Approaching the Infinite

"We live the now for the promise of the infinite."
-Mos Def

In my calculus course, I have been learning about limits, which as I understand them, are numbers that represent the infinite set of values of a function f(x) as x approaches some number. Leaving this complicated and perhaps incorrect definition aside, the study of limits has brought me to yet another concept of the theological imagination: approaching the infinite.

The infinite is an entity that defies form and understanding; thus, it belongs to the realm of the sacred. In both mathematics and religion, it is a concept that is necessary for making sense of the world, but limits are imposed. After all, mapping the dimensionless dimensions of the infinite is an impossible, if not psychologically dangerous, task for the human mind.

A more accessible and visually appealing way that the cosmic infinite is represented in mathematics is the Fibonacci Sprial, which comes from the Fibonnacci series of integers in the following sequence: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, etc, where

The spiral is made by drawing arcs connecting opposite corners of tiles that have side-lengths of successive Fibonacci numbers. The center point from which the spiral begins to emanate is known as the "Eye of God."

The Fibonacci Spiral

Nautillus shell

  

The spiral continues to infinity, taking in the cosmos. In nature, the spiral is seen in galaxies, nautillus shells, flowers, and fiddle-head ferns. In sacred architecture, the staircases of Antoni Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia, follow a Fibonacci spiral pattern:


Staircase, La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Spain


But are nature, mathematics and religion the only ways to approach the infinite?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in her wonderful answer to the interminable debate over the question, "What is art?" would say no. She writes,

“What is art but life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?”

I like Browning's view of art as a spiral that pushes us toward the infinite. Certainly sacred art intends to do this, but Browning's reference is to Art in the macro, sacred and secular.

The Buddhist experience of attaining Enlightenment could perhaps be described in Browning's terms, as a sudden awareness of "The intense significance of all things..."

Perhaps it is no coincidence that spirals are important in Buddhism, where the footprints of the Buddha leave spiral markings. In Tibetan Buddhist temples, the Gankyil spiral represents the dharma (the teachings of the Buddha) and primordial cosmic energy:

Gankyil

Here's a photo I took at a Korean restaurant this evening...



In Korea, this symbol is known as the "Sam-Taegeuk"


While I enjoy the intellectual exercise of thinking about the infinite in an interdisciplinary way, I believe there is a deeper significance to these connections.  One meaning to take away from all of this is that the infinite, while impossible to grasp, is worth approaching.

Like the Buddha, who was lost for many years practicing austerities before finding the bodhi tree, it may take falling into a spiral to get to that enlightened place. Doing so, however, you will eventually emerge changed for the better, and with a new appreciation of your own limits.

In Silence

Tonight I would like to share this poem by the beloved Thomas Merton, who asks the provocative question, "Whose silence are you?" I have been turning this question over in my mind like a stone.

"In Silence"

Be still.
Listen to the stones of the wall.
Be silent, they try
to speak your

name.
Listen
to the living walls.

Who are you?
Who
are you? Whose
silence are you?

Who (be quiet)
are you (as these stones
are quiet). Do not
think of what you are
still less of
what you may one day be.

Rather
be what you are (but who?)
be the unthinkable one
you do not know.

O be still, while
you are still alive,
and all things live around you

speaking (I do not hear)
to your own being,
speaking by the unknown
that is in you and in themselves.

“I will try, like them
to be my own silence:
and this is difficult. The whole
world is secretly on fire. The stones
burn, even the stones they burn me.
How can a man be still or
listen to all things burning?
How can he dare to sit with them
when all their silence is on fire?”

Doc Case (Nov. 5, 1922- Feb 18, 2011), זיכרונו לברכה

He is released from the mouth of Death, having gained the lasting thing which is above the great, which has neither sound, nor touch, nor form, nor change, nor taste, nor smell, but is eternal, beginningless, endless. 
-from the Katha Upanishad

The Original Face

"What face did you have before your parents were born?"

This Zen koan is also called The Original Face. The meaning is that when you become awake, or enlightened, you meet your true self -- the empty self -- free of the baggage of years, of habits, and of unmet expectations. Gazing into the Original Face, the impossible is possible. Your parents become as your children, and you lose your name.

There are legends of Zen masters awakening to the Original Face. One sees it after looking at peach blossoms; another after hearing the splash of a frog jumping into a pond. A monk-in-training who eventually becomes known as the Second Patriarch, Shen-kuang ("Huike" in Japanese), sees it after cutting off his arm while standing in the snow. Whether blithe or excruciating, the way to the Original Face almost always involves experiencing spontaneity in nature.

Poet William Stafford writes,

"Sometimes in the open you look up
where birds go by, or just nothing,
and wait. A dim feeling comes
you were like this once, there was air,
and quiet; it was by a lake, or
maybe a river you were alert
as an otter and were suddenly born
like the evening star into wide
still worlds like this one you have found
again, for a moment, in the open."

