ethical design of new religion field projects

Ethical Design of New Religion Field Projects

Marie W. Dallam*University of Oklahoma

Abstract

Scholars studying living religious communities confront myriad questions about all levels of appro-priate social interaction, and fortunately some lessons from the disciplines of sociology and anthro-pology help us navigate the work. However, those engaging in research on New Religions mayhave added burdens, as the marginalized communities we study may be further complicated byfactors such as exclusivity or defensiveness, among others. As we work to balance critical academicstudy with engagement that is sensitive to practitioners, we may find ourselves in murky ethicalsituations. This essay, the first in a two-part series, discusses a range of ethically charged problemsthat should be considered in the course of designing a sound research fieldwork project involvinga New Religion. For guidance it refers to specific examples faced by scholars in the past.

Introduction1

The discussion of ethics in research on humans has a long history among cultural anthro-pologists and sociologists, and professional organizations in these disciplines offer protocolsand ‘best practices’ to guide field research. Such attempts at standardization have com-pounded in recent years as institutions have become more concerned with accountability,mandating that researchers obtain clearance from institutional review boards before begin-ning any project. The purposes of these checkpoints are positive: to protect human sub-jects from exploitation and to insure subjects understand a researcher’s goals. Foruniversities, the desire to avoid litigation also undergirds these humanitarian concerns.Research on living communities, however, is a complex enterprise, and involves manyphases of thought and work. In every phase there is potential for unexpected ethicalconundrums to arise, necessitating difficult choices by the scholar, and these cannot beentirely avoided by a ‘perfectly’ designed study.

Because people arrive at the study of new religions from a wide variety of intellec-tual areas, they may be unfamiliar with established guidelines of ethical research.2 For-tunately, many issues about approaches and ethical principles have been written aboutat length and can offer thoughtful guidance for newcomers, even if they don’t solveevery potential problem.3 It is clear that the study of religious groups, and new reli-gions more specifically, may challenge researchers in numerous ways that are best con-sidered prior to engaging in fieldwork. The purpose of this essay, then, is to drawattention to issues religion researchers face that may have consequences of an ethicalnature, and to direct interested readers to sources offering more extended analysis ofparticular problems.

This essay, the first of two parts, will address issues related to starting a research project,such as covert and overt research identities, types of interactions with members of thecommunity, and information distortion. The second part will consider issues relatedto religious actions, such as the researcher’s personal religious identity and his or her

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participation in rites and ceremonies, as well as issues related to publication, such asdeciding what to reveal and anticipating consequences of the written work.

Representation of Self to Subject

Half a century ago, going ‘undercover’ into a religious group in order to study it was notuncommon, and many interesting essays were produced by scholars who pretended, for atime, to be faithful new members of novel religious groups.4 This kind of work requirescommitment to a false identity, which many would consider blatantly unethical. Somehave found covert study too stressful because of the energy it takes to maintain the per-sona of eager newcomer. Van Zandt (1991), for instance, aborted his stay in a communalChildren of God home because of the ‘role stress’ that caused him anxiety and insomnia.Similarly, while taking a Scientology course, Wallis (1977) found that feigning round-the-clock excitement about the ideas was a challenge he did not want to meet, and heleft after only 2 days.5 Other researchers are more accustomed to shape-shifting andwould not find extended live-in work as taxing, but this is a good point to think throughbefore deciding to go into any group undercover.6 In addition to appropriate mentalpreparation, a scholar should be aware that intensive research of both covert and overttypes can potentially raise concomitant ethical dilemmas about levels of interaction andparticipation.

The argument for covert work is more prevalent in older texts, which reflects methodchanges in the field, yet some commentary in favor of it stands out as almost timeless.For example, researcher of Pentecostals Malcolm Calley (1965) has argued that covertresearch is the only productive option with groups that understand themselves in ‘exclu-sively religious terms’, because they don’t value research or academics (p. 146). If theresearcher cannot fit into a group’s worldview of why a person participates in organizedreligion, that group will take no interest in him or her, and the project may stall; hencesome argue in favor of feigning religious interest. Walker and Atherton (1971) echo thispoint, noting: ‘‘The outsider is at a peculiar disadvantage in Pentecostal circles … Itwould be impossible for him therefore to enter fully into areas of the services and infor-mal gatherings designed for believers’’ (pp. 385–6). Through trial and error, Pryce (1979)found that covert work was absolutely necessary for getting members of an exclusivistchurch to have genuine discussions with him, though he did not try to defend hismethod as an ethical research choice. These observations capture an aspect of fieldworkthat remains a stumbling block with new religions, whose marginal social status oftentranslates into heightened suspicion of newcomers.

