Moving House

For now, An Alternative Scripture has moved to Tumblr.
Expect intelligence levels to drop as quickly as attractiveness increases.

An Eternal Life

There was a person who lived an eternal life.

It got pretty boring.

The Immense

M’illumino

d’immenso

So reads Giuseppe Ungaretti’s famous 1917 poem Mattina (Morning). At the risk of sounding like a language snob, it doesn’t translate neatly or elegantly into English. In short, one could say ‘I am illuminated / by immensity’ but this fails to capture the fact that the poet is actually both the subject and the object of the action: through the experience of the immense, I illuminate myself.

Basically, we find big things really impressive. The title of Ungaretti’s poem brings to mind images of the sunrise, of those first daily revelations of the sky, of those times when the horizon is most noticeable. But we are similarly awestruck by other experiences of the immense in nature: by mountains, by the ocean, and most notably, by the night sky.

Even before we knew what they really were, the glinting lights speckling the night’s dark blanket were of keen interest to us. They are the visible realm of mythology, of constellations, the zodiac, astrology and divination. ‘The heavens’ is still used today to refer to the universe above and around us; cielo, in Italian, can mean both sky and heaven. And the universe continues to fascinate, amaze and intrigue despite our scientific understanding of it. The more we discover the more we fall in love with this final frontier, this biggest of all enigmas, this vast playground of questions and potential answers. In fact, to view the stars- those tiny, tiny specks of light- as supermassive balls of glowing gases is a far more impressive way to view them than any more primitive understanding.

Head to the World Wide Telescope. Click on ‘Hubble Studies’ and then ‘Hubble Ultra Deep Field’. To make this image, astronomers picked a tiny part of the sky- one-tenth the diameter of the moon as viewed from Earth- that for all previous intents and purposes had appeared completely empty. The exposure, by the Hubble Space Telescope, took approximately one million seconds over four-hundred orbits of the Earth to reach this level of sensitivity. And you can see what they found: galaxies, hundreds of galaxies, with smudges and marks that hint at thousands more. And all this in that tiny, miniscule part of the sky. Zoom out fully and then slowly go back in, further and further away from Earth, as more and more stars, galaxies, clusters show themselves, and a universe is revealed that cannot fail to impress one it is immensity. It's not for nothing that the Hubblecasts sign off with 'once again, nature has surprised us beyond our wildest imagination.'

Blaise Pascal, the mathematician-theologian, once wrote that ‘Man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed’ (Pensées, note 347, 1670). But I feel that we can see it, we can perceive the vastness of nature: briefly, at times, perhaps only in flashes of inspiration, and even then we may only comprehend a tiny part of the universe’s brilliance, but nevertheless these moments fill us with wonder. These times may come while looking at mountains, the ocean, the stars. Nature is fascinating- we are drawn to it- and scary- we are dwarfed by it. It is massive on a degree that is almost beyond comprehension. It is a mysterium tremendum et fascinans, and when we briefly comprehend it we seem to touch something greater than ourselves.

It also puts us in perspective. The problems, desires, wishes and actions of a single, measly human being are minuscule in comparison to the greatness of the natural world. Sure, we can and do impact our world’s environment, but in tiny ways compared to the fluctuations it has seen in the distant past. And nothing we could do (yet) could make any kind of noticeable impact the entirety of the universe. Immensity put us in our place.

This echoes, to me, calls among the religious community regarding the necessity of the transcendent. One argument states that a belief or recognition of something beyond the natural world provides an external reference point by which to regulate, judge and improve human behaviour. The transcendent provides a context for our actions, putting us in our proper place. Charles Taylor argues for a secular society that is open to the supernatural, feeling that this could lead to a world with all the benefits of modern individualism and technology, with the return of some of intrinsic meaning in the world that earlier, pre-secular times enjoyed. His concept of the ‘immanent frame’ refers to our ability in our contemporary society to live a life completely shut off from the transcendent- we never have to hear about, think about or try to interact with it, if we choose not to. Taylor argues (during an interview on Encounter) that this can be felt as either comfortable or imprisoning; this analysis suggests that the transcendent is, to Taylor, both a good thing and a little bit frightening; a mysterium tremendum et fascinans, we could say.

And so we have a concordance. The key characteristics of the transcendent- at least as it is viewed by Taylor- one can also find in numinous experiences of the ‘merely’ natural world.

