Temples, Sacraments, Mysteries

"That is one of the reasons that I believe in Christianity. It is not a religion you could have guessed. If it offered us just the kind of universe that we have always expected, I should expect that we were making it up. But in fact it is not the sort of thing that anyone could have made up. It just has that queer twist about it that real things have."
- C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

In my current Hugh Nibley research, I've been reading (all right, skimming) books like A. D. Nock's Early Gentile Christianity and Its Hellenistic Background and Kirsopp Lake's The Religion of Yesterday and Tomorrow. This morning, in these and other sources, I ran across an interesting bit of religious wordplay. Apparently, the Latin-based word sacrament in ecclesiastical Greek becomes mysterion from which we get our "mysteries" (Lake 23). And from Nock:

A mysterion is a secret rite, in which the individual participates of his own free choice, and by which he is put into a closer relation with the deity honoured; normally he must undergo ceremonies of initiation (not usually capable of repetition) conferring a new and indelible spiritual condition and commonly giving an assurance of happiness hereafter. Those being initiated, says Aristotle, need not to learn something, but to receive an experience, and to be put into a frame of mind. The experience of the initiate may consist of acts done to him or by him, or again of the watching of a sacred drama. (Nock 5)

Reading that quote in context of the temple catches my intellectual breath in a way that hasn't happened since I found out covenant and testament are rendered from the same word. I confess that since my early Sunday school days, I've longed to find out what is meant when the scriptures refer to the mysteries of God. As a child, I was an avid learner, and this sounded like the best knowledge of all: "And if thou wilt inquire, thou shalt know mysteries which are great and marvelous; therefore thou shalt exercise thy gift, that thou mayest find out mysteries, that thou mayest bring many to the knowledge of the truth, yea, convince them of the error of their ways" (D&C 6:11). It seemed as though that knowledge was the apex of life, which of course, it is.

But as I prepare to go through the temple, I'm conceiving of the mysteries of God in another way: as sacraments, as ordinances, not necessarily something that we learn so much as something that we do. In the past, the importance of physical action in ordinances seemed to me out of step with religion which I saw as primarily intellectual and spiritual. Yes, I could see the symbolism in the action of baptism by immersion--the going down and coming up out of the water representing death and resurrection, the water acting as the physical sign of the cleansing of the soul--but in spite of all its beauty, my brain couldn't grasp why it was necessary to salvation: why should being covered in water at a certain point in your life actually affect the state of your eternal soul?

And I'm still not sure I can answer that question in an intellectually satisfying way. But what I have discovered is that religion isn't all about intellect. So much of it is about things you can't understand, predict, or explain, things that simply are as they are: "as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be". If you limit religion to intellect, you make it what it should not be. One of the essential qualities of religion, says Lake, is mysticism. It is not logic. "It is not an emotion: it is a different form of consciousness" (Lake 178-9). It's the ordinances that we recognize as correct and satisfying without knowing why.

As I listening to a temple preparation lesson yesterday, I realized that the plan of salvation reminds me of nothing so much as the hero cycle, both in its steps and in its ubiquitousness. The hero's journey appears everywhere. There's no particular logical reason why it needs the steps Campbell assigns to it, yet they feel right. The plan of salvation just feels right, though I suppose you can't logically explain why it ought not to be some other way. This feeling of rightness is one of the things which can't adequately be explained by science: string theory, for instance, can explain the laws and constants of the universe, but can't explain why the universe would choose this particular set of constants from among all the other predicted possibilities. To science, to reason, they all seem equally likely. It is something beyond logic that says, "This one."

Science and Traditions: A Nibleyesque Musing

I know I said I'd do something cool for post #201. Turns out it's just another Nibleyesque Musing. Oh well.

The way that Brother Nibley harmonizes science and religion in “Beyond Adam” is very interesting. As a chemistry student and a firm believer in science and the scientific method, I’m always grappling with these same issues in my life. For the most part, my solution has been what I call the “everything and nothing” approach—I seek to learn everything that’s true, believing everything that’s true comes from God, and that once I understand everything, nothing will be in conflict. As Nibley points out, science has an entirely different point from religion, so of course there will be some things that appear to conflict. But both are true frames for viewing the universe, and the real thing includes and supersedes both. Science and religion are both maps that tell us how to get to specific goals, but to insist that a map is reality is clear nonsense.

