Philosophical Units of Measurement

As the physical sciences have their various units of weight and measurement with which they carry out their inquiries, so philosophy and theology ought to have such units by which we might measure the depth of thought in a given work. My thanks to Rodrigo Berrios, Alexander Ferrant, Michael Onofre, and the other person who was standing there whose face now escapes me, for contributing to this system.

Hegelgraph: A unit for measuring the density of writing. The writing of the 19th-century philosopher G.W.F. Hegel is known for its impenetrability; one could easily pour over a page of Hegel for a day (or a lifetime) and still be confused. The conversion rate of normal, everyday writing to the writing of Hegel is approximately ten pages of regular writing for every paragraph of Hegel's writing, or one Hegelgraph. Example: "How long is your reading assignment for class?" "About 20 pages, but that's only like 2 Hegelgraphs."

Hume-idity: This unit is named for the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, who once wrote: 

“When men are most sure and arrogant they are commonly most mistaken, giving views to passion without that proper deliberation which alone can secure them from the grossest absurdities.” So, Hume-idity refers to the level to which a piece of writing is confident in itself in inverse proportion to the degree to which that piece of writing reflects something to true--in other words, when someone is really sure but really wrong, that person is exhibiting Hume-idity. Example: "Check out this post by the atheist who thinks he's disproved God with the old 'If everything needs a creator, who created God?' line. Man, the Hume-idity is through the roof!"

Thomogram: A unit for measuring the weight or gravity of writing. St. Thomas Aquinas wrote beautifully and concisely on the highest of matters: the existence of God, the nature of virtue, and so forth. One article in the Summa contains more intellectual weight than most authors can put into several books, or dozens of blog posts, or thousands of blog post comments. Thus, it would take about 3,000 comments to equal one Thomogram. Example: "This guy's been running his blog for ten years, and I think he's got about half a Thomogram to show for it."

Folks: help me think of more!

Is Believing in God Like Believing in Zeus or Thor? Nope.

The famed atheist Richard Dawkins has often said (as here) that he does not consider it any different to not believe in the Christian God than to not believe in Zeus or Thor or Mithras or any other non-Christian deity. "Everyone's in atheist concerning some gods; we've just got one god further," he says. Now, being the Anglophile I am, I'm always so tempted to treat seriously any words spoken in a refined English accent--I just love the way Dawkins says "Zyoos" for Zeus--but in this case I'm afraid that even his silky Oxonian tones can't salvage Dawkins' rather silly statement.

The problem here is one of equivocation; that is, the same word, "god," is being applied to Zeus and Thor and Mithras and YHWH, but what being a "god" means in each case is radically different.

In the mainstream orthodox Christian tradition, when we speak of "God" (even prescinding from the whole question of Christ and the Trinity and any personal attributes), we mean the very ground of existence, the first cause of all things who is Himself uncaused, the source of all goodness and love, that than which nothing greater can be conceived, eternal, omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotent. We are making claims that matter to our entire worldview, that reach down to the deepest metaphysical questions. One can conclude the existence of such a God purely through reason, as in Aquinas' Five Ways, as Socrates did when he said there was only one god, as many a former atheist who has thought about it a bit has done.

When we speak of Zeus or Thor or Mithras or any other "god" of this sort, we are not dealing with anything quite so philosophically serious. None of these are eternal, having existed always. None is the uncaused first cause of all things--each of this has his own birth, and none can be said to have created all. None are all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good: they may know a lot, and be able to do a lot, and do some good things, but they are occasionally ignorant, and often limited, and quite frequently immoral. One could conceive of a universe without the god of the sky or of thunder or of justice, or of this particular god of those things; someone else in the pantheon could take up the role. One would never and could never reason to the existence of Zeus or Thor or Mithras.

These pagan "gods" are high-octane versions of humans, like people with the volume turned up. The Christian God is something fundamentally different. It's comparing apples and oranges... not even apples and oranges. More like apples and wrenches. I don't believe in Zeus or Thor or Mithras because it's unreasonable to, and because they have never revealed themselves, and do not continue to reveal themselves throughout history--I've never heard of anyone in the last 3,000 years being healed of a deadly disease thanks to their supplications to Apollo. But to believe in the Triune God as described above is eminently reasonable, and that reason is supported and confirmed by revelation, by miracles, by personal experience, by faith. These other three poseurs cannot compare. Nice try, Dick Dawkins.

