The further beyond our senses we venture, the greater will be our incredulity. We cannot see the teeming cauldron of reactions boiling in each of our trillion cells, and we cannot resolve the titanic grandeur of the galaxies, full of stars. Not from where we stand. In the past, our human universe was limited by our complete inability to see beyond our own "macro" link in the Great Chain of Being, but men like Galileo and van Leeuwenhoek gave us mechanical appendages, allowing a select few initiates to peer beyond, into the micro and the mega.
But the large majority of people do not have access to such tools, and many who read Nature's parables do not know how to interpret them, for "...seeing they may see, and not perceive." We are not actors on the micro and mega stages in everyday life, and we cannot perceive them with our unaugmented senses, so our brains have not yet caught up with our science, and we have a hard time conceiving of both the vast and the infinitesimal.
Science asks us to contemplate the nearly infinite, and religion blinds the man who would look on the face of God. In religion's circumscribed crystalline sphere, we are held comfortable in amniotic embrace (this is my body...) and fed by umbilical vein (this is my blood...) - directly into the gut, bypassing the head entirely. We do not smell, do not taste, do not analyze spiritual nourishment, but imbibe it intravenously. Please don't chew on the body of Christ while He's transubstantiating.
Richard Dawkins' latest book, The Greatest Show on Earth, was written to make the case for evolution. Every previous book, he says, started from the presumption that evolution is fact; the latest, though, aims to present the evidence. I agree with this approach. I think the greatest buttress of prejudice is ignorance, and an anti-scientific viewpoint is rarely anything other than prejudgment.
Still, I don't know that a book will go far enough. I've bought into the scientific outlook to the greatest extent possible, and it is still incredibly difficult for me to wrap my head around things like the fact that the largest black holes in the galaxy could be the size of fifty billion suns. I don't even know how big a billion is, really, nor how big the sun is. How can I conceive of such a fact? I can't. This whole line of thought occurred to me in Biochemistry lecture because I made the mistake of thinking about how the glycolysis pathway we were studying is churning incessantly in my cells, and the minute concentrations of reactants and products and regulated by other pathways, and hormones, and gradients... and all in all, the whole system (which is, by definition, life itself) is far too complex to actually understand.
This is actually part of the reason I'm excited about augmented humanity, too. I think that if we can augment our senses, we'll be able to experience a larger slice of the universe's micro-macro-mega spectrum. With our everyday consciousness expanded, we'll be better equipped to confront a vast and complex reality that is daily growing in size and complexity. I guess I'm just saying that as we chew on tougher and more gristly questions, it wouldn't hurt to have sharper teeth and a detachable jaw.
Note: The post title is from that autotuned Carl Sagan music video I posted a little while ago. Really, do yourself a favor and check it out now if you didn't before. Or even if you did - it's worth a few viewings, at least.
Showing posts with label Blasphemy Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blasphemy Day. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
"And ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde."
As something of a follow-up to Sunday's blasphemies, I thought I'd throw a bone to any pious types who may be reading this blog. Yes, I know you're out there, and I know it's been rough. My writings are a spiritual minefield, rife with all manner of execration and godlessness, but just... so... tempting...
Well, I applaud your perseverance in this self-administered test of faith. I'm honored to be the wilderness to your Christ, the Bathsheba to your David, the absolute-shitstorm-of-disasters to your Lot, and the desire-to-avoid-filleting-your-firstborn to your Abraham. Your faith will be rewarded: not in the next life, but in this very post. As a kind of thank-you for wading through all the worldly muck, here's a more celestial post, for people like you, about people like you.
For though you may sometimes feel like a long-lost wayfarer in the firmament, drifting alone from star to cold star, suffocated in the spiritual vacuum but for the life-support system of Christ's love (this bread is my CO2 scrubber, this wine the urine recycled through the catheter of your exposure suit's integrated bioproducts/waste-reclamation system), know that you are not alone. The light of the Lord has penetrated even to the furthest reaches of galaxy! Set phasors to "save" and shout hallelujah, for the Klingons have found Jesus!
That's not just the unreasonable extension of my dumb astronaut metaphor - it's actually true [via TR].
Yes, I kid you not, Klingons for Christ Jesus is not the chromosomally-deficient brainchild of my gravid yet cyclophosphamide-swilling brain. These guys are for real. Well, OK, maybe "for real" is not the best way to put it, but they certainly exist and they seem to take themselves seriously.