Sam Sparro addresses the transcendent when he sings that ‘if you’re not really here / then the stars don’t even matter’. But clearly they do matter: they are beautiful, they are intriguing, they are fascinating and frightening, and one doesn’t need to ‘feel the weight of something beyond them’ to appreciate that (I have quoted atheists before who similarly find special relevance in experiences of the natural world).

Believers argue that we need an external reference point from which to build our ethics. Perhaps, instead of immediately substituting in the transcendent, we can use a scientific understanding of nature’s immensity in similar way: to help combat our egocentricity, to put us in our place, to increase our respect and wonder at the marvel that is our own and our fellow humans’ existence, and so build up an empathic and environmental morality.

Or is Jack Johnson right when he sings that ‘there were so many fewer questions / when stars were still just the holes to heaven’?

The Colour Bald

I frequently get asked, 'Are you religious?', or if someone knows me a little better, 'You're not religious?' with a tentative little question mark on the end. My stock standard answer to the question was always 'no', usually with a kind of drawn out, sorry-to-have-let-you-down inflection. But recently I've been wondering if that's a precise response.

'Are you religious?' is a strange question. The adjective 'religious' is a strange word; it comes from the word 'religion', obviously, and that is practically impossible to define in a way that suits every phenomenon we apply the word to. I get the feeling that when someone asks if I am religious, what they really mean is, are you Christian, Buddhist, Islamic, and so on. That is, do you belong to a recognisable, organised institution of people with a certain set of beliefs about the supernatural: something I can understand and pinpoint in my mind. Have you labelled yourself?

This understanding of 'religion' is breaking apart in our current societies, however, which gives rise to the painfully overused response of 'I'm not religious, but I'm spiritual.' That is, I have a set of beliefs about the supernatural, but I have not taken them (as a whole) from any organised institution. Even of those who do label themselves, I would think a lot would fall into this category; the majority of people in developed societies feel free to pick, choose, edit and alter little snippets of belief from any number of religious traditions. So you have Christians who believe in reincarnation, or ignore parts of the Bible that paint a picture of God that goes against their individual conviction. Their beliefs are no less valid. There are as many religions as people on the planet.

But what of atheists, agnostics, humanists? Once again, these are labels that people apply to themselves on the basis of their stance towards the supernatural. And like the 'religious'/'spiritual' distinction, you have (it's a struggle not to use a label) people who believe the supernatural does not exist who do not self-identify as belonging to any of the specific branches of secular faith, like atheism or humanism.

Of course, unlike in the 'believer' case, these labels do not by and large refer to organised institutions. But they can; often the term 'life stance' is adopted as a subsitute for 'religion'. A good example is Humanism (with a capital H) which actually refers to an organised body of people, with publications, events, an ethical code and a statement of beliefs. And other strands of non-belief are beginning to crystallise: the fiery, dogmatic, ethically arrogant style of atheism touted by the likes of Richard Dawkins (a professional atheist, I'm sure) separating itself from the gentler styles of more tolerant atheism. Dawkins, through his website, books, public lectures and notably the Out Campaign, is shaping himself as something of a charismatic leader in the atheist community; and as the history of religions shows, the views of successful charismatic leaders are eventually routinised and channelled into institutional forms. Will we eventually have Dawkinsian sermons and bishops to accompany his canonical literature?

A friend once argued to me that calling atheism a religion is like calling bald a hair colour. I still beg to differ: if we stop looking at religion and spirituality and messy words like those, and start talking about stances toward the supernatural, then clearly atheism stands alongside Christianity, Buddhism and the rest as an equal. 'There is no supernatural' is, to me, an identically worthy claim as 'the supernatural affects my life in the following ways'.

Additionally, there is a distinction between people who actually think about, dwell, question, and decide upon their stance towards the supernatural, and those whose beliefs make absolutely no difference to them. This is what we really should be asking each other: not what religion you belong to, if any, but if you actually care. And if you do care, you could be Dawkinsian or agnostic just as validly as you could be Hindu or Islamic. Perhaps, just to confuse people terribly, I should begin answering that awful question with, 'Yes, I'm an atheist.'

Wikiracing

Possibly the best sport ever, wikiracing has established itself in my mind as the perfect social celebration of one's nerdiness. Basically, you pick two random pages on Wikipedia and race other people from one to the other, using links to other Wikipedia pages. It's fun and surprisingly educational, at least in the pub trivia sense of the word. I've unfortunately only managed to engage in one official set of wikiraces, complete with the entirely embarrassing experience of an old friend walking over halfway through and innocently asking what we were doing.

