory’s case is very much a

“balance between social belonging” and “self-autonomy through critical-reflection” (ibid.:859).

Mahmood’s position is similar to Foucault’s notion of subjectification, by which the individual subject is governed by social norms (laws of the state) and their own individuality. While Gregory suggests that his Western upbringing is a primary factor in critiquing blind-obedience in the Coptic

Church, it critical to say that the West is the only site of Coptic resistance as demonstrated in previous chapters.

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Fatin Guirguis (2010) also uses Foucault’s notion of subjugation to speak about the ways in which the Coptic Church navigates its internal autonomy and its political position in the

Egyptian State. In her words, Guirguis states that “Copts as a people can be defined as dually

“subjectified” —subjugated by outside power and also made subject to an identity of their own definition. Coptic identity can thus be seen to depend on authority in both senses: external (i.e., dependence on the State) and internal (self-knowledge and self-identity as a persecuted minority)”

(ibid.:8). Guirguis’ notion of both external and internal authority can also be applied to thinking about the relationship between the Church (external) and the various members of the Church, who through technologies of the self (internal) in Foucauldian terms navigate the complexities of being individual agents within the institutional authority of the Church.

6.2 Playing Monks I was probably around eight years old and my younger brother four. We had finished watching a hagiopic of a monastic saint and decided to “become” monks. We gathered several blankets from the closet and covered chairs to make hermitages. Our basement was transformed into the Egyptian desert where we lived out our monastic life in seclusion from the upstairs world of grown-ups. I settled in my cave when “Abuna” Daniel clapped his hands outside.

“‘Abuna’ Youssef, open up.” 199

“Who is it?” I asked, imitating the voice of a monastic elder.

“I’m Abuna Daniel, please open up. He pleaded with me.

“Welcome Abuna Daniel!” I exclaimed as I lifted up the blanket inviting him into my cell.

199 I remember this particular playtime being in Arabic.

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We embraced each other and kissed each others’ hands and shoulders, as is customary of monks who greeted each other. We shared a pita loaf for supper. After our meal we raised our hands and prayed the “Our Father” together with priest crosses mom and dad brought with them from Egypt as a form of blessing. The sun was setting and Abuna Daniel had to return to his cave. We bade each other farewell in the same way we greeted. I watched as he entered his cell to continue in solitude. I let down my blanket door and began reciting prayers familiar to me from the hagiopics we watched.

Daniel and I laugh about this now, and were both slightly embarrassed when I told him I was going to write this in my dissertation. The point of sharing our childhood memories is to show, as in the opening vignette, the ways in which children are groomed to be virtuous Copts. Hagiopics played an important part of our upbringing (Chapter 3). Though in different ways from Charlie and Theo, Daniel and I were made sensible to prayer and contemplation through the hagiopics we watched. Implicit in our playing of monks was the concept of discipleship and obedience to an elder. While I provided a neater version of our experience above, I remember pausing (or perhaps it could be viewed as continuous play) to give Daniel instructions on proper gestures and conduct like the proper monastic greeting as if I was the elder. While this event happened early in our lives it influenced the ways in which we ourselves interacted with monks and clergy as exemplary figures. Child’s play in both this and the opening vignette are more than play but cultivating ethical practice and virtuous subjecthood.

6.3 Conclusion This chapter has examined the ways in which Coptic monastic ideologies of obedience and discipleship come to be articulated by Copts in the North American Diaspora. In the case of the

Faltaoes family recounted above, their presence in the North American Diaspora has given the opportunity to engage in hybrid forms of Orthodox prayer by which they alternate between Coptic

240 and Byzantine traditions. This I argue is a form of (re)negotiating what it means to be a Copt in

Diaspora. Monastic narratives and hagiopics become mediums by which Copts are both cultivated into virtuous subjects as well as a means by which normative discourses of what it means to be

Coptic Orthodox become transmitted to second-generation Copts. The accounts of Father

Theophan and Gregory address the ways in which second-generation Copts respond to normative ideologies of Coptic piety, discipleship and submission to Church authority. Hagiopics, in the case of my personal vignette, speak to the ways that Orthodox theology are both understood and practiced in light of the Coptic monastic tradition. In the next chapter, I will change direction slightly and address the role of Egypt in cultivating Coptic Christians in the North American

Diaspora while maintaining a focus on questions of centralized power, authority, and hierarchy.

Egypt in Relation to Cultivating Coptic Subjects On September 6th, 2014, I decided to finish my fieldwork in California and return to

Toronto, a month earlier than originally planned. Pope Tawadros II, Patriarch of Alexandria, was making his first visit to Canada and I thought it would be important to attend this historic event in relation to the transnational relationship between the Mother Church in Egypt and Diaspora. The purpose of Pope Tawadros’ visit was not only a pastoral one but was also intended to be for inaugurating the new Coptic Cathedral of Saint Mark’s in Scarborough, Ontario. Following his sermon in English, there was an opportunity for open questions. A phone number appeared on the projector for anyone to text questions. One person asked how Copts in North America could “help their brothers and sisters in Egypt?” Besides imploring those in attendance to pray and send back monetary assistance to Egypt, Pope Tawadros’ response deviated from the original question and began to describe the Coptic Church as a “national Church.”

“I would like to tell you something about Egypt from which I come. If you look at the map of the world, you will see that Egypt is in the heart of the world. This is why I always like to say, all the countries of the world are in the hands of God, except for Egypt. Egypt is in the heart of

God. Why? Because the Holy Family came to Egypt, our Lord Jesus Christ, our Lady St. Mary and St. Joseph the Carpenter visited Egypt and stayed there three years and six months. They moved in Egypt from East to West and North to South, [traveling] in the shape of the cross.

