Reading the Book of Nature

For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness, because that which is known about God is evident within them; for God made it evident to them. For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse. (Romans 1:17-20)

The gist is this: if you pay attention to the Creation you will learn about God, because the Creation reveals what God is like. Presumably you don’t even have to become a scientist to learn, because this God-knowledge is clearly seen. Neither do you have to become a Christian to learn, because the knowledge is already evident even to the ungodly.

So the question is this: Does everything in the Creation reveal God’s divine nature? Everyone can see what the natural world is like: there is beauty and bounty and birth, but there is also violence and indifference and death. There are also plenty of features in nature that just seem sort of neutral and impersonal and random. Is God like all these things? Or does God instill in everyone the ability to distinguish those features of nature that are like Him from those that aren’t?

And You Were There, and You…

Every Tuesday it’s English-language movie night at the Theatre Le Casino, so last night the three of us went to see Little Miss Sunshine. When our daughter’s English teacher asked her students if it would be suitable for showing to the class (8th grade, or quatrieme in the French system), one of the boys assured her that “it’s appropriate for f***ing six-year-olds.” He might have been overstating the case; still, we all enjoyed it immensely. Inspired in part by the movie, I had this dream:

I’m driving through the suburbs of some large-ish nondescript American city — Cincinnati comes to mind. It’s daylight, and I am alone. I’m not quite sure where I am, so I pull over and get out of the car. A woman comes up to me: I don’t recognize her, but she seems to know me. She tells me that Stacy’s house is just up the street. “How lucky is that?” I think to myself, though until that moment I hadn’t known I was looking for Stacy’s house. (Note from the waking world: Stacy had previously emailed me that she would like to write stories like Little Miss Sunshine.)

A meeting is going on at Stacy’s house: several wooden tables are set up in the living room, with maybe twenty people in attendance. Somebody says something like: “Thank goodness for emotions!” Everyone expresses enthusiastic agreement. I’m troubled by it. I say: “Why? Most of my emotions are unpleasant.”

I see Jason sitting at another table (I have no idea what Jason looks like). “It’s like Jason’s mystical experience,” I say. (Jason wrote about his mystical experience here.) The guy sitting next to me looks at me with a puzzled expression. He’s wearing a black see-through shirt decorated with some kind of floral needlework. I realize that his name too is Jason. (I think he was based on the uncle in the movie, the gay Proust scholar who had tried to kill himself.) “No, not you,” I say to this Jason.

I turn to the other Jason, the real Jason. “Your mystical experience in Chicago (I’m from Chicago). You transcended; you had an ecstatically happy convergence of realities. Most of the time for me it’s an incredibly dark convergence, very depressing. I don’t enjoy these experiences.” Jason seemed to see my point, as did the rest of the group.

And that’s the end of the dream, or at least what I remember of the dream.

Participating the Creator

Near the beginning of the Summa Theologica, Aquinas affirms the absolute transcendence of God. Man’s finite and imperfect thought cannot grasp God; his language cannot describe God.

Now we cannot know what God is, but only what he is not; we must therefore consider the ways in which God does not exist, rather than the ways in which he does. (S.T. 1.3)

God is not like anything in creation; the creation, however, is like God.

Any creature in so far as it possesses any perfection represents God and is like him, for he, being simply and universally perfect, has pre-existing in him the perfections of all his creatures . . . what we call goodness in creatures pre-exists in God in a higher way. Thus God is not good because he causes goodness, but rather goodness flows from him because he is good. (S.T. 1.13.2).

We cannot infer God’s goodness by contemplating good things and extrapolating from them. Rather, things are good to the extent that they “participate” God’s nature, which is perfect goodness. God isn’t just the cause of goodness in things; he is its continual source. It’s not even adequate to say that goodness in the world is an imperfect version of God’s goodness. To say something is “good” is to use an analogy. For Aquinas, language describes not things as they objectively are but as they exist in human knowledge, which is only analogical to God’s truth. God’s goodness doesn’t just exceed finite goodness: it is qualitatively different, totally other. Things are good by analogy to God’s goodness; or, to use Aquinas’s language, good things “participate” God’s goodness.

Aquinas is trying to find a middle ground here. If only God is good, then nothing in the world can be good unless it is an emanation from God himself — this is Greek and pagan thinking. On the other hand, if things in the world really can be good in and of themselves, then there may be no need to invoke a transendent cause of their goodness outside of the world, which potentially renders God unnecessary. So Aquinas says this:

Things are good inasmuch as they exist. Now things are said to exist, not by divine existence, but by their own. So things are good, not by God’s goodness, but by their own. (1.6.4).