I took the first race- evidently my prior training at home helped- from the 1974-75 Toronto Maple Leafs Season (ice hockey) to the Macanga District, a stub article about a tiny district in Mozambique. My friend took the next four, including memorable races from George Brent Mickum IV to List of Farscape Episodes, and from Killeen Independent School District to List of cities in the Americas with alternative names, a particularly devilish article to pin down. I took another two after that, re-establishing some geek cred with the final trek from Soki, a type of Japanese pork dish, to Laudakia Caucasia, a reptile native to central Asia. So I lost the seven rounder 3-4, and have temporarily bowed down to my opponent's superior wikiracing skill.

Now there are, of course, many dry details that I have not included here, such as the method of deciding which pages are used, the time allowed to study the goal page before you begin, and exactly what features of Wikipedia are allowed (the search function, for example, is obviously illegal). Of greater interest are the strategies that developed:

1. Geography is the easiest way to get between disparate articles. Most articles link to a country page, and from there it is a simple matter to follow diplomatic and geographic links to any other country, from which one can narrow back down again.
2. Categories are gold mines. Knowing what categories the target article belongs to makes the process a whole lot easier.
3. Actually knowing stuff can also help. In some situations.

At the end of the day it's simply fun. Play it, enjoy it, tell your friends: I yearn for the day when I can proudly answer the questions, 'what are you doing in your lunch break?', 'how did you study for that course?' and 'what are you doing on your first date?' all with one word: Wikiracing.

A Happy Life

There were two men. David believed he would attain eternal life after he died if he followed a strict moral code. Stephen thought that he had one chance at life.

David spent his time on Earth suppressing desires and living a clean, simple and modest life. He thought that this choice was bringing him closer to the transcendent, which he believed he could feel. He felt spiritually pure from this self-denial.

Stephen lived somewhat more loosely, allowing himself greater material self-expression. He engaged with the natural world and made use of everything it had to offer. In pursuing worldly happiness, he felt he was making the right choice.

During their lives, both men were content. When they reached old age, both men died.

The Desire for Meaning

Humans are, as far as we know, the only animal on Earth that can intelligently perceive their own existence and ask the question: why? I think every person who has really sat down and thought about the existence of human life would have become incredibly confused and baffled. There is no readily recognisable purpose or motive for my life. Looking at the world around me, it could function just as well without me. It could function just as well- in fact, probably better- without any humans at all.

Some, myself included, come to the conclusion from this that humans are some kind of freak of nature, some mistake of genetics, occupying a universe that is itself a lucky, freakish coincidence; but now we’re here, we might as well make the most of it. This is not an easy position to take. Thinking humans have a powerful and seemingly innate drive for meaning; I sincerely want there to be something more to the universe, I really want to have been put here for a purpose. (And because everyone feels this need, many are very ready to believe anything that satisfies it.) This yearning for meaning is a fundamental force in much of human activity.

I recently listened to a speech given by Richard Holloway, former Episcopal Bishop of Edinburgh, now ‘Christian agnostic’, at the Sydney Writer’s Festival, replayed on ABC Radio National’s Encounter. He talks about our ‘puzzlement at the riddle of existence’ and mentions the three big questions: Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going? That is, how did humans come about, is there a purpose for our existence, and what happens after death? I think everyone will agree that if we knew the answers to these, we would be content- and life would be a lot less interesting.

Religions answer these questions. For many these are not agonising, soul-destroying enigmas, but simple questions of doctrine: God made us, we’re here to do God’s work, and we’re going to Heaven, to use a well-known set of examples. The religious imagination has provided a powerful series of narratives, symbols and principles that provide transcendental structures, metaphysical frameworks, by which our own pitiful lives are made more meaningful.

I would argue that the need for explanations similarly drives the scientific quest. The process of experimentation, argumentation, dismissal and approval has pushed back the veils of ignorance around a lot of the questions regarding how our world functions and how we fit into it. A lot of science is done in the search for specific, tangible goals, like technological and health applications. But a lot also seems to be driven solely by this desire for meaning. When Copernicus established the Earth’s orbit around the Sun, he was not trying to tangibly improve the lives of present or future humans; he was simply trying to find a truth. The current search for a unified theory in physics, romantically and evocatively coined the Theory of Everything, has similarly taken on an irrational or quasi-spiritual quality: Stephen Hawking was not simply trying to drum up sales when he concluded A Brief History of Time with, ‘for then we would know the mind of God.’

