“Nothing annihilates like the nothing,” as Heidegger reportedly said, and I’m pretty sure some of my brain cells have been annihilated by Aristotle’s examination of the non-existence of the nothing, AKA “void.” All morning I was dreaming about an enclosed spherical universe, and it was about as close to being a bad dream as I can remember from my adult life. When my brain resumed functioning more or less normally I thought I had an answer to why the math and science seminar has been so much more mind-bending than the other classes I’ve had here.

The thing about Aristotle’s Physics is that he’s living in an alternate reality wherein elements are continuous rather than atomic, have a natural motion residing in themselves and a natural place they’re trying to get to rather than a center of gravity, and an enclosed, spherical limit with planets and stars moving in bands around the outer edges. In that universe void is impossible. So when he says void and I immediately start thinking about the spaces between the parts of an atom or between molecules or in outer space, and then he says that this is impossible and then gives reasons for this impossibility it hurts my brain, because I’m so used to the way we imagine the world to be, and so unused to the way A imagines it. Perhaps that’s the point of our class: ways in which the universe can and can’t be supposed to exist based upon logic and observation.

Time in A’s universe is much like time in ours: confusing, but in a familiar way. If I remember correctly time for A is not a separate thing, as though it had being in itself, but is rather an attribute of motion, and is measured in relation to motions, as of the Sun and moon, and is itself the measure of motions, as fast or slow, taking up such an amount of time, and so on. He likens the moment, the “now” as it’s usually translated, to a point on a line; the point itself has no substance — no part, as Euclid says — and so a continuous line is not simply a great many points, as though it had been drawn by an ink jet printer, but something else, and time is not simply a collection of “nows,” but is rather continuous, and continuity is difficult to make an account of, since the human mind tends to want to number things and divide them into discrete units. Indeed, for A without that ability to divide and number time as he means it would not exist, but only motion. That, however, was a very sloppy account, so don’t take my word for it.

In Euclid we are to Prop 13, and can now make right angles. Hooray! As it happens it’s possible to know that you have right angles with nothing but straight lines and circles, without any units of measurement. It’s all about proving various lines and angles equal to each other.

In my last post I said that I’m not willing to maintain the dichotomy so prevalent in short term missions of “back home amongst all the luxurious comforts” and “out here with our tents and mud and rice.” Nothing against the tents and so on. But a large part of why I’m unwilling to accept that dichotomy is because we’re coming up to Great Lent, which is (or can be) a little pilgrimage away from those comforts that can become so oppressive for us. I suppose I would make the full assertion this: it’s a good idea to not be too dependent on unnecessary comforts, whether they be bagels and coffee, a warm house, a soft mattress, entertainment, mobility, peppy Christian music, whatever. I added a couple that don’t always make the list, because there’s a temptation to replace one form of distraction with another, and then to congratulate oneself as being especially spiritual on account of it. The new distraction may be better insomuch as it is more communal, more Christian, less individualistic, less addictive, and so on. From personal experience I’m convinced that there’s no reason to suppose the enjoyment of a very long camping trip with amiable people or a month and a half of eating rice and peanut butter while going to beautiful services is any more difficult to enjoy than, for instance, a vacation in Europe. I’m perfectly in earnest. Now, the month long camping trip in Australia can be a very good thing, and it’s right to be joyful in it, sometimes uncomfortably so, and sometimes happily so, and perhaps sometimes even sadly, homesick-ly so. But a word of caution: there’s just a little step from joyfully finding some exotic place delightful and uncomfortable and whatever else we may find it (which is proper), and being impressed with ourselves for that, listening to those who might say that we’re especially brave or reliant on God or self-sacrificing or willing to give up our own comforts, or whatever other flattery might come at us, which is unhelpful and improper.