--from "Atavism"

Being "suddenly born like the evening star" glimpses the moment as it is understood in Zen, which is not unlike the opening lines of William Blake's poem, "Infant Joy":

"I have no name; I am but two days old."

An important message of the koan is that everyone has an Original Face, but that there is no "right way" to discover it. Just because one person found it in the peach blossoms doesn't mean you will find it there. In fact, if you try to find it, you won't.

How do you know when you have seen the Original Face? Zen teaches that you will know on a deeper level than you know most things -- that is something you have to trust.

Deborah and Yael

I've always been interested in the story of Deborah and Yael, two women in the Hebrew Bible whose lives intersect in a way that changes history.

Allow me to quote from Wikipedia, which (believe it or not ;)) does a good job of paraphrasing the story from the Book of Judges:

"God told Deborah (a prophetess and leader) that she would deliver Israel from Jabin. Deborah called Barak to make up an army to lead into battle against Jabin on the plain of Esdraelon. But Barak demanded that Deborah would accompany him into the battle. Deborah agreed but prophesied that the honour of the killing of the other army's captain would be given to a woman. Jabin's army was led by Sisera (Judg. 4:2), who fled the battle after all was lost.

Yael received the fleeing Sisera at the settlement of Heber on the plain of Zaanaim. Yael welcomed him into her tent with apparent hospitality. She 'gave him milk' 'in a lordly dish'. Having drunk the refreshing beverage, he lay down and soon sank into the sleep of the weary. While he lay asleep Yael crept stealthily up to him, holding a tent peg and a mallet. She drove it through his temples with such force that it entered into the ground below. And 'at her feet he bowed, he fell; where he bowed, there he fell down dead'.

As a result of the killing of Sisera, God gave the victory to Israel. Yael is considered "blessed", according to the text, because of her action."

Driving a tent peg through someone's head is a gruesome act, and while it may give us pause, Deborah sings a song to celebrate it in the biblical narrative.

Rather than focusing on that part of the story, though, I'm more interested in the personalities of Deborah and Yael, and how they complement each other.

Deborah is associated with the sun and exterior spaces. She sits under a palm tree, a powerful position:

"Under a palm-tree Deborah sat and judged Israel."

She is a woman of action who speaks loudly and people listen. She has a direct connection to God, and she leads people into war.

Yael, however, is associated with an interior space -- the tent -- a place of mystery. She speaks in low tones, and calls no attention to herself. While Deborah issues proclamations and battle cries, Yael works in secret. Yet both are necessary for the defeat of Sisera.

I find it interesting that the glory of the victory goes to Yael. Deborah doesn't claim it for herself, and neither does Barak. Why?

Perhaps because opening her tent makes Yael the most vulnerable of anyone. She doesn't seek glory, and no one sees her perform her task. In the biblical worldview, such actions are considered devotional and are worthy of the highest praise.

While the narrative portrays Deborah and Yael as two distinct individuals, and it is interesting to think about their relationship, I like to see them as dimensions of the same woman. We all have aspects of us that are open and hidden, sun and shadow, and we have to decide how to use them in constructive ways. Sometimes we need to lead people into battle, and sometimes we need to withdraw. I believe that there are blessings in figuring out the balance.

The Night Sea Journey

I realize that many of my recent posts have focused more on exploring ideas found in religions than on classroom teaching. So I decided to try to think of something more concrete and usable for a world history or religion teacher.This could be applicable to any course with a mythology component:

I have been thinking about the archetype of the night sea journey, or dark night of the soul. We see it in ancient sacred histories such as the Egyptian story of Ra and the biblical story of Jonah, in the writings of St. John of the Cross, and in the narratives of the lives of Jesus and the Buddha. Like all archetypical stories, it reflects something about the human psyche.

Carl Jung writes,

"The night sea journey is a kind of descensus ad inferos--a descent into Hades and a journey to the land of ghosts somewhere beyond this world, beyond consciousness, hence an immersion in the unconscious." ["The Psychology of the Transference," CW 16, par. 455.]

While the night sea journey story may literally involve a dragon or giant fish, it may be a symbolic monster, internal demon, or watery place. In any case, the one taking the journey undergoes a temporary death in anticipation of a rebirth or renewal.

 

Dr. Thomas Moore, therapist and author of Dark Nights of the Soul, offers an interesting way of thinking about it for individuals who are experiencing it: 

"A dark night of the soul may feel amorphous, having no meaning, shape, or direction. It helps to have images for it and to know that people have gone through this experience and have survived it. The great stories and myths of many cultures also help by providing an imagination of human struggle that inspires and offers insight. One ancient story that sheds light on the dark night is the tale of the hero swallowed by a huge fish.....Because the story is associated with the sun setting in the west and traveling underwater to the east to rise in the morning, this theme is sometimes called the "Night Sea Journey." It is a cosmic passage taken as a metaphor for our own dark nights, when we are trapped in a mood or by external circumstances and can do little but sit and wait for liberation.  