"You are a Soul"? Nope.

There is a quote often attributed to C.S. Lewis that goes something akin to:

"You are not a body. You are a soul. You merely have a body."

Lewis never said it, but that's beside the point. I have heard and read far too many Christians repeating this phrase approvingly, tweeting it and posting it on Facebook and otherwise passing it along as some pearl of profound wisdom. But if you're a Christian, this is bad theology. Let me explain.

When you say something like "I am a soul, I only have a body," you've split the body and soul into two different things, with the soul being the really real thing, and the body to be a mere appendage or tool, a vehicle for getting around, a spacesuit to allow the soul to temporarily survive in this alien environment. You're a ghost in a machine, as Rene Descartes would say. But is that the case? Is that what things are like?

There is a profound and obvious difference between the experience of stubbing your toe and the experience of crashing your car. Your car is a vehicle, accidental to and outside of yourself; when you crash while inside of it, you feel its impact, but when the fender crumples, you don't crumple, and you don't experience a sensation of pain along with it. And when you stub your toe, your first thought isn't, "Dang, I hope the insurance covers the damage to my toe. Is the toe repair shop open on Sundays? Should I call a toe truck?" (I couldn't resist!) No, your thought is something akin to, "OWW!!! MY TOE!!!" One is related to you; one is you.

I would guess that people are drawn to this "You are a soul" phrase because it sounds spiritual and holy and ethereal and mysterious. But such thinking actually does harm to the idea of a human being. It divides us against ourselves. It alienates us from our own bodies. It destroys our integrity.

The classic Catholic definition of the human person, as laid out by St. Thomas using the philosophy of Aristotle, maintains the distinctiveness of the soul and body while insisting on their absolute unity and dependence on each other. A person is not two substances glued together, like an arts & crafts project; a person is the combination of two principles making a natural whole, sort of like a lyric and a melody making a song. The soul is what makes this collections of organs and tissues into a living human body; a body gives the spirit a corporeal existence and makes it a human soul, as opposed to some angel-like thing. A person is an ensouled body, or an embodied soul. When a person dies, and the soul separates from the body, each is incomplete. A body without its soul is a corpse, and a soul without its body is a spirit eagerly awaiting the Resurrection.

There's an important point: denigrating the body denigrates the doctrine of the Resurrection. It's amazing how often we forget it! We think of our eternal destiny as living with God forever in heaven (ideally), but for some reason there is a tendency to think of it as a purely spiritual existence. What about the "resurrection from the dead, and the life of the world to come"? Our destiny is precisely an embodied destiny, because as human beings we are by nature embodied creatures; that will not fundamentally change at the end of time. God likes what's he done with His design of us.

There is a great moral danger hidden in the erroneous view of "You are a soul": the potential of thinking,"Well, if I really am only my soul, and my body is just a temporary husk, then what does it matter to my eternal destiny what I do with my body? Why shouldn't I eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow I'll simply die and be rid of this hunk of flesh? Party time! Bring on the booze and the dames!" Certain groups of Gnostics in the early Church took to this way of thinking, and promoted (or at least didn't discourage) hedonism. Don't go down that dark road, my friends.

What you do with your body affects you, because it is you who does it. You make the decision, you do the act, you suffer the consequences. You are your body, AND you are your soul, because both are required to make you. When you die, the two are separated, and pine for each other. And on the Last Day, your soul will be rejoined to your body and you will meet your eternal destiny as you, whole, once again.

What's in a Name?

A few days ago we celebrated the Memorial of the Holy Name of Jesus. Doesn't it strike you as a little odd that we have a feast devoted to a name? What's a name but a string of syllables attached to a thing or person? What makes a name special or holy? What's in a name?

A name is a personal marker. It's personal in that it is specific and individualized, and a marker in that it is a sign that identifies. A name points out a particular thing: my name is Nick, your name is Bob, his name is Jack, her name is Sally. It's an intimate part of who we are.