Fr. John mentioned a while back that in respect to Protestants what they assert we can generally assert as well, but what they deny we most often are unwilling to deny. I’ve been following the blog of a former dorm neighbor from NAU who is spending the year, starting in January, traveling around the the world (“11 countries in 11 months”) with a program called the World Race and helping out various contacts in each of those countries. Her blogs have for the most part been articulate, thoughtful, and well written, although you can tell she doesn’t have a great deal of free time. Her latest batch of posts as she was leaving New Zealand and arriving in Australia have reminded me of a common thread through short to mid-term missions, summed up by Pierre’s assertion (though in very different circumstances) that “once we’re thrown off our habitual paths, we think all is lost; but it’s only here that the new and the good begins.” It’s an assertion I’m willing enough to accept, and I hope that she finds her year abroad to be very fruitful. What I’m hesitant about is this:

I think it’s the up and down nature of life in general that the one constant thing in life is how things never stay exactly the same. My life this year is a life of constant change, and I am well aware of that. But how often do we see things as changing where we’re at when we’re in our normal world? How often do we stop and really look at what is happening around us as we sit at the table every morning with our bagels and coffee?

We don’t.

I guess that’s a constant, too – the lack of conscious effort to notice the differences each second, each minute of the day. In our lives of ease and comfort, it’s a lot harder to see beyond the comforts we have.

Perhaps that is often the case. Need it be? That “it’s difficult to see beyond our comforts” reminds me of Chesterton’s assertion that “Christianity has not so much been tried and found wanting as found difficult and left untried.” But I’m also reminded of the common piece of advice of monastic not to leave your monastery for any but the most serious reasons, and Fr. Schmemann’s comment (from his journals) that when an American convert to Orthodoxy wants to enter a monastery they should first try living ten years in the same place at a somewhat dull job while doing helpful but dull tasks at their local parish and see how that goes. If it goes well, and they are still cheerful and loving, they’re ready to enter a monastery for love of God and not love of novelty. Otherwise perhaps not.

I wish to maintain that it can be good both to go on adventures and to strive for “amendment of life and stability,” as the litanies say, in the rather dull world we so often find ourselves in; that complacence is just as much a sin over bagels and coffee as it is in the Australian bush, and must be fought not so much as something unpleasant in our circumstances as something unpleasant in ourselves. And as the saying goes “everywhere I go, there I am,” just as likely to become bored and complacent in bush Alaska or Santa Fe New Mexico or South Africa as I was in Tucson, Arizona. As the woman I student taught under said to her students: “be here, now, fully present,” and perhaps it will become possible to take “conscious effort to notice the differences each second, each minute of the day.” Because the real adventure is centered in God, who is “everywhere and fillest all things,” even back at home.

Today is Last Judgment Sunday in the Orthodox Church, where we read and chant on the account of the last judgment found in Matthew 25:

When the Son of man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He shall sit on the throne of His glory. And all nations shall be gathered before Him. And He shall separate them from one another, as a shepherd divides the sheep from the goats. And indeed He shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats off the left. Then the King shall say to those on His right hand , Come, blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and you gave me food; I was thirsty, and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger, and you took Me in; I was naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me. Then the righteous shall answer Him, saying, Lord, when did we see You hungry, and fed You ? Or thirsty, and gave You drink? When did we see You a stranger, and took You in? Or naked, and clothed You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and came to You? And the King shall answer and say to them, Truly I say to you, Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brothers, you have done it to Me. Then He also shall say to those on the left hand, Depart from Me, you cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the Devil and his angels. For I was hungry, and you gave Me no food; I was thirsty, and you gave Me no drink; I was a stranger and you did not take Me in; I was naked, and you did not clothe Me; I was sick, and in prison, and you did not visit me. Then they will also answer Him, saying, Lord, when did we see You hungry, or thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister to You? Then He shall answer them, saying, Truly I say to you, Inasmuch as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me. And these shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into everlasting life.

