The Institute for the Advancement of Psychedelic Christianity

Click here to go to Mary Jo’s site and listen to our new song, “At the Blue Edge of Somewhere.”

https://maryjocall.wixsite.com/music

“Here, as everywhere, the Unfulfilled Intention, which makes life what it is, was as obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a city slum. The leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was interrupted; the lichen eat the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly strangled to death the promising sapling.”
–Thomas Hardy, in The Woodlanders

The initial capitals of Hardy’s “Unfulfilled Intention” suggest that it is God’s intention that is unfulfilled, but Nicolas of Cusa says that only creatures have, seemingly, unfulfilled intentions, because “each loves by preference that perfection which God has given it and strives to develop and preserve it intact.” This purpose is only seemingly unfulfilled due to wasted talents, errors, injuries, and deaths, because

“Only in a finite fashion is the infinite form received. Every creature is, as it were, ‘God-created’ or ‘finite-infinity’, with the result that no creature’s existence could be better than it is. It is as if the Creator had said ‘Let it be produced’, and, because God, who is eternity itself, could not be brought into being, that was made which could most resemble God. The inference from this is that every creature, as such, is perfect, though by comparison with others it may seem imperfect.” [Here follows the favorite passage I quoted at the front of Dreams and Resurrection.]
–Nicolas of Cusa, Of Learned Ignorance, The Second Book, Chapter II

Thus, Hardy’s “depraved crowds of a city slum” seem imperfect, exemplifying an unfulfilled intention, compared to one’s family and friends who are more prosperous and cultured, but they bear no less a resemblance to God, and each of them, as such, is perfect. The deformed leaf, with its crippled curve and interrupted taper, seems imperfect, and an example of an unfulfilled intention, compared to more well-formed leaves; and we can imagine the deformed leaf wishing to be a well-formed one; but if Nicolas is right, it, like every other creature, “rests content in its own perfection, which God has freely bestowed upon it.” Nicolas says that every creature “loves by preference that perfection which God has given it and strives to develop and preserve it intact.” Then, when, for whatever reason, a stalk grows less vigorously than others, it would be wrong if it were jealous and compared itself to a stalk on a nearby tree that is lichen-free, because its perfection consists in its striving to grow in its own circumstances. And similarly with the promising sapling strangled by the ivy.

And similarly with us in our finitude, our frustrations, sicknesses, and mortality. These constitute the perfection that God has given us, even though they may seem to be imperfections in comparison to someone else’s circumstances. We are right to love the perfection God has given each of us, and right to strive to develop and preserve it intact. I can compare myself with someone else who seems more perfect in some way than me. But I shouldn’t be jealous, because I could exchange my perfections, which seem by comparison to be imperfections, for those of someone who seems more perfect, only if I could cease to be me and become somehow that other person, and he me. But in that case, nothing would really be any different. We are each of us, in some way we can’t understand, images of the unique infinite form. That is what I take, so far, from my reading of Nicolas of Cusa’s Of Learned Ignorance.

PS
See “Kurt Gödel’s Argument for an Afterlife” to see how he used the idea of unfulfilled intention in this world as a premise of his reasoning to the conclusion that there is another world where the intention is fulfilled.
https://myiapc.com/kurt-godels-argument-for-an-afterlife/

What is the connection/difference between fun and beauty? Beauty is more serious. Something can be fun but not beautiful, but if something is ugly, it isn’t really fun. Which is worse: a failed attempt at beauty or a failed attempt at fun? A failed attempt at fun can be worse. A tragedy that occurs when someone was trying to have fun may be worse than a similar tragedy that occurred when someone was attempting something noble. “What a waste!” one might say in the former case. Nobody thinks seeking fun is noble, but trying to create beauty is. When beauty and fun are combined, they enhance each other. These thoughts were prompted by seeing strings of lights on some trees during my walk this evening. They reminded me of an amusement park, and they were beautiful. But if one were feeling dizzy or sick from a failed attempt at fun, they wouldn’t help at all and might lend a mocking air of scorn as if someone were judging you.

Here are the lyrics I wrote for the hymn of the Church of Sunshine, sometime in the 1980s. I would love to have this recorded some time with a choir and organ.

Driving on in cold black rain,
Leaving back there that whole scene,
Arriving on the coastal plain,
Waves of color wash the screen.

People always rediscover,
Things of true and lasting worth.
O'er a dazzling model world I hovered,
Then opened my eyes to a transformed earth!