But back to Nibley’s thoughts on evolution—I liked the idea that a lot of the early destructions of massive numbers of people in the Bible might have had something to do with other forms of human beings. I find it very comforting that Nibley doesn’t feel the need to deny the possibility of evolution or something like unto it. I’ve never felt that there was any need for all this conflict. Why shouldn’t God work through evolution? “My ways are not your ways.” The promise to keep the seed of Enoch through Noah always on the earth makes a lot more sense when you have the idea that there might have been other types of humans to compete with. It also covers a lot of the ideas about giants and such that we read in the Old Testament. Sure, the timing of all this doesn’t seem to fit together quite yet, but I have a firm belief that it will all shake out in the end. Who knows how many things about our perceptions of both science and religion need to be corrected in the end?

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of “How Firm a Foundation! What Makes It So.” Nibley starts out listing the necessary qualities that characterize the true gospel, but then wanders, in typical Nibley fashion, through the idea of consecration and into environmentalism, particularly discussing pollution in Utah. I enjoyed the list of characteristics of the true church: like Nibley, I was amazed that “I had no idea at that time how vast and solid the foundations of the Church really are.

I’m not sure how to phrase what I’m going to say next, so try not to take it too seriously if it’s overly offensive or odd. Although for the greater part of my life I’ve had a very strong testimony of the truth of the gospel and the Church, I’ve always felt a little bashful about the fact that it’s, well, so new. I mean, 170-odd years is really not that long for the existence of a religion, and though we of course claim that we are a restoration of ancient things, the very modern feeling of the Church has always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. I sometimes find myself wishing we had that long line of tradition in the same way as the Catholic Church or even better Judaism. Reading a lot of Nibley has helped me recover a sense of tradition—that Joseph Smith didn’t just make it up in 1830, but that the practices of the Church go far back, especially when it comes to the temple. Perhaps my thirst for tradition will finally be quenched when I go through for myself.

Academic Crisis

Depressing realization today: I need only three more classes to finish the English major (besides what I'm taking this semester and Spring term): Shakespeare, Diverse Traditions, and the Senior Course. And after this semester, I would officially have enough classes to be done with the chemistry minor. And I'm done with all my GE. Which means I could spend all of next year just taking fun and interesting classes that I've never gotten around to, like astronomy, art history, more editing, more rhetoric, philosophy, computers in the humanities, and maybe even some poli-sci. I could get a second minor. Or even two. It would be pure bliss.

Except for I'm not a chemistry minor. I'm a chemistry major.

What in the world is my problem? Why do I feel compelled to do a double major even though the thought of trying to pack the six remaining courses into one year makes me want to cry? Because I really don't care about doing the work for my science classes. I enjoy the knowledge, but I don't care too much about the classes. At all. It's drudgery weighing me down.

The main thing that keeps me from considering dropping the double major is that I wouldn't know what to do without it. I've kind of build this identity around being a double major, and I'm afraid to let it go. How would I introduce myself to people if I didn't have a double major? What kind of psycho does a major for the sake of identity? Me, apparently.

Now that that's out in the open, I also have to say that I creepily enjoyed my O-chem test last night. Bizarre.

The Mark of Reality

I was reading through an old writing notebook from senior year of high school and found this poem. I rather like it, and it expresses well some thoughts I've been having about our modern dependence on logic and scientific thinking.

If it runs through your hands
before you can grasp its purpose
it is a sign of reality.

Something so true and pure
cannot be contained in
plastic dixie cups.

A glimpse of reality
will leave you drained
but also overflowing.

Trying to trap it
will only release it.

Scientific Romance

Last night I was watching Nova again, particularly Einstein's Big Idea. (Yes, I'm a nerd, get over that. It's faster than reading the book it was based on.) Can I just say this is about the most adorable scientific documentary I have ever seen? And I really do mean it. The program covers the lives of all the scientists whose discoveries contributed to the formation of E=MC^2. The science was mostly stuff I knew anyway, but the lives of the scientists utterly fascinate me.

And here's where we come to the title of the post, as I particularly liked the portrayal of the romantic lives of these scientists. Yes, it's probably mostly made up, but it was so adorable! Antoine Lavoisier working side-by-side with his wife, the downfall of Emilie du Châtelet--a French physicist--who died in childbirth, and Lise Meitner's tragic near-relationship with her co-worker Otto Hahn, who would eventually steal her Nobel Prize. Of course, the best was Einstein's courtship of his wife. I mean, who couldn't find this romantic:

ALBERT EINSTEIN: What would I see if I rode on a beam of light?

MILEVA MARIC: What? A beam of light? By what method do you propose to ride on this beam of light?