"Imagine that your dark mood, or the external source of your suffering, is a large, living container in which you are held captive. But this container is moving, getting somewhere, taking you to where you need to go. You may not like the situation you're in, but it would help if you imagined it constructively. Maybe at this very minute you are on a night sea journey of your own....

"In your dark night you may have a sensation you could call "oceanic" - being in the sea, at sea, or immersed in the waters of the womb. The sea is the vast potential of life, but it is also your dark night, which may force you to surrender some knowledge you have achieved. It helps to regularly undo the hard-won ego development, to unravel the self and culture you have woven over the years. The night sea journey takes you back to your primordial self, not the heroic self that burns out and falls to judgment, but to your original self, yourself as a sea of possibility, your greater and deeper being."

I like Moore's explanation for potential use in the classroom because it is relatable and lends authority to the point that sacred histories reflect the human psyche and can be read symbolically, not just literally. If you are interested, click here to read a longer excerpt from Moore's book.

Oh, and on a totally unrelated topic... Go Duke! :)

Flow

Driving home from work today, I saw a license plate that said "WU-WEI"  (doing by not-doing). It's a paradox...but it means to do what naturally comes -- don't force anything, or try too hard. Instead, be like nature.

Wu Wei

There is a Taoist practice called "Aimless Wandering" to help experience wu-wei:

Elizabeth Reninger writes,

"The Taoist practice of "aimless wandering" through places of great natural beauty is a wonderful way to cultivate Wu Wei. As we practice, little by little we revive our capacity to move in the world with the kind of joyful ease and spontaneity that we see in young children. At the same time, we are nourished deeply by the elemental energies - by the plants, minerals and animals, the earth and the sky."

I am looking forward to doing some aimless wandering this week.

The Inner Voice of Love

What does it mean to love someone, and what is the relationship between loving someone and loving oneself? What does it mean to be a good friend?

These are questions we deal with throughout our lives -- our students deal with them, and so do we.

Buddhism suggests detachment as the ideal state of being. In such a state, close friendships are possible -- but like anything else, they will always lead to dukkha, or dissatisfaction, if a person is trying to seek personal fulfillment from them. The only way to peace and contentment is by realizing it within, not by trying to find it in others.This is symbolized in the lotus flower, which is also important in Hinduism and Jainism (see previous post).

The lotus is a challenging symbol for me because its cold beauty renders it unapproachable. While I struggle to think of it as an ideal for personal behavior, I understand and appreciate its importance in Asian religious traditions.

For another perspective on friendship, I am reading The Inner Voice of Love, journal of late Catholic priest Henri Nouwen, which he wrote after the interruption of a friendship caused him to enter a period of severe depression. He describes it as a time lived in utter darkness.

"It seemed as the door to my interior life had been opened, a door that had remained locked during my youth and most of my adult life. But this deeply satisfying friendship became the road to my anguish, because I soon discovered that the enormous space that had been opened for me could not be filled by the one who opened it. I became possessive, needy and dependent, and when the friendship finally had to be interrupted, I fell apart" (xv).

"The interruption of friendship forced me to enter the basement of my soul and look directly at what was hidden there, to choose, in the face of it all, not death but life" (xvii). 

In his journal, he admits his failure to truly love himself as a cause of the brokenness of previous friendships: 

"Many of your friendships grew from your need for affection, affirmation, and emotional support. But now you must seek friends to whom you can relate from your center, from the place where you know that you are deeply loved. Friendship becomes more and more possible when you accept yourself as deeply loved. Then you can be with others in a non-possessive way" (80).

Acknowledging his need of encouragement to become the person he wants to be, he dares himself:

"Dare to love and to be a real friend" (81).

The conclusion of the book ends on a positive note, but not in a rose-colored glasses sort of way. It is his reflection eight years after keeping the journal. He writes of what he gained from the experience, including an increased self-awareness:

"I have also learned to catch the darkness early, not to allow sadness to grow into depression or let a sense of being rejected develop into a feeling of abandonment....What once seemed such a curse has become a blessing. All the agony that threatened to destroy my life now seems like the fertile ground for greater trust, stronger hope, and deeper love" (117). 

I don't know what happened to Nouwen's friendship that became "interrupted," because he doesn't write about it specifically in the conclusion. As far as what he does write, I am very much drawn to the sentence,

"I have also learned to catch the darkness early..."

I can relate to this kind of relationship to self much more than that of the lotus -- total detachment -- but some detachment is required in order to be able to perceive the "darkness" that he mentions.