But then he also says this:

One may therefore call things good and existent by reference to this first thing, existent and good by nature, inasmuch as they somehow participate and resemble it, even if distantly and deficiently . . . And in this sense all things are said to be good by divine goodness, which is the pattern, source and goal of all goodness. Nevertheless the resemblance to divine goodness which leads us to call the thing good is inherent in the thing itself, belonging to it as a form and therefore naming it. And so there is one goodness in all things, and yet many. (1.6.4).

So God can be spoken of, but only by analogy, He can be known, but only by participation:

God is known from the perfections that flow from him and are to be found in creatures, yet which exist in him in a transcendent way. (1.1.3)

Perhaps Aquinas’s is as good an interpretation as any of Paul’s remark:

For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made… (Romans 1:20)

Aquinas and Paul walk the line between creation as an emanation of its creator and creation as wholly other than its creator.

Out of the Dark Labyrinth (Crosby concluded)

Crosby ends The Measure of Reality with a quote from Galileo, which I repeat as the last paragraph of this post. But first, a synopsis of the historical context.

In 1592, at the age of 28, Galileo took a job in Padua in the Venetian Republic. Nominally Catholic, Venice was a licentious place, and Galileo was free to explore the stars without fear of running afoul of the Church. In 1610, armed with his newly-developed telescope, Galileo made a number of startling discoveries: mountains on the moon, the moons of Jupiter, the phases of Venus. By naming the moons of Jupiter after the Medici family, Galileo landed the job of Mathematician and Philosopher (meaning Physicist) to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and was able to return to his native land. No longer under Venetian protection, he now found himself subjected to Papal authority.

In 1611 Galileo went to Rome to discuss the heliocentric solar system with the Jesuit astronomers. Presented with evidence, the Jesuits proved surprisingly supportive. Galileo contended that Scripture cannot contradict what we see in nature, so some of the Bible’s descriptions of nature must be interpreted metaphorically. In 1615 Bellarmine, chief theologian of the Church and a Jesuit himself, wrote:

I say that if there were a true demonstration that the sun is at the center of the world and the earth in the third heaven, and that the sun does not circle the earth but the earth circles the sun, then one would have to proceed with great care in explaining the Scriptures that appear contrary, and say rather that we do not understand them than that what is demonstrated is false. But I will not believe that there is such a demonstration, until it is shown me.

The Dominicans, on the other hand, were not so well-disposed toward the new astronomy, and in 1616 the Pope condemned the Copernican System. According to Stillman Drake:

A principal area of contention between Catholics and Protestants was freedom to interpret the Bible, which meant that any new Catholic interpretation could be used by the Protestants as leverage: if one reinterpretation could be made, why not wholesale reinterpretations? A dispute between the Dominicans and the Jesuits over certain issues of free will was still fresh in the pope’s mind, as he had to take action in 1607 to stop members of the two great teaching orders from hurling charges of heresy at each other. These things suggest that Paul V, if not temperamentally anti-intellectual, had formed a habit of nipping in the bud any intellectual dispute that might grow into factionalism within the Church and become a source of strength for the contentions of the Protestants.

Not only was Galileo prohibited from defending the sun-centered solar system; he wasn’t even allowed to describe it in his teaching. In the fall of 1618 three comets appeared. Sarsi, a prominent Jesuit astronomer, argued that the comets followed orbits close to those of planets, although they had short lifetimes. Galileo knew the comets moved in almost straight line motion much of the time. Galileo, ever intolerant of the incorrect views of others, wrote this:

In Sarsi I seem to discern the belief that in philosophizing one must support oneself on the opinion of some celebrated author, as if our minds ought to remain completely sterile and barren unless wedded to the reasoning of someone else. Possibly he thinks that philosophy is a book of fiction by some author, like the Iliad … . Well, Sarsi, that is not how things are.

Philosophy is written in this grand book of the universe, which stands continually open to our gaze. But the book cannot be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the language and to read the alphabet in which it is composed. It is written in the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles and other geometric figures, without which it is humanly impossible to understand a single word of it; without these, one wanders in a dark labyrinth.

Crunching the Numbers (Crosby continued)

At last! Double-entry bookkeeping, what Matthaus Schwartz, 16th-century accountant to the Fuggers’ banking operations, called “the magic mirror in which the adept sees both himself and others”! (Pay attention, Erdman, this will be on the test.)