ALBERT EINSTEIN: The method is not important. Let us just imagine we two are young, radical, bohemian experimenters, hand in hand, on a journey to the outer reaches of the universe, and we are riding on the front of a wave of light.

MILEVA MARIC: I really don't know what you are suggesting, Herr Einstein. Do you wish to hold my hand or ridicule me?

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Ridicule you? No, never. I merely want you to help me to understand. What would we see, do you think, if we were together, and we sped up and up until we caught up to the front of a beam of light? What would we see?

Uh, okay, maybe you just have to see it. But I think it's adorable. This may be because I also think Einstein is adorable. But maybe that's just because I love IQ. But who doesn't?

Which brings me to the real point of this post. As I said earlier, I've recently discovered an affinity for chick flicks. But not just any chick flicks. I like chick flicks about nerds. My most recent favorite mushy crap is the story about Ender's parents meeting from Orson Scott Card's First Meetings. Any guy who would do what John Paul Wiggin does is pretty amazing. He'd certainly have my attention. :D

Random Nerdiness

Alright, so I stayed home sick from classes today, and in my infinite boredom, I rediscovered the game of life, which I stumbled upon a long time ago in my wanderings in that source of infinite knowledge, Wikipedia. No, this is not the same game of life that has the little cars and the pink and blue people. This game of life involves complex mathematical concepts and modeling of real populations. Crazy awesome patterns.

But that's not why I brought this up. There's a fun off-shoot to all this crazy math. Presenting the click maze! A nice little exercise in logic, though the rules aren't as clear as I would like. Basically, you can choose to move to a new square or stay put on every turn, but you must end up in a square with either two or three neighbors. Less than that, and your cell dies of "lonliness." More than that, and your cell gets crowded to death. There's only five levels, but you can get the idea.

Once you conquer all of those, you should move on to the regular game of life. I'm been experimenting with regenerating patterns . . . . It's very tricky and fascinating.

Did I mention I'm a nerd?

What's a Spherical Chicken?

So today I'm going to do something I've been meaning to do for a long time, that is, write a full explanation for the title of this blog.

When it comes to blog names, as Milton Glaser would say, just enough is more. Coming up with a title for a blog is sort of a pain. It's like picking an email address, only perhaps worse, because the people you give your email to already know you but your blog title may be your first impression to strangers. You don't want to pick anything too cliche and obvious, but also not anything too trendy and random. A blog name needs to be generic enough to fit the many moods of your blogging career, but be different enough to say something about you to the people who wander over to your blog from goodness knows where.

In titling this blog, I toyed around with a lot of different ideas, but finally settled on "Spherical Chickens." The name is derived from a classic physics joke, which I usually tell thusly:

A farmer noticed that his chickens were sick, and called in a biologist, a chemist, and a physicist to help diagnose the problem. The biologist observed the chickens, concluding, "I can tell you there's something wrong with your chickens, but I don't know what's causing it." The chemist took fluid samples from the chickens back to his lab, and returned saying, "I can tell you what's infecting your chickens, but I don't know how they got it." Meanwhile, the physicist had been sitting on the floor, scribbling maddly on several notebooks worth of paper. Suddenly, he jumped up, exclaiming, "I have the answer, but it only works for spherical chickens in a vaccuum."

Okay, okay, so it's not very funny, especially if you aren't in the middle of a physics class. But I think the joke has a good point: in all branches of knowledge, the only people who can be perfectly certain of all the answers are those who make vast simplifications and wildely inaccurate approximations. In my humanities classes we called them "vast over-generalizations," in chemistry "useful lies," and in physics simply "spherical chickens," but it's the same concept. In order to make any sense of the world, we must ignore and leave out a lot of inconvient details, or work only with very special cases that happen to work out.

In my writing, I find these sort of spherical chickens popping up a lot. I am not one who can be satisfied by mere criticism of other people's ideas; instead, I insist on creating my own theories and justifying some sort of positive assertion of truth, rather than a negative assertion of falsehood. But there's no way to account for all cases in every theory. There are a lot of underlying assumptions in everything I write. For example, I pity anyone not familiar with Mormon culture and more particularly with BYU culture who tries to read this blog, since it contains so many implicit references to these aspects of my life. Yet it would take much more time to explain the background behind these things than I actually have. So I tend to just leave these things unsaid, which of course leaves my writing wide open for attack. Basically, I count on a friendly audience who doesn't need me to justify my spherical chickens to them.

