This is the second excerpt from my seventh "Contemplation in Theology," posted on Facebook on January 25, 2009. This section summarizes some of the essential aspects of the Intelligence known to medieval philosophers as Mercury. Enjoy!
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Mercury is the first and lowest planet in medieval models, the furthest from the divine Empyreum (the immediate Presence of God, cf. 2 Cor. 12:2) but also the closest to Earth, and therefore the easiest for us to grasp. In classical polytheism, Mercury is the messenger god, fleet-footed and quick-witted. He is associated with a kind of swiftness, which you might identify with playfulness. The character of Mercury is the source of Mirth (the delight we find in doing) and Joy (the delight we find in being).
There is so much more to the character of Mercury, that full explication is impossible. I would sooner write a treatise describing one of my friends, than attempt such a task. But I do hope that the open letters of the Confession provide some glimpse into this personality, for I strongly associate myself with Mercury and those letters describe the foundations of who I am and who I have become.
There is one last thought I wish to close with. Mercury is more than manifested Joy; he is also the personification of articulated knowledge. John was referencing this fundamental component of God's personality when he wrote: "In the beginning was the Word." God is the Logos: the anchor of Truth, and the found of Wisdom. Praise be to Him!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Confessions: #1
This is an excerpt from my seventh "Contemplation in Theology," posted on Facebook on January 25, 2009. In that Contemplation, I hoped to explore the nature of the "Mercurial" temper. I identify strongly with this personality type, so I decided to write in a more personal epistolary mode that, I hoped, would shed more light on the personality than a more abstract contemplation. It seems appropriate to break this up into a personal "Confession" and a separate "Contemplation." I will probably follow this template with future notes with substantial personal content. Enjoy!
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An open letter to a girl from my church:
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
An open letter to a lady from my college:
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
An open letter to a girl from my church:
From my youth I have trained myself in the art of articulation, that I might do justice to words and ideas in expressing them. How strange for me, that at the time when I have the most to say, I have the least assurance that I will acquit myself.
I am your age. Emotionally, I deal with the same issues as you and all my age mates. But the simple fact is that I think faster than my peers. I can more quickly connect ideas, identify solutions, articulate my thoughts. Intellectually, I found a home with my elders--graduate students, professors, people who could engage me on issues and ideas I cared for.
When we spoke, I was both pleased and ashamed when you described me as thoroughly confident. I was pleased that my attempts to exude an aura of self-assurance had been successful; I was ashamed that these vanities so little reflected who I was inside. How can you begin to understand my insecurity? My heart was in one sphere; my mind in another. Up until quite recently, I never felt that I belonged to any of the clubs, cliques, or social circles around me. I still deal with it today, this sometimes despairing hope to feel peace, this desire to "belong."
You were the exception. When I was younger I could only find a handful of people who could even approach the rapidity of my mind. You were one of them, and--miracle of miracles--you were my age.
Whenever I lost hope of ever 'belonging,' whenever I was driven to despair, you were the strongest beacon of light. You gave me hope that, just perhaps, there were people 'out there' who might be able to relate to me. When everyone else was a stick, you were the carrot. And when others were the carrot--when I was getting along fine with others, when I felt I could finally connect--you were the stick. You personified that nagging doubt that, just perhaps, there were more and better things waiting somewhere 'out there.'
Do you begin to understand why I treated you differently from all the girls at our church? Naturally, it didn't help that I was an immature teenage boy, or that you are an exceptionally beautiful lady. You did not deserve any of what you endured because of me; forgive me for it.
But there is more than merely contrition I wish to express. I feel such gratitude, as you may scarcely comprehend. You have contributed more to my spiritual development than you can possibly imagine. You were a constant reminder of that foundational confession of St. Augustine: "O Lord, Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee."
You were my nagging doubt. You were a persistence reminder of hope and despair. You were the constant thorn in my flesh, and God be praised for it. I could never be complacent in my faith, while you were present, as God paraded tantalizing glimpses of More in front of me.
You did not mean to show me this Truth. You gave not by intention, nor even by your actions, but by the simple fact of your existence. God speaks to others through our actions, to be sure, but often He is reflected most in the mere fact of our being. You were simply reflecting the glory of your King. But I will not soon forget my debt to you, nor easily abandon my appreciation of you. You were reflecting and serving God, and may God honor you for it!
Go in peace,
~Your brother in Christ
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
An open letter to a lady from my college:
It would be an overstatement to call our acquaintance brief. I have hardly seen or spoken to you this quarter. But our fleeting interactions at the end of last quarter affected me profoundly, in ways I'm not sure you can understand. I began this series of notes largely because of you, due to the waves of thought that your presence inspired. You were the immediate cause of my spiritual rejuvenation over break; may God bless you in equal measure to how greatly you have blessed me!
From the previous letter you should have some idea of my insecurity and restlessness. I am a child of Mercury, the messenger god, fleet of foot and thought. My mind is constantly active. This is a blessing and a curse. As I have said, I think more quickly than most of my peers; unfortunately, I also over-analyze just about everything, including my friendships.
So when I invited you to a informal 'date' with others on my floor, I had certain expectations. I knew I would over-analyze everything you said or did; I was fairly sure I would worry about whether you were enjoying yourself, and whether you enjoyed my company; and I was dead certain that I would leave that evening more entrenched in my insecurity than before.
How wrong I was! Your smile evaporated my anxiety; your joy lifted my spirits; your openness gave me freedom from my over-analyzing mind. In short, I felt the full and unmitigated peace of God descend on me that evening. Perhaps it was not the first time I had felt peace, but it was certainly the first time I'd consciously recognized it as such. And that realization blew me away.
I am a child of Mercury, but the desire of my nature is for Jupiter, the persona reflecting the Kingship of God. I wish to be the delight of His eye; I desire to rest within the peace of His Majesty. This is the basis of my capacity for Joy--which I'd previously defined as "an obscured glimpse of God finding Joy in me."
From that moment on, my entire being had a new center. My thoughts had been reoriented. The desire of my heart was nothing less than to revel in, and reflect, the glory and peace which I had found in Jupiter. I shall expand on that in my next note, but I assure you, this realization ended in a comprehensive re-examination of my spiritual life, and a re-dedication of my soul to God. You had showed me what I'd been looking for, what I had been seeking my entire life.
You did not mean to display this aspect of God, but He spoke to me through your very nature, and showed me precisely what I needed to see.