Science tends to lead to what could be labelled ‘cold’ understandings of our existence. Without the warm, fuzzy presence of God or the transcendent, we tend to be left stranded and isolated on a frigid ocean of meaninglessness. Existentialist philosophy can be seen to spring from this sentiment: we are frightened by our insignificant self-consciousness in an impersonal, unaware universe. We are an anomaly, cut off from the rest of nature by the very fact that we are self-aware; if the universe crushes us, it does so without knowing, but we, a product of that universe, for some reason can know, can be conscious of our own predicament (see the work of Hans Jonas). This is what our lives are reduced to in a world to which we ascribe no meaning.

This is an uncomfortable intellectual position to be in, and one from which most people strive to alleviate themselves. Most people are not content with an indifferent universe, a life without purpose, and an inevitable and absolute death. Even though, logically, we might know that believing in the supernatural simply because it makes our lives meaningful may be unjustified, we do it anyway. A friend of mine agrees:

If I am to smile to a fictitious belief...
I am smiling nonetheless.

Even if one could know that there was no supernatural, such a belief would still provide comfort and meaning. Richard Holloway quotes existentialist philosopher Miguel de Unamuno:

Man is perishing that may be,
But if it is nothingness that awaits us,
Let us perish resisting
And let us so live that it will be an unjust fate.

And he continues to say, as an impassioned closing, ‘I like the idea of living as though the universe did mean something – and if it doesn’t, we’ll show it that we are better than it.’

I understand this motivation, this deep desire for there to be something more, for there to be satisfactory answers to the big questions. I have it; we all have it. We all just have to accept each other’s differing conclusions. If you’ll live a happier life believing there is an intrinsic purpose to your existence, it shouldn’t bother me, as long as you respect my acceptance of the cold meaninglessness. Then we can all get along fine.

Flash demons

It’s time for a confession: I’m addicted to online Flash games.

There is something about free, quick, in-browser computer games that is incredibly appealing, more so than your larger commercial games. Over the past six months I have watched hours of my life draining away into these little time-sucking black holes.

They are the perfect procrastination tool for four reasons:

1. They are usually short and level-based, so you can kid yourself into thinking they won’t take long or that you’ll be able to stop yourself after a couple of levels.
2. There are so many of them; you can get bored of one and still have millions left to sustain you.
3. They are easily available in your web browser. It takes absolutely no effort at all to open a new tab to find a plethora of little demons waiting to steal your productivity.
4. They are free.

My advice: don’t start the habit, don’t play a single game, don’t even open one of the websites and, God forbid, do not add it to your bookmarks like I have.

[But if you were interested, I currently use OneMoreLevel.com. Try Shift; it’s a great puzzle game. With sequels!]

17-6-09 edit: And sometimes, you find a game that is practically a work of art. Little Wheel is an aesthetic and aural masterpiece.

The Superlogical

‘Every treasure there is but waiting your pleasure and utilisation. … Yet really there is nothing gained; what you have gained is no gain, and yet there is something truly gained in this.’ (p47)

I have spoken before of the problem of words; how our language can constrain the ideas we can express, and thus determine the very thoughts we can have. Recently, while reading An Introduction to Zen Buddhism by D. T. Suzuki, I was struck by how central this idea is to Zen. Suzuki was a Professor of Buddhist Philosophy from Japan who was writing in the first half of the last century, and was a major figure in bringing to the West what he calls ‘the keynote of Oriental culture’ (p35). The whole aim of Zen seems to be, as Suzuki presents it, to break down conventional logic and everything associated with it, to try to bring one closer to a true, real or raw appreciation of the world and oneself. One of the biggest hindrances to this is a dependence on words and names.

The primary issue Zen has with logic is its inherently dualistic nature. Something cannot be both A and not-A: this is perhaps the most basic foundation from which we understand our world. Zen holds that this is a flawed perspective. Thus we have statements from Zen masters like, ‘Empty-handed I go, and behold the spade is in my hands,’ (p58) which on first perusal seem to be entirely nonsensical. Actually, this holds for the second and third perusals too. Through the use of such statements- or little tales of frustrating nonsense from historical masters, called koans- Zen disciples try to break beyond the strictures of rationality; the remarks are not illogical, but superlogical.

For example, a monk asked his teacher, Joshu, “What is the ultimate principle of Buddhism?”

Joshu replied, “The cypress-tree in the courtyard.” (p106)

Suzuki goes on to say there is no symbolism in this, and if you try to follow any path of rational analysis into the koan, the spirit of Joshu will be laughing at you.