This is one of those passages I don’t like to think too much about. It’s one of those “oh, drat!” passages that come into Scripture from time to time. Nor can I make much account of the teaching on it, having been distracted by guilt over turning little children away from my house last year when they asked to come in and have a cup of tea. As I recall, Fr. John’s homily was on humility, as it has been these past few weeks. He had been gone most of the week at a clergy conference where Father Zacharias, the spiritual son of Elder Sophrony, the spiritual son of Saint Silhoun (sp?) was the main speaker, and was also talking about humility. Mostly what I remember is that one ought to do acts of mercy toward others and not insist that they be recognized, even by God. But if it should happen that we find ourselves before Christ and deserving of judgment, we ought to acknowledge the truth of that and humbly ask for mercy, and as He is inconceivably gracious, He might offer it.

My father and I have sometimes been puzzled by popular Christian books that rely on pop-psychology and language that sounds like materialist pop-psychology that has been airbrushed to sound Christian. Thus it was with the book that enthused about the healing effects of hiking, camping, adventuring, horse breaking, and imagining oneself to be William Wallace upon the soul. I’m with Chesterton in supposing that the worst possible reason to do something expressive of human joy, such as climbing a beautiful mountain, is because you would not be able to be joyful otherwise. If I understand correctly (which I may not), the Christian ascetics would more likely say that if you feel like you can’t rejoice in God without also climbing a beautiful mountain it would be worth while to sit in a rather dingy cave until it becomes possible to so rejoice. In the meantime it might actually be harmful to go on adventures of that kind, if one really believes that the physical adventure is necessary to them.

It’s that concept of necessity that makes me think that it’s far easier than we might like to think to make anti-Christian ideas appear Christian. If I understand it correctly (which, again, I may not), Christianity teaches that nothing is necessary to life, and even to joy, except God. It’s possible to be sitting in a prison cell with God, and be joyful. Except we’re all beginners at the spiritual life, and don’t know or love God very well. At least I am. And I suppose you are too, or you’d be too busy helping people and enjoying God to be reading this. Even so there isn’t much necessity. That’s part of what the fast of great lent is about, and Jesus’ command regarding fasts: if a person is fasting and is miserable, loud, and showy about it, then they haven’t caught on yet. They’re just replacing food with attention — why bother? But it’s possible also to be joyfully content with a salad and a cup of water and God. Or with just God. If Christianity is true. I mean, if it’s really, actually, truly true, as the fundamentalists would say — not just if we believe it to be true. If it’s true, and we believe it to be true.

The reason for the appeal of pop-Christian explanations of human desire is that they don’t explain those desires by ignoring them or saying flat out that they’re wrong. In that they’re right: it’s harmful to say that a desire is nothing at all. Say, as in the above example, a person is bored, lonely, apathetic, frustrated with life, and has a desire for adventure. It would be wrong to say that his desire is unreal, and that there’s no real fulfillment of it anywhere. But it’s equally false to say that because his desire is real then its’ fulfillment lies in whatever acceptable partial fulfillment his will directs itself toward. He wants adventure so he starts hunting grizzlies in the frozen north, for instance. And then, because he’s Christian, he thanks God for the opportunity to do so and goes on tour about how that was really God’s plan all along because he now feels better about his life. What if the fulfillment of the desire lay in God? Not in God’s plan that he go out and do something in the world, but simply in God?

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

School is in a bit of a rough patch just now. for a variety of reasons. Both the classes I’m in are a little out at sea in respect both to understanding the material and in matters of social etiquette/group dynamics. We’re still working on Euclid in tutorial, and just finished three or so reductio ad absurdum proofs, which seek to prove something by showing that the alternative is inconceivable. They’re kind of irritating; I like the next set much better, which are about how to construct right angles by bisecting triangles, given different situations (a given angle, a given finite line, a given point on an infinite line, and a given point off of a given infinite line). In seminar we’ve been doing Aristotle’s Physics, and will continue therewith for the next week. Last night’s question was about why A claims it to be impossible that there be both infinite body and place. I was in no way helpful in the ensuing discussion, and ought to try harder to understand A. before coming into class next time, because it’s not like most works where I can just read it and automatically discuss it comfortably. That’s what I said Monday: my resolution is still awaiting implementation.