To the church at Corinth, Paul wrote: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing the growth" (1 Cor. 3:6). He exhorted the Corinthians to give the glory to God. Be that as it may, the Corinthians did not soon forget Paul or Apollos, nor shall I soon forget you.
God bless you,
~Your brother in Christ
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Contemplations in Theology: #6
I started this series of notes to explain in what sense I called myself a medievalist. This is the note I wanted to write from the beginning.
In my last note, I wrote that "behind every common noun, there is a proper noun; behind every ideal, there is an identity; behind every category, a personality." I did not go further, simply because the next step in the argument would have sunk my last note in a sea of words. Here goes.
We know Christianity descended from messianic Judaism. The Hebraic Law emphasized the unity of God and nature, and man as the pinnacle (James 1:18 "first fruits") of Creation. Such monotheism runs parallel (and against) the prevailing attitudes of the Ancient Near East to treat nature as fundamentally chaotic, no more centered around man than it might be centered around a particular species of beetle (though, admittedly, the beetle did find its place in Egyptian polytheism).
A synthesis arose out of classical Greece in the writings of Plato. His teachings quickly rose to become the dominant paradigm of the Hellenized world, foundational to any proper education. Platonism was first transmuted to early Christianity by the apostle Paul, a well-educated Pharisee from Hellenic Judea, and was later systematized by St. Augustine. Early Christians took the Platonic emphasis on order, on unity of purpose over complexity of operation, to reconcile the opposing tendencies of Judaism and Paganism.
Judaism, Paganism, and Platonism are foundational for Christian theology. The first and the last of these are well recognized, at least among theologians. Yet I challenge anyone to find one mainstream theologian who will recognize the effects of Paganism.
Its influence is particularly evident in the medieval world, as Christianity spread through a formerly Pagan continent. The medieval philosophers freely integrated Paganism (particularly pagan astrology) wholesale into their vision of the universe. The medievals believed the planets had souls, called "Intelligences," and were the noblest servants of the One God within the material universe.
Here is one of the most sublime ideas I have ever had the Joy of contemplating.
Medieval astronomers operated within a geocentric cosmology--a universe with the earth at the center--and had developed incredibly intricate geometrical models to explain planetary motion. I won't go into details--it involves regressive motion, eccentrics, equants, epicycles, deferents, and much confusion--but they had calculated that if you were to spin 56 spheres around the same center point, an observer from that centerpoint would see a precise approximation of real planetary motion.
This was their model. 56 crystalline spheres carrying seven planetary bodies, all rotating majestically through a sea of ether, the most perfect element that flowed from the Presence of God Himself. If man could enter this space, if he could traverse the moon and enter the heavens, he would hear the vibrations of these spheres, each sphere at a different frequency, as willed by their governing Intelligences.
This doctrine, called the Music of the Spheres, is inherited straight from classical (Neoplatonic) philosophy, and is foundational to the medieval era. Consider it: the medievals believed that man would hear the heavens literally "declare the glory of God, and the skies proclaim the work of His hands" (Psalms 19)!
There is a harmony to the person of God--a unity of purpose, over an infinity of personalities.
In my first note, I wrote that "the truth of polytheism lies in the uncontainable, unexplainable, unendurable multiplicity and complexity of a unified God." But my argument goes beyond this. Fundamentally, I believe that polytheism recognized the truth that the qualities we associate with the divine are identified with a personality of God. The fundamental error of polytheism was irreverence: they could not fathom that all these personalities could reside in One God, any more than they could be fulfilled in one human. This error was expressed in the sin of idolatry: they invented many gods to fill the apparent void, and elevated these above the One God.
As a Christian, I do not need the security of polytheism. I accept (as mystery) the infinity of God, and can therefore contemplate (by reason) the magnitude of His being. Like the medievals, I utterly reject the idea that the planets were gods. But like them, I have no problem accepting that the gods were planets--that they directly reflect personalities of God.
Here is the crucial point. Infinity, like quantum mechanics, is so far removed from our experiences that we simply cannot understand or realize it by ordinary reason. Might we not find value, then, in paganism? C.S. Lewis once wrote that every myth consists of divine, human, and diabolical elements; if we purge the last two, would the remainder not give us a glimpse of the Divine?
If we purify pagan heresy in the fire of truth, if we treat polytheistic imagery as a prism for God's nature, would this not help us understand God better than abstract contemplation of His essence?
Is it easier to realize God's glory in the abstract, or to work by analogy, envisioning a king on his throne? How much more, then, might we learn when we witness the majesty of Jupiter? Likewise, in my family, we often spoke of "God's sense of humor." The reason why we are so easily able to understand the quality of mirth and playful mischief, is due to our cultural images of Pan and Mercury.
There is strange insight to the pronouncement in 1 John that "God is light", for there are many parallels. God is infinite, God is unvarying, God is the standard by which the universe moves. Like the speed of light, there is a constancy to His nature; like the wavelength, there is an infinite variety. And of the entire spectrum of light, only a portion is visible to the human eye--the wavelengths seen by us as colors.
The myths, the planets, the polytheistic gods: these are the colors of the One True God.
One final note before I close. The medieval philosophers rejected the determinism of the pagan astrologers. However, they could comfortably accept that the planets had 'influences' in earthly affairs. If we view the planets as prisms, we shall not be led astray: the personalities of God directly affect the way in which we live. And those personalities have names.
For the remainder of my notes, I will often use the names of the planets--Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn--to convey certain ideas. This is part of my medieval instincts. I think, I breathe, in these terms. They have given me greater insight into the attributes of God than I could have dreamed possible; these thoughts have revolutionized the life of my mind, and enlivened my faith in God. But my use of these terms is not an ultimatum; you need not think of them by these names to realize the ideas behind them (and please ask me to clarify if I am ever unclear). But I have found them so useful and so immediate that I express my thoughts in these terms.
Certainly there are dangers to this doctrine--that should be evident from even a cursory glance at the history of pagan religions. But if their sin was in idolatry, and we rebuke the sin, will we fall into a new error? If we cleanse the polytheistic gods and consider them not as objects of worship but simply as prisms of God, as perspectives into theological reflection, I believe we shall see God much more clearly, and learn of Him in new ways.
This does not comport easily with modern theology. But if it were original, I should trust it less. I can accept this, because I know that the great Christians of antiquity accepted this model without misgiving.
