One of the most iconic moments of the legend of Theophilus is the scene of homage to the Devil. Marc Bloch counted the Ingeborg Psalter [Fig. 1] representation of it (fol. 35v, upper scene, Chantilly, Musée Condé, MS 1695, hereafter Ingeborg) as “among the best representations of the act of homage which we possess” (Feudal 233). Contractual servitude to the Devil, enacted through ritual and authenticated through writing, clearly captured – perhaps terrified – the medieval imagination. This scene, with a man on his knees, paying homage to the Devil seems to be a good metaphor in general for the weakness of the flesh, the subordination of man to temptation, to a higher power, spiritual or temporal (Le Goff 369). The texts and manuscript images of the legend represent this scene reasonably faithfully but with a wide range of subtle differences. This chapter will examine the scene of homage to the Devil and its variations in the texts and images in order to show how this particular image of feudal relations could become a metaphor for the plight of man in a world brimming with secular temptations. The chapter will also consider how the ritual of homage and the more textually based contract that can go along with the ritual could become vehicles for individual self-presentation. The representation of homage per se is all the more interesting because in fact not that many images or texts portray the key gesture of the joined hands (immixtio manuum). It is perhaps surprising to note that it is not the gesture of kneeling with hands joined that constitutes the most lasting core of the legend. It is in fact the contract and the seal, which appear all the way back in Paul the Deacon's Latin translation, that fatally mark Theophilus's bond with the Devil. The ritual gestures of homage in the legend, like actual historical transactions, cannot therefore be separated from the written contract and the authenticating seal.

While the gesture of kneeling before another man with hands joined is the key sign of feudal homage, kneeling is not the only component of the ritual. Jacques Le Goff's 1977 article “Le rituel symbolique de la vassalité” documented and emphasized the highly ritualistic aspect of medieval homage. Le Goff notes that the combination of rites and symbolic gestures constitutes a system, one that does not work if one of the parts is missing (365).

As the example of the Adeleke family illustrates (chapter 9), there are many contexts in Ede where individuals from a variety of backgrounds live and work close to each other, from shared houses, compounds and neighbourhoods to mutual invitations to celebrations and joint business interests. As a result of such everyday interactions, many people have friends from a different religious background, and sometimes such friendship develops into marriage. These religiously mixed marriages – and the challenges associated with their implicit challenge to corporate identities shaped by religion – are the subject of this chapter. Exploring the complex network of religious, gendered and social attitudes and practices that shape interfaith marriages, the chapter illustrates that interfaith marriages are often initially associated with conflict, which appears to give way to mutual tolerance. However, the achievement of this tolerance tends to rely on women's multiple religious practice and mediation of religious difference.

There is no general agreement in the literature on interfaith marriage about what constitutes a difference in religion or faith, but in this chapter we use the terms ‘inter-religious’ and ‘interfaith’ to describe marriages crossing two religions. We include both marriages in which husband and wife have different religions and those in which one partner used to belong to a different religion but has since converted. While statistics in this area are difficult to obtain or non-existent, there seems to be a higher number of interfaith marriages in Ede, and probably in other parts of Yorubaland, than in most parts of Africa or Europe. The survey data discussed in more detail in chapter 11 suggests that between 14 and 20 per cent of marriages in Ede are inter-religious marriages. But despite their high incidence, interfaith marriages are often more difficult than others.

In Ede, an interfaith marriage could mean, for example, a marriage between a Muslim woman and a Christian man, or marriage between a Christian woman and a man who is an adherent of the deity Ṣàngó or another òrìṣà. It is important to note that many people also marry across denominational boundaries, and that proposed marriages between some Muslim or Christian groups or denominations can create as much opposition as marriages between the religions.

What is the image that Theophilus would hope to see if he were looking into his own seal matrix? The answer is difficult and shifting but equally compelling. The legend seems happy to reject homage as a model for self-identification. The texts and images hint at a homage-like relation to the Virgin, but for the most part it is not possible for Theophilus simply to break his oath to the Devil and make an oath to the Virgin. And even if our most idiosyncratic text, Rutebeuf 's Miracle, can have Theophilus make homage to the Virgin (486), the path to this moment is painful and filled with obstacles. And the homage itself is brief and illusory. It almost seems as if the legend is obsessed with the words, gestures, and images of homage only to jettison them as inadequate, too earthly, too secular. The submission that homage entails, as we have seen, can be positively analogous to the kind of submission that would be appropriate between man and God or man and the Virgin. But the model of homage seems linked too strongly to a secular world of property and power and wealth. It is an earthly contract, a chirograph with two signatories and mutual benefits and responsibilities. Ultimately, the legend rejects homage. It is really just the first moment of the story. Another, more inchoate, image of self emerges haltingly as Theophilus moves through the steps of self-recognition that his misfortunes impose on him. These steps include his potential identification with the Jewish intermediary, his loss of position, his false reprisal of power, and finally his crisis of conscience.