If I had to account for what I got out of our last reading it would probably be A’s claims that just because something is more or less difficult to imagine, especially about the edge of the universe, doesn’t make it more or less the case in actuality; and that the universe is a contained place outside of which there is no place and no movement. In the first case, just because, should we imagine standing on the edge of the universe and throwing a spear and having it continue somewhere past that edge (the reason Lucretius supposes the universe to be infinite), it doesn’t mean that is the case in actuality, any more than positing an infinity of possible numbers means that there is an infinity of the actual objects we use those numbers to count. There is such a thing as infinite divisibility and infinite time, as well as infinity of potentiality, but not infinite body, because infinity is a property of the continuous rather than of bodies.

Also, A’s sense of place is not the same thing of what we mean by space in a way that is difficult to imagine much less articulate. In a way he’s trying to compensate for lacking a concept of gravity. Thus, the universe has a center which resides where we would imagine the earth’s core to be. The principle of a thing’s motion resides in that thing, and each element has a natural motion to go in a particular direction in relation to the center. Thus earth and water find their natural place as near the center as possible, and are constantly trying to go there, while air and fire are lighter and naturally want to go up to a place at some remove from the center, and the celestial bodies have a natural place near the limit of the universe (this limit being likened to a jar which shares the same shape with what is contained, providing it with a place in which to be — I see it as a kind of force field around with there is nothing, including place or movement… non-dimensional nothing).

Why should you or I or anyone care? I’m not sure. It’s kind of poetic; if I were writing sci-fi stories it would no doubt be handy to have these things stored in my imagination. But otherwise… I’m just not sure.

Holy Trinity has a Wednesday morning book study, and lately we’ve been reading a book on the Jesus Prayer by an over-the-top French priest and his wife, who writes things like this:

This reciprocal interpenetration [of an "incessant transfusion of divine life within us... [of] mutual cohabitation [where] God rests corporally in us and we rest corporally in God”] is an endless growth, an experience that is always renewed in which the light of God in our consciousness ends by radiating on our face and in our acts, gestures, our behavior, even in our politics and our model of society, for why would these not also be in the image of God? What other reference could we have to manage our  human relations than the relations of the three divine persons among themselves? “Our social program is the dogma of the trinity,” said Nicolas Fedorov. –p. 89

While I wouldn’t be willing to contradict his meaning, Fr. Goettmann seems to be wholly lacking in that reserve which lends charm and grace to a piece of writing. Modesty is not his forte. A fellow study-goer ascribes that affect to his being French. On the other hand, these same qualities allow Fr. Goettmann to say some things that are in fact Christian doctrine, and of great theological import, but which are practically impossible to communicate in a reservedly graceful fashion without sounding either incomprehensible or crazy. There are times I wish that Charles Williams possessed more forwardness and less reserve, because then I might actually understand what he’s saying. Thus, a discussion based upon the Jesus Prayer book could be either helpful and interesting or majorly cringe-worthy. Fortunately, the group has enough gravity and charity to be able to find some valuable stuff there, and more or less ignore unfortunate phrasings like the reciprocal interpenetration  of the corporally mutual cohabitation with the three divine persons. The most used quote so far is:

The great significance of true asceticism lies here: in discerning the motives of our ways of being and acting. — Fr. Goettmann, Prayer of Jesus, Prayer of the Heart p. 114

I’ve been going to a Tuesday night Bible study with Mr. D__ and whoever else ends up being able to come. First we looked at Jonah, and are now going through the life of David interspersed with Psalms. It’s usually small, but Mr. D__ is knowledgeable and I like the other people, so it’s generally pretty good. These past few weeks we’ve been looking at Psalm 23 (22) and 34 (33). (Septuagint numbers are in parentheses)

