Self-referential Incoherence

I saw the video posted below on the blog Return to Rome and absolutely had to share it. Deepak Chopra is a modern 'spiritual' guru who has contributed substantially to the current obsession with being "Spiritual but not Religious." He's written the book on it. (Quite a few, actually.) A fundamental tenant of said movement is that clinging to specific creeds or beliefs is unimportant and, at worst, dangerous to genuine spiritual growth. But any remotely reasonable person who looks at that tenant will recognize that it, too, is a creed, a belief. So that leaves the entire movement in a mire of self-refuting, vapid nonsense... which is not a foundation on which I would want to build anything, let alone my spiritual life.

But yes, the man in the red shirt is my hero for the day.

The Glories of Upstate New York

For as long as I can remember I've had a deep appreciation for natural beauty. Growing up, I was always fascinated by animals, captivated by sunsets, and would gladly spend hours romping around in the woods. So thinking that the Finger Lakes and the rolling hills of the Chemung Valley were astonishingly beautiful as I was growing up was nothing out of the ordinary. But it was only after leaving the area for school and other travels that I recognized within myself a new appreciation for the simple beauty that this region of the country so consistently provides every season of the year.

Seneca Lake from Watkins Glen

So it was a great delight to find another "evangelist" for upstate New York in Thomas Merton. As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm chipping away at his spiritual classic The Seven Storey Mountain during lunch breaks and the like. Currently, Merton is telling of his years in graduate school and, specifically, about a trip he and his friends had taken to Olean (near Buffalo) via train from Columbia University. It was with a certain sense of pride--and gratitude to God--that I read the following passage:

"For the first time I saw a part of the world in which I was one day going to learn how to be very happy--and that day was not now very far away.

It is the association of that happiness which makes upper New York state seem, in my memory, to be so beautiful. But it is objectively so, there is no doubt of that. Those deep valleys and miles and miles of high, rolling wooded hills: the broad fields, the big red barns, the white farm houses and the peaceful towns: all this looked more and more impressive and fine in the long slanting rays of the sinking sun after we had passed Elmira.

And you began to get some of the feeling of the bigness of America, and to develop a continental sense of the scope of the country and of the vast, clear sku, as the train went on for mile after mile, and hour after hour. And the color, the freshness, and bigness, and richness of the land! The cleanness of it. The wholesomeness. This was new and yet it was old country. It was mellow country. It had been clearned and settled for much more than a hundred years."

Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain (Harvest Press, 1998: p.219)

Thomas Merton (1915-1968)

Haiku Anthology #1

Now, I'm definitely not "all in" when it comes to the whole Twitter craze. But I have jumped on the bandwagon. As you may know, Twitter allows you to post short status updates, so long as they are under 140 characters in length. Thinking that I was being original, I therefore started using Twitter as a place to write Haikus, a Japanese poetic style traditionally comprised of three lines of five, seven, and five syllables. But many others noticed Twitter and the haiku's synergy well before I did. I wrote a poem about it, anyway:

It seems like Twitter
was created for Haikus
like Eve for Adam.

Thanks to my smartphone many of these haikus were conceived while at work and delivered kicking and screaming into the world-wide-web shortly thereafter. (A good number relate to my job as well...) Each haiku can be found, in its original habitat, on my Twitter feed which you can view and access via the link on the right-hand column of this blog.  Enjoy!

I.

Puppies in the sun.
From the shade my eyes relish
July 4th hot dogs.


II.

Here's the funny thing:
I love the sun more due to
air conditioning.


III.

Coos and toothless smiles
wrapped in a diaper, pink-bowed.
Our Liana Rose.


IV.

Haikus are easy
and very overrated
but I haiku on.


V.

Working all day long
when I could be imbibing
the Wine Festival.


VI.

"Roast beef" sounds tasty,
but "ground beef" sounds muddy and
unsanitary.


VII.

Dogs crap everywhere.
But I, like the Poopsmith, scoop
in gallant silence.

The Single Hauz

May I introduce to you the Single Hauz:

How great would it be to have one of these on the shore of Seneca Lake? I'm not sure I could actually live in one, but as a modern getaway it would be ideal, I think.

I'm not sure what it is, but there's something in me that just loves the idea of having a small, private place to call my own. Maybe it's that "man-cave" instinct all guys seem to have.

As the architects say on their website, the concept of a Single Hauz is meant to fill a domicile "gap," allowing a single person to own a home that isn't meant for a family. It recognizes that marriage and family are no longer "the only way of life" and attempts to artistically meet the need of the single, contemporary "Western Man."