Today, professional associations advise against covert research, stating that it is not onlyethically unsound but also more likely to yield a flawed study. Additionally, deceptionrevealed only after publication may damage a group’s trust of outsiders and in turn limitfuture research opportunities for all, thus harming the field. Of course, overt researchmay cause the same result if the group dislikes the resultant publication. Some scholarscontinue to make strong cases in favor of covert work especially when it involves secre-tive groups or what Lauder (2003) describes as ‘‘highly paranoid, socially insulated, orpolitically marginalized communities’’ (p. 187). New religions can often be described interms comparable to these, hence there is still a decision to be made about whether cov-ert research is appropriate with a reclusive religious group; either path will open certaindoors and shut others.

But are ‘covert’ and ‘overt’ research methods mutually exclusive categories? One’s pre-sentation of self constantly shifts, not only with research subjects but with different people

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one encounters each day. Perhaps it is unproductive to think about identity navigation insuch stark terms. Rather than seeing overt work as ‘ethical’ and covert work as ‘unethi-cal’, some scholars prefer to distinguish between being evasive with your subject (ethical)and lying to them (unethical). One can be an overt research presence without beingentirely candid; even with full explanations, members may make their own assumptionsabout who the researcher is and what he or she is doing.7 However being overt, yet eva-sive, does not necessarily put the researcher in the ethical ‘clear’, because often we knowwhat others will surmise if we don’t articulate our position, and we can passively manipu-late others by saying nothing. But, lest ‘evasive’ starts looking as sketchy as ‘covert’, weshould remember that there are many reasons for being evasive, not merely to betterone’s own position or obtain more information; it may be intended to protect the sub-ject, or it may be related to the researcher’s personal privacy limits. Barker’s (1984) workprovides yet another way of thinking about this question: she came to realize that a newside of her personality developed during her study of the Unification Church, and it wasoperative only with members. She considered this side of her just as valid as any other ofher social roles, such as ‘mother’ or ‘professor’, even though to others it might appear asif she was being disingenuous (p. 34). Ultimately, the researcher must make decisionsabout levels of truthfulness on a situational basis, because hard rules do not always addressindividual circumstances.

Due to the range of possibilities between covert and overt, the researcher must stayfocused to maintain professional boundaries. An example of crossing a line inappropriatelyis found in Shaffir’s (1985) study of Hassidic Jews, when, among other changes, hedecided not merely to modify his wardrobe so that it was passable for synagogue atten-dance, but to mimic the wardrobe of members as closely as possible. ‘‘I let the Luba-vitcher assume that I was gradually becoming an observant Jew,’’ he writes, explainingthat that this change and others facilitated his project (pp. 122–3). However, there is anethical misstep in this decision, because his appearance and behavior were deliberatelymisleading to other Hassidim, regardless of whether he also mentioned his research. Withinnocent intentions Shaffir stepped into the unethical zone by trying to become indistin-guishable from his subjects. An example of work that more blatantly crossed a line isAlfred’s (1976) covert study of the Church of Satan. After joining a local group he wasswiftly promoted through the leadership levels. Although Alfred claimed he tried to exertas little influence as possible, there were times when other members sought his guidance.He wrote, ‘‘I was generally perceived as a high status member and … my behavior wasinterpreted by others as flowing from genuine satanic conviction and devotion to thechurch …’’ (p. 184). In this case, Alfred’s presence was too strong, causing him to affectthe path of the group rather than just observing its natural course. His leadership meanthe was tainting his own results. A last example is Shaffir’s earliest study of the Tasher(1985), a deliberately isolated Hassidic community. Shaffir used connections to get a cleri-cal job with the group, which gave him access to internal documents that an overtresearcher would not have been allowed to see.8 All of these cases demonstrate the cross-ing of a professional boundary that could have compromised the integrity of the overallwork.