In the Middle Ages there were no accounts receivable or payable, little lending, and no accountants. There were no companies apart from the individual owners. Financial records looked like diaries, keeping track of transactions in narrative form. Increased trade and complicated business arrangements revealed the critical shortcomings of traditional record-keeping.

Around 1300 some Italian accountants began using double-entry bookkeeping. The first step was to post assets and liabilities separately; by mid-century accountants in Bruges were lining them up in parallel columns, making them easier to compare. Balancing the books was a hit-or-miss, more-or-less affair. Pacioli, a Franciscan and a close friend of Alberti the master teacher of perspectival painting, wrote the state-of-the-art reference book on all things mathematical in the late 1400s. Pacioli devoted an entire section of this masterwork to double-entry bookkeeping. He recommended that a firm just getting started with the new technique should take an inventory of assets (goods, properties, cash) and liabilities. The books were to be three in number: the memorandum book (a detailed record of every transaction), the journal (income statement), and the ledger (balance sheet). Each book was to be marked with “that glorious sign from which all enemies of the spiritual flee, and before which all the infernal pack justly tremble: the Sign of the Holy Cross.” Then came the arduous task of balancing: income with outgo, assets with liabilities, net income with change of assets. If income exceeded outgo, all was well. If not? “May God protect each of us who is really a good Christian from such a state of affairs.”

Crosby observes in conclusion:

Double-entry bookkeeping did not change the world. It was not even essential for capitalism. It was not an intellectual masterpiece like Copernicus’s model of a heliocentric universe, and literati and cognoscenti have scorned bookkeepers’ ledgers as no more glorious than the sawdust and shavings on the floor of a carpenter’s shop… But our tastes affect the development of our culture and our societies less than our practices do. Bookkeeping has had a massive and pervasive influence on the way we think.

Double-entry bookkeeping was and is a means of soaking up and holding in suspension and then arranging and making sense out of masses of data that previously had been spilled and lost… Money is never middle-ish. Every time an accountant has divided everyting within his or her purview into plus or minus, our inclination to categorize all experience as this or as that has gained validation… Precision, indispensible to our science, technology, economic and bureaucratic practice, was rare in the Middle Ages, and even more rarely quantitative. In the past seven hundred centuries bookkeeping has done more to shape th perceptions of more bright minds than any single innovation in philosophy or science.

Through the Veil (Crosby continued)

We all know the story of the Renaissance painters’ transition from flat Medieval iconography to more naturalistic, perspectival representations. The new style relied on a trompe l’oeil effect to project the impression of a third dimension back into the painting, as though the observer were looking through a window at the scene behind it. To achieve an accurate perspectival effect, artists had to capture the moment and the empty space.

We think of realistic art as the visualization of a scene at a single instant in time — kind of like a painted snapshot. Medievalists tended to paint whole stories: a single painting might, for example, depict Paul’s ship going aground, Paul struggling to shore, and Paul preaching to the pagans. Even the single moment is depicted “on the move”: the artist might show three sides of a rectangular building, which can’t be seen by standing in one place. We’re also used to seeing objects depicted in context, which means leaving spaces between things. Medieval artists didn’t do that: they crowded all the objects together — a style known as horror vacui, or fear of empty spaces (thanks to Jason Hesiak for that bit of art knowledge). It’s hard to represent either breadth or depth accurately without making room for the vacancies that spread the world apart.

Painting started moving toward modern realism in mid-13th century Italy. But even Giotto, the first acclaimed master of the new techniques, didn’t achieve perspectival accuracy. Ptolemy’s ancient method of representing surfaces via geometric gridwork, brought to Florence in 1400, had as much impact on painting as on cartography. A perspectival painting is like a geometrically accurate map of the scene depicted by the artist. The Florentine Alberti formalized perpsectival painting technique based on ancient Greek optical theory:

Seeing was a matter of information being acquired by the eye through a cone (or, as it was often called, a pyramid) of light extending out from the eye. An accurate picture was a slice of that cone, vertical to its central axis, made at whatever distance from the eye the picture taker selected.

To implement Ptolemy’s geometric techniques, Alberti recommended that the painter set up a veil between himself and the subject. The veil, a gridwork of fabric, was the slice through the visual cone.

One was to paint or draw not what one knew to be true about the scene — for instance, with parallel lines always the same distance apart — but strictly what one saw. What one saw was parallel lines angling toward each other the farther they extended away from the observer. One could measure how much they converged in appearance by gazing at them through the veil and counting threads. Then one would transfer that to a flat surface on which one had carefully drawn lines equivalent to the veil’s threads. The veil enabled the painter to quantify not reality, but something more subtle: the perception of reality.