In case you’re not familiar with the Septuagint (S), it was translated from Hebrew into Greek in Alexandria sometime before Christ; a few hundred years, if I recall correctly. There were 70 scholars working on it (hence, sept) and unanimously agreed on the translation. It’s different from the Hebrew texts currently known to us in a couple of ways: it includes what is commonly referred to as the Apocrapha not as something seperate, but as simply a part of the text, and there are a number of (usually) minor differences in word usage, order of passages, content of passages, and so on. Orthodox generally use the S. rather than the Hebrew text because that’s what the apostles and the Church fathers most often quoted from. In other words, they use it because they always have. The Psalm numberings are different because the Hebrew splits up into two Psalms what is combined into one in the S., somewhere around Psalm 9 I think. The Old Testament in the English Orthodox Study Bible, thus, is translated from the S., but often recognizes some obvious differences that result therefrom, such as by having the Hebrew Psalm numbering in parentheses, and sometimes for reasons I don’t understand seems to be actually translated from the Hebrew, as in the case of Psalm 23. More on that in a bit.

So anyway, the impression I have gotten from our study so far is that the Church Fathers had as a common hobby looking for sacraments anywhere a case could possibly be made therefor. That was facetious; I’m not going to argue with Church Fathers on Scripture interpretation, as I’m sure to lose. Here’s an Orthodox (rough, because I’m going my memory of Mr. D__ going from his memory) translation of Psalm 23:

The Lord Shepherds me, I lack for nothing. He encamps me in lush verdure; he leads me beside waters of rest. He converts my soul. He sets my feet on the path of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall no fear evil; for you are with me, your rod and your staff comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of those who afflict me; you anoint my head with oil; your cup of intoxication, how excellent it is! Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me always, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

So all the stuff that’s always there is still there, obviously. But then the CFs say: we see this as a sacramental psalm! If you, like me, are thinking “huh?” it goes something like this:

The Lord Shepherds me, I lack for nothing. This is pretty obvious, though the active verb is preferable to the inactive of “shepherds,” as is the emphasis on not lacking as opposed to not wanting, as they are not always synonymous.

He encamps me in lush verdure; The Church?

he leads me beside waters of rest. Baptism!

He converts my soul. Yup.

He sets my feet on the path of righteousness for his name’s sake. This is what the soul is converted to.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall no fear evil; Baptism again? A likeness, figure, shadow of death? But in a creative rather than destructive way.

 for you are with me, your rod and your staff comfort me. Comfort=paraclete in the S.; comfort or advocate, used in the New Testament to refer to Christ and the Holy Spirit, usually the latter — Holy Spirit reference?

You prepare a table before me in the presence of those who afflict me; The alter of a temple! Prefers the more active form for “enemy.”

you anoint my head with oil; Obviously, he was a king, but let’s try a different emphasis; when you’ve got the Spirit and oil you have: Christmation!

your cup of intoxication, how excellent it is! I kind of love this translation. Anyway, you’ve probably caught on to where we’re going with this. Communion!

Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me always, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Yay!

A friend recently wrote about assessing one’s level of preparadness: how do people generally talk about that? How is it done? I have no idea, it’s not something I do much of. There are reasons you should be very glad I’m not responsible for designing anything that could potentially harm people — bridges, for instance, or things that go into space, or theological dogma. I’m not sure I’ve ever successfully assessed anything about myself. That was problematic as an undergrad; teacher’s colleges are always urging their students to not only self-assess, but to do so in a way that they can share with near-strangers who are responsible for judging our ability to teach. “What is the best thing about you as an educational professional?” I haven’t the foggiest idea, never having been any such thing *ahem* “I am enthusiastic about fostering a student centered learning environment that is inclusive of all learners.” Fortunately, not knowing oneself very well is a common difficulty: Fr. Nicholas sometimes said that we are for the most part incapable of seeing ourselves correctly, and Fr. John said that to truly know oneself is a greater miracle than raising the dead. So I usually just plunge into the unknown in the hope that if I’m really as unprepared as all that someone will notice before I can do much harm. All things considered, that has usually proved to be a valid assumption, though I have learned that, unintuitive as I am, if I have a really bad feeling about doing something I probably oughtn’t. As Fr. Nicholas said when I wrote him that I was afraid I was about to fail at teaching: of course you’ll fail, we all fail in one way or another, but do your best, trust God, and get back up afterwards.