A few scholars have the made tricky transition from one kind of representation toanother, but none argue that there is a single correct method for doing so. Lauder(2003), researching a white supremacist group, moved from overt to covert work by con-vincing his subjects that his academic research had led to a genuine romance with theirideals. Van Zandt (1991) was able to move from covert to overt after his early writingsabout the Children of God were praised by leaders and they encouraged him to return.

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Other examples of trying to make this kind of transition, with mixed success, are pro-vided by Pryce (1979, pp. 284–6) and Shaffir (1985, pp. 128–9).

Aside from being the generally agreed upon ethical method, overt research has particu-lar advantages. Foremost among them is that it provides a reason for asking an endlessstream of questions; in contrast, if one is posing as a ‘committed believer’ the opportunityto ask questions is significantly curtailed (see discussions in Barker 1984, p. 21; Walker &Atherton 1971, p. 368). Overt work also gives more leeway, though not foolproof, toexcuse oneself from objectionable activities. Certainly, many scholars have said theirattempts to be overt fail because the religious people simply do not understand; perhapsthe group is unfamiliar with academics, or with the concept of field research, or theyhear the researcher but do not take the words seriously. Nonetheless, this is not a validdefense for not trying to inform the subject community of your true purposes.

Interactions and Relationships with Subjects

One of the first issues for the overt researcher is how to gain entree with a religiousgroup if it tends toward isolation or seclusion. Especially if the group occupies a marginalplace in society, outsiders who claim to be doing research may be assumed to be hostile,or even suspected of being government agents. This fear should be taken into accountwhen thinking about how to first present oneself (see examples in Calley 1965, p. 146;Spickard & Landres 2002, p. 8; Wallis 1977, p. 152). Often a group’s regard for research-ers is based on its past experiences, but no attitude should be considered fixed. For exam-ple, a surprising level of access was offered to James Chancellor (2000) by The Family,which sought help redefining itself against stereotypes of ‘dangerous cult’; Barker (1984)experienced a similar unprecedented access with the Unification Church. In my ownexperience researching the United House of Prayer, its past experience with negativepublications had caused an institutional attitude of closure to researchers. It was only afterthe publication of my book about the church (Dallam 2007) that some members andleaders had a change of heart, and I was pleasantly surprised to receive multiple invita-tions to visit and encouragement to continue writing.

If one does not receive immediate welcome, what ethically sound choices are avail-able? One strategy is to seek out and gain entry through what is called a ‘gatekeeper’.This is a community insider who is willing to formally introduce you to members andleaders, thereby reducing the stress of establishing yourself in the new environment.Relationships with gatekeepers must be carefully navigated; they have risked their ownplace within the community by bringing a stranger in, thus any actions you take mayhave consequences for them both in the short term and long term. Additionally, in somegroups you may be assigned a ‘host’ who will act as your chaperone during visits. Youmay or may not be friendly with a host, but this person will be continuously present asyou try to conduct your research, and this will likely require a mental adjustment. Oncepast the figurative gates, the researcher should not make the mistake of thinking that thedifficult work is done. Permission, or even sanction, given by religious officials for studydoes not insure cooperation from members. In his experience with Hassidic Jews, Shaffir(1985) found he had to ‘renegotiate permission to conduct the research’ with nearlyevery person he wanted to speak with, despite official approval for his project, becausethe members maintained their suspicion of outside intrusion (p. 129; for other types ofmember resistance, see Calley 1965, pp. 146–7; Palmer 2001, pp. 105–8; Pryce 1979,p. 282).

Many questions arise around ethically appropriate friendships with research subjects.