Go in joy, in love, in perseverance, in peace, and in all humility that is found in the Presence and Person of God. Glory be to Him!
In my last note, I wrote that "behind every common noun, there is a proper noun; behind every ideal, there is an identity; behind every category, a personality." I did not go further, simply because the next step in the argument would have sunk my last note in a sea of words. Here goes.
We know Christianity descended from messianic Judaism. The Hebraic Law emphasized the unity of God and nature, and man as the pinnacle (James 1:18 "first fruits") of Creation. Such monotheism runs parallel (and against) the prevailing attitudes of the Ancient Near East to treat nature as fundamentally chaotic, no more centered around man than it might be centered around a particular species of beetle (though, admittedly, the beetle did find its place in Egyptian polytheism).
A synthesis arose out of classical Greece in the writings of Plato. His teachings quickly rose to become the dominant paradigm of the Hellenized world, foundational to any proper education. Platonism was first transmuted to early Christianity by the apostle Paul, a well-educated Pharisee from Hellenic Judea, and was later systematized by St. Augustine. Early Christians took the Platonic emphasis on order, on unity of purpose over complexity of operation, to reconcile the opposing tendencies of Judaism and Paganism.
Judaism, Paganism, and Platonism are foundational for Christian theology. The first and the last of these are well recognized, at least among theologians. Yet I challenge anyone to find one mainstream theologian who will recognize the effects of Paganism.
Its influence is particularly evident in the medieval world, as Christianity spread through a formerly Pagan continent. The medieval philosophers freely integrated Paganism (particularly pagan astrology) wholesale into their vision of the universe. The medievals believed the planets had souls, called "Intelligences," and were the noblest servants of the One God within the material universe.
Here is one of the most sublime ideas I have ever had the Joy of contemplating.
Medieval astronomers operated within a geocentric cosmology--a universe with the earth at the center--and had developed incredibly intricate geometrical models to explain planetary motion. I won't go into details--it involves regressive motion, eccentrics, equants, epicycles, deferents, and much confusion--but they had calculated that if you were to spin 56 spheres around the same center point, an observer from that centerpoint would see a precise approximation of real planetary motion.
This was their model. 56 crystalline spheres carrying seven planetary bodies, all rotating majestically through a sea of ether, the most perfect element that flowed from the Presence of God Himself. If man could enter this space, if he could traverse the moon and enter the heavens, he would hear the vibrations of these spheres, each sphere at a different frequency, as willed by their governing Intelligences.
This doctrine, called the Music of the Spheres, is inherited straight from classical (Neoplatonic) philosophy, and is foundational to the medieval era. Consider it: the medievals believed that man would hear the heavens literally "declare the glory of God, and the skies proclaim the work of His hands" (Psalms 19)!
There is a harmony to the person of God--a unity of purpose, over an infinity of personalities.
In my first note, I wrote that "the truth of polytheism lies in the uncontainable, unexplainable, unendurable multiplicity and complexity of a unified God." But my argument goes beyond this. Fundamentally, I believe that polytheism recognized the truth that the qualities we associate with the divine are identified with a personality of God. The fundamental error of polytheism was irreverence: they could not fathom that all these personalities could reside in One God, any more than they could be fulfilled in one human. This error was expressed in the sin of idolatry: they invented many gods to fill the apparent void, and elevated these above the One God.
As a Christian, I do not need the security of polytheism. I accept (as mystery) the infinity of God, and can therefore contemplate (by reason) the magnitude of His being. Like the medievals, I utterly reject the idea that the planets were gods. But like them, I have no problem accepting that the gods were planets--that they directly reflect personalities of God.
Here is the crucial point. Infinity, like quantum mechanics, is so far removed from our experiences that we simply cannot understand or realize it by ordinary reason. Might we not find value, then, in paganism? C.S. Lewis once wrote that every myth consists of divine, human, and diabolical elements; if we purge the last two, would the remainder not give us a glimpse of the Divine?
If we purify pagan heresy in the fire of truth, if we treat polytheistic imagery as a prism for God's nature, would this not help us understand God better than abstract contemplation of His essence?
Is it easier to realize God's glory in the abstract, or to work by analogy, envisioning a king on his throne? How much more, then, might we learn when we witness the majesty of Jupiter? Likewise, in my family, we often spoke of "God's sense of humor." The reason why we are so easily able to understand the quality of mirth and playful mischief, is due to our cultural images of Pan and Mercury.
There is strange insight to the pronouncement in 1 John that "God is light", for there are many parallels. God is infinite, God is unvarying, God is the standard by which the universe moves. Like the speed of light, there is a constancy to His nature; like the wavelength, there is an infinite variety. And of the entire spectrum of light, only a portion is visible to the human eye--the wavelengths seen by us as colors.
The myths, the planets, the polytheistic gods: these are the colors of the One True God.
One final note before I close. The medieval philosophers rejected the determinism of the pagan astrologers. However, they could comfortably accept that the planets had 'influences' in earthly affairs. If we view the planets as prisms, we shall not be led astray: the personalities of God directly affect the way in which we live. And those personalities have names.
For the remainder of my notes, I will often use the names of the planets--Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn--to convey certain ideas. This is part of my medieval instincts. I think, I breathe, in these terms. They have given me greater insight into the attributes of God than I could have dreamed possible; these thoughts have revolutionized the life of my mind, and enlivened my faith in God. But my use of these terms is not an ultimatum; you need not think of them by these names to realize the ideas behind them (and please ask me to clarify if I am ever unclear). But I have found them so useful and so immediate that I express my thoughts in these terms.
Certainly there are dangers to this doctrine--that should be evident from even a cursory glance at the history of pagan religions. But if their sin was in idolatry, and we rebuke the sin, will we fall into a new error? If we cleanse the polytheistic gods and consider them not as objects of worship but simply as prisms of God, as perspectives into theological reflection, I believe we shall see God much more clearly, and learn of Him in new ways.
This does not comport easily with modern theology. But if it were original, I should trust it less. I can accept this, because I know that the great Christians of antiquity accepted this model without misgiving.
Go in joy, in love, in perseverance, in peace, and in all humility that is found in the Presence and Person of God. Glory be to Him!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Contemplations in Theology: #5
What better way to celebrate the passage of time, than a celebration of the Timeless One? So, glory to God and a Happy New Year to you all!
