On Sunday, January 20, 2007, Tony Yengeni, former Chief Whip of South Africa's governing party, the African National Congress (ANC), celebrated his early release from a four-year prison sentence by slaughtering a bull at his father's house in the Cape Town township of Gugulethu. This time-honored African ritual was performed in order to appease the Yengeni family ancestors. Animal rights activists, however, decried the sacrifice as an act of unnecessary cruelty to the bull, and a public outcry ensued. Leading figures in government circles, including the Minister of Arts and Culture, Pallo Jordan, entered the fray, calling for a proper understanding of African cultural practices. Jody Kollapen, the Chair of the Human Rights Commission, said: “the slaughter of animals by cultures in South Africa was an issue that needed to be dealt with in context. Cultural liberty is an important right. …”

That the sacrifice was defended on the ground of African culture was to be expected. More surprising was the way in which everyone involved in the affair ignored what could have been regarded as an event of religious significance. Admittedly, it is far from easy to separate the concepts of religion and culture, and, in certain societies, notably those of pre-colonial Africa, this distinction was unknown. Today in South Africa, however, it is clearly necessary to make such a distinction for human rights litigation, partly because the Constitution specifies religion and culture as two separate rights and partly because it seems that those working under the influence of modern human rights seem to take religion more seriously than culture.

On October 23-25, 2009, the Journal of Law and Religion celebrated its twenty-fifth year of publication devoted to “Speaking about Law and Religion” with a Symposium that brought a diverse group of scholars. A highlight of that Symposium was a celebratory luncheon held on October 24 that featured a conversation about law and religion between Douglas Sturm, Professor Emeritus, Becknell University, and Milner Ball, Professor Emeritus, University of Georgia School of Law. These two scholars, one a theologian who takes law seriously in his work, and one a lawyer who takes theology seriously in his work, have inspired many to enter the conversation about the intersection of law and religion to which each of them have made so many contributions over the years.

Among Milner Ball's many contributions is the inspiration he provides to many who, like him, seek to explore a new vision of law as an enterprise that can nurture the life of all in the world we share, and the courage he displays by drawing on theology for this task. He demonstrated this many years ago by posing a provocative question to a critic of his work who said, “she did not want or expect theology” in reading a draft of his book Lying Down Together: Law, Metaphor, and Theology. Milner's response was “if not theology, then what?” Since then he has continued to offer his own contributions that take this question seriously at the very heart of his work. Two notable examples, The Word and the Law (University of Chicago Press 1993), and Called by Stories: Biblical Sagas and their Challenge for Law (Duke University Press 2000).

When Mírzá Husayn ‘Ali (1817-92)—the founder of the Bahá’í Faith who was known as Bahá’u’lláh (the “Glory of God”)—died, there was a clear and unambiguous answer about who had the authority to lead his small, but growing, religious community. In his will, Bahá’u’lláh identified his eldest son, ‘Abbás Effendi, known as ‘Abdu'l-Bahá (“Servant of Bahá”) (1844-1921) as his successor and head of the community, as well as the authoritative interpreter of Bahá’u’lláh's writings. When ‘Abdu’l-Bahá assumed the reins of community leadership upon Bahá’u’lláh's death, his claim to authority went largely unchallenged, and he remained in that role until his own death.

While this seeming affirmation of a principle of primogeniture would appear to establish a clear pattern for the future organization and structure of the Bahá’í community, it was only one part of the leadership of the community envisioned by Bahá’u’lláh. Equally unambiguous was Bahá’u’lláh's vision of “houses of justice” existing throughout the world, elected bodies that would serve governance functions. In the Kitáb-i-Aqdas (the “Most Holy Book”), written by Bahá’u’lláh in 1873, he states that “[t]he Lord hath ordained that in every city a House of Justice shall be established,” whose members are to “take counsel together and to have regard for the interests of the servants of God.…” In that same book, Bahá’u’lláh contemplated an international house of justice, in addition to the local houses of justice.

Howard Vogel invited Doug Sturm and me to explain ourselves. Why did we take up law? Why theology? And why law and theology together? He encouraged us to offer personal accounts in response, and I am glad to comply.