I wonder what a Buddhist re-phrasing of Nouwen's words might be. Perhaps, "Become aware of your suffering early, in order to be able to free yourself from it." I don't think that would be too far off from what Nouwen is trying to say.

Elegance is refusal

What does it mean to be a woman born of lotus flowers?

Padmavati, or woman born from the lotus, is a goddess in Hinduism who is an avatar of Laxmi, goddess of wealth. She is a beloved of Lord Vishnu, repairer of the world, and like him, is often depicted as having ebony skin.

Padmavati

The lotus in Indian tradition is a symbol of self-detachment and sexual purity. It rises above its ecosystem and lives in the air, just as a person is supposed to abandon the search for personal gratification in her social environment.

Lotus flowers in Xuanwu Lake, Nanjing, China

The lotus flower is perhaps the opposite of the shakti, which is the devouring/destructive power that is the essence of the feminine divine in Hinduism. Women are penetrators by nature, with the capacity to destroy as well as produce, which is the foundation for the argument in dharma literature for them to be restrained.

In contemporary India, women's rights groups have re-interpreted shakti as the creative and powerful energy that women bring to the world.

How can one be both creative and detached -- a woman born from lotus flowers? Can you be a mother, an artist, or a teacher and still be detached from the results of your actions?

Lord Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita counseled the soldier Arjuna to do his duty and fight on the battlefield (even against his kinsman), but to detach himself from whatever actually happened. Like the lotus, he was supposed to rise above the bloodshed, mud and debris of war with a pure heart and mind. He was to transcend a situation that was so absurd it should never have happened, and not let it destroy his soul.

As Coco Chanel said, "Elegance is refusal," and the lotus is just that -- something elegant fashioned out of negation. Something, perhaps, that has forgotten its roots. There may be an unreal beauty in letting everything go, but I continue to grapple with what that might mean for a person.

Fear the Vacuum

Maybe it is because my partner's Consumer Reports magazine arrived today and it features an article about vacuums... or perhaps because I have been teaching about the Churrigueresque architectural style in Latin America, but this evening I am interested in the topic of... Horror vacui. 

Horror vacui is a term meaning, "horror of the vacuum"...the fear of empty space, or negative space (as my high school art teacher called it). It is relevant to thermodyamics, art and human psychology. I'd like to think about its application to religion.

As Buddhist author Geshe Namgyal Wangchen writes of emptiness,

"The fully awakened clear state of mind that realizes the truth of emptiness - the emptiness of inherent existence - is the wisdom we seek. It is called prajna in Sanskrit. When we acheive this wisdom we are able to realize emptiness from the depth of our own personal experience, beyond intellectualization."

In Buddhism, emptiness is the reality of the universe, and of ourselves. To be afraid of it would be to fear the essential reality of our existence. Becoming aware of our emptiness is necessary for seeking Enlightenment.

By contrast, the Baroque architecture of the Counter-Reformation in Europe and New Spain is notable for its energy and excessive decoration of every available space:

Dome of Capilla del Rosario, Santo Domingo Church, Puebla, Mexico

While the Catholic Church of the 16th-18th century expressed horror vacui proudly to convey its power and glory, Protestants viewed such decoration as sinful.

Theologically speaking, Christianity's 3-in-1, or Trinitarian, concept of God is more complex than that of Islam and Judaism, but seems pretty un-frilly next to the thousands upon thousands of deities in Hinduism. A dizzying array of deities and universes exists in Mahayana Buddhist cosmology -- despite the Buddhist belief in emptiness as the ultimate reality.

Elaborate complexities exist within most religious traditions, despite how simple their theologies may seem. In terms of amor vacui, or love of emptiness, however, here is my favorite example:

Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, a 16th-century Jewish mystic and Talmudic scholar from Safed, Palestine, argued that for the world to be created, God had to withdraw himself. He taught the concept of tzimtzum, or self-extraction. Basically, God had to pull His radiant fullness back, so to speak, in order to leave an empty place for the universe to exist.

As Sanford L. Drob writes of tzimtzum,

"The doctrine of Tzimtzim gives expression to a series of paradoxical ideas, amongst which is the notion that the universe as we know it is the result of a cosmic negation. The world, according to Lurianic Kabbalah, is not so much a something which has been created from nothing, but rather a genre of nothingness resulting from a contraction or concealment of the only true reality, which is God. Like a film image that has been projected on a screen, the world exists in all its details and particulars only as a result of a partial occultation of what would otherwise be a pure and homogenous light...God's contraction, concealment, and ultimate unknowability are thus the greatest blessings he could bestow on the world and mankind."

In Luria's teaching of tzimtzum, the essence of reality is Ein Sof, or God's infinite existence. God obscured that reality in order to make it possible for there to be a material universe.This is an interesting contrast with the Buddhist view of reality as emptiness.

As the Yiddish saying goes, "You can always make something out of nothing," even a nice classroom discussion.