Therefore Egypt is blessed. Our Lord protects our country in his heart. [Egypt] is a special country[...] Egypt is now starting a new era with a new president and a new constitution. In a few weeks, we will have a new parliament. Now, the Coptic Church has very good relationships with key cornerstones of Egyptian society [such as] the president, with Al-Azhar, the Grand Imam, judges, Armed Forces, and the Police Force. All are in harmony. Therefore Egypt needs your

241 242 support and encouragement, especially in the field of education for new schools and teachers. As youth, you can also come and serve in poor areas and serve disadvantaged children in many villages and desert areas. You can come and help all people. This is very important.”

Pope Tawadros’ statements are interesting in respect to the audience to whom he is speaking. He is delivering a nationalistic perspective of Egypt to an audience whose majority are second-generation Copts, who may or may not have the relationship he is portraying, asking them to consider serving or maybe even working in Egypt for a period of time. When asked if he would ordain a bishop for Toronto, Pope Tawadros stated that Toronto “was like Cairo,” in that it will remain part of the North American Archdiocese directly under his supervision and jurisdiction.

This decision suggested that he desired that the Coptic Church outside Egypt continue to maintain strong ties to the Mother Church. Pope Tawadros’ message also conveyed a sentiment that the precarious situation of Copts as a minority in Egypt was improving.

Was the situation in Egypt getting better or were Pope Tawadros’ words more hope than reality? Was it an implicit plea for Copts in Diaspora to behave by refraining from speaking out against the Egyptian State and the treatment of Copts in particular, so as to avoid problems for the

Church in Egypt? Do his comments suggest that there is a fear that the wider Coptic Diaspora would one day separate from Egypt? Is he implying that a Copt’s relationship to Egypt is necessary for experiencing their Christian faith?

Pope Tawadros foregrounds his statements in a particular geopolitical context, inviting his listeners to do the same. The emphasis by Pope Tawadros for second-generation Copts to return to Egypt strengthens the position of the Coptic Church. The general vibe in the Church was that there were mixed reactions to his message. In her analysis of Catholic transnational migration,

Valentina Napolitano (2015:2) alludes to a notion of “Atlantic Return”— “the return of people of the Catholic faith from the Americas to Rome” by which the Catholic Church is “fortified and

243 strengthened”. Return migration strengthens the Catholic Church in the sense that its history of converting the Americas is perceived to have resulted in successful missionary work. A disconnection from the Catholic Church may entail a separation from Rome as “the Center” of the

Catholic Church. Similarly, in the context of Diaspora and the Coptic Church, the emphasis of

Pope Tawadros II on second-generation Copts to “return” to Egypt is not only an emphasis on

Egypt as the center of Coptic Orthodoxy but reflects an anxiety that the Coptic Church in Egypt will no longer be the center for Copts in Diaspora. In Napolitano’s (2015:3) words: “The Return is not just about the past; it is very much for a present and a future […].” Return sustains the centrality of the Coptic Church in the Coptic Christian experience from the present to the future.

The tension for many second-generation Copts, however, is that they do not identify as Egyptian and their connection to Egypt might only be through their families, church services, and in some cases as described in Chapter 3, watching Coptic hagiopics.

As in the previous chapter, I use the term authenticity as a means to describe the ways in which my interlocutors expressed what they regarded as “real” or “true” expressions of both Coptic monasticism and Coptic identity more broadly. At the heart of this chapter is an attempt to understand how the wider socio-political and economic climate in Egypt, as well as the relationship between the Church hierarchy, monastics, and laity, speak to the ways in which the Coptic

Christian subject is cultivated into a virtuous subject both inside and outside Egypt. While this last chapter does not have a strong focus on monasticism per se, it is framed within a wider understanding of a Coptic social imagination as being rooted in a particular line of Tradition as will be explained shortly. In the same way that Christian monasticism is framed as having its roots in Egypt, some interlocutors turn to the writings of Alexandrian Church fathers as a means to foreground their Coptic identity in Diaspora.

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Academic studies conducted on the Coptic North American Diaspora have focused on integration and survival (Botros 2005), converts and issues of gender (Loewen 2008), inter-cultural marriages (Salama 2012), Coptic heritage and its preservation (Saad 2014), and transnationalism and Coptic “e-diaspora” (Westbrook & Saad 2017). While this chapter speaks about issues addressed in these respective works, my particular focus is on investigating Egypt as an exemplary and morally imagined space and analyzing debates around the centralization of Egypt as a necessary part of Coptic identity in the North American Diaspora. Furthermore, I examine debates around the role of Egypt in cultivating what it means to be a virtuous Coptic subject. Sherry Ortner

(1995:177) makes an important argument that anthropology as a discipline must recognize that resistance is more than the opposition of dominating forces: it is about an exercise of a minority’s politics. Extending Ortner’s argument, I would like to think of resistance as an alternative means to being cultivated as an ethical subject within the hegemonic norms of Church rhetoric. Some of the interlocutors in this chapter draw on multiple subjectivities in a constant attempt to cultivate themselves into virtuous Copts. Many of the voices presented are “rebels” or “resistors” (Bandak and Boylston 2014) who engage with questions of tradition, theology, and orthodoxy, and orthopraxy, while being faithful members of the Church, choosing to focus on Tradition with a capital “T,” rather than tradition with a lower case “t” (as described in the introduction).