First, a story. On the first day of classes, at my first quarter at SPU, I was asked point-blank by my professor: "Are you an Aristotelian or a Platonist?" Not knowing what the heck this meant, I blathered. It took me another quarter, but by the middle of winter quarter I finally understood the difference. Now, I can answer with confidence: "Both."
The foundational discovery of philosophy has to be the formulation of common nouns. The whole contribution of Plato and Aristotle may be circumscribed by this single phrase. Common nouns are not objects; they do not operate on experience or sensation. Common nouns are categories, and operate in the sphere of abstract reason. Common nouns enable us to move from discrete experiences to common descriptions; it moves us from external to internal; it enables language, communication, action. It is between experience and common nouns that our skills of inductive and deductive reasoning operate.
Plato taught that all reality is a corruption from the Ideal, a derivation from the Form. These are common nouns. Have you ever sat in 'a chair'? No, you've sat in a variety of physical objects that resemble the Form of a chair.
Aristotle disagreed. He asserted that the Forms were not the highest level of reality but were intrinsic to reality, built in to the very nature of things. Physical properties of motion were caused by natural sympathies within the objects themselves--the desire for perfection led to circular motion in the heavens, the desire for rest led to downward motion on earth. Every object was defined by four 'causes,' which encompassed all of its being. These causes are material, formal, efficient, and final. It is the final cause--the purpose or end for which an object was made--that concerns us here.
Ancient polytheistic system had gods for nearly everything: each region had a god, each labor had a god, each occasion had a god, and heaven help you if you didn't do the proper sacrifices. In classical polytheism (after Plato), there was a distinct trend towards order and harmony. The gods were not so arbitrary and ubiquitous; they represented ideals, virtues... in a word, final causes.
My first inspiration for this note is admirably obscure: have you ever considered C.S. Lewis's unusual usage of capitalization? I was reading "Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold" at the time when I first discovered this.
I noticed that C.S. Lewis mostly used capital letters as he ought, for beginnings of sentences and for proper nouns. However, he also used them for certain words throughout the book: "Joy," "Beauty," "Truth," etc. C.S. Lewis was a consummate English professor, but his use of capital letters merely for emphasis seemed incorrect.
Then it struck me, what if Lewis's writing were following correct English usage? What if he capitalized these ideals because he thought they were proper nouns, because they were not merely the words for a category, but the name of an identity and personality?
In Aristotle, common nouns encompass every aspect of being; they provide a comprehensive hermeneutic of the universe; they are foundational to how we think and live. But this is the truth grasped by classical polytheism: categories are not enough.
Behind every common noun, there is a proper noun; behind every ideal, there is an identity; behind every category, a personality. And each of these personalities reflect a characteristic of God.
Philosophically, this is a staggering claim. I believe that the final cause of every objects reflects a quality of God. In other words, every object, every person, every thing we know and experience was created for, and is directed towards, the Person of God. This is straight from Psalm 19: "The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the work of His hands."
This whole series of ideas came to me on a car trip to Port Townsend. Once we arrived, I walked by myself to the pier and looked around--at the water, at the sky, at the cliffs on the other side of Puget Sound. Every time I looked, a word came into my head; every time I considered the common noun, I realized the personality that lay behind it. There is a phrase that C.S. Lewis used in "That Hideous Strength" that is particular apropos: he writes of entering the very furnace of language, where words are created in the fire of His Presence.
That was my experience. I had entered the furnace where words were born. I encountered them in an almost physical way; I met words, just as I would have met another person. The difference was, these personalities were nonphysical, and they were merely prisms of the True Person, the One Who Is, the Great "I Am."
For the first time in my life, I experienced nature not as merely beautiful but as sublime ("Sublime" = "sub-" "-limis" = "beneath the threshold," as close to the house of God as we may come without entering it bodily). This was the experience that led me to my second note, the "Aesthetics of Reason." The rational and the experiential are not distinct. They overlap, they intersect, they are unified in God.
It is for this reason, more than any other, that I call myself a medievalist, for it is in the medieval model of the universe (the medieval cosmology) that Christianity fully integrated the rational and experiential elements, that it incorporated the insights of Greek philosophy and polytheism. But I leave that for my next note.
First, a story. On the first day of classes, at my first quarter at SPU, I was asked point-blank by my professor: "Are you an Aristotelian or a Platonist?" Not knowing what the heck this meant, I blathered. It took me another quarter, but by the middle of winter quarter I finally understood the difference. Now, I can answer with confidence: "Both."
The foundational discovery of philosophy has to be the formulation of common nouns. The whole contribution of Plato and Aristotle may be circumscribed by this single phrase. Common nouns are not objects; they do not operate on experience or sensation. Common nouns are categories, and operate in the sphere of abstract reason. Common nouns enable us to move from discrete experiences to common descriptions; it moves us from external to internal; it enables language, communication, action. It is between experience and common nouns that our skills of inductive and deductive reasoning operate.
Plato taught that all reality is a corruption from the Ideal, a derivation from the Form. These are common nouns. Have you ever sat in 'a chair'? No, you've sat in a variety of physical objects that resemble the Form of a chair.
Aristotle disagreed. He asserted that the Forms were not the highest level of reality but were intrinsic to reality, built in to the very nature of things. Physical properties of motion were caused by natural sympathies within the objects themselves--the desire for perfection led to circular motion in the heavens, the desire for rest led to downward motion on earth. Every object was defined by four 'causes,' which encompassed all of its being. These causes are material, formal, efficient, and final. It is the final cause--the purpose or end for which an object was made--that concerns us here.
Ancient polytheistic system had gods for nearly everything: each region had a god, each labor had a god, each occasion had a god, and heaven help you if you didn't do the proper sacrifices. In classical polytheism (after Plato), there was a distinct trend towards order and harmony. The gods were not so arbitrary and ubiquitous; they represented ideals, virtues... in a word, final causes.
My first inspiration for this note is admirably obscure: have you ever considered C.S. Lewis's unusual usage of capitalization? I was reading "Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold" at the time when I first discovered this.
I noticed that C.S. Lewis mostly used capital letters as he ought, for beginnings of sentences and for proper nouns. However, he also used them for certain words throughout the book: "Joy," "Beauty," "Truth," etc. C.S. Lewis was a consummate English professor, but his use of capital letters merely for emphasis seemed incorrect.
Then it struck me, what if Lewis's writing were following correct English usage? What if he capitalized these ideals because he thought they were proper nouns, because they were not merely the words for a category, but the name of an identity and personality?