Why law? The answer is simple. I had no choice. I was ordained to the ministry of the Presbyterian Church in 1961, and in 1962 became minister to a small congregation in a small town in middle Tennessee. In 1966 I was named the Presbyterian Campus Minister at the University of Georgia. My wife, June, our children and I moved to Athens.

The Presbyterian Center was notorious for its faithful witness in difficult, explosive times. I had read about the Center and its work a couple of years earlier in a New Yorker magazine article by Calvin Trillin. That article was subsequently incorporated into a well-taken book about the liberating trauma of integration in Georgia, especially at the University.

When Hamilton Holmes and Charlayne Hunter desegregated the University of Georgia, they were greeted by massive, violent riots.

Minority students who followed Charlayne and Hamilton and enrolled in the University, were subject to no less intimidation. The Presbyterian Center was a place of refuge for them, and some lived in apartments on the premises. In due course, the Center became a gathering place for people committed to remedying racism.

Categories such as religion and law are social constructs, proposed for some purpose or other, good or ill, but whose use is worthy of serious question. Consider, e.g., Karl Barth's insistence that Christianity is not a religion or Dietrich Bonhoeffer's coinage of “religionless Christianity.” I will later offer a way of delineating how I use these categories of religion and law, but I am mindful in doing so that there are many ways these, and allied terms, are invoked. We should acknowledge, for instance, that there are many Christianities; many forms of Buddhism; and differing kinds of Islam. We should take note of the serious question whether "customary law" is really “law.” How about “natural law”—is it really law or a “brooding omnipresence in the sky”? Are Torah, Shari'a, Dharma, and Tao cognate terms in some sense? Are they simultaneously “religion” and “law”? In what respect are canon law and common law both “lawful”? Should we adopt Wittgenstein's proposal that words, after all, are but tools embracing a “family of meanings”?

On August 6, 1824, William Lloyd Garrison, not yet twenty years old, penned a letter to the Salem Gazette opposing John Quincy Adams's bid for the presidency and endorsing the candidacy of a dedicated Georgian, United States Senator William Crawford. There is no mention in the document of the slavery issue and no hint that the young Garrison viewed the Constitution as anything less than a triumph of the founding fathers. The “high and exalted character” of the elections proved the Federalist Party “worthy of its great leader, the immortal WASHINGTON” and spread “vigor and strength throughout the political fabric of our constitution and government,” Garrison wrote. “It is peculiarly gratifying, too,” he declared,

to observe the dignified course pursued generally by the few sentinels of freedom, who advocate and uphold those principles, which were promulgated by the Father of his Country, and sanctioned by JAY and HAMILTON, and AMES, with a host of other distinguished patriots.

Garrison went on to stress the civic duty of voting, arguing that although no citizen was legally required to support any of the presidential candidates, reason “dictates that we should” so as not to upset “the peace of the Union.” Federalists should make pragmatic political choices, he wrote, and not squander their votes on ideal but unlikely candidates.

The understanding of Jewish law of the legal rationale of the relationship between parent and child developed gradually. In the first stage, in ancient Jewish law, the dominant tendency was to affirm the authority of the Jewish father over the members of his family. During this period, the idea that parents have a natural responsibility to love their children, care for them and provide for their welfare was less transparent. The main purpose of the rules concerning the relationship between parents and children at this stage was the assertion of the rights and needs of the father of the family.1 Consequently, some of the regulations of ancient Jewish law regarding the relationship between parents and children were not necessarily focused on the best interest of the child and the ideological basis for the legal policy in the sphere of custody in the ancient period was somewhat vague.

By contrast, during the second, medieval stage of development of Jewish law on the relationship between parents and children, the ancient supreme principle, of the father's authority over members of his family in all spheres including the sphere of custody of children, was largely replaced by an explicit rule in Jewish law: the best interest of the child is a paramount consideration. Indeed, we could say that the explicit implementation of the principle of best interest of the child in Jewish custody cases is a medieval invention, introduced by Jewish scholars at this period in their child custody verdicts. By contrast to the ancient period, the rules of custody, which had become fully defined at this stage, utilizing this principle, usually favored the mother.

The claim that talmudic law is a religious legal system has long been, and continues to be, put forward by both traditional scholars of Jewish law and contemporary academic researchers.