Following Pope Tawadros’ address, I saw a group of friends form a circle outside of the cathedral where they discussed the event. Gregory and Youstina, both second-generation Copts, talked about the lecture. I had missed some of the conversation and joined as Gregory shared that he had trouble with the Pope’s statement that “The whole world is in God’s hand, but Egypt is in

God’s heart.” Youstina reiterated to Gregory how the Pope argued that history and geography came together in Egypt. “But when do history and geography not combine? Geography affects history sure, but this wasn’t a special case in Egypt. How do you think other Copts in Sudan or

245 those who are not ethnically Egyptian felt when the Pope essentially said that their country was not in God’s heart? Why is Egypt so unique?” Gregory asked. “Christ visited Egypt as an infant, escaping Herod’s ruthless killing of children, and [it] is the only country outside his hometown that He had visited,” Youstina responded, reiterating what Pope Tawadros stated in his talk. “Sure, but Christ also visited areas as an adult that would now be considered Jordan, Syria, Palestine, and

Israel. All were under Roman Rule and were not independent nation states as today. Our current national borders are a construct of the modern nation-state. What do you make of that?” Gregory asked. “That’s not the point. The Bible clearly says ‘Blessed be my people Egypt.’” Youstina says in rebuttal. “You are only addressing blessing in respect to Egypt! Read the rest of the verse! Have you paid attention to the remainder of the passage!?” Gregory exclaims passionately. “Assyrians were also blessed but were eventually the victims of genocide.” Youstina dismissed the comment as if no longer interested in the conversation and the conversation turned to a different topic altogether.

Interested in what Gregory thought about the conversation and his opinion on the Pope’s address to the youth more broadly, I continued with him in private as we walked back to our cars:

“Honestly, that’s probably one of the most frustrating conversations I’ve had. Right before

you joined the conversation she said that the Coptic Church ought not to be ethnocentric.

Everything else she said contradicted this position. What the Pope was saying was a biblical

cliché most Copts believe without thinking critically. How does one expect to have a multi-

ethnic church while simultaneously holding an extreme nationalistic attitude on their

country and such a nepotistic understanding of God? I think much of the nationalism stems

from a strong desire to see one’s ethnic group as somehow favored; it may indirectly be

the result of a victim mentality that many Copts in the Diaspora sense. It may also be a

reaction to the pluralistic society from which the Coptic Diaspora has largely sheltered

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itself. That’s on the one hand. On the other, the paradox is that many Copts flourished here

in Canada and Diaspora at large, at least financially. Ultimately, this inability to judge and

think on what is being communicated leads people to say, think, and behave the same way;

this conformity breeds obedience to the Church that can no longer be questioned. You saw

what happened back there, she accepted the word of the Pope as the word of God and

dismissed the greater picture! The hierarchical structure of our church has made those at

the top seem almost seem like infallible celebrities whose words are taken as Gospel. It

was almost as if he [Pope Tawadros] was saying that to be a good Christian you have to be

a good Egyptian.”

Gregory’s comments were well thought out, and his attitude passionate to put it mildly. It was evident to me that he had been thinking about these issues for some time and that the events of the night added to his thoughts and experience. At the heart of Gregory’s comments are two points. The first is with respect to the nature of the Coptic Orthodox Church as being an Egyptian

Church and the second relates to the authority of clergy in the Coptic Orthodox Church. Gregory had difficulty in expressing solidarity with the Coptic Church as an Egyptian Church, having been raised in Toronto. Taken at face value, it is evident that the Coptic Church would be an Egyptian

Church, with its rites, hymns, and liturgical practices that come to reflect its culture as the indigenous Church of Egypt. With the growth of the Coptic Church outside of Egypt, however,

Gregory’s comments point to how the complexities and questions of that identity continue to be a major issue for Copts in Diaspora, in particular for those like him who do not identify with the culture, language, and the geopolitics of the region.

Between twenty and thirty years ago, Coptic immigrants desired for all their liturgical services to be in Arabic and Coptic. The primary reason they would aspire to this was the willingness to maintain their heritage and feel that they were still Egyptian. There was and (to a

247 great extent) still is a fear of “losing” the Coptic heritage. The second-generation Copts born in

Diaspora consistently found themselves being isolated and marginalized as they identified with neither the language nor the culture. Until ten years ago it was quite uncommon to find non-

Egyptians joining the Coptic Church unless they married an Egyptian Copt. Even then, speaking with many intermarried couples at Saint Paul’s, there was an enormous cultural gap that marginalized them from participation. Namely, they were not Egyptian. This is an important issue to address given that Orthodoxy and culture in the Coptic Church are described almost as being one and the same. While there are obvious cultural influences that come to reflect the Church, for those joining the Church their becoming Orthodox looks very much like them becoming Egyptian.

In other words, many of my interlocutors who were of non-Egyptian background expressed that joining the Coptic Church came with a kind of “Egyptianization” and acculturation. This acculturation was expressed through social expectations and conduct in the Church. For example, how one might sit or what one might wear.

In recent years the Coptic Church has begun to realize this point and attempted to bridge the gap between first and second-generation Copts as well as converts through the advent of

“mission churches,” churches aimed at serving these groups. The purpose of these churches is to maintain Orthodoxy in a “Western” way while preserving some of the heritage of the Coptic

Church by conducting church services in English. What was more important to my interlocutors besides services being in English was that the Church is a culturally acceptable space where anyone could come and not feel isolated.