In Aristotle, common nouns encompass every aspect of being; they provide a comprehensive hermeneutic of the universe; they are foundational to how we think and live. But this is the truth grasped by classical polytheism: categories are not enough.
Behind every common noun, there is a proper noun; behind every ideal, there is an identity; behind every category, a personality. And each of these personalities reflect a characteristic of God.
Philosophically, this is a staggering claim. I believe that the final cause of every objects reflects a quality of God. In other words, every object, every person, every thing we know and experience was created for, and is directed towards, the Person of God. This is straight from Psalm 19: "The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the work of His hands."
This whole series of ideas came to me on a car trip to Port Townsend. Once we arrived, I walked by myself to the pier and looked around--at the water, at the sky, at the cliffs on the other side of Puget Sound. Every time I looked, a word came into my head; every time I considered the common noun, I realized the personality that lay behind it. There is a phrase that C.S. Lewis used in "That Hideous Strength" that is particular apropos: he writes of entering the very furnace of language, where words are created in the fire of His Presence.
That was my experience. I had entered the furnace where words were born. I encountered them in an almost physical way; I met words, just as I would have met another person. The difference was, these personalities were nonphysical, and they were merely prisms of the True Person, the One Who Is, the Great "I Am."
For the first time in my life, I experienced nature not as merely beautiful but as sublime ("Sublime" = "sub-" "-limis" = "beneath the threshold," as close to the house of God as we may come without entering it bodily). This was the experience that led me to my second note, the "Aesthetics of Reason." The rational and the experiential are not distinct. They overlap, they intersect, they are unified in God.
It is for this reason, more than any other, that I call myself a medievalist, for it is in the medieval model of the universe (the medieval cosmology) that Christianity fully integrated the rational and experiential elements, that it incorporated the insights of Greek philosophy and polytheism. But I leave that for my next note.
May the God of lights give you the joy of His Word,
may the God of love reveal the beauty of His sacrifice,
may the God of strength manifest the power of His name,
may the God of glory instill the majesty and peace of His crown,
may the God of humility teach you the victory of His suffering,
that the God of Gods might dwell with His Creation.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Contemplations in Theology: #4
This is my controversial fourth "Contemplation in Theology." Most commentators took issue with my reading of Ephesians 5:23-28, on the issue of headship and marriage. I explored this issue and this passage in greater depth in my "Commentary on Scripture: Ephesians", which can be found here.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I have recently taken to describing myself as a medievalist, and I'm often asked what that term means. It is far too involved for a simple answer to do it justice; that's why I started this series of notes. But here is a useful definition.
As a medievalist, I think, I feel, I believe in terms of hierarchies.
I am a rationalist; when I was younger, I would have described myself as an analytic philosopher if it were not for the strange looks I received. I think in terms of definitions, categories, discrete ideas and concepts. But categories in isolation are not sufficient; they must be placed in relation to one another.
This is the principle of hierarchy: placing things--ideas, functions, virtues, people--in relation to each other, identifying them by what is above, below, and beside them.
Man was created for the worship of God, for fellowship with others, and for stewardship of Nature. This is a hierarchy.
In marriage, Ephesians 5:23-28 outlines another hierarchy: "For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.... Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.... Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies."
It would be fatal to stop at verse 24, to merely apply this command to women. It is preceded by a call for the entire Church to submit to one another; it is succeeded by a call for husbands to give themselves up and practice sacrificial love.
Hierarchy is not a static or rigid structure; it is essentially dynamic and flexible. There are different hierarchies operating even on the same things, if we are measuring for different qualities.
Hierarchy is not a linear relationship; it is fundamentally circular. It is not so concerned with authority and subservience as it is with understanding things in their proper relations, in their appointed places.
Hierarchy is not a uni-directional principle; it is necessarily reciprocal. By this I do not mean that if A is above, then B is below. True reciprocity means that if we place A above B in one respect, we must place A below B in another. It all depends on the scale we use.
Nothing can be more pernicious than a simplistic understanding of hierarchy: that is at the root of sexism, racism, Social Darwinism, imperialism--the great cultural sins of recent Western history. In fact, it may well be said that ignorance of hierarchy is the root of error. For, if we do not understand ideas (or worse, we understand them, but fail to understand the relation and interaction between them), how can we know Truth?
More pointedly, however, I believe that sin itself is fundamentally a rejection of hierarchy.
This ought to be self-evident in one sense, for sin--as an act of rebellion against God--is a rejection of the hierarchy of loyalty. But there is another truth to be found. In "Out of the Silent Planet," C.S. Lewis notes that Weston was corrupted by elevating the virtue of "love for humanity" to an inordinate level, to where it took precedent over any other virtue. Likewise, greed elevates the love of money--material necessities, security--out of proportion; gluttony elevates the love of food--material luxuries, comfort. Virtue is corrupted when it is taken out of the hierarchy; thus, sin is essentially a re-ordering of the hierarchy.
Earlier I wrote that error is more convincing to the degree that it contains elements of truth. Likewise, I believe, sin is more pervasive and dangerous to the degree that it incorporates elements of virtue.
The desire for intimacy and sexual satisfaction is undeniably a virtue--it has an entire book devoted to it (Song of Songs), and is often described in parallel to Christ's relationship to his Church. When the sexual desire is elevated out of proportion, it becomes the sin of lust. And this is why lust is so pernicious an issue: the greater the virtue that is perverted, the greater the sin that it becomes.
But I am called to write of something I cannot fully understand. Hierarchy does not merely help us identify the roots of error and sin. Hierarchy is itself the foundation of virtue.
Just as the greatest sin is in rejecting or replacing the hierarchy instituted by God, so the greatest and most all-encompassing virtue is in desiring one's proper place in the order of God's Creation.
I desire to submit myself before God, demonstrating with love, loyalty, word and deed my worship of the One Who Is. I desire to enter in fellowship with others, loving my neighbor as myself, as befitting equals. I desire to submit myself to those above me, in proportion to their prerogative; I desire to exercise my own authority with care and charity. I desire to acquit myself in stewardship of that and those under my care.
I am a man perpetually restless. I am not content; I am always searching for what I can do, what I ought to do. I yearn for rest. And if this were truly my desire--to be as I ought, to think as I ought, to live as God made me to live--would I not find my place there? Thus did the stoics and ancients speak of resting in God, of contentment, of peace.