The question of whether talmudic law is a religious legal system most certainly did not engage the Sages of the Talmud, but addressing it will help us grasp the nature of talmudic law. Furthermore, juxtaposing talmudic law to Biblical law will help us delineate the concept of religious law, and shed light on certain developments in the evolution of Jewish law.

Let us consider what this claim entails. Sometimes the assertion that a given legal system is a religious legal system merely seeks to indicate that it is part of a certain religion or was created within the framework of that religion. Such an assertion does not provide any information about the nature of the said system, just as the phrase “French law” says nothing more than that the system is used in France.

A.H.M. Jones, the great British historian of the later Roman Empire, was once asked what difference conversion to Christianity made to Rome. His answer: None. Brutal gladiatorial contests continued to be held, slavery was not abolished, and cruel penalties were laid down for seemingly minor moral infractions. Thus, Jones reasoned, the actual impact of Christianity on secular Roman society is difficult to see. Jones's view, however, has not been universally shared, particularly when it comes to the Roman legal system. Biondo Biondi saw Christianity as bringing about “un profundo rivolgimento” in late Roman law, which had ramifications in many different areas. As a religion, Christianity differed in unmistakable ways from its pagan competitors, and it would be quite surprising if these differences did not have some impact on Roman law and society when Christianity was adopted as the official state religion. The late Roman era offers a fertile testing ground for the impact a nascent religion might have on a society and its legal institutions.

This paper explores the ethical and legal pedagogy of the current debates on “reforming” Muslim societies, whether they claim to reform social and legal systems, reform educational institutions, or liberate Muslim women. Since these debates claim to achieve balance in global or domestic conflicts, I address the foundations of these debates by answering three questions:

1. Are the rationales for American and/or European governments' interventions justified?;

2. Can the discipline of civil law help in rethinking Islam for Muslims; and

3. Are Muslims themselves ready to critically address the use and misuse of Islam's primary sources (the Qur'an and particularly the Hadith) in their rethinking of Islam?

I argue that rather than seeking to “reform others,” in this case Muslims with an elitist attitude and sometimes violent interventions, we scholars of law and religion, scholars of Islam, policy-makers, and social justice researchers would be better off if:

1. we thought of Islam as a religio-moral rational worldview, rather than a set of laws,

2. we recognized Muslims as subject to historical transformation, like any other religious groups, and understood how they developed their present views of Islam, and

3. we considered our own real responsibilities to address the forms of global injustices as powerful shapers of world politics, particularly the politics of difference—the view that the “other” is inferior, and women's role as mostly complementary to men.

Several highly critical theological responses to political liberalism have appeared in recent years. John Milbank, continuing his onslaught on all things modern, complains that political liberalism's “empty heart” suffers from a “totalitarian drift” toward “an increasingly joyless and puritanical world.” For Oliver O'Donovan, liberalism is “a false posture of transcendence” and modernity is “conceived as Antichrist, a parodie and corrupt development of Christian social order.” Robert Song warns against “the partial and limited character” of liberalism's freedoms and proclaims that “a responsible theology will learn to articulate its ‘No’” to liberal political society. Other commentators offer critiques of particular aspects of political liberalism, often suggesting revisions based on their own theological perspectives. These critical voices join others such as Stanley Hauerwas, one of liberalism's most outspoken theological critics for more than a quarter century, and they continue a line of critique that extends back through Reinhold Niebuhr and Karl Barth.

Not all the theological voices are critical. Christophe Insole, for example, finds that “politically liberal principles are compatible with a full-blooded and theologically main-stream Christian commitment.” Several Roman Catholic theologians have commented on the increasing mutuality between liberal democracy and Roman Catholic political and social teachings. Paul Sigmund notes that “the relation between Catholicism and liberal democracy has now become a positive and, one would hope, a mutually reinforcing one, even if there are a number of continuing tensions between them.” And Daniel Dombrowski offers a general defense of Rawlsian liberalism against claims that it is hostile to religion.