We notice that each of these steps of self-recognition is negative. Their negativity seems an important part of medieval identity and the issues of self-presentation touched on earlier. One way to understand this negativity that is particularly pertinent to the Theophilus legend is the concept of dissemblance. Dissemblance and resemblance are two key components of twelfth-century theology's understanding of man, especially the image of man in relation to God.

On December 12, 1950, I reported for duty. At the recruiting station in Worces¬ter there were many high-school classmates of mine, and we were all in a som¬ber mood, anticipating being sent into the war zone a few weeks later. As soon as we were loaded into the buses, I felt I was transported into another world. First of all—and that was something I had never experienced—the English language completely changed from “civilian” to “army.” That meant that every adjective and adverb spoken by most people was the F-word. I had never heard this kind of language and was quite shocked (though I understood that I had to get used to it). We reached Fort Devens in a couple of hours, and the first thing that happened there was a physical examination and vaccination. My physical went very smoothly until it came to blood pressure. When I get excited, it al¬ways goes up. The doctor noticed it and asked me to lie down for ten minutes while he examined others. When he asked me to get up and take the pressure again, it had of course gone down. Then the doctor asked me what my profes¬sion was, and when I answered that I was a musician, he said: “Ah, what would a musician be without a little high blood pressure, you are in!”

Remembering what Rabbi Nadich had asked me to do, I went to see Chap¬lain O'Malley who greeted me in a most friendly manner and assured me that he would do everything he could to place me in a musical organization in the army since I had all the qualifications. However, he said, I would have to take the bat¬tery of exams to be administered the next day in order to be placed correctly in the army. He again told me not to worry and to come back on Friday evening when all the exam scores had been tallied.

The next day, all of us new recruits were ushered into a very large room and exam booklets were issued. They were numbered, beginning with English, Mathematics, and so on. I went through the first ten exams easily and, since the questions were of the multiple-choice variety, I had no problems. Then I encountered an exam marked electronics. I raised my hand and asked the sergeant to come over.

MS: I have a few questions for you. Some of them are rather specific and some are open-ended enough that they will take us to different territories.

SA: Fine.

MS: First of all, do you use a particular methodology in teaching composition?

SA: I would say no—though I do when I teach a class, if there is such a thing. We used to have classes for non-majors—I really liked to do that—and also classes for young kids. Before I let them do what they want to do, we actually have exercises. I use the same exercises with my freshmen before I let them write anything. Usually they come in having written a lot, but I just want them to be a little more conscious of the process. And so I do use a method, but only for the beginners in composition and also with beginning students in college. It seems to work well, because what we do for the first semester, at least, is to divide each lesson into two sections. The first is just exercises and the second is their own writing.

MS: So give me an example.

SA: All right. The first exercise is melody. I use the method that Roger Sessions used, which is that the more limitation you can set for yourself, the better it is for the composition. He once said that composition is two things: one, “choice,” and the other, “inevitability.” Inevitability you can't teach; you have to feel it—like Mo-zart. He always felt it right, so, therefore, every composition was good. For some of us who are lesser than Mozart, it isn't always inevitable. Let's say you are writ¬ing in sonata form and inevitably the first theme goes to the second.

The move to Rochester, New York, was a major step for the entire family. Af¬ter we got settled a bit in our new house, baby and all, I wanted to get better acquainted with the school I was to serve and was told that the person who was most knowledgeable was the head librarian Ruth Watanabe. She had been at the Eastman School since earning her PhD in 1952 and was a close friend and advisor of Howard Hanson ever since she graduated as the first Asian-Ameri¬can woman to receive a degree. Later she was to write a biography of Hanson and help in preparing a history of the School. Ruth was very gracious to the newcomer and relished the fact that she could introduce me into the history of what was to be my academic home for a long time—in fact, nearly thirty years. She told me two fascinating stories that I have never seen in print anywhere and that I found most interesting and unusual. The first was about what gave George Eastman the idea for a major music school in Rochester.