Some would argue that a person cannot be both your ‘friend’ and your ‘subject’ simul-taneously, and that trying to engage in competing roles can cause stress for the researcherand disrupt progress. Yet it is also true that we are human beings who may naturallygrow fond of some of our subjects, possibly considering some of them friends, and thelonger we spend in the field the deeper this range of feelings will be. Many people haveaddressed this subject based on their fieldwork experiences, but there is no clear consen-sus on the ‘best’ approach. Atay (2008), for example, provides a cautionary tale. He wasdeep in research on a Sufi group when he was given a special opportunity to speak tothe sheikh about his work. The meeting included other disciples, many of whom Atayconsidered close friends. To his shock, the sheikh publicly berated his methods andinsulted his skills. Technically, Atay’s work was not harmed by this embarrassing incident,but his personal shame and loss of status among his disciple friends was so distressing thathe nearly abandoned the entire project (pp. 53–6). The work of DeWalt and DeWalt(2002) demonstrates how too much personal involvement can affect the researcher, andthey caution against entering into relationships that have long-lasting implications. Intheir case, it was only after enthusiastically becoming godparents to a child in their subjectcommunity in Latin America did they realize their mistake, because of the difficulty ofmaintaining connections beyond the duration of their study (pp. 205–6). Another varia-tion on the friendship question is exemplified by Van Zandt (1991), whose covert worknecessitated spending extended time with his subject ‘friends’. This made him realizehow much he disliked the subjects on a personal level, which made the project morestressful (p. 13). Covert work, by nature, raises more frequent questions about relation-ships. Homan (1980), for example, felt increasingly guilty about friendships with his Pen-tecostal subjects. Knowing that their kindness toward him was based on the lie that heshared their core beliefs, he grew to regret initiating such close ties (p. 54; see similar dis-cussion in Shaffir 1985, p. 124). In contrast, one sees in Barker’s (1984) overt work onthe Unification Church that she did not feel it was ethically questionable to befriendmembers and that she did so with relative ease of conscience (pp. 33–4).

For the researcher who consciously chooses close involvement with the subject butexperiences some confusion about his or her own role in the community, two examplesoffer thoughtful guidance. James Wafer (1996), who studied Candomble, found that tak-ing a lover from within the subject community made him part of their kinship system,opened new doors of trust, and greatly advanced his research. However, the more hispersonal life and his research subject became part of a single story, the more he felt con-fusion about the boundaries of his work and how to write ‘‘an experiential ethnographybut not a confessional one’’ (pp. 266–72). Similarly, Karen McCarthy-Brown (2002) hasreflected on her methodology during and beyond her research about Vodou practitionersin New York City. She has openly confronted a range of difficult questions about herdegree of involvement in the work she produced, such as her religious participation, herclose friendship with the subject, their financial relationship, and her own active presencein the text.

Concluding one’s research and leaving a group may bring about various strains, andthis too is related to the researcher’s level of personal involvement with the group and itsmembers. Although some groups will hardly notice when anyone leaves, others may con-sider it a personal affront and thus suddenly focus extra attention on the exiter, perhapseven trying to persuade the person to stay. DeWalt and DeWalt (2002) note that, ‘‘whilethe fieldworker is almost always transient … this transience may not be the expectationof those individuals who become our informants’’ (p. 207). They make the point thatfeelings of deflation may occur both for the researcher and the subject community when

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a given project ends, and they imply that a gradual distancing may ease the process. Snow(1980), for example, who spent a protracted period with Nichiren Shoshu, found that hisown mixed emotions hindered the end of his study. After several years of distance andreflection he was able to offer guidance to others on issues such as knowing when to enda field project, determining how formal that process should be, and anticipating factorsthat might interfere with smooth disaffiliation.

A final note about appropriate interactions with the subject community is a reminderthat comes from the work of Susan Palmer (2001). In insular religious groups, the pres-ence of an outsider changes norms such that it sometimes becomes an opportunity forrule bending, hence ‘‘sociologists can have a corrupting effect upon the morals of mem-bers’’ (p. 117). The researcher should be careful not to encourage behavior that falls out-side the rules to which members would normally adhere, because it will, in effect,meddle with the subject and the results more generally, and might also alter the research-er’s future welcome. Hence, though Palmer says she might occasionally have drinks withsubjects, she was less willing to passively allow her hosts on a particular research trip touse her visit as a means to indulge their love affair (pp. 115–8).

Distorted Data

As a subset of considerations about human interactions, a researcher must think about thevalidity of the collected data. Good data is often dependent on honest human interac-tions, and any researcher may encounter dishonesty or manipulation. There is always thepossibility that insiders will attempt to influence or even micromanage a researcher’s datagathering and data itself; the likelihood increases with groups that consider their views tobe specialized knowledge. A rigorous plan is helpful for managing the research process,such as Barker’s (1984) study of the Unification Church that required widespread accessto members at all levels, but this is not always possible to arrange. Furthermore, informa-tion distortion may occur in positive or negative directions, and it may be innocent ordeliberate. The task for the researcher, then, is to determine what information is bothaccurate and generally representative, and how to handle situations in which he or she isbeing misled.