Medieval Italian streets and floors really are constructed from a gridwork of stones or tiles, but the reason they appear in all those masterpieces by Leonardo and Raphael and Michelangelo is to establish the costruzione legitima, the perspectival geometry on which Renaissance painting was based.

The intellectuals of the Middle Ages respected mathematics in the abstract and tended to veer away from it in practice. Those of the Renaissance respected mathematics, especially geometry, and utilized it extravagantly in practice… The artists of the Renaissance avant-garde, who were often architects, engineers, artisans, and mathematicians as well as painters, were obsessed with space-as-geometry.

Maybe the Witness is Me

Three weeks ago I put up a post at Open Source Theology summarizing my understanding of what a “True Myth” might be, based on a couple of posts I’d previously put up here. The discussion has been a stimulating one. Eventually the other participants in the discussion (one of them being samlcarr, who since Christmas Eve has been having an extended conversation with Ivan here at ktismatics) invited me to put forward my own exegesis of Genesis 1 — which I did. Interaction around the exegesis too has been gratifying. As we near the end of that part of the conversation, I just put up this summary comment:

It’s customary to interpret the Bible by the Bible, to regard the entire canon as an integrated whole by which the reader can make sense of the separate parts. For Christians the life of Jesus is interpreted in the historical context of Israel and Abraham, of the “first Adam” and the creation that was made “through Him and for Him.” Reciprocally, the Creation story acquires eschatological meaning by pointing forward to Israel and the Word made flesh and the new/renewed creation. This holistic hermeneutic both builds and reinforces a coherent worldview. If, on the other hand, the reader focuses on the details rather than the big picture, the holistic coherence can sometimes feel a bit forced. Any isolated bit of text supports alternative readings, but it has to be made to fit into the whole picture. Sometimes the fit isn’t perfect.

Genesis 1 seems to be a straightforward narrative about a historic event. The story is of a piece with the rest of the Bible as it has come down to us (discrepancies with the second Creation narrative of Gen. 2-3 notwithstanding). The reason we’ve explored alternative interpretations is that the story doesn’t fit inside the “book of nature” as written by modern empirical science. There are three basic strategies for resolving the discrepancies: either natural science is wrong, or the text is wrong, or the traditional ways of reading the narrative are wrong. In this post we’ve been exploring the third way.

Reading Genesis 1 as a “True Myth” resolves discrepancies with natural science by freeing the text from literal interpretation. True Myth turns Genesis 1 into an allegorical story about something other than the creation: the superiority of the Hebrew God, say, or the importance of the Sabbath to religious practice. We’ve also touched on some alternative literal readings. Extend the timeline from six days to six eons. Insert an extended “gap” between verse 1 and 2, during which the original creation deteriorated. Re-envision the narrative scenario as the repeated alternation between the eternal-spiritual register and the temporal-material.

I’ve offered a different literal interpretation, one in which God creates conscious awareness of the material universe. This reading reconciles the text with natural science essentially by seeing God as the first natural scientist. The downside from a Judeo-Christian perspective is that Genesis 1 remains silent about how the physical universe began. This isn’t a bad thing for those of us with no a priori theistic beliefs but with confidence in the modern scientific method. What difference whether God created the material world, or intelligently designed it, or had absolutely nothing to do with it? Isn’t it more important for God to be able to define the meaning of things and to teach that ability to humanity? Man could never have wondered about the origins of the universe until he first grasped the idea of a universe. To create the conscious awareness of something: it’s not the same as creating that thing, but surely it is an act of creation in its own right and not merely a metaphor? Surely it is man’s sentience rather than his raw power that sets him apart from the rest of the beasts and makes him more like the God in whose image he is created? And doesn’t this theory of Genesis 1 recapitulate the “anthropic principle” of cutting-edge astrophysics?

… and so on. Inevitably I find myself defending my exegesis, arguing its merits when they aren’t sufficiently self-evident, seeing in it the one true reading hidden since the foundation of the earth. Who is the unnamed and previously undetected witness I place at the scene of the creation? Maybe it’s me. Trying to put myself in the narrator’s shoes, seeing what he saw, hearing the words that elohim spoke – maybe without realizing it I inserted myself into the story. There are worse mistakes a reader can make.