Most of their creed seems to involve selectively reading the Bible with an eye toward the more bellicose verses (but hey, that's nothing new: Glenn Beck thinks that beating swords into plowshares is commie propaganda, and the geniuses at Conservapedia are basically doing the same thing, except in a much scarier way). You know, "Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight..." (Psalm 144) - that sort of thing.
But what I find really fascinating, actually, is their take on Jesus. Around the turn of the last millennium, Jesus was basically that hippie Reconstructionist rabbi who's always going on about finding God in the family love of appreciating the warmth of a spring day when life is renewed through the green fuses of the flowers that shine with the divine spark of love like a baby's eyes looking at its mother. OK, Klingons, deal with that.
And they do. I quote, altering neither the color of the text nor the abundance of punctuation marks:
Anyway, what I'm really getting at here is (surprise, surprise) something medieval. While we tend not to mention wrinkly-headed aliens in the same breath as William the Conqueror (Despite the physical resemblance. Oh snap! Alfred's thegns represent!), there are some striking parallels between the Savior of the Klingons and that of the Anglo-Saxons, at least as represented in Wulfstan's eleventh-century "Apostles' Creed."
The Creed was read as part of a short sermon entitled To Eallum Folke given by Wulfstan (bishop of Worcester, archbishop of York). Perhaps it's just my amateurish tendencies, but to me, the text reads quite a bit more rugged and manly than most Christian liturgy. Take a gander:
Yeah, that's right: this is not your Lamb of God. This Jesus is here to kick ass and heal lepers, and it looks like he's all out of lepers. Seriously, I'm not taking all that much poetic license with the language, either: "Hē to helle fērde and ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde." According to Bosworth, "gehergode" means "to harry or ravage," or "to make predatory attacks upon." This is, in two words, Viking Jesus.
The awesomeness of Viking Jesus is apparent, and my guess is that the language used here is intentionally geared toward the warrior culture of the Anglo-Saxons to whom it was being preached. Like a teen pastor who uses Christian rock for his youth ministry, Wulfstan knew his audience and knew what they wanted. The pagan gods were paragons of strength and cunning, warrior gods who ate frost giants for breakfast. Why believe in some Mediterranean pansy who turned the other cheek instead of swinging a battle axe?
The answer is the same for both the grim men of yore and the pimply fanboys of today: in the right light, Jesus was a badass.
As a side note, this interpretation kind of explains Mark 16:8. It's different than the version of the story told in the other gospels, and it's given people some interpretive trouble. Some women come upon the newly-arisen Christ, "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid" (KJV). Well, no kidding. Ever seen Serenity? You know the part where the blast doors open to reveal River standing on a pile of massacred Reavers? [1. Spoiler alert! 2. I can't find a version with the original soundtrack, so... buy the DVD]. Now imagine that she's a dude in a tunic who got crucified a couple days before. I know I'd run.
Now, here we could discuss the ways in which religion is multivalent, and its amorphous nature enables it to offer something to all who seek its wisdom. Just as Jesus plundered Hell and took thereof all that he would, so too can anyone plunder the Bible and take from it exactly what he wants. But instead of expostulating any more, I'm just going to revel some more in the idea of Jesus clawing his way out of Hell, punching through the boulder at the cave mouth, and climbing - climbing! - up to Heaven. Ka Plah, indeed, my friends. Ka Plah.
Well, I applaud your perseverance in this self-administered test of faith. I'm honored to be the wilderness to your Christ, the Bathsheba to your David, the absolute-shitstorm-of-disasters to your Lot, and the desire-to-avoid-filleting-your-firstborn to your Abraham. Your faith will be rewarded: not in the next life, but in this very post. As a kind of thank-you for wading through all the worldly muck, here's a more celestial post, for people like you, about people like you.
For though you may sometimes feel like a long-lost wayfarer in the firmament, drifting alone from star to cold star, suffocated in the spiritual vacuum but for the life-support system of Christ's love (this bread is my CO2 scrubber, this wine the urine recycled through the catheter of your exposure suit's integrated bioproducts/waste-reclamation system), know that you are not alone. The light of the Lord has penetrated even to the furthest reaches of galaxy! Set phasors to "save" and shout hallelujah, for the Klingons have found Jesus!
That's not just the unreasonable extension of my dumb astronaut metaphor - it's actually true [via TR].