Rachel and John illustrated an example of this point to me. Rachel was baptized into the

Coptic Church when she married John 20 years ago. “It was awkward having to sit by myself on the women’s side, and have no one able to explain to me what was going on. I felt lost since everything was mostly in Arabic and Coptic. I remember one time I sat with my legs crossed in

248 the church. I grew up knowing this to be a sign of respect. One elderly lady smacked my knees to sit “properly.” I later found out from John that it is disrespectful in Egyptian culture to sit with your legs crossed in the church. Here I was respecting God the way I knew how and was shunned for it.” John continued that he had very seriously considered taking Rachel to another Orthodox parish, possibly one in part of the Orthodox Church in America (OCA) as a result of this. He wanted Rachel to feel like she was welcomed and belonged. It so happened that before they could make a decision on what they would do, Rachel and John moved out of California for some time and stopped attending church altogether. In 2012 they moved back to California because Rachel’s company relocated. This time also coincided with the establishment of Saint Paul’s American

Coptic Orthodox Church. What was more important to Rachel and John besides services being in

English was that the parish itself was a culturally accepting space where anyone could come and not feel isolated. At Saint Paul’s, Rachel and John experience their faith with a community of families in similar circumstances, who also do not recognize a need to embrace Egyptian culture.

In relation to the second-generation, this demographic represents a group of individuals who grew up in America with similar social values and expectations. They can enter the church without feeling constrained by language barriers and Egyptian social norms.

7.1 Immigrating After January 25th, 2011 I had the opportunity to interview Maged, a recent immigrant to the United States who arrived in 2012, a year after the January 25th Uprising. He came with his wife and two children who were both in high school. Maged sought a better future for his family, one that was no longer looking promising for him in Egypt, especially as a businessman who was involved in imports and exports. As Egypt’s economy began to take a hit, so did his business. The cost of living was growing more expensive, especially his children’s education.

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Students in Egypt rely on private lessons from specialized tutors to do well in school. A tutor can charge anywhere from 200-500 LE per lesson. It made more sense for Maged to immigrate to the United States in search of more stability rather than continue to live in economic precarity. He and his wife Marcel work six days a week, Maged in a gas station and Marcel in a retail store. I visited Maged in their small apartment in Orange County. I met his children Mina and Maggie, who had just returned from school. Marcel was still at work and would not be home before 9 pm. Over dinner, I asked Mina and Maggie about their experience in California. They immediately made it clear to me of their desire to return to Egypt. They had a tough time making friends at school and church because of language barriers, both having studied in French schools in Egypt, and felt that their experience of church was one simply of routine. They did not belong.

They all found it difficult to understand the English Liturgy and felt that it “lacked beauty and flavour.” They did mention however that they were beginning to get used to the Liturgy in English although it “still wasn’t the same.” On the other hand, Maged was very particular about going to church because the church was his only means of feeling that he was attached to Egypt, especially when meeting others like him and his family who immigrated after January 25th, 2015. They would discuss the current politics in Egypt as well as their experience as newcomers. I asked

Maged if he attended church every week when living in Egypt. He expressed that, while he identified as being religious, there were instances where he did not make it to church because of work or needing to drive his children to private tutorials.

Thus, Maged and his family’s local parishes became a kind of microcosm of Egyptian society where Maged discussed the social, political, and economic situation in Egypt in the social hall after the Liturgy. The importance of church for Maged, then, is his ability to maintain a connection with Egypt while living abroad. His local parish reflects a space “in between” home and host society where questions of identity and belonging are (re)negotiated.

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7.2 Diaspora & Church Reform Father Michael Sorial (2014) argues for applying the Orthodox understanding of the

Incarnation as prescribed by Saint Athanasius to the diasporic experience of Copts in North

America. The Orthodox Church understands the Incarnation as the restoration and renewal of humanity by which humankind becomes by grace what Christ is by nature. In other words, God incarnate (Jesus Christ) took on human nature and gave the world His life and granted humanity the opportunity to be a co-participant in the fullness of His life.

According to Sorial (2014) in the same way that God came to the world, Copts were called out of Egypt and are required to enculturate while retaining the essence of their faith, which is the life of Christ. Sorial’s analysis implicitly suggests that the Coptic Church in Diaspora is in its cultural bubble, many times isolated from mainstream society, choosing to retain aspects of life in

Egypt that immigrants once enjoyed, recreating Egypt in their host communities. If Christ’s

Incarnation was for all humanity, then Copts ought to present Christ to all members of their host society without being insulars. To do this, Sorial suggests that the Church must apply a

Christocentric model where “Christ is at the center of the Church’s experience” and made relevant to the culture of the society where Copts live (ibid.:17). An example he gives is that of liturgical reform in the choice of prayers used by the Church in Diaspora. Sorial also suggests that the

Church in Diaspora must move away from its persecution discourse. While the persecution discourse is a means for empowerment amidst sectarian tensions in Egypt, it is an experience that the second-generation does not understand, because they have not experienced religious persecution as their parents did back home.

Sorial’s arguments are interestingly in line with the perspectives of some of my interlocutors who understand theology as part of their everyday lives and use theology to explain their positionality on various subjects and their critique of the direction of the Church in Diaspora.

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I first met Morcos in Cairo through a mutual friend. He was an engineer by profession but took over his father’s manufacturing business a few years after graduating. He is among the “youth who read,” shabāb biyi’ra (Chapter 6). Morcos, however, was luckily not regarded as a troublesome youth because his uncle was his parish priest. Congregants often asked him questions about theology and liturgy, knowing that these were topics Marcos read about at great length.