In Indonesia, law reform is one of the important mandates of the national reform agenda, including the restructuring of various legal and political institutions at all levels of government, the regulatory implementation of the 1945 Constitution at the village level, and the ideological renewal necessary to make these changes real in Indonesian society. The policy direction of the People's Consultative Council (MPR) has changed from domination by the central authority toward freedom, autonomy and local government empowerment. Laws that were once imposed from the top now reflect power-sharing with local governments. In particular, the government has granted special (and virtually unlimited) autonomy to the province of Nangroe Aceh Darussalam (NAD, also known as Aceh). This article will explore how that autonomy has been influenced by a more robust adoption of Shari'ah law in Aceh.

When the New Order rule fell on May 21, 1998, Indonesia moved from a centralized power to democratization, a process of legal development “from, by and for the people” through a decentralized system. The promulgation of Law 22 (1998) providing for local autonomy (which was amended in 2004 by Law 32) and Law 25 on the respective financial authority of the central and local governments is concrete evidence that decentralization is real in Indonesia.

In this paper, I want to consider how the law navigates the space lying between the concepts of faith and religion so as to effectively induce change in institutions defined by their religious expression without distorting the faith reposed by individual believers in their religious institution. In order to consider whether this is possible, we must first consider whether the seemingly twin concepts of faith and religion are so intertwined that they are inseparable, or whether they lie in different planes, with the law regulating conduct that expresses the faith, and thereby potentially affecting both concepts.

In considering this problem, I would suggest that religion or religious dictates generally offer to guide the believer toward the attainment of salvation, often conceived of as adherence to religious dictates. In my view, however, reducing the concept of salvation to adherence to religious dictates would rob it of its character as a comprehensive set of beliefs and commitments held by individual believers, whatever the particular religion they follow. In essence, “salvation” lies within the individual believer and while compliance with religious dictates may be part of that process, ultimately, whether one has achieved salvation is entirely determined by the individual. “Salvation” resonates from the faith held by the individual, while religion is simply a means of expressing that faith.

Since the founding of the Journal of Law and Religion, burgeoning numbers of distinctively interdisciplinary approaches have appeared in the study of law including feminist jurisprudence, sociological jurisprudence, critical and postmodern legal studies, and law and religion. These approaches enrich the theoretical and practical dimensions of law. Nevertheless, in response to such conversations, the legal academy has been buffeted by disciplinary impulses toward marginalization, tribalism, and balkanization. These impulses can attenuate the prospects for interdisciplinary conversations by simplifying plural realities and multifarious foci into dichotomies (“us” and “them”) or totalities (“us”).

They reflect the conceptual challenges of the complexity of culture, which, according to theologian David Tracy, includes “a diminishment of belief in the possibility of authentic civic discussion in the community.” This diminishment of belief in discussion on a broader civic level has also contributed to facile assumptions about the unlikelihood of interdisciplinary conversations between law and religion.

Individuals and communities play critical roles, both theoretically and practically, in the preservation and development of Jewish law. Some of these roles allow for considerable autonomy, at least if that term is understood as the employment of one's intellectual creativity and ethical judgment. Jewish law does not purport to micromanage all of a person's decisions. Quite the contrary, in many instances, it provides and encourages moral choice so that, in part, a person can become a moral agent rather than merely someone who does moral acts.

In Part I, we examine how the scope of autonomy is shaped by basic Jewish law axioms. For example, Jewish law assumes that the Pentateuch, also known as the “Written Torah” or “Written Law,” contains words which were communicated to humankind directly by God. Yet, unlike the approaches of some fundamentalist religions, Jewish law does not always construe these divine words literally. In fact, Jewish law authorities openly acknowledge that various Pentateuchal passages, taken by themselves, are incomplete, incomprehensible or at times ostensibly inconsistent. Jewish law assumes that God transmitted to humankind two interrelated bodies of teachings: one, the Pentateuch, was to be written down, and the other, known as the “Oral Torah” or the “Oral Law,” was to be transmitted from Teacher to Student. It is the Oral Torah that clarifies, resolves and supplements the Written Torah. Indeed, because the Oral Torah is necessary to understand the Torah, Jewish legal sources say that “the Oral Torah is the more important of the two.” Throughout this article, unless stated to the contrary, the term “Torah” refers to the Written Torah, the Oral Torah, or both, and the phrase “Torah Law” pertains to the laws that arise from the Torah.