Most of their creed seems to involve selectively reading the Bible with an eye toward the more bellicose verses (but hey, that's nothing new: Glenn Beck thinks that beating swords into plowshares is commie propaganda, and the geniuses at Conservapedia are basically doing the same thing, except in a much scarier way). You know, "Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight..." (Psalm 144) - that sort of thing.
But what I find really fascinating, actually, is their take on Jesus. Around the turn of the last millennium, Jesus was basically that hippie Reconstructionist rabbi who's always going on about finding God in the family love of appreciating the warmth of a spring day when life is renewed through the green fuses of the flowers that shine with the divine spark of love like a baby's eyes looking at its mother. OK, Klingons, deal with that.
And they do. I quote, altering neither the color of the text nor the abundance of punctuation marks:
"Indeed, Klingons accept the teachings of Christ as part of a warrior tradition. Christ brings not peace, but a sword. And this batlh'etlh is a sword of honor indeed!Well, I've been told. They also discuss his sufferings on the cross, comparing the unpleasant proceedings to something called the Klingon Rite of Ascension. Something tells me these guys really enjoyed The Passion of the Christ, but not for the reasons Mel Gibson was hoping.
Ka Plah!!!"
Anyway, what I'm really getting at here is (surprise, surprise) something medieval. While we tend not to mention wrinkly-headed aliens in the same breath as William the Conqueror (Despite the physical resemblance. Oh snap! Alfred's thegns represent!), there are some striking parallels between the Savior of the Klingons and that of the Anglo-Saxons, at least as represented in Wulfstan's eleventh-century "Apostles' Creed."
The Creed was read as part of a short sermon entitled To Eallum Folke given by Wulfstan (bishop of Worcester, archbishop of York). Perhaps it's just my amateurish tendencies, but to me, the text reads quite a bit more rugged and manly than most Christian liturgy. Take a gander:
We believe in one mighty God who shaped and worked all things.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that Christ Godson came to mankind in our need.
And we believe that he was born to a clean maiden, Holy Mary, who never had intercourse with men.
And we believe that he endured much, and fiercely suffered for our every need.
And we believe that man hung him from the cross, and forced him unto death, and he afterwards was buried in the earth.
And we believe that he journeyed to Hell and thereof plundered all that he would.
And we believe that afterwards he rose up from death.
And we believe that afterwards he climbed up to Heaven.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that he on Doom's Day to the great doom cometh.
And we believe that all the dead must then rise up from death and seek their great doom.
And we believe that the sinful must then immediately go to Hell, and there with devils dwell in burning fire and eternal ruin—no end will ever come, not for all time.
And we believe that good, full-Christians, who here in the world well-pleased God, must then immediately go into Heaven, and there afterwards have a dwelling with God Himself, and with his angels, always in eternity. Amen.
(Translation mine)
(Emphasis on the sweet parts also mine)
(Emphasis on the sweet parts also mine)
Yeah, that's right: this is not your Lamb of God. This Jesus is here to kick ass and heal lepers, and it looks like he's all out of lepers. Seriously, I'm not taking all that much poetic license with the language, either: "Hē to helle fērde and ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde." According to Bosworth, "gehergode" means "to harry or ravage," or "to make predatory attacks upon." This is, in two words, Viking Jesus.
The awesomeness of Viking Jesus is apparent, and my guess is that the language used here is intentionally geared toward the warrior culture of the Anglo-Saxons to whom it was being preached. Like a teen pastor who uses Christian rock for his youth ministry, Wulfstan knew his audience and knew what they wanted. The pagan gods were paragons of strength and cunning, warrior gods who ate frost giants for breakfast. Why believe in some Mediterranean pansy who turned the other cheek instead of swinging a battle axe?
The answer is the same for both the grim men of yore and the pimply fanboys of today: in the right light, Jesus was a badass.
As a side note, this interpretation kind of explains Mark 16:8. It's different than the version of the story told in the other gospels, and it's given people some interpretive trouble. Some women come upon the newly-arisen Christ, "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid" (KJV). Well, no kidding. Ever seen Serenity? You know the part where the blast doors open to reveal River standing on a pile of massacred Reavers? [1. Spoiler alert! 2. I can't find a version with the original soundtrack, so... buy the DVD]. Now imagine that she's a dude in a tunic who got crucified a couple days before. I know I'd run.