Many of our discussions pertained to his interests in theology and his views on events happening in the Church. During my time in Egypt, we would enjoy several meetings including a retreat for four days at al-Baramous. Shortly after I returned from Egypt in October 2012, Morcos called me to tell me that he and his wife were immigrating to the United States. The economic situation in Egypt was affecting his business, leading him to seek more stability. He was looking to open a similar business to that which he had in Egypt with some money he had saved up. His younger brother would take over the business in Egypt once Morcos immigrated.

Though we did not meet in the United States even after he and his wife migrated, Marcos and I stayed in close contact over telephone and Facebook. In one of our conversations about two years after he immigrated, I asked Morcos about his views of churches in the United States and what he perceived was different than Egypt.

He maintained that change in the Coptic Church would happen first in the Diaspora as a result of the need of the Church to adapt to pastoral issues such as divorce and inter-Christian marriages. Morcos stressed that this change would come as a result of a push from Diaspora or initiated by the Mother Church as both come to realize that the issues facing the Church in Diaspora are completely alien to Egypt.

Morcos spoke about his experience in Egypt with what he described as “two camps of youth”. The first a group of regular church goers who attend liturgy and various church meetings

252 and the second a group who are frustrated with the Church because they feel the Church is not fulfilling their spiritual needs.

Morcos is most certainly from those of the second camp which led to his desire to rely heavily on theological writings of Church Fathers, making sense of them, and contextualizing them himself. In his view, many clergy in both Egypt and the United States are not equipped to deal with the social circumstances youth are experiencing. Many of the youth he knew in Egypt attended Liturgy in the Coptic Orthodox Church but chose to attend social events in Catholic or

Protestant churches because of their ability to address social concerns and answer their difficult questions. He was aware that this was not uncommon in the United States because, in addition to distance between clergy and some youth in addressing social issues, they did not identify with

Egyptians and related more to fellow Americans in other denominations.

Morcos’ tone was very passionate near the end of our conversation and expressed his thoughts directly:

“The Church will either be forced to change because of an exodus of parishioners to other

churches, will continue as is with the feeling that everything is fine and dandy. Where I

feel reform is more likely to come from is Diaspora. In the North American context, Coptic

youth recognize the US or Canada as their homes. It is not a land of immigration or

Diaspora. These youth have everything they need in society in regards to friends and a

social life. Everything is available to them from support and growth in society. Quite

frankly they do not need anything from the Church. Second and third generation Copts [in

Diaspora] do not require the Church to fulfill their social needs. They need the Church to

fill their yearning spirits with Christ. If the Church in Diaspora continues to be a church of

immigrants, it should at least identify respective roles for different parishes. If not, the

second-generation will leave the Church and the only way to sustain itself will be to rely

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on immigration and cater solely to the needs of immigrants. [Continuous] Immigration can

only happen for so long. Youth in the US today need spiritual fulfillment. The Church

needs to identify the kind of Church it is. Is it a missionary Church, or is it a Church of

immigrants? If we say that it is a church of mission than it must be inclusive of all members

of society, not just Egyptians. If it continues to be a Church of immigrants than youth

brought up here will leave the Church and go to other denominations.”

Morcos’ reflections clearly contrast with most recent immigrants I met. In particular, he does not seek to recreate an Egypt-centric Diaspora (like Maged for example). Morcos holds the position that by reviving a theological understanding of what it means to be “the Church” and what it means to be a human being from an Orthodox perspective, the Coptic Church in Diaspora can cater more effectively to the pastoral needs and everyday choices of Copts in Diaspora. Unlike the Catholic

Church, which has clear canon law on birth control, individual priests or bishops are usually regarded as authorities on the matter in the Coptic Church. What this led to, as Morcos suggests, is contradictions among the clergy. The second example he uses is that of baptism. In Egypt, this may not be a particularly important issue because the majority of Orthodox Copts marry within the Church. In Diaspora, however, marriage can be a point of contestation between some clergy and inter-married couples since matrimony can only take place if both parties are baptized and/or

Chrismated as Orthodox. Even with this understanding of baptism, there are disagreements among some clergy on who requires baptism and/or (re) Chrismation. By coming to a clear consensus on acceptable baptism through a definitive canon law, the Coptic Church outside of Egypt will be able to meet the pastoral needs and everyday concerns of its congregation. For Morcos, the lack of theological and pastoral conformity among clergy in the Coptic Church at large will eventually lead to the separation of the Coptic Diaspora from Egypt, prompting a need to revive the

Alexandrian Patristic Tradition. In addition, while also paradoxical, the relationship between

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Egypt and North American Diaspora will only be preserved if the Coptic Church in Diaspora moves away from an Egypt-centric model. For Morcos, the “authenticity” of the Coptic Diaspora is not about blood purity and Egyptians, but in embracing the theology of the Alexandrian Church

Fathers.

7.3 Conclusion The crux of the debates presented in this chapter can be summarized in the words of Valentina

Napolitano (2015:8) as an “anxiety about hybridity [and] subversion of power-relations [and] the destabilization of hierarchies […]” What is at stake for the Coptic Church is more than questions about language and praxis but are rooted in the political struggle of the Coptic Church in Egypt.