Names not only mark out individuals, but they allow for social relationships; indeed, there's not much need to mark out individuals unless they're among other individuals! Sharing your name is one of the first steps in social contact. When you introduce yourself, you create a bond with someone, that little bit of social glue--"Oh hey, it's what's-his-name." Think of how shocking it is when a stranger knows your name, or when you forget the name of someone you know you're meant to know! To know someone's name is to have a certain level of intimacy with them.

God's name was a mystery until Moses asked it of Him at the burning bush. With Moses, God established a covenant, a deep and binding relationship, with Israel: you will be my people, and I will be your God. And one could see the revelation of God's name to Moses as a real first step in the covenant, almost an introduction, if you will. Who is this God that calls Israel and binds Himself to them? It is YHWH: "I am who am" or "I am that I am" (Exodus 3:14).

(The meaning of this name is interesting to consider. Some take it to be a gentle rebuke to Moses, like "My name is my name--don't ask impertinent questions." St. Thomas Aquinas took it to be a profound philosophical statement: God identifies Himself as the one who's essence it is to exist, the one for whom existence is necessary: "I am the one who IS." Or, as Peter Kreeft quipped, beginning my quoting Shakespeare: "'What's in a name?' Moses asked God that at the burning bush, and God answered, 'I am.'")

Then God revealed Himself fully in the person of Jesus, "the name above all other names" (Philippians 2:9), "no other name under heaven by which men are saved" (Acts 4:12). Jesus, God in the flesh, makes a new covenant between God and man, sealed in his own blood, and marked by his name. Thus "whatever you ask in my name, I will do, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son" (John 14:13). Now God has a personal name, a name which marks Him out and identifies who He is, for Yeshua means, "God saves."

When we pray "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," when we make petitions "in Jesus' name," we invoke that covenant relationship which we entered in Baptism. We say to God: "It's me, God. It's your friend. I know your name! You are "the one who saves"! I know who you are, and you know me. Please, for the sake of our relationship, grant X." The name of Jesus is powerful. Put it to good use.

Preserved from All Stain: How's that?

Though December 8 is usually the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, this year, because the date falls on a Sunday of Advent, the feast is transferred to today, December 9. I'm sure you heard this at Mass yesterday, but it serves as a handy opening to this post, so indulge me, will ya? I just wanted to mention one aspect of this wonderful dogma you may not have thought of before.

First, though, the annual reminder: the "immaculate conception" refers to MARY being conceived without original sin. It does not refer to Jesus' virginal conception. I understand that some of our Protestant brethren regularly use "immaculate conception" to refer to the miraculous circumstances of Jesus' coming into the world--I guess they just liked the term and wanted to keep using it since they disbelieved in its original content.

Here's the problem with that, though: macula means "stain," or "dishonor," so an "immaculate conception" would mean "a conception without stain or dishonor." This makes perfect sense if we're referring to the stain of original sin. But if we're referring to the Virgin Birth of Jesus? What stain or dishonor has been avoided by that "immaculate conception"? It implies that the sexual act, which normally is that which produces a child but which was miraculously dispensed with in this case, is the "stained" or "dishonorable" thing. This puts the conjugal act in quite a negative light, doesn't it? Now that marvelous act in which a man and woman come together to cooperate with God in creating a new life suddenly is portrayed as a dirty and wicked performance of a duty necessary for propagating the species, but nothing more. This is hardly a fitting way to describe one of God's great gifts to humanity.

OK, so perhaps there were two aspects of this dogma I wanted to consider today. Here's the other. The Blessed Virgin Mary, by a singular grace of God, was kept free from the stain and the effects of original sin from the first moment of her existence. The Church believes, further, that she was preserved from all personal sin during her life. But hold on: if Mary never had any sin, and Jesus saves us from our sins, does that mean that Jesus is not Mary's savior? Does that mean Mary didn't need a savior? Does that mean "Christ died for all humanity... except Mary"?