Now, here we could discuss the ways in which religion is multivalent, and its amorphous nature enables it to offer something to all who seek its wisdom. Just as Jesus plundered Hell and took thereof all that he would, so too can anyone plunder the Bible and take from it exactly what he wants. But instead of expostulating any more, I'm just going to revel some more in the idea of Jesus clawing his way out of Hell, punching through the boulder at the cave mouth, and climbing - climbing! - up to Heaven. Ka Plah, indeed, my friends. Ka Plah.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Present Engagements
1. I'm building a ballista on a $10 budget.
Our physics department is hosting a Punkin' Chunkin' competition, which is both a concept and a phrase that fills my heart with joy. The idea is to see who can attain the greatest range with a homemade, jury-rigged gourd-flinger. Naturally, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to combine my love of ancient technology with the destruction of produce (cf. Halloween 2009, "De Motu Citrus Nitrensis"). As such, I've spent a number of hours rummaging through local dumpsters and junk piles for building materials. The ten dollars went towards a coil of rope, but if I can find any for free I'll use it instead. I'd share my design plan here, but I'm keeping it secret lest any rivals stumble across this blog. If everything works out, I'll try to post pictures or videos.
2. I'm interviewing for medical school.
Tomorrow. It's my first one. Still haven't really processed it. I mean, what? Me? Interviewing for med school? How did that happen? I'm just a humble punkin' chunker from a punkin' chunkin' clan - not doctor material. Don't be silly. (Can you tell I'm a little nervous?)
Granted, part of me is sure I'm going to blow the roof off this thing like a tornado in a trailer park, but that's the same part of me that also says things like "If this medicine thing doesn't work out, you could always be Supreme God-Emperor of the Galaxy," so I'm taking its advice with a grain of salt.
If this last bit seems especially prideful to you, you're right. It's part of my campaign to hit all seven deadlies in one day, because today is 3. International Blasphemy Day. So crowning myself king of the cosmos seems like a decent way to get in pride and offend the Invisible Sky-Beard all at once. Now, I'm off to find a lingerie-clad model baking a chocolate cake she won't let me have, and that should cover another 3 or 4 no problem.
Our physics department is hosting a Punkin' Chunkin' competition, which is both a concept and a phrase that fills my heart with joy. The idea is to see who can attain the greatest range with a homemade, jury-rigged gourd-flinger. Naturally, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to combine my love of ancient technology with the destruction of produce (cf. Halloween 2009, "De Motu Citrus Nitrensis"). As such, I've spent a number of hours rummaging through local dumpsters and junk piles for building materials. The ten dollars went towards a coil of rope, but if I can find any for free I'll use it instead. I'd share my design plan here, but I'm keeping it secret lest any rivals stumble across this blog. If everything works out, I'll try to post pictures or videos.
2. I'm interviewing for medical school.
Tomorrow. It's my first one. Still haven't really processed it. I mean, what? Me? Interviewing for med school? How did that happen? I'm just a humble punkin' chunker from a punkin' chunkin' clan - not doctor material. Don't be silly. (Can you tell I'm a little nervous?)
Granted, part of me is sure I'm going to blow the roof off this thing like a tornado in a trailer park, but that's the same part of me that also says things like "If this medicine thing doesn't work out, you could always be Supreme God-Emperor of the Galaxy," so I'm taking its advice with a grain of salt.
If this last bit seems especially prideful to you, you're right. It's part of my campaign to hit all seven deadlies in one day, because today is 3. International Blasphemy Day. So crowning myself king of the cosmos seems like a decent way to get in pride and offend the Invisible Sky-Beard all at once. Now, I'm off to find a lingerie-clad model baking a chocolate cake she won't let me have, and that should cover another 3 or 4 no problem.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Indiana Jones and the Lost Crusade
Let it not be forgotten that today marks the 805th anniversary of the Fourth Crusade sacking Constantinople. Yes, that's right, the capital of the Byzantine Empire-- a Christian (albeit Eastern Orthodox) empire and stalwart buttress against the rising Ottoman tide. None of that mattered on April 12, 1204, though, and the resulting slaughter was the ultra-violent capstone on the most hilarious crusade ever. To make a long comedy short, the Warriors of Christ make it to Venice without enough money, so the cunning (and blind) Doge Dandolo cons them into paying for boats by assaulting the rebellious port-town of Zara. Hearing of this development, Pope Innocent III sent a pretty stern letter to the leaders of the crusade, reminding them that killing other Christians wasn't really in the spirit of the venture, and threatening excommunication if they pulled another stunt like it.