Maintaining ties with the Coptic Diaspora is a means by which the Coptic Church (re)affirms the legitimacy of Copts as Egyptian citizens, through a continuous connection to the homeland. The growth of the Coptic Diaspora, especially in North America, has rendered the Coptic Church a transnational Church. At the same time however, the growing number of second-generation Copts and beyond raises important questions as to what degree the Church in Diaspora should be connected to the Motherland. A noticeable change or perhaps greater focus on the relationship between the Mother Church and its Diaspora post January 2011 as described in the opening vignette is the Church trying to maintain connections with the 2nd generation. From August 25th-

September 1st 2018, Pope Tawadros hosted 200 youth from different dioceses outside of Egypt in the Logos Center, a retreat center in the monastery of Saint Bishoy. On August 29th 2018, a delegation of 10 individuals from among these youth had the opportunity to meet President Abdel-

Fatah al-Sisi. Though I cannot comment at great length since this event has recently occurred, it is sufficient to say that this convention is a clear example of the ways in which the Church Hierarchy, primarily through Pope Tawadros, aims to connect second-generation Copts, not only with Mother

Church in Egypt, but also with the Egyptian State. Perhaps one interpretation of this event is that

255 the both the Mother Church and the Coptic Church in Diaspora are facing a kind of identity crisis.

With the growing exodus of Copts from Egypt, ecclesiastical authority could be shifting, while in the Coptic Church in North America, church leaders are trying to balance its Egyptian roots with the ongoing enculturation of its members into North American society. Along with multiple definitions of what it means to be Coptic come competing understandings of what it means to be exemplary.

Conclusion

On July 29th 2018, Bishop Epiphanius the Abbot of Saint Macarius’ Monastery in Wadi al-

Natroun was found dead in a pool of blood between his cell and the church. His skull was smashed from behind with what appeared to be a sharp object. He was on his way to attend midnight praises.

Rumours began circulating on social media as to the motives and possible perpetrators for this heinous crime. Some called it a “terrorist attack” and said that this could only be the doings of a

Muslim extremist, while others said it was someone from the inside of the monastery, either a labourer or a monk who was disgruntled with the bishop. The thought of a monk murdering his abbot was regarded by many I spoke with as ludicrous. How could a monk who dedicated his life to God commit such a crime? And if so, what could possibly be his motive? Bishop Epiphanius was quickly hailed as a martyr for the Truth and education in his desire that all would grow in their love for the teachings of the Church Fathers and Patristic Tradition. A monk from the monastery wrote a small ode for him on which circulated on Facebook, “he became praise. He left his cell to offer a liturgical sacrifice, and he became the sacrifice. He left to attend church, and went straight to the kingdom” The first week after the event was shrouded in mystery.

I found the words of Pope Tawadros during the funeral service implicitly addressing a possible internal division among the monks with the pope pleading with the monks to “repent” and stressed that they were only “children of Saint Macarius the Great, and no one else.” Were these divisions in the monastery theological differences between the schools of Father Matthew the Poor and Pope Shenouda III (Chapter 1) as some have suggested? Or was there a deeper conflict in respect to competing forms of monastic ideologies?

The day following Bishop Epiphanius’ funeral, Pope Tawadros met with the Committee of

Monastic Affairs, a sub-committee of the Holy Synod comprised mostly of bishops who are abbots

256 257 of monasteries, and some other senior bishops, and published a 12-point edict that would be implemented immediately in all Coptic monasteries in Egypt.200 Among the 12 bylaws were the refusal of new novices for 1 year and the ceasing of priestly ordinations or elevations for 3 years.

There was also a strict order for all monks on social-media platforms such as Facebook to close their profiles within 1 month, or face the consequence of immediate defrocking. The committee also excommunicated monk Yacoub al-Makari for the establishment of a monastery not recognized by the Holy Synod. The next day another monk, Ashayia, also from the Monastery of

Saint Macarius was stripped of his priesthood and monasticism for “behaviour that did not fit the monastic life.” Rumours on social media circulated that his excommunication was tied to the murder of Bishop Epiphanius. This claim was denied on the social outlets for Official

Spokesperson of the Coptic Church, stating that his defrocking was irrespective of investigations into the bishop’s murder. A couple of days later reports circulated that a monk from the Monastery of Saint Macarius attempted suicide by slitting his wrists and throwing himself over the wall of the ancient monastery. On social media many stated it was the monk Ashayia, but it was later reported that in fact two monks had attempted suicide, among whom was Ashayia as well as the monk Faltaoes. The first tried to poison himself drinking Pin-Sol, while the latter through the above-mentioned attempt. In his weekly Wednesday sermon following the news of the attempted suicides, Pope Tawadros delivered a strong message in which he talked about the necessity for reforming monasticism. He asked the congregation in helping the Church preserve the monastic life emphasising that visits to monasteries are not for leisure but for receiving blessings, pleading with visitors to respect the sanctity of monasteries as holy places. Pope Tawadros’ words took a

200 There was no explicit reference to monasteries in Diaspora, though the committee also published a list of “official” monasteries recognized by the Holy Synod both in Egypt and abroad, as well as monastic communities “under development” which are canonical communities that are yet to be monasteries.

258 sharp turn, when he stated that “among every 12, there is a Judas and we should not be shocked by the news of one attempting suicide. The thought of treachery entered Judas’ heart and he betrayed his Master.” This statement alone, suggested that he was speaking about the incident at the Monastery of Saint Macarius. The following week an official statement was released by the

Prosecutor’s office of al-Beheria Governate, referring the former monk Ashyia and monk Faltaoes to criminal court for the murder of Bishop Epiphanius. The investigation reported that Ashyia had struck 3 blows to the back of the bishop’s head with an iron rod, while Faltaoes made sure no one was around to see the crime.