No! Mary was indeed saved by the sacrifice of Christ on the cross, but in a unique way. An analogy would help here. Let's say there's a large pit in your path. There are at least two ways someone could be saved from the pit: 1) after someone's fallen into the pit, they are pulled out of it; or 2) someone is prevented from falling into the pit in the first place. Everybody falls into the pit of sin and needs to be pulled out by the cross of Christ. In Mary's case, though, the cross of Christ (that is, the grace of God merited by Christ's sacrifice) bars her way and prevents her from ever falling into the pit. Mary is saved by prevention, not by rescue.

Now, you might say, "How could Jesus have saved Mary before he was born?" Well, keep in mind that Jesus is identical to the Second Person of the Trinity, the Son of God, so He existed before His Incarnation. "Yeah, fine," you might reply, "but he hadn't died on the cross yet. How could the grace of the cross be applied to Mary before it had happened?" Time is no object to God. God does not exist in time. He does not experience time in a linear sequence as we do. All moments are present to God, so it is no more trouble for Him to apply the merits of Christ's sacrifice to Mary or Abraham or Moses or anyone else who lived before Christ than it is for Him to apply it to those who live after Christ. And He doesn't even need a ship sling-shotting at warp speed around a star or a TARDIS to do it.

Fun fact: some theologians in the Church's history have believed that St. Joseph, St. John the Baptist, and the prophet Jeremiah were all sanctified in the womb, having the stain of original sin removed after their conceptions but before their births. With the latter two, certain Scripture passages suggest this: for Jeremiah, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, before you were born, I consecrated you" (Jeremiah 1:5); with St. John the Baptist, Luke 1:41 says that John leaped in Elizabeth's womb and Elizabeth was "filled with the Holy Spirit." And with St. Joseph, it seemed fitting to some theologians that he who was to be the guardian of the Virgin and the protector of the Christ Child should be strengthened for this task (and perhaps also prepared for the life of perpetual virginity he was to lead with his holy wife). Neat, eh?

What is a Sacrament?

OK, boys and girls, it's time for a little Catechesis 101. (Actually, this stuff is so basic, we probably ought to call it Catechesis 1.) Here follows a (not-so-) brief introduction to the sacraments:

The seven sacraments are signs instituted by Christ which communicate grace, that is, God's own life, making us participants in the very life of God--it would seem that they're pretty important then! Or, in the classic definition, a sacrament is "a visible sign of invisible grace."

A sacrament consists of two things: the sign (the visible), and the reality that the sign signifies and brings into effect (the invisible). Every sacrament signifies what it does and effects what it signifies. For example, Baptism through its pouring or immersing in water clearly signifies washing, but this physical washing also has the spiritual effect of cleansing us from our sins. The effect of every sacrament is sanctifying grace, the gift of God's own life that unites us with God. Each sacrament also gives us virtues and gifts particular to that sacrament. For example, Matrimony gives the wedded couple the grace to be faithful to one another as a sign of the fidelity between Christ and the Church.

The sacramental signs themselves are a combination of words and things. In the Summa Theologiae, Question 60, Article 6, St. Thomas Aquinas says that it is fitting that the sacraments combine words and material things for three reasons: 1) it mirrors Our Lord's Incarnation, in which the Word became flesh; 2) it mirrors the human person's composite nature of soul and body, whereby the matter touches the body and the words touch the soul; and 3) material things can be signs, but words help to clarify those signs (think of a stop sign--we might be able to learn that a red [or orange?] octagon means "stop," but having the word there helps). So, in Baptism, the material thing, the washing, is accompanied by the words that clarify what the washing is doing: "I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

Some people object that it is absurd or even denigrating for God to communicate His spiritual grace to us via material things--several of the objections in the Summa's sections on the sacraments make just this argument: "a material thing cannot communicate a spiritual effect." The prime piece of evidence against this was mentioned in the previous paragraph: the Incarnation. Our salvation was won precisely through God taking on flesh, taking on a human nature, and suffering and dying in the flesh for love of every single human being who will ever live. Was it unfitting of God to become man? Many heresies in the history of the Church have arisen from that very sentiment. (Perhaps I will make a post in the future about St. Anselm's argument from Cur Deus Homo on why it was fitting that God become man to save us.)