Tenderfoot, the L-train calls you.
Mystic veteran, come on home.
Bright reminders, yellow and blue,
Light your way where'er you roam.

Perfectly tiny, the mighty engine,
Of LSD, O happy race,
Helps you make a great religion,
Of weird and familiar both the base.

Here are the lyrics I wrote for a new song by Mary Jo. I’ll post a link to the music after she and the singer record it.

At the blue edge of somewhere,
At a time, who knows when?
Wise children have fun there,
And link now to then.

We are those children,
And the world is brand new,
Glist'ning with fresh morning dew.

Air begins flowing,
Cold winds start blowing,
We stand here strong and free.
Older, maybe wiser, maybe not, let's see.
Pains will test us.
How strong can we be?

Now the tears of frustration
Make it all seem so vain.
A dark tide is rising.
We're pelted by rain.

Feeling uneasy,
Not sure just what is wrong,
What were the words to our song?

Then, at the edge of the darkness,
Bright'ning begins in blue.

Someone sings,
Of worlds
Unseen,
It's clear,
We're here,
Still.

At the blue edge of somewhere,
At a time, who knows when?
Wise children have fun there,
And link now to then.

We are those children,
And the world is brand new,
Glist'ning with fresh morning dew,
Golden and shining and blue.

Early this morning, lying in bed, this thought came to me: All that we can accomplish in this life (and it is well worth accomplishing) is an approximation to the real thing which requires no accomplishing by us. Later this morning, on X, I saw a posting from Lara Buchak of this Aeon article about Kurt Gödel’s argument for an afterlife: https://aeon.co/essays/kurt-godel-his-mother-and-the-argument-for-life-after-death

Is there only one place, or are there many places? Why isn’t this like asking, “Is there only one world, or are there many worlds?”

–Because I’ve been in many places, but I’ve only been in this one world.

If you have been only in this world, then where were you before you came into it, and where will you be when you leave it?

–Nowhere.

Nowhere is relative to somewhere. If I ask you where you have been, and you answer “Nowhere”, then I take you to mean that you were here all along or else that you don’t want to tell me.

We think of this world (universe) as if it were a single place with no other places, nothing outside it, as if all possible places must be contained in it, and console or frighten ourselves with its vastness, despite being confined to one small part of it. But just as we know that its history is not the only possible history and that the future is open to many alternatives—and if you deny that you know these things, I challenge you to quit talking and acting as if you do–, so its space is not the only possible space, its regularities are not the only possible regularities, and one’s habits are not the only possible ones.

It doesn’t follow that there is any urgency to change or move. Neither does it follow that there is no urgency. One always needs urgently to repent, but this has nothing to do with making history or moving things around in space or changing worlds.

I’ve heard people say, “We all want to change the world.” But the only time you change worlds are the times when you die and the times when you are born. Maybe that’s why the desire to change the world leads to war. Make love not war?

Is this all just false wisdom and pretentious foolishness? If so, may it be vanquished by Christ.

Mary Jo has posted her new song on her website: https://maryjocall.wixsite.com/music

It’s a beauty, and the lyrics are something else, man!

At long last, I’ve begun reading Heidegger. I think I am understanding it so far, despite its reputation for being so difficult. Metaphysics is always difficult, because it addresses the deepest and most important questions. With Heidegger there is also the problem of his flexible and sometimes deliberately ambiguous use of German and the scholarly questions of how best to translate this into English. As an English speaker who has only barely started learning German, I can only take note of what the translators say about this, but it seems to me, just from the side of my understanding of English, that they do a good job of explaining the terms that he coins.

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is not to make any comments about Heidegger’s thinking, but as a way to try to clarify my understanding of what it means to claim that the Bible is “the inerrant Word of God.” Let us suppose that we had been taught by our elders, and, in general, by everyone whose opinion we respect, that Heidegger is unquestionably the ultimate authority on the most important questions of metaphysics, and that Being and Time is the inerrant word of Heidegger. This would not automatically solve everything for us. We would still have to come to an understanding of what Heidegger means, and, in particular, of what his writings mean for oneself in one’s own particular situation. And we would see that, until we could succeed in that, our agreeing that Heidegger is the ultimate authority on matters metaphysical would be mostly empty and merely verbal. The favorable opinions of Heidegger on the part of those whose opinions we respect would motivate us to read and try to understand what he wrote, but until we succeeded in understanding, our agreement with their judgment would have only this value as a motive for trying to understand, and our own recommendation of Heidegger to our children and friends could be only half sincere.