Meeting needs is all well and good. I know I'd at least try living in one given the chance. I just cringe a bit when Western Man is idealized as the free, detached bachelor; a monad who has no need of others--least of all a wife and children--and strives to float, even in his home, above it all. Does that mean everyone interested in a Single Hauz wants to be this kind of Nietzschean "overman"? No. But it's just somewhat troubling that we often look in that direction as an ideal. We Americans have it ingrained in us at an early stage that there's something perfect about being beholden to no one, utterly free, an able to determine everything on one's own. E pluribis, unum. Luckily, reality has a way of neutering such ideas.

I'm not saying that the architects are necessarily encouraging that worldview, either. Frankly, I just think it would be fun to have a Single Hauz. It's like an adult treehouse. While floating a few feet over streets and other homes, it's nevertheless planted firmly in the ground. It looks like a place where you could get your bearings, rest, and take a deep breath of fresh air before ultimately descending the stairs and re-entering the hustle-and-bustle of daily life.

I'm also pretty sure the design is merely "concept art," as I haven't found any pictures online of built, extant Single Hauzes, but a man can dream...

What's the big deal about relics?

According to a report from the Boston Globe, a relic of the True Cross was stolen from Holy Cross Cathedral in Boston on the night of June 30th. The relic had been in the diocese since the late 18th century and belonged to the first bishop of Boston, Rev. Jean-Louis Lefebvre de Cheverus. Housed in a small reliquary at the base of a crucifix in the Church's Eucharistic Adoration chapel (pictured left), the reliquary had been pried open and the relic removed.

I was shocked to see this story as a major headline on CNN.com. I'm sure for many the word "relic" was of no general interest, as most people (to the shame of us Catholics) are completely unaware of the rich traditions surrounding relics in the Church. For all those unfamiliar with the Church's beliefs concerning relics, the brief explanations given by the Archdiocese of Boston certainly helped to emphasize the tragedy of the event. But, as I'll explain, the tragedy is hardly an insurmountable one.

Here's my angle:

Using Catholic Churchspeak, relics are physical objects that once belonged to--or were closely associated with--Jesus or the Saints and, as such, are used as aids in prayer and contemplation. In other words they are "sacramentals," physical signs that, while not Sacraments proper, help the faithful to grow in the life of Grace.

But to say that relics are a purely Catholic phenomenon is to do them an injustice, I think. The use of relics is a human phenomenon, and if we don't understand this human element first, how can we possibly understand how they work when "baptized" by Christianity? It's easy to dismiss them as being unimportant and trivial if we can simply compartmentalize them as "religious things," as if they have no relation whatsoever to regular, human life. But when we recognize that "relics" are a part of how we interact with the world and with how we connect to our past, their "elevation" into the religious sphere of our life becomes comprehensible and thoroughly reasonable.

Look around the room that you're in right now. I'm sure that you're surrounded by mementos: seashells from your last trip to the beach; photos of loved ones alive or dead; souvenirs, keepsakes and gifts. I know from where I'm sitting I can see a picture of my family and me on a boat in Poland, a large empty bottle of Red Cat wine and a worn old Frisbee. And while I don't claim that those objects have any sort of "energy" or "power" in-and-of-themselves, I am very comfortable saying that each of them has the power to evoke a strong bond with my past. The ability to have them, to hold them, or even to gaze at them from afar creates a palpable link with those events and people. Are we completely disconnected from our past without them? Absolutely not. But it's wonderful to have them. Our fascination with photos, museums and archaeology are just a few examples of our obsession with, well, "relics." And if we understand this aspect of our humanity, the Catholic Church's understanding of relics is cast in a much more reasonable light.

I own a relic. I have a piece of one of Mother Theresa of Calcutta's veils. (Pictured on the right: the little white circle to the left of my finger.) And while I never had the opportunity to meet the woman, I can tell you that simply having a piece of one of her garments makes her feel significantly closer to me than if I did not. And that emotive response is something familiar from the experience of any memento. Its physical presence (its look, its feel, its smell, etc.) evokes in us a deeper understanding that places us in a much closer relationship with the reality it represents. For all Christians, this close relationship really becomes even closer. We believe that when we are Baptized, we become members of the Body of Christ. That is, we share in a loving, living communion that stretches through time and space, and even beyond the threshold of death. So for the Catholic woman clutching her relic of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, she not only feels closer to St. Thérèse, she mysteriously is closer. Like any beloved memento, Catholic relics are safeguarded and venerated for their ability to link us to these real, physical Champions of the Faith who 'ran the race' and 'fought the good fight,' years before we did.

But relics of the True Cross bring us into near-physical contact with the Savior Himself. The True Cross is, tradition holds, THE cross on which Christ was crucified. St. Helena (d. 330), Constantine's mother, was given a vision that compelled her to travel to the Holy Land and to discover the Cross of Christ. A piece of the cross remained in Jerusalem in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (first commissioned by St. Helena) and the rest brought to Constantine in Constantinople. Through history the Cross was divided throughout Christendom, with at least one piece making its way to Boston in the 18th Century.