Forgive my selfish prayer: may the peace of God weigh on me.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I have recently taken to describing myself as a medievalist, and I'm often asked what that term means. It is far too involved for a simple answer to do it justice; that's why I started this series of notes. But here is a useful definition.
As a medievalist, I think, I feel, I believe in terms of hierarchies.
I am a rationalist; when I was younger, I would have described myself as an analytic philosopher if it were not for the strange looks I received. I think in terms of definitions, categories, discrete ideas and concepts. But categories in isolation are not sufficient; they must be placed in relation to one another.
This is the principle of hierarchy: placing things--ideas, functions, virtues, people--in relation to each other, identifying them by what is above, below, and beside them.
Man was created for the worship of God, for fellowship with others, and for stewardship of Nature. This is a hierarchy.
In marriage, Ephesians 5:23-28 outlines another hierarchy: "For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.... Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.... Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies."
It would be fatal to stop at verse 24, to merely apply this command to women. It is preceded by a call for the entire Church to submit to one another; it is succeeded by a call for husbands to give themselves up and practice sacrificial love.
Hierarchy is not a static or rigid structure; it is essentially dynamic and flexible. There are different hierarchies operating even on the same things, if we are measuring for different qualities.
Hierarchy is not a linear relationship; it is fundamentally circular. It is not so concerned with authority and subservience as it is with understanding things in their proper relations, in their appointed places.
Hierarchy is not a uni-directional principle; it is necessarily reciprocal. By this I do not mean that if A is above, then B is below. True reciprocity means that if we place A above B in one respect, we must place A below B in another. It all depends on the scale we use.
Nothing can be more pernicious than a simplistic understanding of hierarchy: that is at the root of sexism, racism, Social Darwinism, imperialism--the great cultural sins of recent Western history. In fact, it may well be said that ignorance of hierarchy is the root of error. For, if we do not understand ideas (or worse, we understand them, but fail to understand the relation and interaction between them), how can we know Truth?
More pointedly, however, I believe that sin itself is fundamentally a rejection of hierarchy.
This ought to be self-evident in one sense, for sin--as an act of rebellion against God--is a rejection of the hierarchy of loyalty. But there is another truth to be found. In "Out of the Silent Planet," C.S. Lewis notes that Weston was corrupted by elevating the virtue of "love for humanity" to an inordinate level, to where it took precedent over any other virtue. Likewise, greed elevates the love of money--material necessities, security--out of proportion; gluttony elevates the love of food--material luxuries, comfort. Virtue is corrupted when it is taken out of the hierarchy; thus, sin is essentially a re-ordering of the hierarchy.
Earlier I wrote that error is more convincing to the degree that it contains elements of truth. Likewise, I believe, sin is more pervasive and dangerous to the degree that it incorporates elements of virtue.
The desire for intimacy and sexual satisfaction is undeniably a virtue--it has an entire book devoted to it (Song of Songs), and is often described in parallel to Christ's relationship to his Church. When the sexual desire is elevated out of proportion, it becomes the sin of lust. And this is why lust is so pernicious an issue: the greater the virtue that is perverted, the greater the sin that it becomes.
But I am called to write of something I cannot fully understand. Hierarchy does not merely help us identify the roots of error and sin. Hierarchy is itself the foundation of virtue.
Just as the greatest sin is in rejecting or replacing the hierarchy instituted by God, so the greatest and most all-encompassing virtue is in desiring one's proper place in the order of God's Creation.
I desire to submit myself before God, demonstrating with love, loyalty, word and deed my worship of the One Who Is. I desire to enter in fellowship with others, loving my neighbor as myself, as befitting equals. I desire to submit myself to those above me, in proportion to their prerogative; I desire to exercise my own authority with care and charity. I desire to acquit myself in stewardship of that and those under my care.
I am a man perpetually restless. I am not content; I am always searching for what I can do, what I ought to do. I yearn for rest. And if this were truly my desire--to be as I ought, to think as I ought, to live as God made me to live--would I not find my place there? Thus did the stoics and ancients speak of resting in God, of contentment, of peace.
Forgive my selfish prayer: may the peace of God weigh on me.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Contemplations in Theology: #3
Christians are often stereotyped these days. Christianity itself is stereotyped. Yet of all the caricatures, I believe there is one that is the most corrupting, the most harmful and perverse, and it is one shared by Christian and non-Christian alike. It is our stereotype of heaven.
How long must we suffer the delusion that heaven is a land of kindly-faced angels and soft puffy clouds? Leaving the question of angels aside for later, I must ask, from where did we find this image of an ethereal Paradise? Certainly not from the Book of Revelation, for St. John did not see us living as airy immortals in an immaterial land. Rather, he saw "a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth passed away..." (Rev. 21:1).
We have retained something of the Manichean heresy, from the days of early Christianity. It was defeated in orthodox theology by St. Augustine, yet it endured. The Manichees taught that spirit was good and matter was evil, that the soul was trapped in a prison of corrupting flesh. Therefore, their idea of salvation was in the release of man from its human bondage, in the redemption of spirit from the slavery of substance, in the ascension to a purely ethereal life.
This is our doctrine of heaven taken to the extreme, and I maintain that it is fatal to Christian faith. We need look no further than Genesis to find that it took both "dust from the ground" and "the breath of life" from our Creator before the Scriptures declared "and man became a living being." Both elements--matter and spirit--were present from the Creation, and both elements were good. Salvation does not require that man abandon his body; only that he abandon his previous life of sin.
Man is both spiritual and material. There will be a new Heaven and a new Earth.
Paradise is not something totally beyond our experience; it is the fulfillment of our original nature, in the blessing of God's presence and perfection. This assertion is vital to my theology. Christianity does not ask us to renounce our humanity, but to fulfill it. Heaven is not a cosmic bribe, created as a special gift to those in whom God delights. It is the necessary outcome of the Promise, for God had given man dominon over the Creation; after the Fall, God meant to redeem man and restore him to his place over a restored Nature. Just as God promised Abraham that through him (and the Jewish people) all the nations would be blessed, so God had promised Adam that through him (and the human race) all of Creation would be blessed.
Our misconception of heaven is fundamentally a misconception of the human person.
Here is another startling argument, for those (such as myself) accustomed to the Protestant assertion of human sinfulness. Man is originally good. Man was created in innocence, in the image of God, and man has retained that intrinsic goodness and virtue. The Fall was a corruption of the original, but it did not and could not destroy it. Salvation does not replace, but restores. It brings the individual human back to his original place, in worship of God, in fellowship with man, and in stewardship of Nature.