More conspiracy theories emerged amongst Copts stating that both monks could not have committed the murder and that they were framed. Both had wounds on their necks and Ashyia was severely beaten while under police supervision. Some social media outlets reported that the ones who orchestrated the crime and framed the two monks were in fact neighbouring Bedouins, who attempted to take a plot of land belonging to the monastery, to which the bishop filed a law-suit against them. His murder was their retaliation. Was this version of incident the true one, or was it a story circulating because of a sense of denial that monks as moral exemplars could not commit such a terrible crime?

Needless to say, the story of the bishop’s murder gained international coverage both by well-known news agencies such as Reuters and the BBC as well as Coptic satellite channels in

Europe and the United States. Perhaps the most important discussion about the incident was recorded with Metropolitan Serapion of Los Angeles on Logos TV, the diocese run and sponsored satellite channel. In this interview Metropolitan Serapion made clear that the internal rifts inside the Monastery of Saint Macarius were not theological divisions between monks adhering to Father

Matthew the Poor or Pope Shenouda but that the crime committed by the accused was first and

259 foremost a result of them not abiding by the rules of the that govern the monastic life, such as submitting to obedience and possession of money. Metropolitan Serapion spoke of how Father

Matthew had a particular vision for the monastic life that many could not adhere to and ended up leaving the monastery for the Monastery of Saint Bishoy in the 1980’s. Metropolitan Serapion stressed that fixing the divisions in the monastery can be achieved means that those who are not able to live according to the rules that govern the monastery and monasticism more broadly, must be held accountable and that there must be a return to the foundations of monasticism, particularly discipleship and submission to the authority of monastic elders. He emphasized that establishing new bylaws are important but that the root causes must be addressed. He gave the example of the bylaw which stipulated that no novices would accepted for one. “What will happen after one year?” the Metropolitan asked the interviewing priest. “the success of a monastery [today] is measured by the number of monks,” suggesting that the conditions for accepting novices has become less strict, resulting in some of the above-mentioned problems found in monasticism today.

Furthermore, Metropolitan Serapion referred to a book written by Father Mathew the Poor about the history of monasticism during the time of Saint Macarius. Bishop Serapion addresses Father

Matthew’s introduction where he writes about the rich history of monasticism but also how the

Monastery of Saint Macarius was in poor shape when he (Father Matthew) was assigned to revive it. Father Matthew wrote made a list in the introduction of those that helped him financially in rebuilding and reviving. This is to say that the monastic life is subject to its time and in order for the monastery to be revived the monks of Saint Macarius needed the help of the laity because they themselves could not sustain revive the monastery alone. In saying this Metropolitan Serapion made a point which is the main argument of this dissertation: “envisioning monasticism is one thing, and its lived reality is another.”

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A few days after the interview, I received a WhatsApp message from a friend with a recorded YouTube message by Father Yoel (Joel) al-Makari, a monk of almost 50 years, and a disciple Father Matthew, responding to the interview with Metropolitan Serapion. He confirmed that the divisions in the monastery were not a result of theological disagreement but the consequence of looseness in the monastery and Coptic monasticism more broadly after the passing of Father Matthew the Poor in 2006. Abuna Yoel did however go into detail describing why in his views the monastery experienced instability after Father Matthew the Poor. He asserted in contrast to Metropolitan Serapion that the primary demise of the monastery began when Pope Shenouda encouraged monks of the monastery not to disciple to the elders of the monastery,201 seeking to release them from many years of being “trapped under” Abuna Matta. He described this as the beginning of giving monks who disagreed with the monastic vision of Abuna Matta a “card blanche” to push for Saint Macarius to “be like other monasteries.” This included more monks being ordained to priesthood (though the monastery for several years had only two priests of whom one was Abuna Matta), as well as monks being given a salary, which previously did not exist, resulting to monks owning cars and leaving and entering the monastery freely without any restrictions.

Abuna Yoel described bishop Epiphanius as a father of whom “the monastery was not worthy.” He ascribed Bishop Epiphanius’ lack of severity with these monks, some of whom even refused his title as bishop over them, as a quality of his meekness. Father Yoel also commended the efforts of Pope Tawadros and iterated that the 12 bylaws passed by the Committee of Monastic

201 A short clip video circulated on Facebook of this incident on August 27th 2018, with Pope Shenouda being recorded on CTV (Chapter 4) saying these words, but did not provide the full context.

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Affairs were nothing new to the monks of Saint Macarius because they were characteristic how they lived under the guidance Abuna Matta. The 12 bylaws were also supposedly recommendations given to the Pope by some of monks of the monastery themselves.

What I have described above speaks to major themes of this dissertations, namely, tensions between imagined and lived monasticism and contention between monastic and ecclesiastical authority. Abuna Yoel al-Makari’s “conversation” with Metropolitan Serapion is an example of the ways in which technology has opened up a space between Egypt and the Coptic Diaspora.202

Conversations about Bishop Epiphanius’ murder on social media led to the Church hierarchs being transparent (whether they intended for this or not) and discussing the internal problems in the

Coptic Church with the public for perhaps the first time in history. Bishop Epiphanius’ death is also significant because it revealed that there is a contestation between multiple forms of Coptic exemplarity. The monk is only one example. What I have demonstrated throughout this dissertation is that there is a gap between how monks are perceived and what they expect of themselves and how they live.