The idea that logic is ‘the bane of humanity’ (p69) is extended to the role of language in forming these logical representations of our world. To put a name on something is to fundamentally call it A. But in Zen, it could also be not-A; or, more precisely, neither. Instead, in the Zen view, an object affirms what it is by its very existence, not through the application of a label or a name to that pure or ‘absolute affirmation’ (p68). Similarly, when Bodhidharma, the First Patriarch of Zen, was asked who he was, he replied,

“I don’t know.” This was not because he couldn’t explain himself, nor was it because he wanted to avoid any verbal controversy, but just because he did not know who or what he was, save that he was what he was and could not be anything else. (p75)

To say anything about who you are constrains the possibilities of what you could be. Your very being is the purest and clearest representation of what you are, according to Zen, and this holds for any object, animal, person, and so on. ‘Even to say it is something does not hit the mark’ (p75). To say, the spade is not a spade, expresses the true state of reality ‘which refuses to be tied up in names’ (p60) more clearly than the logical application of such a label to that object. Such a contradictory statement is intended to challenge our preconceptions of rational thought and open the mind to the possibility of superlogical experiences.

Superlogical experiences? Does that sound a little like the numinous? Indeed it does; in Zen Buddhism these brief moments of transcendence are called satori. When the mind has satori, suddenly the meaning of a koan becomes clear, hitherto unknown regions of the mind are opened up, and logical dualism is outstripped in a regenerative awakening which allows one to see ‘the actual workings of things’ (p109). They are moments of bliss, they bring unshakeable convictions that there is something beyond the intellect, and once they fade, the familiar, mundane world is viewed in a more positive light. Mind you, the only things transcended are the shackles of logic. In Zen the natural world is the only world, and the process of spiritual enlightenment is an attempt to ‘open one’s eye to the significance of it all’ (p85), to see the beauty of Zen in the material world.

To return to the earlier point, the suggestion that the spiritual or numinous experience is indescribable or beyond the scope of language is not unique to Zen; it is found amongst many mystical traditions across the world. In the religious feeling we find the failure of words, and this failure suggests the fallibility of language more generally. In Zen we have a vehement argument against the dominance of labelling and categorisation, so prevalent in our society, and I feel the point is a valid one. Names are all well and good as long as we do not forget, in our analyses and interpretations of those words, the very existence of the things they are trying to represent.

Said Doko despairingly, “I cannot follow your reasoning.”

“Neither do I understand myself,” concluded the Zen master. (p57)

The Natural Constants

A scientific fact: The constants and laws of nature fall perfectly within narrow ranges that allow life to exist.

I have recently been watching a few lectures on Academic Earth, specifically an introductory astrophysics course by Yale lecturer Charles Bailyn. In the final lecture of this series he raises the self-evident but often forgotten fact, that we exist. He goes on to explain how our existence is entirely dependent on a whole host of natural constants each falling within very small ranges, which of course they do, because we exist. These are numbers that physicists have worked out that fundamentally describe certain functions and aspects of the universe, and each of them is quite perfect. Perhaps a couple of examples.

The universe is expanding, as it has done since the moment of initial singularity (Big Bang theory). The density of the stuff in the universe slows it down through gravitational forces between itself. The cosmological constant (Λ) is proposed as a fundamental property of the universe; if it were much larger than it is (a mere ten times larger) the universe would not be dense enough, it would not be able to stop expanding, and we would have catastrophic inflation. This would not allow matter to congregate enough for stars to form, let alone planets with enough complexity to allow life.

The gravitational constant and the speed of light are other examples, especially as they relate to the Schwarzchild radius (r_s). This is a given radius for every quantity of mass. If an object is smaller than it's Schwarzchild radius, neither light nor particles can escape the region from the inside, and you get a black hole. Its value is given by:

where G is the gravitational constant, m is the mass of the object, and c is the speed of light. If G were slightly larger, or if light travelled slightly slower, then the Schwarzchild radius of any object would be larger. If this radius was larger than a white dwarf star (the usual graveyard-type form of a star at the end of its life) then every star would end as a black hole. This means the material in stars would never be expelled in supernovae, so no heavy metals would become available for the construction of planets, or of life.