The small slivers of wood purportedly from The Cross are powerful mementos of an historical event that took place nearly two millenia ago. To those who desire it, relics of the True Cross bring them to that moment in time when God died, and death with Him. And because Christians believe that His body was raised triumphantly from death, drawing close to the cross on which He died is almost as good as it gets. 

All the stories report that the parishioners are not only praying for the relic's return, but are also praying for the one(s) who stole it. In this video story from CNN, I think Sr. Claire O'Rourke beautifully encapsulates an authentic Catholic response to the entire tragedy:

"We forgive people who do things like this. As long as they didn't touch the Blessed Sacrament, that is of essence to us. That's the Real Presence, and that's why we come to Mass."

That's why even relics of the True Cross are only "almost" as good as it gets. Relics, like those photos of loved ones, are not the people they represent. While they can be lost, stolen or destroyed, the person--or at least their memory--lives on. But for Catholics especially, Christ becomes truly, physically present in the consecrated bread and wine at Mass. The celebration of the Eucharist isn't merely a memento, it's quite literally a re-presentation of Christ and His loving sacrifice. He becomes total, personal, physical Presence. When Catholics receive the Eucharist, we are not making "near-physical" contact with the Lord, but genuine physical contact. The mementos are only there to help us better appreciate that Reality!

But the upshot is this: "relics" and mementos are important because they allow more than just our minds to make contact with the past. They facilitate a deeper emotional bond with people and places removed from us in either time or space. It is absolutely a tragedy that the people of Holy Cross and the Archdiocese of Boston have had such a precious relic stolen from their church. But while His cross might be missing, they've still got Christ. And that, in the end, is all that matters.

The Green Hornet!

I'm a sucker for superhero movies. You can basically bank on the fact that if a new superhero movie is being released, I'll be there on opening night, and if it's still in production I'm reading about it. It's not true across the board of course (Jonah Hex??), but it's a pretty safe bet. I just love 'em.

There's something satisfying about seeing a comic book character "translated" to the big screen, whether it's done well or not. If nothing else, it gives me something to critique and an opportunity to be creative: "How would I have made that film better?" But it's enormously satisfying to see it done right (The Dark Knight, for instance), and even more satisfying when the filmmaker knows the character well enough to surprise you.


That, of course, is also why I'm a sucker... superhero movies have a tendency to be over simplistic and one-dimensional.  A lot of the time it feels like I'm an addict standing at the slot machines, mumbling "maybe this time I'll get what I'm paying for, maybe this time I'll win big."

A lesser known superhero will be making a comeback in January of next year: The Green Hornet. I've been following the production of this film for quite some time and, quite frankly, don't know why I'm so obsessed over it. As superheroes go, The Green Hornet is kinda lame: his superpowers basically consist of 1) his vast wealth and 2) his sidekick, Kato. I think the source of my otherwise inexplicable fandom is that I was introduced to the Green Hornet while I was still a kid, perhaps leading to the following rationalization: (A) The Green Hornet is a superhero (B) Superheroes are awesome (C) Therefore the Green Hornet is awesome. (When you consider that Superman and Spider-Man are also superheroes, the weak premise is clearly A.)

But I can't fight it. I'm excited to see this movie.

And here's the trailer, for your viewing pleasure:

Apparently I can blog via text messaging. This could be dangerously convenient.

On Canine Companions

I work at a wonderful "Doggy Daycare and Pet Resort" as my full-time summer job, which basically means that for about 7 hours a day I am caring for and playing with dogs of every variety of breed and body. And as you may have noticed on my Twitter feed on the right--> (follow me!)--> I had a mini-epiphany the other day at work.

A somewhat rambunctious, medium sized dog jumped, uninvited, into my lap while I was chaperoning the little dogs. She's a gorgeous mixed breed, slender and muscular, wrapped tightly in a coat of short hair peppered in equal parts silver and gold. And while I would normally not allow a dog to simply jump into my lap without inviting it to do so--especially a medium sized dog like her--I allowed her to find her balance and sit, awkwardly, on my lap. As I held her steady with my hands, I felt just how muscular she was, her sinews tightening sporadically to retain a comfortable balance. And within moments, I was admiring her like a piece of artwork, this dog who only minutes before I had been reprimanding for attempting to mount a debilitated, geriatric little Yorkie.

And it was in that moment that I felt the fulfillment of a primal nostalgia... like I realized that what I was doing, in that moment, was the dream of ancient man coming true. I was holding in my hands a powerful, keenly intelligent, beautiful beast that our ancient ancestors could only admire from a distance. Ancient humans no doubt envied them for their precision and synchronicity in the hunt. But they must also have wanted to simply draw close to them, in the same way that we all secretly desire to "meet" the wild animals we encounter. Who hasn't wanted to look at a Red Fox up close, to touch its tail. To rub a white-tailed deer on its nose. To make a Tiger purr.