Perhaps the lesson is a postmodern one: Genesis 1 is open enough to sustain a limitless number of possible interpretations. An Eastern monist will see in Genesis 1 the universe emerging as an emanation of pure Mind. A Gnostic will see a secondary deity mistakenly creating an imperfect universe. One Christian will see the triune God creating everything from nothing and establishing the precedent for the new Creation in Christ; another will see a well-meaning storyteller trying to capture something beyond his grasp. One scientific secularist will see a teacher explaining the basics of natural science to his students; another will see the source of an anti-scientific superstition. How you interpret the text depends on what presuppositions you bring to the text and what worldview sustains you. But the interpretation also depends on the text itself, which has outlasted a hundred generations of exegetes. The ability to see this one ancient text from so many different points of view is surely a tribute to human creativity. Whether this hermeneutical flexibility is a sign of man’s goodness or of his corruption is, of course, open to question.

Musica Universalis (Crosby continued)

The classical Greeks thought of music as a kind of mathematics. A medieval scholar who had mastered the trivium – grammar, logic, and rhetoric – moved on to the quadrivium – arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. Arithmetic is pure number, geometry is number in space, music is number in time, astronomy is number in space and time. But music, says Crosby, was the only one of the four members of the quadrivium in which measurement had immediate practical application.

Medieval European music was not quantified sound. Gregorian chant had no “beat”: its rhythms conformed to the flow of the Latin text and the spirit of the liturgy. The pitch generally went up and down at agreed-upon places, but there was no uniformity of practice as to precise intervals. Music was performed from memory, which became quite challenging as the number of chants began to increase. No one wrote the music down, because no one had yet invented an adequate system of musical notation.

The musical staff, developed in the 11th century, was Europe’s first graph: The x-axis measures time from left to right; the y-axis measures pitch. The intervals of the scale were standardized around an old and familiar hymn of the time:

Ut queant laxis Resonare fibris
Mira gestorum Famuli tuorum
Sove polluti Labii reatum
Sancte Iohannes

If you knew the melody, then you knew the standard pitch intervals and their names: ut, re, mi, fa, so, la, si.

Chants were sung solo or in unison: there were no harmony parts. The mid-9th century witnessed the introduction of a high harmony on top of the traditional melody. Eventually the traditional chant part was reduced to a low drone, freeing the soprano to embellish. By the end of the 12th century Leonin and Perotin, the first masters of this new polyphonic music, were actually composing new tunes in addition to adapting the traditional songs.

The works of Leonin and Perotin were equivalent in innovation to the Gothic cathedrals. It is probable that they were first performed in one of the most magnificent of these cathedrals, Notre Dame de Paris. As Western music moved from Gregorian simplicity to polyphonic complexity, it also moved from the cloister and countryside to the cathedral and the city, that is to say, into the realm of the university and marketplace. From the 12th to the 14th century Paris was the center for the development of Western polyphony, as for so much else.

Popular music began finding its way into the sacred chant harmonies. Virtuosos became famous. And the Schoolmen at the University applied themselves to music: its structure and logic, the proportionalities of pitch and meter, its genres and subgenres, its logic and grammar. The annotation for a “rest” as the absence of sound was introduced around the same time as the number zero began circulating in the West. Standardized proportional time units (whole notes, half notes, quarters, eighths, etc.) were added to the musical staff, making it possible for performers to play more metrically complex harmonies. Musical time became an abstract measuring stick into which the composer could insert notes like variables in an equation. Rather than restricting musical expression, annotation set it free. Ensembles could play innovative and complex pieces without sounding like noise. Musical innovation became the norm rather than the exception. 12th century Paris experienced the kind of artistic explosion we usually associate with the Italian Renaissance.

Musical annotation — the visual representation of sound — converged on its modern standardized form at least fifty years before the invention of the mechanical clock. Did the invention of modern music and what Crosby calls its faith in absolute time influence the modern Western worldview? Galileo, Descartes, Kepler and Huyghens were trained musicians; all of them wrote about music.

Big Fat Liar?

My wife, daughter and I watched a download of Big Fat Liar last night; this morning it inspired a few political thoughts.

I was living in France when the war talk began, and I couldn’t believe it was happening. I participated in an antiwar march in Nice that drew maybe 6,000 people; in the months leading up to the invasion there were turnouts in the hundreds of thousands in big cities in Europe and around the world. The French believed that Bush was forcing the war idea, that the American people were not behind him. The French were wrong: according to PollingReport, more than three-fourths of the American public supported the American invasion of Iraq at the time. Even before 9/11, two out of three Americans said they would favor ousting Saddam from power by military force.

Hillary Clinton acknowledges that she made a mistake in supporting the congressional authorization for the war. She said she was lied to by the Administration. I don’t believe her.