We are carbon-based life forms. Carbon is really good at working itself into a myriad and endless array of complex structures (carbon chemistry is, as a result, the most complicated kind of chemistry). The properties of carbon that allow it to develop this complexity- and complexity is a necessity for the emergence of life- would dissapear or would never have developed if a whole host of other constants and forces did not sit at their existing values; the fine structure constant (α), which dictates the strength of the electromagnetic interaction, is an example. If the strengths of the fundamental forces (the strong and weak nuclear forces, the electromagnetic force, and the  gravitational force) were tweaked ever so slightly, they could cause seemingly minor things to play out differently and, over the long course of the development of the universe, could make hundreds of catastrophic differences that would all result in the non-emergence of life.

So almost all of the natural constants are fine-tuned in such a massive, perfect system that has allowed, in this universe, life to develop; and further, intelligent life capable of observing those very same constants. Now for the big question: why? Possible answers:

1) It's an accident. A totally freakish coincidence.

2) It was done that way on purpose.

3) There's actually a multiverse and we are the lucky one that got it right.

Number one is entirely unsatisfactory and frankly no fun at all. Number two is the very obvious answer. It does not necessitate a religious belief; see the Strong Anthropic Principle, the idea that the universe for some reason must be such that observers are created in it at some stage, for example. But atheists are pesky buggers, and number three demonstrates some pretty impressive imagination to get around the need for a God. It draws on the ideas of probability theory; basically, everything will happen at some point somewhere if we try enough. If we do an experiment in which we roll a dice fifty times, it will be very unlikely that we will get fifty sixes. But if we run that experiment enough times, we will eventually get that result. So if there are millions of other universes out there, each with slightly different natural constants, surely one of them will get them within the ranges necessary for the emergence of life. And, indeed, one did. This can be dismissed as cold and impersonal (both true) or just too absurd. I don't want to go into details, but there are plausible theories as to where these other universes are: they are beyond the 'cosmic horizon', very very far from us; they lie in other dimensions (proposed by string theory) that we can't access; or new universes are born through black holes. Science fiction much?

So we still do not know why the physical constants have turned out so perfectly. It is natural to postulate the existence and role of an omniscient creator, but this is not the only explanation. The question will probably be solved in the future by the arrival of better intruments of measurement (or God himself). Until then, let's continue to live with the same assumptions we had before. And read sci-fi.

A Question

One day Fred decided he wanted to know what happened after death.
Fred went to the local synagogue and asked the rabbi: “What will happen to me after death?” The rabbi explained that if he believed in the omniscience and benevolence of God, and followed the Jewish rites, he could attain closeness with God after dying, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local Hindu temple and asked the Brahmin: “What will happen to me after death?” The Brahmin explained that if he devoted himself to the gods and followed one of the proper ethical paths, he could attain liberation from the cycle of rebirth, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local church and asked the priest: “What will happen to me after death?” The priest explained to him that if he took Jesus Christ as his saviour, all of his sins would be absolved, and he would spend eternity in Heaven, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local Buddhist monastery and asked the lama: “What will happen to me after death?” The lama explained that if he dedicated himself to having correct thoughts, practices and deeds, upon death his existence would be blissfully snuffed out, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local mosque and asked the imam: “What will happen to me after death?” The imam explained that if he followed the teachings of Muhammad and submitted to the will of Allah, he would go to paradise upon death, which he said was pretty good.
When Fred went home his brother asked him: “What will happen to me after death?”
“Nobody knows,” Fred replied.

The Numinous

This is a fabulous word that I think everyone should get to know a little better. If our thoughts are constrained by our vocabulary, let us all widen our minds with this one.

It was coined by Rudolf Otto in a book published in English as The Idea of the Holy in 1923. The word numinous is used to describe the experience or feeling of the holy or the ‘wholly other’, that which seems to be beyond material existence, an emotion that drives the religious imagination. The phrase mysterium tremendum et fascinans is frequently used to define it: that is, it is a feeling of something mysterious and other, that may seem to be transcendent, which inspires, simultaneously, both fright, repulsion and dread (tremendum) and curiosity, awe and attraction (fascinans). The kinds of experiences that can be described as numinous are hundredfold. It describes any time when one feels that their view of things has been broadened or deepened, where one feels both love and dread, where it feels like a curtain has been pulled back to reveal something more glorious about the world. It feels blissful, you feel fulfilled, topped up with light and happiness; and simultaneously you feel terrified and insignificant, as if you and the human race are absolutely nothing in comparison to the true reality you’ve just experienced.

Needless to say, such experiences are frequently interpreted (careful word choice, interpreted) as affirming the existence of God, spirits, cosmic order, or however the recipient conceptualises the supernatural. Indeed, touching the numinous often occurs in religious contexts; especially the mystic streams of the major faiths, which speak of union with the divine, or brief enlightenment, or witnessing God, or any number of other descriptions which are fundamentally different interpretations of the numinous experience. There are words for this feeling in every world religion: bodhi, nirvana, satori, ‘fana, en sof, etc.