I hope the implication is clear: believing that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God might be a necessary first step towards understanding the Scriptures, but it wouldn’t get you very far by itself. If you are to really believe it, you need to understand what a particular part of the Scriptures, or the whole of the Scriptures in general, are telling you right now under your present circumstances. At that point, whether you really and truly and deeply believe that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God will be proven by the effectiveness or not of your understanding.

But is believing in the inerrancy of the scriptures a necessary first step to understanding them? And is the effectiveness in your life of your understanding of the Scriptures the proof that you believe in their inerrancy? I suggested that we suppose that we had been taught as a doctrine that Being and Time is the inerrant word of Heidegger and that he is the ultimate authority on the most important questions of metaphysics. And that was to make the point that unless you understand what Heidegger meant, belief in this doctrine would be rather worthless, except to motivate you to take the trouble to try to read and understand what he wrote. In fact, I don’t know if anyone professes or confesses the inerrancy of Heidegger, and yet there are people who take the trouble of reading and trying to understand his writings and to explain them to others, and it may be that this has done them good. May it not be likewise with the Scriptures?

Someone might object that it is wrong to compare a human philosophy with the Gospel, except to show the shortcomings of the former. But I am not comparing the merits of Heidegger’s philosophy with those of the Gospel. As yet, I don’t even have a well-informed opinion about Heidegger. As I said, I’ve only begun reading him. And the Gospel is more than a discourse on the nature of ultimate reality. But the comparison is apt, I think, in bringing out what makes the Gospel interesting intellectually, apart from all its other appeal, in a way that might fill out the feeling that it is the inerrant Word of God.

So, my answer to the first question I posed above, “Is believing in the inerrancy of the Scriptures a necessary first step to understanding them?” is No. And my answer to the second question, “Is the effectiveness in your life of your understanding of the Scriptures the proof that you believe in their inerrancy?” is Yes.

Degree of control or power = degree of ability to predict accurately.

There is no control without the ability to predict accurately. But is it true that if you can predict accurately you thereby have control? Can’t you foresee something, such as your inevitable death, without having any control over it? If it is inevitable, there is nothing you can do to prevent it, so in what sense does your accurate prediction give you any control over the situation? The answer is that it gives you control in the only sense in which accurate prediction ever gives you control over a situation; that is, in the sense of giving you the capability of adjusting your actions accordingly. Consider the example of driving a car. If you lose control of a car, that means that something outside your predictive power has occurred—something has gone wrong with the steering mechanism, for example, or there is a sudden unexpected obstacle, to avoid which you swerve suddenly at too high a speed, so that the car spins and hits some other obstacle, let us imagine. Being and remaining in control of the car means that nothing that happens while you are driving is outside the expectations you have that enable you to adjust your actions so that the car goes or stops, continues straight or turns, in accord with what is going on in your surroundings.

Since I know it is inevitable that I will die some day, what should I do to adjust my actions accordingly? Nothing I do will enable me to evade death forever; a day will come that will be the day on which I die: that is my prediction. How does this prediction, supposing it is accurate—and I have no doubts about that—give me any control over the situation? One possibility is just to accept that it doesn’t, and there is no way in which I can adjust my actions in light of this knowledge. Then this would be a counterexample to my claim that degree of control or power = degree of ability to predict accurately. But what is the knowledge of the inevitability of death? Isn’t it in fact ignorance, ignorance of what it is like to be the one who dies. Is it possible to dispel that ignorance? It is. It is possible to dispel that ignorance. That is what I am telling you over and over again. You can realize that permanent unconsciousness is not a real possibility by realizing that you cannot imagine what it would be like. And that realization gives you power over death, in the sense that the adjustment you need to make is to acknowledge the gift of life after life.

Again, scientists can predict with great accuracy an eclipse, but this doesn’t give them any control, let alone great control, over whether it will happen. Our knowledge of when and where an eclipse will be visible only gives us control, which we wouldn’t otherwise have, over our actions in relation to it. But this is the only kind of control we ever have over anything. God can make the eclipse happen or not. We can only decide to go see it or not.

I have control over the movements of parts of my body, and this is only because, and to the degree that, I have learned through many experiences to predict accurately what will happen when I make those movements. If I move my arm in such a way as to knock a glass of water off a table, unaware that that was what would happen as a result, so that I am shocked and dismayed, then that was not an action that was under my control. It was an accident.