I remember calling Abuna Athanasius shortly after the incident. For the first time since knowing him, Abuna Athanasius expressed anxiety over the future of the Church. His main concern was that this would give the State the opportunity to mingle in the affairs of the Church particularly desert monasteries. “Everything is now in the open” he said.

202 Fr. Yoel was later suspended from carrying out any priestly function (he is a monk-priest) for 1 year, because of this audio recording, for “appearing” on social media as contrary to one of the 12 bylaws and for defaming Pope Shenouda III.

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“We thought the difficult event of Bishop Epiphanius’ murder would end up fixing many

problems we face in the monastic life, but in fact his death was the beginning of exposing

many ugly things such as contention of authority, possession of money and property, even

immoral acts. People look to us now and ask ‘do you monks kill each other?’ It’s like you

have a box that you admire from the outside, once you open it, a bad smell is released. This

is what is happening.”

Abuna Athanasius’ words reveal that Coptic monasticism is going through an identity crisis.

Bishop Epiphanius’ murder was not because of a theological disagreement but because of competing voices of authority and ideology for what the Coptic Church should look like.203 The way that Copts imagine monasticism is far from the lived reality. Bishop Epiphanius was murdered by one of his own monks. The exemplarity of those revered to the highest regard is now brought into question, allowing for everyone and anyone to criticize the very movement that is regarded as the backbone the Coptic Orthodox Church. Yet a close reading of Coptic history shows that in the early periods of monasticism, certain monks did not behave monastically. There is a famous story of a monk who was known by the brethren to be committing adultery. The monks told Saint

Macarius, who upon entering the cell of the monk, sat over the basket were the woman with whom the monk was sinning was hiding, not allowing for the monk to be judged, but giving them both the chance to repent. The reason I bring up this story is that it demonstrates how historical monasticism is read through the lens of imagined exemplarity. Saint Macarius was an exemplar who sought the salvation of his son, yet it does not negate the fact that the monk was broke his vow of his monastic life and was not exemplary. “In every generation, there are good monks and

203 See Lukasik (2018) for a parallel argument.

263 bad monks” one monk in the United States said to me. “Saint Antony and Saint Macarius were not the norm, they were the exception. Today you can also count on your fingers those monks who are truly saints.” Bishop Epiphanius was certainly one of those saints.

Anyone who met Bishop Epiphanius would immediately recognize that he was different, he was exemplary in though he was a bishop one visiting the monastery would not be able to distinguish him from other monks. When Mark, Amir and I visited the monastery he refused to accept prostrations from us that are customary to offer the bishop, saying that he had prohibited anyone in the monastery to prostrate before him. His position as a bishop was clearly one simply on the grounds of administration, and not ecclesiastical authority. In a voice recording with monks circulating on Facebook, he emphasised how he wept on the day of his ordination as a priest, and that it was out of obedience to his spiritual guide Father Matthew the Poor that he accepted ordination, though reluctantly.

The event of Bishop Epiphanius’ murder also speaks to questions of my own positionality as a Coptic academic. Bishop Epiphanius was one of the few hierarchs that encouraged academic studies among the Church faithful and was a voice for Coptic intellectuals. He himself was responsible for the manuscripts of the monastery and spent years carrying out research as a monk and a bishop. He was in a very real sense an exemplar for Coptic academics and scholars. In a way I see myself as a disciple of his cause for educating the Coptic laity.

If anything is clear from my thesis it is that I have brought anthropology and personal biography together into a conversation where my own views of the Church have been challenged.

In as much as I have brought Coptic Christianity under anthropological inquiry, the discipline of anthropology has contributed to the ways I think about my own faith as a Coptic Christian. As an anthropologist I am responsible for making sense of different layers of meaning and presenting

264 them in the best of my ability. As it so happens, I also share in the experiences of my interlocutors and have participated with them in unpacking the complexities of our world and the ways in which we as social beings make sense of it in relation to ourselves and one another. Anthropology has taught me that being critical does not mean one cannot be faithful. If anything, I have come to realize that though they start at different vantage points, my faith and anthropology have intersected together and seek to understand the same thing: what it means to be human.

Ethnographic Photos

Figure 1: Souvenir Shop (right) at St. Paul's Monastery, Red Sea

265 266

Figure 2: Monks Praying the Midnight Praises at St. Antony's Monastery, Red Sea (Photo taken by Mark)

267

Figure 3: Entrance to St. Bishoy's Hermitage, Monastery of al-Souriān, Wadi al-Natroun

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Figure 4: Inside the Hermitage of St. Bishoy, where the Saint tied his hair

269

Figure 5: Reliquary of St. Moses (right) & St. Isidore (left), Monastery of al-Baramous, Wadi al-Natroun

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Figure 6: Pilgrims seeking the blessing of Abuna Fanous, St. Paul's Monastery, Red Sea (Photo taken by Mark)

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Figure 7: Pilgrims venerating St. Bishoy's relics, & singing glorifications, St. Bishoy's Monastery, Wadi al-Natroun

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Figure 8: Monk walking with mosque minaret in the distance, a monastery in Wadi al- Natroun (Photo taken by Mark)

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Figure 9: Monk praying at the burial site of Fr. Matthew the Poor, Monastery of St. Macarius, Wadi al-Natroun (Photo taken by Amir)

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Figure 10: Ancient Church at St. Bishoy's Monastery, Wadi al-Natroun

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