These experiences need not be seen as religious. Dorothy Rowe, in her enlightening book on how our beliefs affect our psychopathology, What Should I Believe? (2009), discusses how out-of-body, transcendent, revelatory or numinous experiences are interpreted in light of our previous experiences and what we had previously believed about the nature of the divine. They are intrinsically impossible to put into words and so “we fall back on the language of the religion we were brought up in to describe them” (page 249). Indeed, all religious teachings and dogmas could (if we put aside moral creeds) be seen as attempts to provide a language to explain the numinous. But we do not need to attach the supernatural to such experiences to appreciate them and to take value from them; they are wonderful simply as heightened states of consciousness regarding the natural. It can simply be a material experience of the material world whereby the glory and wonder that is inherent in the world around us suddenly becomes clear. An all-natural spiritual wonder.

It is in this way that the word has been picked up by even the most radical atheists. Christopher Hitchens (author of God is Not Great) has, in The Four Horsemen, maintained a distinction between the superstitious and the numinous. He thus keeps the numinous sense that many get of the world’s glory and grace, but divorces this from the existence of the supernatural in any form. His atheist buddies agree. Daniel Dennett, atheist philosopher, reacts by proving that he has experienced the numinous through this accurate description:

It is the best moment in your life. And it's the moment when you forget yourself and become better than you ever thought you could be in some way. And see, in all humbleness, the wonderfulness of nature. That's it! And that's wonderful. But, it doesn't add anything to say, golly, that has to have been given to me by somebody even more wonderful.

 

Phillip Adams, Australian radio host and author of Adams vs God, speaking on Compass’ The Atheists, also refers to the numinous experience as enriching his atheism:

The sense of the numinous is when you stand outside at night at the farm and you look up at a clear sky unpolluted by the metropolis, and you’re looking at billions and billions and billions of stars. More suns out there than there are grains of sand in the Sahara. And if you’re not overcome by a sense of the numinous – which is a mixture of awe and wonderment and dread – there’s something wrong with you. It’s a great emotion. It’s the emotion I think that drives religion and philosophy and science.

Personally, I similarly experience the numinous when I am alone, in the dark, at night, looking at the moon. Sometimes, after a moment or two, I suddenly and briefly grasp or understand how big it is, how far away it is, how big the earth is, and how I fit into it all. I understand that I am minutely small and entirely insignificant to the functioning of the universe. This revelation makes my life’s little problems seem small and paltry, and less worrisome, but it also raises the question: what’s the point? Clearly I am experiencing the numinous, that ambivalence of anxiety and bliss. It does feel like I am touching the transcendent, as if I am feeling God’s light, but I do not interpret it this way; I see no need to.

What are numinous experiences? Clearly we could say that there is something called the numinous, some kind of cosmic oneness sitting beyond the phenomenal world, that we occasionally are lucky enough to witness. Or perhaps, when we have these experiences, we are simply noticing everything in the material world as it truly is for a moment, with our veils of cognitive inhibitions pulled back. Or perhaps our brains have, through some freak of nature, become so complex that they occasionally stuff up and we briefly feel a little funny. Whatever they are, we all have them, and they are things to be embraced, enjoyed, and shared.

Social Awkwardness

Some tips I may have followed in avoiding social awkwardness...

1. Follow someone but remain outside their field of vision.

2. Pretend you did not see them.

3. Go out of your way to physically avoid someone.

4. Pretend to be in a rush.

5. Look like you are really deep in a book.

6. Plan ahead.

7. Actually speak, discover common ground, and fall in love.

A Picture of God

One day Fred went to the local church. A rotund, bearded man stood out the front, gazing with intent at the stained glass windows of the church. Young Fred ran over to the man and asked: “Can you draw me a picture of God?”
The man looked down and smiled. After a glance at the church, he squatted next to Fred and sketched this image in the dirt with a stick.
Fred was puzzled.
The man explained. “Many things point towards God,” he said, pointing to the lines, “but in reality, there is nothing there.”
“So there is no God?” asked Fred.

“Can you see a circle?” the man asked in reply. Fred nodded. “There may be no visible circle. But draw enough lines around one, and there is. God does exist; he exists through the belief people have in him, and the influence that belief has on their actions.”
Fred thanked the man, and ran home.