Do we realize what it means when we say that Christ was fully God and fully Man?
I find the early cinematic depictions of Jesus Christ almost comical, in that they treat him as utterly different than any man. He is aloof, almost dispassionate; as loving and gentle as Mr. Rogers, certainly, but not human. The Scriptures present Him in a totally different light. He is weakened by hunger before being tempted by the Devil, he gets exasperated with ignorance of his disciples, he shows a sense of humor in puns (as when he renamed the dimwitted Simon "the rock"--Peter), and he rages against the religious hypocrites of his day. The famous "shortest verse" (John 11:35: "Jesus wept") could be more accurately translated "Jesus broke down and cried like a girl." Scripture records that in Gethsemane, his tears were like drops of blood: this is a real physiological symptom of extreme stress, in which the capillaries behind the eyes burst and seep into the tear ducts. His cry to God in Gethsemane to "take this cup away from me" was a real one, from a man who knew the torture that awaited him. Jesus Christ was not only God; he was more fully human than any human we could know.
This is our inheritance. We are children of His image, of His beauty, of His might. We are the sons of a King; we are the sons of God.
A final word, not about heaven but about the angels. I really wonder how we ever came to this traditional concept of the heavenly creatures, as patient and gentle creatures, much like kindly old nannies but with wings and flaming swords. This is utterly inconsistent with Scripture. In nearly every instance of an angelic visitation recorded in the Bible, the unlucky witness is either struck dumb in terror or must be dissuaded from awestruck worship. Ask yourselves, how many times were the angels obliged to say "do not be afraid" to the patriarchs and prophets? Did they ever tire from it, or did they appreciate the easy audience, like a bad stand-up comic appreciates an indulging crowd?
In Exodus 33, Moses was only allowed to see God with His back turned away (a direct glance would have killed him), yet even after another forty days and nights his face was still lit up like a Christmas tree, and all who saw him feared to approach. Angels live eternally in the direct presence of God. They are the messengers of God; they reflect His awesome power, His timeless glory. These are not meek and mild creatures, nor would we find their gazes comforting. Only when we have come to our inheritance as sons of God will we find ourselves able to return their gaze. Only when we too reflect fully the glory of the King can we endure the reflection of that majesty from others.
How long must we suffer the delusion that heaven is a land of kindly-faced angels and soft puffy clouds? Leaving the question of angels aside for later, I must ask, from where did we find this image of an ethereal Paradise? Certainly not from the Book of Revelation, for St. John did not see us living as airy immortals in an immaterial land. Rather, he saw "a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth passed away..." (Rev. 21:1).
We have retained something of the Manichean heresy, from the days of early Christianity. It was defeated in orthodox theology by St. Augustine, yet it endured. The Manichees taught that spirit was good and matter was evil, that the soul was trapped in a prison of corrupting flesh. Therefore, their idea of salvation was in the release of man from its human bondage, in the redemption of spirit from the slavery of substance, in the ascension to a purely ethereal life.
This is our doctrine of heaven taken to the extreme, and I maintain that it is fatal to Christian faith. We need look no further than Genesis to find that it took both "dust from the ground" and "the breath of life" from our Creator before the Scriptures declared "and man became a living being." Both elements--matter and spirit--were present from the Creation, and both elements were good. Salvation does not require that man abandon his body; only that he abandon his previous life of sin.
Man is both spiritual and material. There will be a new Heaven and a new Earth.
Paradise is not something totally beyond our experience; it is the fulfillment of our original nature, in the blessing of God's presence and perfection. This assertion is vital to my theology. Christianity does not ask us to renounce our humanity, but to fulfill it. Heaven is not a cosmic bribe, created as a special gift to those in whom God delights. It is the necessary outcome of the Promise, for God had given man dominon over the Creation; after the Fall, God meant to redeem man and restore him to his place over a restored Nature. Just as God promised Abraham that through him (and the Jewish people) all the nations would be blessed, so God had promised Adam that through him (and the human race) all of Creation would be blessed.
Our misconception of heaven is fundamentally a misconception of the human person.
Here is another startling argument, for those (such as myself) accustomed to the Protestant assertion of human sinfulness. Man is originally good. Man was created in innocence, in the image of God, and man has retained that intrinsic goodness and virtue. The Fall was a corruption of the original, but it did not and could not destroy it. Salvation does not replace, but restores. It brings the individual human back to his original place, in worship of God, in fellowship with man, and in stewardship of Nature.
Do we realize what it means when we say that Christ was fully God and fully Man?
I find the early cinematic depictions of Jesus Christ almost comical, in that they treat him as utterly different than any man. He is aloof, almost dispassionate; as loving and gentle as Mr. Rogers, certainly, but not human. The Scriptures present Him in a totally different light. He is weakened by hunger before being tempted by the Devil, he gets exasperated with ignorance of his disciples, he shows a sense of humor in puns (as when he renamed the dimwitted Simon "the rock"--Peter), and he rages against the religious hypocrites of his day. The famous "shortest verse" (John 11:35: "Jesus wept") could be more accurately translated "Jesus broke down and cried like a girl." Scripture records that in Gethsemane, his tears were like drops of blood: this is a real physiological symptom of extreme stress, in which the capillaries behind the eyes burst and seep into the tear ducts. His cry to God in Gethsemane to "take this cup away from me" was a real one, from a man who knew the torture that awaited him. Jesus Christ was not only God; he was more fully human than any human we could know.
This is our inheritance. We are children of His image, of His beauty, of His might. We are the sons of a King; we are the sons of God.
A final word, not about heaven but about the angels. I really wonder how we ever came to this traditional concept of the heavenly creatures, as patient and gentle creatures, much like kindly old nannies but with wings and flaming swords. This is utterly inconsistent with Scripture. In nearly every instance of an angelic visitation recorded in the Bible, the unlucky witness is either struck dumb in terror or must be dissuaded from awestruck worship. Ask yourselves, how many times were the angels obliged to say "do not be afraid" to the patriarchs and prophets? Did they ever tire from it, or did they appreciate the easy audience, like a bad stand-up comic appreciates an indulging crowd?