Even at the time it seemed clear that most of the publicly-available evidence of Iraqi WMDs and collaboration with al-Qaida was either transparently shaky or already disproven. If a layman like me could see it, surely the Congress could. I believe that the Congress, including the Democrats, went along with the case that Bush and Powell put before the world knowing that it was a deception. Why? I’d say it was largely a matter of patriotic zeal. America was pissed after 9/11, America was already pissed at Saddam after Gulf War One, America was ready to attack. The Democrats, I believe, could have exposed the deception but didn’t. Either they were afraid of political backlash for being perceived as unpatriotic, or they too really wanted to kick Saddam’s ass.

Now that the war effort is floundering and public opinion has shifted, I suspect the American public will accept Hillary’s explanation. We will not want to remember how enthusiastic we once were about this war. We will want to disavow complicity. We will look for someone to blame. It’s a lot easier to say we were deceived than to admit that we were willing to lie to ourselves.

From the Ear to the Eye

We’ve been following Alfred Crosby as he tracks the gradual shift toward quantitative thinking during the late Middle Ages. But, says Crosby, what struck the match that set Western culture ablaze was an enhanced and generalized sense of the visual. Consider literacy. Traditionally the main organ for receiving knowledge was the ear. People didn’t read; they listened to oral recitations of Scripture or epics or tales. Writing was speech on a page, so people typically read aloud — scriptoria and libraries were noisy places in the Middle Ages. There were no separations between words and no punctuation, so it was easier to understand the text by ear than by sight. St. Augustine marveled that when his mentor, St. Anselm, read, his eyes scanned the page, and his heart, explored the meaning, but his voice was silent and his tongue was still. Augustine speculated that Anselm was saving his voice for public recitations.

It was probably the sheer volume of texts flooding into Europe that stimulated 13th century scholars to read more quickly, silently, by sight rather than by ear. Copyists began making texts easier on the eye. Reading, which had been a kind of public performance, became an individual private act — and a potentially heretical one, as the Reformation would soon demonstrate.

We’ll continue following Crosby as he illustrates how the shift to visualization transformed other aspects of Western culture.

Time, Space, Math

More from Crosby’s The Measure of Reality. Here are some of the quantitative advances that helped transform medieval Western Europe into the most powerful place on earth. (This post is my first use of my new computer – a MacBook. Hopefully it won’t crash a couple times a day like my old PC did.)

Clocks. People tend to think of time as a continuous flow, so the medievalists based their inventions for measuring time on flowing substances like water, sand and mercury. The Chinese invented a mechanical clock in the 10th century, but it wasn’t until late in the 13th century that some anonymous European rethought the basic metaphor, conceiving of time as a succession of discrete quanta. The key technological breakthrough was the “escapement” – a kind of oscillating notched gear that regularly interrupts the descent of a weight into thousands of small steps per day. Soon every big city in Europe, and then even the smaller ones, made sure it had at least one clock. It was the one piece of complicated machinery the average Joe encountered in everyday life. The clockwork mechanism itself became a metaphor for how God might operate the universe: not like an organism but like a machine.

Maps. The compass found its way from Asia to Europe in the 11th century. In the late 13th century the portolano was invented: a map of coastlines with compass courses drawn on them with a straightedge. But a really useful navigational map would show accurate distances as well as headings. Around 1400 a copy of Ptolemy’s Geographia arrived in Florence by way of Constantinople. In the 2nd century Ptolemy slapped a gridwork across the earth’s surface, even compensating mathematically for the earth’s curvature. By the time the Americas and the Pacific were discovered, mapmakers already had a way to represent them.

Astronomy. In the 14th century, the Frenchman Nicole Oresme wondered aloud why God would put the earth at the center of the universe. Why wouldn’t the center be somewhere in the heavens, where God lives? Nicholas of Cusa, a 15th century cardinal and philosopher, argued that God transcended the universe, so from God’s perspective there was no center. In the early 16th century Copernicus the Pole reintroduced an old Platonic and pagan idea: maybe the earth revolves around the sun. The heavens are huge: how could they circle the earth in a day? Far easier to set the earth in motion. Copernicus was a mathematician, and he performed exhaustive calculations to describe the heliocentric model quantitatively. The dimensions of the Aristotelian model were large; in Copernicus’s system they were nearly inconceivably vast – at least 400,000 times larger. Later in the 16th century Giordano Bruno, a monk, described the universe in terms that anticipated Newton, but that would also get him burned at the stake:

There is a single general space, a single vast immensity which we may freely call Void: in it are innumerable globes like this one on which we live and grow; this space we declare to be infinite, since neither reason, convenience, sense-perception nor nature assign to it a limit.