People like to say that what you get out of a situation is what you put into it, which is true, but my experience has always been that it’s not so helpful to have expectations as it is to have attentiveness. If I’m busy looking to get out of an experience the same thing as somebody else, or what others said I might, I’ll probably become frustrated and miss what should be most obvious to me. That is one of the most obvious themes in my experience of youth conferences, camps, missions, revivals, prayer groups, etc. I can’t say what was actually going on, not having been aware enough to catch it, but I imagine it something like this:

Me: I’m going on a youth outing! Perhaps I will hear something from God! Perhaps I will be able to get up in front of everyone and say what it is that I heard! Perhaps I can write about it! Perhaps it will change the whole course of my life, I’ll have an epiphany, a revelation, and will be able to use phrases like “God told me” and “the real challenge now is carrying this spiritual high back down from the mountain! *starts visualizing how important and delightful it would be to have some kind of crisis and re-commit her life and get on the right path at last and then be able to give an interesting testimony at youth gatherings and whatnot*

God: You’re being foolish. Lovable, but foolish. Never mind all that about speaking and writing and being impressive. Will you accept what you have and be joyful in it?

Me: Ach! The music is uninspiring, everything is aimed at extroverts, I’ve heard all this before, all this activity and bustle is becoming oppressive, I don’t know what they mean, nobody understands me, all this talk of personal relationships with God is becoming threatening because I don’t understand it — drat! Drat!

God: But are you willing to accept what is and find joy here? Will you look for me in all this this? There is joy here if you’ll look for it and stop envying all the things I’m not offering you.

And so on. It’s not a very good idea; I wouldn’t recommend it. There was apparently much of the import of “thou shalt not envy” I hadn’t figured out yet.

In Orthodoxy we like to talk about the apaphatic: that which is mysterious and unknown, where we may hope to meet God. Most often we are thinking about prayer or church or some other obvious time to be looking for God, but as he is “everywhere and fills all things,” there’s no reason to neglect looking for the numinous apaphatic possibilities in the rest of life as well. In practicing the Jesus prayer, in addition to being a beautiful and true prayer in its’ own right, it becomes necessary to maintain a kind of hopeful attention to what is unknown. One might think: I’ve said this same prayer 3000 times this week, and it’s still just buzzing around my head. Why on earth am I doing this? and then go to Confession and ask for another prayer rule and get “no, how about you keep at it?” And so one might then have another go, fail again, ask a priest, get a similar answer, and so on and so forth for quite a long time. But then he might begin to also pray with his heart, and instead of the prayer just buzzing around a frustrated intellect, might begin to be said with love and openness and attentiveness to God. It’s hard to attend to the already difficult work of looking for God everywhere and in all things if one is constantly attending instead to all the places and ways he’s not showing himself; or to accept what he’s offering when one is busy insisting on something else.

But of course God isn’t just interested in how we respond to him in church or on retreat, but in all of life, which includes everything. Like school, for instance. Teachers, religious and otherwise, are often not very helpful in this respect. Very often they don’t bother insisting that we at least try to learn hopeful attention. I think that’s because we very often fail to believe that attention is something that lies in the realm of interior freedom, that can be chosen and learned. And if a person doesn’t believe that something lies within his ability to acquire, or that if it is, there’s no known way of doing so, he probably won’t insist that his own soul hopefully attend as much as possible. I say “hopefully” because he must have some hope that there is in fact something good and joyful being offered, and that he could recognize and accept it if only he would keep trying and praying and not lose heart.

I named this post “apaphatic geometry” because I was wondering: what would happen if we always tried to approach everything with that kind of “hopeful attention?” What if, when confronted by something somebody expects of me but I don’t understand, and moreover don’t know why I might want to understand it — take Euclidian geometry — I chose to approach it as something apaphatic and potentially joyful? And if, after six proofs, I still didn’t have the foggiest idea why I was doing it, I were to continue to do the same? What would happen? What if it’s not so necessary to know what I want to get out of everything, or what I’ve learned from every event? (since it has as yet proven altogether impossible, I certainly hope that is the case) I don’t know. Perhaps, though, I can try to find out.