I've been pretty satisfied with my blog title, though I have thought of changing it to something like "Seeking Balance," since that seems to be the conclusion of so many of my blog entries. However, I've stuck with "Spherical Chickens" because, in addition to its higher meanings, it also gets across the fact that I am extremely odd. And random.

Nearly Everything

Speaking of stories, I've recently been reading A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. Within the pages of this book, I've finally found an answer to the question people always ask me about my majors (Chemistry and English if you didn't know), namely, how do those work together? Up till now, I usually stick with the tried and true "They don't" or an extended "Well. . . ." Sometimes I just laugh. But really, this book shows that there's not as much difference between the sciences and the humanities as modern education might lead you to believe.

Although the science in the book is a little below my level, I've nonetheless enjoyed the book because of the history it gives behind all of our modern knowledge. When you learn this stuff in science class, they sometimes throw a name at you, but that's about all you get. (Much like what I was talking about yesterday with politics.) But in A Short History, you get the entire wacky personalities of the scientists themselves, including personal quirks, grudges, and mishaps. Seriously, it's a wonder that we ever learned anything between geniuses who solve the mysteries of the universe but tell no one, scientific societies full of social climbers anxious to knock off anyone who actually does serious work, and feuding researchers taking away each other's funding. Plus, it makes fun of the French; what more could you want?

As I read this book, I realize that the majority of scientific discovery is not done in a lab, but in writing. New understanding comes through the stories we tell ourselves to explain our experiments, not through the experiments themselves. Each test gives definite results, but establishing what those results mean is quite another matter. It's a debate over truth almost every bit as subjective as what you might find in lit crit, including some really out-there theories. (Someone once proposed that the craters on the moon were caused by swarming insects.) In fact, this book oddly reminds me of nothing so much as Hesiod's Theogony, in that it's almost a religious text for our scientific non-religion. It is the story of how our modern world--and our beliefs about it--came into existence, including the quirky personalities and the ironic inescapability of fate. I mean, as I read the pages, I wait for all the classic Gods of science to step in--Newton, with his secretiveness and alchemy, Einstein with his brilliant start dwindling into a tragic backwater--along with the lesser gods--the Curies, Planck, Bohr. This is the stuff of myth, not science, of storytelling, not empiricism.

Which is why I'm excited to discover that one of the unfinished scientific stories in the book was finally concluded today. As of today, you may live in a universe of twelve planets, not nine. Finally, a definition of planets that makes sense! Very exciting to see science moving along. :D

In Which We Find Truth in Fiction

Sheesh, this debate over creation versus criticism has been taking over my life! I keep seeing it everywhere I go. For example, I picked up Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell a week or two ago. Yes, a work of fiction. Yes, even a fantasy.

But the theme is there. The book begins with at the Yorkshire Society of Gentleman Magicians, but these aren't the magicians you would expect. None of them practice any magic, nor would they ever want to. You see, in this alternate Napolean-era England, magic has fallen from practical use. "Magicians" are more akin to historians, who study the works of the ancient magicians, and write long theoretically treatises on theories of how magic might work and whether this or that magician was influenced by the other, without ever attempting to try the spells they study. The implications on critical tradition are obvious.

Enter John Segundus. He questions why no one has tried magic, demands that we try and create new magic, to do new things rather than just reviewing the old--in other words, for creative work, rather than just analysis. The Society introduces him to the titular Mr. Norrell, who proves to be the practical magician Segundus is searching for. But even this new creative force has its problems: Mr. Norrell guards his art jealously, and can't stand the thought of sharing his books with other magicians. Also, he focuses so much on the agenda behind his art that often the creativity of it is lost. Then along comes Jonathan Strange, the other practicing magician, and things get interesting. . . .

But I'll spare you more plot summary, and I haven't quite finished the book yet anyway (300 pages left!). Even at this point, though, the implications for this criticize/create debate are clear. First, the worst state a society can possibly be in is one of pure analysis, where creation and creativity are looked down on. But just as bad is the society where creation is worshipped as a sacred, mysterious force, something for the elite, not to be shared with the masses, something jealously guarded.

The lesson I take away is this. Creativity must be taught, in as much as it can be. I realize it isn't a subject you can teach like math or even like a sport. Some essential parts of it cannot be taught, but others can. And we should teach them, even demand them. And demand the other parts too. I might even go so far as to say we should take a leaf from programs in the Fine Arts, and create a Writing major where you actually have to audition to get in.