Mathematics. In The Geometries of Qualities and Motion, Oresme generalized the key principle that had made clocks possible:

For measuring continuous things it is necessary that points, lines, and surfaces, or their properties be imagined… Although indivisible points, or lines, are nonexistent, still it is necessary to feign them.

Roman numerals remained the dominant counting system in Europe until the 16th century. Arabic numerals greatly aided calculation, but only if you understood the place values of numbers lined up in columns, and if you could get your head around the mysterious number zero. Numbers are for counting things that are; zero is a sign for what is not. People started mixing the numbering systems together; e.g., IVOII meant 1502: I in the thousands column, V in the hundreds… The signs + and – didn’t show up in print until 1489. The 16th century witnessed the invention of the = sign, the decimal system for expressing fractions, and algebraic notation. Mathematical advances also stimulated mystical applications: astrology grew in popularity, and kabbalistic numerical interpretations of the Bible abounded.

Crosby: Necessary but Insufficient Causes

What pulled medieval Western Europe out of its cultural isolation and stagnation? Alfred Crosby cites a number of influences in chapter 3 of The Measure of Reality.

Expansion. The population may have tripled between 1000 and 1340, with Venice and London approaching 100,000 inhabitants apiece (a fifth the size of Cairo at the time). The plague killed off maybe a third of the populace, but recovery was rapid. The Crusades began in the eleventh century, exposing Westerners into pagan and Islamic cultures. Trade increased, mostly within Europe but also with the East. In the cities, or bourgs, the bourgeoisie began to emerge: merchants, financiers, lawyers, accountants, mill owners.

Decentralization. The Muslim, Indian and Chinese civilizations were well-organized, unified, stable: strong but rigid. The medieval West was a patchwork of kingdoms, fiefdoms and city-states without a unifying culture or language. In short, Europe was weak and disorganized but flexible. Because it had no center, it had centers everywhere. If a dissenter irritated the local authorities enough to be banished, he could usually find sanctuary elsewhere without having to travel very far. The local lords and bishops weren’t strong enough to suppress the bourgeoisie. Because the West had no unifying culture of its own, Westerners felt free to borrow from the Greeks, the Persians, the Egyptians, and anybody else who had something worth emulating. Consequently, Crosby says, the West, unlike its rivals, had a chronic need for exlainers, adjusters, and resynthesizers.

Confusion. In the twelfth century Western scholars began studying with Jews and Muslims in Spain, returning with translations of Plato, Ptolemy, Avicenna, and especially Aristotle, who seemed able to explain with precision just about everything. To make sense of the newly-available classical learning in light of traditional ways of understanding, the urban intellectuals began organizing themselves into universities. Paris was the first, which after a stormy beginning received papal protection in 1231. It had a few notable professors in the early days: Abelard, Albert the Great, Aquinas, Bonaventure. The Schoolmen organized the new wealth of ancient scholarship, inventing handy tools like chapter titles, table of contents, hierarchically organized outlines, cross-references, citations, concordances, the index, and alphabetical-ordered library catalogs and dictionaries. Around 1200 Stephen Langdon devised the chapter and verse system for the books of the Bible. The Schoolmen, not the merchants, were the first to make the shift from Roman to Arabic numerals. Trying to make sense of a disparate mass of knowledge demanded that the Schoolmen achieve a logical rigor and a lucidity of expression unknown since the Greeks, reaching its zenith in the work of Aquinas. Says Crosby: In our time the word medieval is often used as a synonym for muddle-headedness, but it can be more accurately used to indicate precise definition and meticulous reasoning, that is to say, clarity. Though the Schoolmen’s thinking was virtually mathematical in its orderly precision, though they began comparing things previously considered incomparable, rarely did they actually measure or count anything.

Money. Meanwhile, what had long been a barter and exchange economy gradually moved toward a cash economy. This meant that everything saleable also had to be measurable – it had to have a cash price. Even the value of a worker’s time could be measured monetarily. In 1308 Pope Clement V decreed that pardoning a year’s time in purgatory was worth one pence, to be contributed to the Crusades. Western Europe certainly wasn’t the first monetary economy. They just seemed to be more obsessed with the money itself – exchange rates, interest rates, debts and credits, the purity of the gold it was made of.

