Tag: humanism

Monks, models, and Moses

Let’s talk about religion.

And there goes about half of you. Pity too, as it’s probably the half that most ought to give this one a read. If I haven’t lost you, then this next sentence might just send you fleeing as well.

I have a great amount of respect for religion.

I hear you out there, reader of Beginnings, and it’s true, I stated at the very start: “I will tell you the truth as best as I can discern it” (I love it when I get to quote myself, it’s base intellectual masturbation, but the best I can do is shamefully admit it). And now, if you’ve been paying attention, you think I’ve gone and broken that promise already. Just to prove that I haven’t, I’m going to say it again.

I have a great amount of respect for religion.

I also have a great amount of respect for poison ivy, dogs I don’t know, and people who have been beautiful their entire lives. They won’t automatically bite you but each is well advised to treat cautiously.  I’m going for the spirit of respect, the kind Aretha spells out.

I see that I’m going to have to make my case, so here we go:

For a very very long period of human history, the only learned people were religious men. It almost seems a conspiracy that the women in history, especially ancient history, didn’t get as much good press. Usually these learned men would devote themselves to just one book. Sometimes a series, if you look at some religions other than Christianity. I can make the case that the New Testament is really a sequel, and the book of Mormon an attempt at franchise but that’s not my aim here. Any cursory reading of history reveals that if it were not for religion, mankind would be the lesser for it.

Let me give you a concrete example. I’ll even use the bible to illustrate.

In the middle ages, the learned men of the day used a technique called the four levels of meaning. They applied this technique as a tool for greater understanding of their favorite book, the bible. Don’t let the designations intimidate you, in fact, you can dispense with them altogether, it’s what they represent which is important, and I’m going to give examples for each. Not only that, let’s use the same example for all four levels of meaning. In this case, the Exodus (That’s the story of Moses leading his people to the promised land, for all of you who didn’t go to Sunday school).

The first level of the four levels of meaning is the easy one, literal. For our monk in the middle ages pouring over his bible, this represents the historical event which is being described – Moses telling Pharaoh he’s fucked, the subsequent flight into the desert, and ultimately the deliverance to the promised land.

The second of the four levels of meaning is allegorical. This represents any figure in the bible that foreshadows or anticipates a figure in the New Testament. In this case, Moses is an allegorical representation of Christ, in that his story mirrors Jesus’ (Savior of his people and usher to the promised land, gave his life in the process, etc).

The third of the four levels of meaning is tropological, this is the moral meaning being conveyed. For our studious monk, this is the account of Moses’ personal salvation.

The last of the four levels of meaning is anagogical. Applied to the bible, this represents the spiritual truth of the story. Here is where we will leave our dutiful monk, deep in the throes of religious ecstasy, contemplating the spiritual truth of death as a doorway to eternal life.

So why would I, an avowed secular humanist, see anything to respect in the way a monk from the middle ages filtered his understanding of a book that I, to put it charitably, don’t view with the same level of devotion he does?

Just because I don’t like what you build with a hammer, doesn’t mean I throw away the hammer.

Let’s go through them again, this time, leaving the bible out and putting ‘literature’ in.

Literal: The story.

Allegorical: A universal human truth.

Tropological: Same, the moral meaning.

Anagogical: Take out the words spiritual truth and replace with mystical vision. Or mix and match, if that makes more sense to you.

It’s important to remember that our shared history is comprised of not just events which may or may not have happened but those events were witnessed, lived, and recorded by people who may or may not have been there. People who fell along the same spectrum of ability and emotional range as we do. People with the same sorts of agendas that we share. We don’t enjoy a higher moral or intellectual level in spite of them but because of them.

And that’s why I have a great respect for religion. There are times when they were the only keepers of the flame. Even when they’re wrong the best of religion still seeks truth. You have to respect that.

That also means we MUST give credit where credit is due. For this, I am indebted to Dante Alighieri who is the original thinker behind the example of Moses and the four levels of meaning.

Literature nerds can find the original in Dante’s Epistle X (Letter to Can Grande). Additional thanks also to Edward Quinn and his always useful dictionary of literary and thematic terms.

Now don’t get me started about the Library of Alexandria.

Scaring people is a shitty way of making friends. ~Aphorisms, Apothegms, and Axioms

Sponge worthy

Have you noticed my generous use of the first person pronoun so far? During my college years, this practice was actively encouraged in many of my English classes. Reflective writing, was the pedagogical term in vogue.

Reflective writing assignments start with questions such as – how did this make you feel, do you know anyone in your life who, and when was there a time you noticed? I reflected so much if I stood in the sun too long I smelled smoke. Women would face me and apply makeup. I resented it too, mostly because I viewed it as a teaching tactic to get students to write. If I want to talk about myself, I’ll hide it in a story or a poem, thanks. Putting words down on paper for a teacher was never one of my problems. They are the perfect captive audience. Reflective writing also ran counter to how I was taught to write in the lower grades.

Academic discourse is the antithesis of reflective writing, in practice if not in spirit. The first person pronoun should not appear. Notice the word should. That’s good advice no matter where you run across it. Especially when you’re saying it to yourself. The term academic discourse beautifully encapsulates both its power and its failing. Let’s pull that term down to the first grade and you’ll see what I mean. School talk. The language of school. It is the voice of the overmind – cool, detached, impersonal.

Its strengths are mighty. Academic discourse is – highly structured, relies on argument, comparison, observation, a liberal use of evidence (in the form of quotes and page citations, for example), and at its best strives to achieve integration of previously unseen ideas into an innovative, or even unique, perspective. Educators love it because it is a great tool for assessing knowledge.

Its failings are equally mighty. It quickly descends into jargon and is used by the talented lexicographer to obfuscate a scintillating exiguity of perspicacity (those who use big words to hide their bullshit). But most know it by its mightiest failing: It’s boring. Academic discourse is only of interest to a small group of people – those who are made to write it, those who are forced to read it, and those cursed souls who are compelled to it for the same reason the moth loves the flame.

Like knowledge and wisdom, academic discourse and reflective writing are best when combined. That’s why I love literature. At least, what I call literature. Very few of my favorite books are canon. The word canon is jargon. I’m not going to define it for you, if you don’t know it, go look it up (Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary definition 3c). It’s a good word to know. Chances are excellent you have a canon in your profession as well. You sure as hell have one in your church.

I’ve often thought most people learn things like a dry sponge under the tap. Absorption isn’t immediate, especially if you’ve got the water going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. The sponge actually resists the torrent; if it is really dry you have to give it a good squeeze while soaking it from all angles so the water can penetrate.

Also, I’ve noticed most people don’t learn new things like a full sponge under the tap. No new water can get in, especially if you’ve got the tap going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. It actually resists the torrent; if the sponge is really wet you have to give it a good squeeze away from the faucet so new water can penetrate.

You’d think the best learning takes place when evaporation and intake are in harmony, a steady drip under the faucet, if you like. This way, you avoid the squeeze. But that way too often leads to a stagnant, smelly sponge.

No, in order to wring the most out of this analogy, you really need the squeeze.

This has nothing to do with politics.

This has everything to do with politics.

Bra; n. A subject to keep well abreast, as difficulty often disguises itself in the lingerie of simplicity and vice versa. ~Hero’s Dictionary