In Exodus 33, Moses was only allowed to see God with His back turned away (a direct glance would have killed him), yet even after another forty days and nights his face was still lit up like a Christmas tree, and all who saw him feared to approach. Angels live eternally in the direct presence of God. They are the messengers of God; they reflect His awesome power, His timeless glory. These are not meek and mild creatures, nor would we find their gazes comforting. Only when we have come to our inheritance as sons of God will we find ourselves able to return their gaze. Only when we too reflect fully the glory of the King can we endure the reflection of that majesty from others.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Contemplations in Theology: #2
For all my life, I have struggled with my personal faith. I am a rationalist in almost every respect; my mind operates on words, definitions, and discrete thoughts. I think about God; I certainly believed in God. But I did not "experience" God, in the same way that others did; I could not "feel" the Holy Spirit. My faith was rational, not experiential. I was immensely jealous of those who could experience God's presence--perhaps it was a sin, I know not. My desire to feel God led me to a spiritual crisis about two years ago, and it hurt me to my core. I started to question my faith, because I did not relate to how most Christians (and almost all mature Christians who I respected) experienced God. I was insecure in my faith, and it hurt.
Two summers ago, I was reading some books by C.S. Lewis, and I was struck by a thought, an idea--I'll write about that idea in a future post--that drove me wild with Joy. I use that term deliberately, for I had been reading Lewis's spiritual autobiography, "Surprised by Joy." Lewis had related how, as a young child, he had been visited by this sensation of Joy--notably through the vision of a cold northern landscape--which drove him wild with desire for something. He later identified Joy as the fundamental desire for God. I actually disagree with his definition. Joy is not the sensation, but the thing itself: the sight through the glass darkly, past the veil, in the shadows, of God smiling at me--an obscured glimpse of God finding Joy in me.
The concept of Joy is an important one, for more reasons than this. However, to realize that the Joy I felt was an experience of God... how to describe it? I had felt God's presence! Moreover--and here is the crucial aspect as it relates to my argument in these notes--I had felt God's presence not through prayer, not as a distinctly spiritual experience, but in the context of reason. My thoughts had given me Joy.
This is the phenomenon I call "The Aesthetics of Reason." I believe that the contemplation of a truly sublime and profound idea gives the same visceral aesthetic feeling, as experiencing the beauties of Nature, or standing before the majesty of God. Reason, taken in its highest sense, is an aesthetic experience.
The contemplation of God draws me closer to the presence of God.
Why would this be? How could this be? This argument seems to fly in the face of the rather central concept of philosophy and psychology--the mind-body dualism. Experience operates on the sensations; reason operates on the mind. The one is subjective, the other objective. The one is physical, the other immaterial. How can we equate them? Yet I believe we may.
I believe the God of reason is the same God of faith and experience. I believe the God of lights is also the God of mysteries. I believe the God of John 1 ("In the beginning was the Word...") is the same God of 1 John ("What was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands..."). Praise be to Him!
There is one last thing which I wish to mention. This concept of the "aesthetics of reason" was a tremendously encouraging one: it was a Joy and a relief. But it is also tremendously practical. Several weeks ago, I was engaged in discussion with several college friends discussing medieval cosmology--the subject of a future note. The conversation lasted about three hours; the last hour of our discussion was almost solely focused on explaining a particular paradox which arose from our earlier discussion. We tossed around a number of ideas, any of which would explain the paradox. However, these did not satisfy; they merely fit, they were useful. At last we hit upon one that gave us those divine goosebumps, an aesthetic sensation of Joy, the feeling that we had hit upon something at the core of who God is. It was this last one that we decided was 'right'--though there was little logical difference between any of these ideas, the last one manifested the aesthetics of reason.
It sounds almost perverse, but we used aesthetic experiences (necessarily subjective) as proof for an objectively rational construct of Truth. It reminded me of John Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn": "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Reason is not independent, but is integrated into, our experience of God.
Two summers ago, I was reading some books by C.S. Lewis, and I was struck by a thought, an idea--I'll write about that idea in a future post--that drove me wild with Joy. I use that term deliberately, for I had been reading Lewis's spiritual autobiography, "Surprised by Joy." Lewis had related how, as a young child, he had been visited by this sensation of Joy--notably through the vision of a cold northern landscape--which drove him wild with desire for something. He later identified Joy as the fundamental desire for God. I actually disagree with his definition. Joy is not the sensation, but the thing itself: the sight through the glass darkly, past the veil, in the shadows, of God smiling at me--an obscured glimpse of God finding Joy in me.
The concept of Joy is an important one, for more reasons than this. However, to realize that the Joy I felt was an experience of God... how to describe it? I had felt God's presence! Moreover--and here is the crucial aspect as it relates to my argument in these notes--I had felt God's presence not through prayer, not as a distinctly spiritual experience, but in the context of reason. My thoughts had given me Joy.
This is the phenomenon I call "The Aesthetics of Reason." I believe that the contemplation of a truly sublime and profound idea gives the same visceral aesthetic feeling, as experiencing the beauties of Nature, or standing before the majesty of God. Reason, taken in its highest sense, is an aesthetic experience.
The contemplation of God draws me closer to the presence of God.
Why would this be? How could this be? This argument seems to fly in the face of the rather central concept of philosophy and psychology--the mind-body dualism. Experience operates on the sensations; reason operates on the mind. The one is subjective, the other objective. The one is physical, the other immaterial. How can we equate them? Yet I believe we may.
I believe the God of reason is the same God of faith and experience. I believe the God of lights is also the God of mysteries. I believe the God of John 1 ("In the beginning was the Word...") is the same God of 1 John ("What was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands..."). Praise be to Him!
There is one last thing which I wish to mention. This concept of the "aesthetics of reason" was a tremendously encouraging one: it was a Joy and a relief. But it is also tremendously practical. Several weeks ago, I was engaged in discussion with several college friends discussing medieval cosmology--the subject of a future note. The conversation lasted about three hours; the last hour of our discussion was almost solely focused on explaining a particular paradox which arose from our earlier discussion. We tossed around a number of ideas, any of which would explain the paradox. However, these did not satisfy; they merely fit, they were useful. At last we hit upon one that gave us those divine goosebumps, an aesthetic sensation of Joy, the feeling that we had hit upon something at the core of who God is. It was this last one that we decided was 'right'--though there was little logical difference between any of these ideas, the last one manifested the aesthetics of reason.
It sounds almost perverse, but we used aesthetic experiences (necessarily subjective) as proof for an objectively rational construct of Truth. It reminded me of John Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn": "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Reason is not independent, but is integrated into, our experience of God.
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