Awareness of the potential biases affecting data will help with critical evaluation andsorting. Group members who dissent from certain teachings may treat a researcher as aconfidant to whom they air grievances, which results in data skewing in a negative direc-tion; in contrast, other dissenters may feel so isolated that they avoid the researcher,which inadvertently skews the data in a positive direction (see examples in Ayella 1990,pp. 566–7; Barker 1984, pp. 21–4; Gordon 1987, p. 275 and 282). Distorted informationis sometimes unintentionally provided by enthusiastic but ill-informed new converts,which can be offset by a researcher’s knowledge of what is normative (for example, seeShaffir 1985, pp. 123–4). In other circumstances, distortion or micromanagement is moredeliberate. Chancellor (2001), for example, acknowledges that The Family utilizedmedia-ready homes stocked with members trained in public relations, and that only aftera long period of study was he given access beyond these levels (p. 42). Lalich (2001)approaches data collection from the assumption that new religions are very likely toengage in explicit deception. She suggests such groups will manipulate the activities wit-nessed by researchers, sometimes even staging events, and may only permit interviewswith members trained to speak with outsiders (pp. 125–36; see other discussions inLauder 2003, p. 190; Palmer 2001, pp. 110–1). While the situations that Lalich describesare probably less typical than she would like readers to believe, by anticipating trickery



she offers thoughtful suggestions about how to make certain that one’s pursuit of a fullstory is rigorous. In all such cases, the wise researcher has many decisions to make aboutwhat information to trust and how to represent the group fairly to the outside world,and that goal must be kept at the forefront of the work.

Conclusion

While careful preparation is important to a sound study, every project based on a livinghuman community will bring about unexpected situations and a need for quick decisionmaking. Researchers will start in good form if they have given forethought to issues ofpresentation of self, their intended degree of honesty in social interactions, and how theywill combat imbalances in the process of data collection. Assuming the researcher hasmade wise choices in these areas, he or she is ready for the next level of ethically chal-lenging questions: how much to participate in the religious activities of the subject com-munity, and what priorities should govern the content of written work for publication.These situations, among others, will be addressed in part two of this essay.

Short Biography

Marie W. Dallam is an Assistant Professor of Religion and American Culture in theHonors College of the University of Oklahoma. Her primary research interests lie at theintersection of religion, race, and marginalization. Dallam’s book, Daddy Grace: A Celeb-rity Preacher and His House of Prayer, was published in 2007 in NYU Press’s series on‘Religion, Race, and Ethnicity’. She is currently serving as chairperson of the NewReligious Movements Group of the American Academy of Religion.

Notes

* Correspondence address: Marie W. Dallam, Honors College, University of Oklahoma, 1300 Asp Avenue,Norman, OK 73019, USA. E-mail: [email protected]

1 My thanks go to student Kalli Wolf for her research assistance.2 See examples by the American Sociological Association (1997) and the American Anthropological Association(1998).3 Recommended starting sources include: Bromley and Carter (2001), DeWalt and DeWalt (2002), Palmer (2001),and Spickard et al. (2002).4 Examples of covert studies include Balch (1980) and Festinger et al. (1956). For protracted discussions of covertresearch, see Bulmer (1982) and Lauder (2003).5 Although he wrote that his work ‘felt like spying and a little dishonest’, Wallis did not consider it covert;by today’s professional standards his work would be considered covert. For his discussion about the ethical decisionsinvolved in his participant-observation of Scientology, see pp. 153–5, 159–60.6 Lewin and Leap (1996) suggest gay and lesbian researchers are in this latter category because they are used to thedaily task of identity management, p. 13.7 For examples, see Barker (1984, pp. 20–1) and Shaffir (1985, p. 120); an interesting, though brief, discussion of areligious subject feeling victimized by researcher evasiveness is Gaiman (1977).8 Shaffir ultimately decided the documents did not provide the kind of information he wanted. For other discus-sions about the ethics of using private internal documents see: Wallis (1977, pp. 152–3) and Chrisman (1976,pp. 144–5).

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