A little etymology may help to bring to light two important aspects of sacraments. The word English word sacrament derives from the Latin word sacramentum, which means an oath or a promise. This is a fitting term because in the sacraments God has bound Himself by a promise to act through their administration: God has promised that when someone baptizes, that baptism will have the effect of cleansing the person of their sins and regenerating them as an adopted child of God (Galatians 3:26-27); God has promised that when the priest says in the Mass, "This is my body," that bread which he consecrates will truly become the Body of Christ. And when we participate in the sacraments, we too are making an oath or a promise, a promise to cooperate with God's work in our lives and be bound to Christ as a branch is to a vine (John 15:5). So the word sacramentum denotes this promising or binding.

Its Greek equivalent (that is, the Greek word which is translated into Latin as sacramentum) is mysterion, which means, as you might have guessed, mystery, that is, something which is hidden and has to be revealed in order to be understood or known. This is why we sometimes refer to the sacraments as the "sacred mysteries," and the Eastern Orthodox churches regularly do. Referring back to the classical definition above, something in the sacraments is invisible, is hidden from our eyes, but at the same time is hinted at by the visible sign and revealed by faith; the material sign signifies and reveals a spiritual reality. The sign of washing with water reveals the hidden, spiritual cleansing which baptism effects. The sign of the appearances of bread and wine reveals the hidden reality of Christ's Body and Blood, which is our spiritual nourishment. St. Paul calls marriage a great mysterion which refers to Christ and the Church (Ephesians 5:31-32)--most English Bibles today translate it "mystery," but it could just as easily be translated "sacrament."

This notion of "visible sign/invisible effect" dovetails with another way St. Thomas gives us to conceive of the sacraments: as the spiritual life mirroring the physical life. Each of the seven sacraments corresponds to a major aspect of our incarnate lives. We all begin life by being conceived and born, that is, generated; in Baptism we are re-generated in new life in the Spirit. We grow into full maturity, just as in Confirmation we become perfect adult members of the Church. (This does not mean that this sacrament need be delayed until adolescence or early adulthood, for as St. Thomas points out, spiritual age does not correspond to physical age--one can reach spiritual maturity as an infant. [ST III, Q. 72, A. 8, corpus].) We are nourished, just as the Eucharist provides us spiritual nourishment. We require healing and easing of our pains, just as Penance and Anointing of the Sick heal our spiritual wounds and provide us comfort. We form relationships and propagate new members of the species, just as in the spiritual life we are bonded with another person and co-create new life with God--and in both the secular and spiritual worlds, this is done in Matrimony. And we form societies that require structure, order, and administration for public needs, just as Holy Orders creates servants and shepherds in the Church to teach, govern, and sanctify us.

Finally: is any one sacrament greater than the others? Yes! That sacrament which the Second Vatican Council called "the source and summit of the Christian life" (Lumen Gentium 11): the Eucharist. The reason for this is very simple. In each of the other sacraments, we come into contact with God for particular effect or help in coming closer to Him in the spiritual life. In the Eucharist, we come into contact with God in a most perfect way: we receive Him in receiving the Body and Blood of Christ. We can't get any closer than that! The other sacraments are ordered toward us being able to be joined to God in this most perfect way. In receiving the Eucharist, we enter into a sacred unity with God, a holy communion, if you will.

The sacraments are moments of encounter with God. Participate in them as often as you can! Go to confession! Receive the Eucharist! Don't be afraid to be anointed if you're seriously ill! Don't pass up the opportunity to be united with God, to receive His grace, to have His help in this life. Lord knows we all need it... which is why he gave us the sacraments.

How is an Angel at My Side?

In honor of today's Feast of the Guardian Angels, I'll give a short example of how seemingly abstract philosophical and theological reasoning can provide beautiful insights into the faith. Ready?

We know that we each have a guardian angel whose task it is to watch over us, protect us from spiritual harm (and, in some cases, physical harm), nudge our consciences when we consider doing wrong, and so forth. Our guardian angels are always at our side.

This raises a question, however. Angels do not have bodies; they are pure spirits. Since they have no physical bodies, they can't be said to be in any particular physical place in a physical way, e.g. "at my side." So what does it mean to say that my guardian angel is always present with me, "at my side"?