The Problem of Words

How are we to describe a phenomenon from another culture, when the only suitable English word carries unavoidable connotations?

I have come across this problem in my study of Ancient Egyptian religion. In trying to express their conceptualisation of the body, I have repeatedly been frustrated by Western scholars' tendency to translate various Egyptian words into the English 'body', 'soul' or 'spirit'. In fact the Egyptians had a vast array of different words that each had slightly different emphases and none of them meld one-to-one with any of our English terms; ka, ba, akh, khat, khaibit, ib, sekhem, and many more, were all applied to describe a person or an identity in different contexts. None of them were solely physical and material ('body') and likewise none of them were solely transcendant, ethereal or eternal ('soul' or 'spirit'). The solution seems to be to leave them untranslated: but how can we then compare between cultures, if we are stuck in contextual languages? But then, why is English somehow superior as a language of comparison; what gives us the right to apply our terms to other cultures, pidgeonholing them into our conceptualisations of the world, just so we can study them?

The issue is that 'body' and 'soul' are intrinsically tied up in a massive history of Western Judaeo-Christian theology. The West is, historically, dualistic (although recently it has become very fashionable to reject dualism wholeheartedly and appeal to holistic or embodied views). The language that we speak has grown up amidst this dualistic culture, that is: body-human-mundane-material-temporary vs. soul-God-divine-ethereal-eternal. Our fleshy existence is tied to this dirty tangible world and we wait and yearn to be free of that, for our divine inner sparks to enter a non-physical existence for the rest of time. To use the word 'soul' immediately brings to mind (another problematic word) this particular view of the nature of humanity and its ultimate destiny; using 'body' is similarly constricting as the word refers solely to physical existence and excludes the intangible aspects of one's identity.

And so we are stuck in a quandary. To communicate our ideas with others we must use language, but the language we speak prescribes and limits the ideas we can express. And if we cannot express an idea verbally, then perhaps we cannot even think it in the first place: are not our thoughts articulated, even in our own heads, using our primary language of communication? There may be a nascent form of an idea which is pure and free from the strictures of syntax and morphology, but to express that idea, even to ourselves, to isolate it and have a look at it, requires articulation in the form of language; and as we have found, language constrains you. (See Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis).

Solution? Be aware of it. Know that the words you use are not God-given, pure representations of how the world is structured; they are human and cultural constructions with very specific histories and very specific definitions. It is not possible for us all to learn every language, every way of expressing every possible idea, but we can take some steps in that direction. Your ka, body, khat, soul and ib will be happier for it.

A Tramp

The travelling beggar said unto the lemonade-stall man: “I seek a light from heaven. Can you help me find it?”
The lemonade-stall man, who was known amongst the people of the village as Bill, stared at the beggar and said: “Why is it that you are dressed so? Come! I will take you to the tailor’s!”
The lonely traveller was not to be moved, however. “Will this tailor bring me the inspiration I seek?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” replied Bill, “he will bring you clothes, too.”
But the tramp was not satisfied.

And so the travelling beggar said unto the old librarian: “I seek a light from heaven. Can you help me find it?”
The old librarian, who was known in the town as Gwenyth, looked kindly upon the beggar and said: “Why yes, I can. But you look so lean! Surely some food to hearten your stomach would help you in your search?”
The lonely traveller was not to be moved, however. “Food is a substance for the body, not for the mind,” he stated.
“True,” replied Gwenyth, “yet have you not heard of the proverb- ‘food for thought’?”
But the tramp was not satisfied.

And so the travelling beggar said unto the suited businessman: “I seek a light from heaven. Can you help me find it?”
The suited businessman was not known amongst the millions he passed in the city, but his name was Warren. He recoiled from the sight of the beggar and exclaimed: “What are you doing here? You need a bath and a haircut, not to mention some cologne!”
The lonely traveller was not to be moved, however. “You speak of frivolities designed for the flesh. I seek a shining light for the soul,” he said resolutely.
“In that case,” replied Warren with contempt, “you will find the yoga place around the corner.”
But the tramp was not satisfied.

And so the travelling beggar knelt by the young girl and said: “I seek a light from heaven. Can you help me find it?”
The young girl- a mere toddler, ignored by the majority of the society- was named Kya. She looked curiously up at the beggar and said: “Why are you worried so? The only light above is the sun.”
The lonely traveller was moved. “How did you come to such a revelation?” he asked in admiration.
“Simple,” Kya replied, “I just looked.”
And the tramp was satisfied.