Early in the twentieth century, the New York Philharmonic used to tour New York State every year during the winter months since there were no major local orchestras at the time. The tour would make stops in Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo, and sometimes also in Ithaca. In 1909 Gustav Mahler became the music director of the orchestra. In the winter of what must have been 1910 the ensemble came to Rochester, played a concert in the old Naval Conservatory (today's Geva Theatre) and was scheduled to leave immediately after the performance to travel by train to Buffalo for their next engagement. As so often happens in that part of our country in the winter, a serious snow¬storm developed while the Rochester concert was being performed, and the trains were cancelled because of the heavy snow accumulation especially half way to Buffalo in Batavia. The men of the orchestra were put up right away in a downtown hotel while George Eastman invited Maestro Mahler to overnight at his spacious mansion. Mahler accepted with pleasure, especially since Mr. Eastman had been partially educated in Germany and spoke the language, and so Mahler felt comfortable conversing with him. When they arrived at the East¬man House they had a nightcap before retiring.

The involvement of non-state actors in seeking to resolve civil wars in Africa is relatively recent. Until the 1990s, the general norm was for states to exercise this function, usually through the offices of the United Nations (UN), or other intergovernmental organizations. The logic of the Cold War invariably dictated a rather static and state-centric approach to conflict resolution, and space for non-state actors, particularly from the realm of civil society, was circumscribed at best. Even today, peace interventions in Africa remain largely dominated by intergovernmental and state actors, or their appointed representatives. The most utilized constituency for leading peace processes is serving and former heads of state and, to a lesser extent, former heads of multilateral institutions and retired ambassadors. The reasons for this are easily explicable given that most conflicts are as a result of the struggle to gain control over the state and the state is at the centre of political contestations, often in a zero-sum game for power. However, a gradual increase in the number of non-state actors involving themselves in efforts to end civil wars has been noticeable in recent years, with religious organisations often at the fore. A few examples from Africa would include the mediation efforts of the Roman Catholic Order, Sant’ Egidio, in the Mozambican civil war and the role played by the World Council of Churches and the All African Conference of Churches in Sudan (Assefa, 1988). While international legal instruments have not been significantly altered to grant greater conflict resolution legitimacy to such non-state actors, they have become progressively more important in conflict resolution.

In turn, various scholars have engaged in the study of non-state actors in conflicts. Though this has usually focused on non-governmental organizations (NGOs), individual efforts and involvement in peace interventions have also been analysed (Johnston and Sampson, 1994; Appleby, 1999; Gopin, 2001; Johnston, 2003; Richmond, 2003; Coward and Smith, 2004; Miall, 2004; Nan, 2004; Barnes, 2005; Goodhand, 2006; Smock, 2006; Svensson, 2007; Bartoli, 2009; Bercovitch and Kadayifci-Orellana, 2009; Harpviken and Røislien, 2009).

Very quickly, I learned what a great mistake it was to test out of most of the undergraduate music courses at Boston University, since my fellow beginning graduate colleagues were so much better prepared for the rigors and the pre¬requisites involved in graduate studies than I was. The shock of passing the en¬trance exams minimally and the first classes that I attended were quite revealing.

My first class was musicology taught by the great Archibald T. Davison. There were seven of us in the class and Davison assigned each of us to give a lecture to the class every week. This lecture was to last one hour. My first as¬signment was “The origin and development of the Gabrieli style.” I went to the library and checked out every book on all the Gabrielis I could find, and there were many. Reading as much as I could in a week and writing the most brilliant lecture, I went to class with a glow. I was going to startle everyone with my brilliance.

I gave the lecture, and there was a deafening silence. Dr. Davison, sitting in the last row of the rather large lecture hall, took off his glasses and asked me: “Adler, what are you here for?” Somewhat startled, I answered: “I am a first-year graduate student.” “You are a what?” he demanded, and I repeated my status, upon which he replied: “You are a graduate student, impossible! You should be in Kindergarten! See me after class, you are a basket case.” Needless to say, I was stunned and went into his office shaking all over. When I entered, he looked at me with a very sad expression, especially when he noticed my bewildered state. “Adler, I did not learn a thing from your lecture and I know exactly where you got every bit of information. When I want to read up on the Gabrielis, I know what books to get, but I would first study their music, and that you did not do. You also did not perform, or have us perform, any music and I don't believe you know any of their music well enough to even suggest anything for performance by the class. When you study a composer, the first thing you study is the music—not what someone has to say about it or the facts of their lives. Further, you cannot speak English.