St. Thomas gives us the answer. He tells us that an angel's relation to place is not according to physical presence but rather according to "contact of power" (ST I, q. 52, a. 1). In other words, an angel is said to be located wherever it is that the angel is working or turning its attention.

Let's put these two things together: if an angel is said to be in a place according to its directing its power to that place, then if our guardian angel is always with us, that means that our angel is always working on us, attentive to us, directing its power to us. Your guardian angel is constantly working for your spiritual well-being.

A beautiful and consoling thought, made possible by a truth cultivated by "dry scholastic speculations." 

How to Make an Argument

One of the most useful things I learned in this last year studying philosophy was how to properly make an argument. The scholastics of the medieval period had a brilliant method for it. I thought I'd share the basics with you today.

Now, usually when you hear the word "argument" you think of an emotionally charged disagreement between two parties slapping each other with epithets and denouncing each other as hateful ignoramuses. One person says, "Janis Joplin is overrated as a singer," the other says, "You're a moron," and they don't talk to each other for days--most people would call that an argument. An exchange of that nature is not properly labeled an "argument," though. This is better classified as a "fight," or perhaps a "tandem temper tantrum" (I think I just made that up). If that's not an argument, what is?

We were on the right track at first. Someone makes a claim or states a proposition, e.g. "Janis Joplin is overrated as a singer." If we want to examine this claim, to see whether it holds any credence, we must do three things:

1. Define our terms.
2. Give supporting proof such as relevant facts and authoritative pronouncements.
3. Consider and address the arguments of the opposing view.

Let's take these one at a time.

1. Define your terms: This is the first step, and the most important, but all too often people skip it! It's absolutely crucial: how can you discuss a topic when you aren't even sure you're talking about the same thing? I heard a story once about a debate on the existence of God between an atheist and a priest. The priest said to the atheist, "Before we begin, would you describe to me this God you don't believe in?" The atheist replied, "Oh sure. God is an old man who lives in the sky and keeps a list of all the good and bad things we do, and if we've done more good than bad, he lets us into heaven when we die." The priest responded, "Oh good! I'm glad to see we're in agreement. I don't believe in that God either." They then were able to have a fruitful discussion on the existence of God. How much time would have been wasted had they debated for an hour not even talking about the same thing! So, in this example, one would want to define "overrated," or ask "what are the criteria by which we will evaluate or rate a singer?"

2. Give supporting proof: Once you determine by what criteria the question will be decided, you must introduce relevant support for your position. So, if you wanted to use record sales, you could point out that Janis Joplin hasn't sold nearly as many records as other people who aren't as highly regarded, and thus is overrated; or if you wanted to appeal to the opinions of music critics, you could show how so many of them love her voice and argue that she is not overrated. It would take too much time here to go into the issues of logical fallacies (the argument from authority is not a logical proof) and subjective vs. objective questions (isn't singing a matter of taste?), but the point is if you're going to discuss any issue, you need to agree on the criteria and support your argument according to those criteria.

3. Consider the opposing view: It's not enough to state your own case; you won't be able to defend your position unless you answer the strongest arguments from the other side. To be convincing, you have to show how the other side is mistaken in its facts, or misinterpreting an authority, or defining a term incorrectly, or focused on irrelevant matters, or something of that sort. You have to show not only that you're right, but that your opponent is wrong. This is the way that thinkers from Socrates to Aquinas to Abraham Lincoln have proceeded.

In the Middle Ages, a popular exercise in the schools was the disputatio, or "disputed question," which used these basic elements as the framework for a discussion. One of the masters would be presented with a thesis, e.g. "Whether it can be demonstrated that God exists?" The master would present his case, defining the terms and presenting supporting evidence, then answer objections from the students, who would cite other authorities and make counter-arguments. These were often recorded and used in teaching texts such as St. Thomas' Summa Theologica.

Rather than give a Summa-style argument for our facetious question, I'll link you to this tongue-in-cheek Summa-style argument on whether St. Thomas is boring. Enjoy! And remember: next time you have a disagreement with someone, please argue, don't fight.