Suppose I knock the glass off the table to vent my anger. I know the glass is there. I swing my arm knowing that I am going to knock it off. Now I am shocked and dismayed in a different way. I am not frustrated because I didn’t notice the glass was in the way. I am frustrated by my inability to control my anger. (Let us stipulate that I didn’t choose to be angry, if it is indeed possible to so choose.)

Contrast both of those cases with one in which I reach out and pick up the glass to take a drink from it, because I am thirsty. Here we don’t have to stipulate that I didn’t choose to be thirsty. That isn’t the kind of thing one chooses. In such a case I have a high degree of ability to predict accurately and a high degree of control or power. But I didn’t always have such an ability to predict and control. I had to learn it in infancy through repeated trial and error.

Does God always know what is going to happen next? Do I, or does any human being, ever know what is going to happen next?

Suppose I make a decision to do something that is clearly within my power, and I then do it. That at least seems to be a clear case in which I knew what was going to happen next. But the problem is that in every situation there are many things that are outside my control. I may be able to predict, with a high degree of probability, that none of those things are going to interfere with my ability to perform the action in question; but I can never know this with the kind of certainty with which we suppose God would know what is going to happen next. I could suffer a fatal heart attack in the instant immediately after I made the decision. Or an earthquake or lightning bolt could strike. Or I could be interrupted in some less dramatic fashion. All it would take would be something that captured my attention and drew it away from my intention. And even though none of those things happened, and I did carry out my decision, I didn’t know what was going to happen next unless I somehow knew that no such intervention could have happened. And I didn’t know that. I know now that no such thing happened, but I didn’t know, in advance, that it wouldn’t happen. I acted on the expectation that it wouldn’t happen, and I was right. But in any situation in which I seem to know what is going to happen next because I have resolved to do something that seems to be in my power to do, there is this reason to doubt that I knew in any absolute sense what was going to happen next or that the thing really was within my power to do at that time. There are always things outside my control that could intervene, and their failure to occur and my success in carrying out my decision cannot change that fact and should give me at least a bit of caution and modesty about my powers.

When there is a question about not only what I can or can’t do but also about what I should or shouldn’t do, I need to consider not only what will happen next but also what will happen after that, and after that, and so on. This is where my complaint against extreme moralizing and political activism comes in. (I think they are the same thing.) There are simple cases in which an act is obviously a good thing to do. Suppose, for example, you are on a walk in your neighborhood, and you notice bits of trash and litter along the way. Someone has discarded a paper cup and a wrapper from a fast-food restaurant. Here is a beer can, there a plastic fork. On your way back home, you can pick up at least some of these things and take them back home to throw away, so that they will be disposed of in a better way than simply leaving them strewn on people’s lawns and along the sidewalk. Or, you can just leave them lying there, with the foreseeable result of making the area seem trashy so that other thoughtless people will also feel free to litter. There is a clear choice between immediately foreseeable results: either a more aesthetically appealing neighborhood and setting a good example for others or a trashy neighborhood and setting a bad example for others. Moderate and reasonable moralizing like this seems obvious and boring to an immature mind, which prefers grand causes involving the persuasion or coercion of large numbers of other people to take some action or other. We all continue to learn by trial and error, which is the only way we ever learn. I am trying something in writing this essay. An essay is a trial, a testing of ideas.

I don’t like it when someone else’s will thwarts my will. I want to be able to make my own decisions. But I also wouldn’t like it if I had to make all the decisions. Back to the question: Does God always know what is going to happen next? One thing that is clear to me is that if He does, then it is never up to me what is going to happen next. The only way I can think of to answer this question is to apply Anselm’s conceptualization of God as the being than which none greater can be conceived. Then it comes to the question of what we understand to be greater: to always know what is going to happen next or at least sometimes not to know. Suppose that God can choose which of these ways it is going to be for him. I think he would choose to be able to be surprised. If this implied that there was some other God who had a greater power and that that was why God sometimes doesn’t know what is going to happen next, then it could be argued that that other God was the true being than which none greater can be conceived. But why can’t it be that the reason God can be surprised is that he has created creatures who can act in ways he cannot completely predict because he has chosen to make them this way? I don’t see that this would make any of them any greater than him. After all, we are supposing that they wouldn’t exist if he hadn’t created them. But he would be greater by being able to choose to create creatures who can act in ways that he can’t predict than he would be if he could only create creatures who were perfectly predictable. We only need to suppose that he could destroy them at any time if he wanted to. This would put a safe limit on their unpredictability.