I think one aspect that has led to the current fouled-up state of affairs in lit crit is the attempt to make it too scientific. We have tried to make our discipline too much like the social sciences, which in turn have tried to become like the hard sciences. We have tried too hard to squeeze writing into some comprehensible form instead of revelling in its marvelous creativity. In my opinion, the focus of the English major ought to be shifted to writing, with lit crit serving as a tool to help us understand other writers and through them ourselves.

There seems to be some third view, represented by Strange, but as I'm not yet sure of his fate, I will refrain from comment.

(Might as well finish off this book review properly. My only complaint about this book is that it is long. 800 pages type long. Now, I've read books that long before, but most of them didn't feel that long. I mean, HPs 4-6 felt so small! I attribute the "longness" of this book to the author's style: she's channelling Dickens so strongly that, were he alive, I might expect a copyright infringement case. And you may write down for the record that I detest Dickens--or his style anyway. But it's a sign of the brillance of the ideas that I am willing to put up with a style that drives me batty to get at them.

The only part of the style I really like is the very serious scholarly footnotes explaining when a character is wrong or giving large background stories and folktales. Pretty hilarious. And the old timey spelling is interesting. . . .

Additionally, this book is exactly the wrong size for reading. Too big a spine and too large of pages. I really want to get the three volume edition so that I can actually read it comfortably.)

P.S. I have started memorizing the Lady of Shalott, as per my post Saturday. I've almost got part one down! I feel very Anne-ish. Joni, you should be proud. :D

Time is Relative; Relativity is Confusing; ergo, Time is Confusing

Ah, so much to write about, so little time to do it in. So let's cut to the chase. First, I got an extremely humorous reply to my BYUSA rant from Mike and Caleb:

Liz:

Thank you for your email. It is unfortunate that you don't take the time to see what BYUSA actually does. It has been my experience that anyone who has actually taken the time to be involved in it has been changed by it. I know that for me it has been a phenomenal addition to my BYU experience and one for which I will always be grateful. The opportunity to serve and the people with whom I have served have made me a better person in so many ways and, I hope, have helped to make this campus a better place to be.

Mike Maughan

Dude, he totally missed the whole point. :D Being changed as a person by BYUSA is great and all, but that doesn't make it into anything more than a self-improvment organization. I see exactly what BYUSA does, and what it does is not a student government. I see no point to BYUSA Presidents running on a student government-like platform when what they are actually going to do has nothing to do with that. Service is great, and an important part of campus in its own way, but that way is not a student government kind of way. And I don't think we should be disguising BYUSA as something it is not. But anyway, I'm glad these peoples didn't win. I like the other guy's colors better.

But moving on, this week was a week of wonderful holidays. First, we have Pi Day! That'd be 3.14, or March 14 to those who aren't math inclined. We had a Pi/Pie Party (on 3.14 at apt 15 at 9:26 pm (get it? 3.1415926?)), ate 3.14 pies (yes, really), and sang happy birthday to Albert Eistein. It was frankly amazing. Then today was St. Paddy's Day, always a classic holiday in my family, not because we're Irish, but because it's when my parents got married. Aw.

Um, third, here's a random Harry Potter related dramatic monologue I wrote for my British Lit class. Don't worry, we're only graded on participation, but I thought it was funny, and I need to include more Harry Potter on my blog anyway. So, see if you can guess the character and the scene (bonus points for chapter number).

Secretive Riddle

I won’t go! I absolutely refuse!

This place, it’s the only thing I have to lose.

She’s sent you to take me away, that git.

Professor, you call yourself? I doubt it.

I know she doesn’t like me, that Mrs. Cole,

Who’s kept me in this orphanage since I was small.

I’m sure she’s told you her little rant.

But she can’t prove a thing, I know she can’t,

I’ve made sure. You can ask them, they’ll tell you.

Amy Benson, Dennis Bishop. Even Billy Stubbs too.

He’ll swear I had nothing to do with his pet rabbit

Swinging back and forth in lazy orbit

Over his bed that summer Sunday morning.

He was quite shook up (despite my warning).

We played in the cave, Amy, Dennis, and I, nothing worse,

There’s not connection to why they scream for the nurse.

I have done nothing but teach this throng,

No more than get the respect that to me should belong.

So I won’t let you take me to your school diverse.

What? You say that this is magic, not a curse?

Yes, the rhyming is quite terrible, but I still enjoy it. This is one of my favorite scenes from HBP. :D

Oh, about the title: today in Physics we learned about relativity. The universe is just messed up.