The Venerable Model

One of my favorite books ever is The Measure of Reality: Quantification and Western Society, 1250-1600, by Alfred Crosby. The raison d’etre of this book, Crosby says, is to describe an acceleration after 1250 or so in the West’s shift from qualitative perception to, or at least toward, quantitative perception. The book devotes a separate chapter to each of several domains of life where this transition from the qualitative toward quantitative took place. He sets the stage with a chapter entitled “The Venerable Model,” in which he offers a glimpse of the qualitative mindset that predominated in medieval Europe.

Europe was a backwater then, sparsely populated by barbarians who lived far from the centers of Islamic and Far Eastern culture: a source of eunuchs, slave girls and boys, brocade, beaver skins, glue, sables, and swords, as Ibn Khurradadhbeh described it in the mid-ninth century. Crosby characterizes the European picture of the universe as clear, complete, and appropriately awesome without being stupefying. Reality was made up of essentially heterogeneous stuff: fire rises and rocks fall not because of gravity or different amounts of base elements, but because they just did: it’s what fire and rocks are like.

Time was a more-or-less sort of thing. Nothing was very old: maybe 300 human generations had passed since the very beginning. Augustine came up with a system for dividing history into ages based on the seven days of the Genesis 1 narrative: Each age began with a big event: the Creation, the Flood, Abraham, David, the Captivity of Judah, the birth of Christ, the Second Coming. In Daniel’s dream surely the fourth beast referred to the Roman Empire, which would persist until the end days – meaning that the Europeans still thought of themselves as living in that Empire. Hours weren’t equal in length: the day was divided into seven intervals by the church bells: matins, prime, tierce, sext, none, vespers, and compline. Because the length of the day depends on the time of year, the time between the intervals varied dramatically between summer and winter. Originally the none was rung in the midafternoon, but monks on fasts weren’t allowed to eat before none. So the none got earlier and earlier until finally, in England, it was chimed at midday: none = noon.

The earth was encircled by layers of transparent heavenly spheres on which the heavenly bodies were affixed and which moved in perfect circles. Nothing was very far away: Roger Bacon said that if a man walked 20 miles a day it would take him 14 years, 7 months, and 29 days to reach the moon. The earth was corrupt and not worth knowing much about. East was the most powerful direction because that’s where Eden is: the altar was always built at the east end of the church. Because the crucifixion was the pivotal event of all time, it followed that Jerusalem was the center of the earth (see Ezekiel 5:5). Europeans believed that no one lived in the tropics or the southern hemisphere. Maps were out of proportion, like those “New Yorkers’ view of the world” maps.

They weren’t very good at math in medieval Europe. There were no signs for plus or minus, divide or equal. They had complicated systems for “finger reckoning” – counting on your fingers. There was no zero. During Roman times the abacus made its way to Europe from Asia, but by the sixth century it had been forgotten, not to return for another 500 years. For the medievalists the meaning of numbers was more mystical than computational.

Sure they made mistakes. But, says Crosby,

…our real problem with the Venerable Model is that it is dramatic, even melodramatic, and teleological: God and Purpose loom over all… Medieval and Renaissance Europeans, like the shaman, like all of us some of the time and some of us all of the time, wanted immediately conclusive and emotionally satisfying explanations. They longed for a universe that, in Camus’s phrase, “can love and suffer.”

 

I’ve Been Tagged!

Thanks to Jon Erdman at Theos Project, I’ve been personally selected to answer a few survey questions. Instead of telling you my answers, I’ll give you the right answers.

1. What’s the most fun work you’ve ever done, and why? (two sentences max)

Right now. Because I’m lucky enough to be doing what I love and getting paid for it.

2. Name one thing you did in the past that you no longer do but wish you did? (one sentence max)

Sit under a tree and read a book

3. Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do but keep putting it off? (one sentence max)

Climb K2.

4. What two things would you most like to learn or be better at, and why? (two sentences max)

Be a better listener, because everybody has so much wisdom. Windsurf, because it’s so free.

5. If you could take a class/workshop/apprentice from anyone in the world living or dead, who would it be and what would you hope to learn? (two more sentences, max)

Mother Teresa, because she was one gutsy lady.

6. What three words might your best friends or family use to describe you?

Loyal, honest, nerdy.

7. Now list two more words you wish described you…

Hot, cool.

8. What are your top three passions? (can be current or past, work, hobbies, or causes– three sentences max)

Saving the rainforests. Jazz. My wife/husband.

9. Write–and answer–one more question that YOU would ask someone (with answer in three sentences max)

Question: Don’t you wish you were me? Answer: No, not really.

Questions? Disagreements? Alternative right answers? How many did you get right? (Note: I’m not going to tag anyone else, since it might make all those other great people who weren’t chosen feel bad.)