Things might have gone smoothly at this point were it not for the appearance of Alexius Angelus. A claimant to the throne of Byzantium, Alexius (IV, or so he hoped) offered the flat-broke Knights of the Cross a humongous pile of money if they helped him reclaim his throne from Alexius III. So, they did.
The siege began around July 17, 1203, and lasted until April of the following year, during which period many wacky developments occurred, including the crusaders instating Alexius as emperor, then attacking a mosque defended by Greeks and Turks alike, and the Venetians mistakenly burning down a huge part of the city. Oops.
It all really went to hell (well, more to hell) when one of Alexius IV's courtiers, Alexius "Murtzuphlos"* Ducas had the new emperor strangled to death and proclaimed himself Alexius V.** This made the crusaders angry. And you won't like them when they're angry... Despite the Pope's warning not to do anything stupid, the Holy Warriors (for lack of a better term) totally got medieval on Byzantium's ass.
I think Papa Innocent summed it up best in this letter:
Yep. The Venetians did. Heaps and heaps of filthy Byzantine lucre poured into Venice-- most famously, the giant horses on the Basilica di San Marco. They stand as pigeon shit-covered monuments to the Lost Crusade, and to the eternal idiocy of "holy" war.
Footnotes
*A reference to his prominent eyebrows which, depending on the source you read, were either "bushy," "luxuriant," or "conjoined and overhanging."
**No, being named Alexius was not a requirement for the empry. Sure seems like it though.
***Ah, the sordid lusts of boys. To what ends will they not drive us? This is crucially different from the sordid lust for boys, which would be a thorn in the Church's side in a different century.
****Sort of. The ones who stayed to defend Constantinople got absolved and had their pilgrimage vows annulled, which elicited a huge "WTF?" from Innocent (see the above-linked letter).
Things might have gone smoothly at this point were it not for the appearance of Alexius Angelus. A claimant to the throne of Byzantium, Alexius (IV, or so he hoped) offered the flat-broke Knights of the Cross a humongous pile of money if they helped him reclaim his throne from Alexius III. So, they did.
The siege began around July 17, 1203, and lasted until April of the following year, during which period many wacky developments occurred, including the crusaders instating Alexius as emperor, then attacking a mosque defended by Greeks and Turks alike, and the Venetians mistakenly burning down a huge part of the city. Oops.
It all really went to hell (well, more to hell) when one of Alexius IV's courtiers, Alexius "Murtzuphlos"* Ducas had the new emperor strangled to death and proclaimed himself Alexius V.** This made the crusaders angry. And you won't like them when they're angry... Despite the Pope's warning not to do anything stupid, the Holy Warriors (for lack of a better term) totally got medieval on Byzantium's ass.
I think Papa Innocent summed it up best in this letter:
"As for those who were supposed to be seeking the ends of Jesus Christ, not their own ends, who made their swords, which they were supposed to use against the pagans, drip with Christian blood, they have spared neither religion, nor age, nor sex. They have committed incest, adultery, and fornication before the eyes of men. They have exposed both matrons and virgins, even those dedicated to God, to the sordid lusts of boys.*** Not satisfied with breaking open the imperial treasury and plundering the goods of princes and lesser men, they also laid their hands on the treasures of the churches and, what is more serious, on their very possessions. They have even ripped silver plates from the altars and have hacked them to pieces among themselves. They violated the holy places and have carried off crosses and relics."Anyway, suffice it to say they all got excommunicated, the end.**** So the Crusade never got within spitting distance of the Holy Land, Constantinople got absolutely mashed, and the schism between the Eastern and Western Churches was pretty much solidified. So did anyone really win?
Yep. The Venetians did. Heaps and heaps of filthy Byzantine lucre poured into Venice-- most famously, the giant horses on the Basilica di San Marco. They stand as pigeon shit-covered monuments to the Lost Crusade, and to the eternal idiocy of "holy" war.
Footnotes
*A reference to his prominent eyebrows which, depending on the source you read, were either "bushy," "luxuriant," or "conjoined and overhanging."
**No, being named Alexius was not a requirement for the empry. Sure seems like it though.
***Ah, the sordid lusts of boys. To what ends will they not drive us? This is crucially different from the sordid lust for boys, which would be a thorn in the Church's side in a different century.
****Sort of. The ones who stayed to defend Constantinople got absolved and had their pilgrimage vows annulled, which elicited a huge "WTF?" from Innocent (see the above-linked letter).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