And yet in some extraordinary twist of Providence the path of the dog and the path of the human being were woven together. The dog became first a tool, and then a friend.

So as I held that dog in my lap, I realized just how privileged I was to be close to these dogs. To be able to reach out to them and have them come, wagging, to me. Through the year's we've fashioned the dog to fill our own needs, and sometimes simply to suit our own fancy (many times to the detriment of the dog), and I can't help but recognize that something of the wild beauty of the dog has been lost in the process of domestication. But something has also been regained, I think. We see a glimmer of a Paradise lost; a time when we were at once a harmonious part of the natural order and the rising masters of it. I'd go so far as to say that domestication, when the animals are not simply reduced to material goods, is a foretaste of that New Earth of which Isaiah dreamed, with lions lying with lambs. It's a gift given to us, in nature, by a generous Heavenly Father: a sign of what those powerful, natural dynamisms within humanity can achieve when they are properly ordered towards the Good.

So while I can't say that I succeed in "living" this realization to its fullness on a regular basis, I have to admit that I can't take dogs for granted as easily as I had before. Especially my dogs at home! I just wanted to share this "revelation" with all of you, and encourage you to give your dogs a big hug the next time you see them, recognizing just how awesome it is simply to be able to do it.

Eureqa!

I've been feeding my relentless hunger for RadioLab episodes, and have thus far suffered no negative consequences for having done so (other than a slightly hyperextended mind, but that's a price I'm willing to pay). One of my most recent listens was an episode entitled "Limits," in which Jad, Robert and crew explore the limits of the human body, mind, and knowledge. Overall it was an absolutely fascinating episode, probing the mind-boggling extremes of which humans are capable, and the respective consequences of those extremes. Most fascinating to me was the third act exploring the limits of "human knowledge." Do yourself a favor and listen to it here (it's only 11 minutes long):



An interesting distinction is made near the beginning of the act, which seems to me to be the fundamental insight in the entire piece: the distinction between knowledge and understanding. Dr. Steve Strogatz illustrates the distinction using the example of large numbers. We can simultaneously know and understand small numbers like one, two, ten or even one hundred. But once we move beyond one hundred, those numbers become rather abstract, to the point that numbers like "one trillion" are--while perhaps knowable as the number 1,000,000,000,000--are rather incomprehensible at a personal, existential level (can you actually imagine one trillion of anything?). As data and scientific discoveries become more complex, knowledge continues to increase. But what begins to decrease at these levels of complexity is our appropriation of this knowledge: we cease being able to have those "Eureka!" or "Oooooh, I get it!" moments that, as Jad says, you can 'feel in your bones.' So perhaps this act, using Dr. Strogatz's distinction, is more aptly titled the "Limits of Human Understanding."

The most striking example of this was the story of the computer program Eureqa, developed at Cornell University. As the story tells us, Eureqa is able to take vast amounts of observable data and--after producing numerous hypothetical equations--can actually discover the mathematical laws governing the event that it "observes." After re-discovering Newton's second law of motion by observing a double pendulum, Eureqa went on to discover elegant mathematical representations of bafflingly complex natural systems. So with the collection of enough data and the application of increasingly complex algorithms, it seems that human knowledge, with the help of technology, is--potentially--limitless.

But when Dr. Gurol Suel used Eureqa to find the mathematical law governing a simple bacterium, it wasn't so much a surprise that Eureqa had "found it," and quickly. It was, rather, that the beautifully simple equation that the program had discovered was incomprehensible. That is, while the equation worked, and could even predict the future chemical states of the cell, Dr. Suel and company could not understand why. Ironically, the Eureqa program fails to deliver that Archimedean result to which its name refers: the flash of insight--the "Aha" moment--in which the underlying reasons for "why" the equation works coalesce in a profound grasp of the concept.

And this may very well be the face of science in the future. Dr. Strogatz:

But that will leave us, if this really happens, in some weird position as bystanders where we're sort of listening to the Oracle but not really understanding the answer... We've had this window in human history when we could not just know things but understand them. That is you could know why they were true, not just know, but to know why. And that's a beautiful moment in human history, but I feel like it may only be a moment.

While it's entirely possible that, given enough time and resources, Dr. Suel could reach an understanding of why Eureqa's formula works to describe his bacterium, I think Dr. Strogatz makes a plausible claim: there's also a possibility that understanding more complex phenomena is entirely beyond our capacity to do so.

It's just interesting to think that, if this ever becomes the case, just how similar the natural sciences would become to something like theology: there would be certain doctrines that would be accepted as True (from intelligent machines like Eureqa), and the scientist would then struggle to come to a deeper understanding of these laws using the evidence available to him or her, all the while knowing that a "perfect" understanding could be all but impossible. The analogy is not a perfect one, but its food for thought, I think.