Today’s Bible Reading: Ecclesiastes 1:12–2:23.
The author of Ecclesiastes was apparently pretending to be Solomon, and claimed unsurpassed wealth, power, and wisdom. Who else, then, could be in such a perfect position to try to find out what is truly fulfilling in life? This reveals an astonishingly modern aspect to Ecclesiastes: its writer submitted this question to what we would today call a scientific test.
The writer (we will, for literature’s sake, call him Solomon) said that he accumulated tremendous riches and indulged in every pleasure that a man could imagine. He lacked only liquor (distillation had not yet been invented, I think) and electronic devices. He certainly had more sexual opportunity than any man today, with the possible exception of Tiger Woods. Were he living today, he would probably be one of the few private citizens to have gone into outer space. In this sense, Solomon was like his later namesake, Suleÿman the Magnificent, a medieval sultan of Asia Minor. Solomon’s conclusion: It was all vanity and striving after wind. Some people say that whoever dies with the most toys wins. Solomon would say, whoever dies with the most toys dies.
Next the writer tried wisdom—what we would today call intellectual pursuits. He found that intelligence was far better than ignorance: “Wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness.” But he encountered the same problem with wisdom as with riches: when it’s all over, the wise man dies just like the fool.
And then he thought about future generations. Some people say, “What has posterity ever done for me?” Nevertheless, most humans think about posterity a lot. Solomon realized that whatever riches he accumulated and whatever wisdom he gained would all be left to whoever would come after him, “and who knows whether he will be a wise man or a fool?” You work all your life for riches, or for wisdom, then you leave it all to someone who has not had to work for it.
There is one option Solomon apparently did not consider. It was Andrew Carnegie’s philosophy: Nobody should die rich. Andrew Carnegie was extremely wealthy, but gave most of it away to build libraries and research institutions, many of which are still going strong almost a century later. But Solomon might just have said, maybe all the people who go into those libraries will go out just as stupid as they were when they went in.
So Solomon got himself into a deep depression. You work all day, and you worry about whether there is any point to doing it. And then at night you lie awake and worry about it some more. Were Solomon alive today, I am not sure that even trazodone or doxylamine or hypnosis tapes or valerian root would help him get to sleep. If “even in the night his mind does not rest,” nothing can help. If you believe that, no matter how hard you work, luck is the empress of the world, how can you ever feel satisfied?
This was the same feeling that the wanderer had in German poet Wilhelm Müller’s Die Winterreise (Winter’s Journey). No one would remember this mediocre poem were it not transformed into utter beauty by the music of Franz Schubert. In song number 17 (Im Dorfe; In the Village), the traveler hears dogs barking and the villagers are sleeping away in their beds. Schubert’s music depicts not only the growling of the dogs and the snoring, but also the traveler’s disdain at how these people could be so stupid that they could just sleep through the night without existential angst. They dream, and then in the morning they forget their dreams. The music then shifts from growling dogs and depression to the most beatific music I have ever heard! You gotta hear it. The traveler says, Je nun, je nun—and yet, and yet! The people have, in fact, seen splendid visions in their dreams, and what is so bad about that? If only Solomon could have done this. But Solomon, like Müller’s and Schubert’s traveler, trudged on in his bleak journey. I will tell you more about Die Winterreise in future posts.
I must stop here. Please come back, because I don’t want to leave you on this depressing note. There is a way to be happy despite these things, as Solomon subsequently wrote. I warn you, though, that there will be a few more depressing posts before that.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi (2). Agnosticism from the writer of Ecclesiastes
Today’s Bible Reading: Ecclesiastes 1: 1-11; 11: 13-14.
I am amazed that the Book of Ecclesiastes ever made it into the Bible. I can count with the fingers of one foot the number of times Ecclesiastes was ever deeply studied in any of the conservative churches to which I once belonged. Occasional quotes out of context, no more. Not something on any kid’s Sword of the Lord Bible Verse Memorization Chart.
The agnosticism expressed in this book is breathtaking. It is also very cynical, which is about all you could be if you did not believe that God rewarded good people on Earth and you had no alternative. Yet it made it into the Bible, along with the very sexy Song of Solomon which follows it.
And it is blazingly obvious that the last two verses were written by somebody else, which I paraphrase: “Okay, this has gone on long enough. So just get this straight. Don’t listen to all that stuff you just read. Just be afraid of God, be very afraid. Do what the priests tell you God wants you to do, for that is your entire purpose in life. God will announce every secret thought in your brain on judgment day, and everybody is going to know what you were thinking, you little wishy-washy doubters, and then you’ll be sooooooory!” But if you leave off those last two verses, the book of Ecclesiastes is the most heart-wrenchingly eloquent work of agnosticism that the ages have ever produced.
The writer (unlikely to have been Solomon, or a king at all) begins by describing the cycles of the universe. The sun goes around the Earth (from our perspective). The winds blow around the Earth. One generation of humans after another comes and goes. This could be made into an inspiring overview of the universe, but the writer made it cynical instead. All is vanity—that is, everything is a waste of time. He asks, what does a person gain from all of his work? And as the sun and the wind and the water go around and around, it is just such unutterable weariness! Modern historians debate over whether history is one damn thing after another or is the same damn thing over and over again. The writer of Ecclesiastes chose the latter. Not only is there nothing new under the sun, but nobody remembers what came before! This remains true today, when almost every detail of recent history is recorded; it is just that most of my students do not remember any of it.
In my youngest days, I found the hydrological cycle of the Earth (evaporation, condensation, rainfall, groundwater) to be inspiringly beautiful. Ecclesiastes has made it sad. But this was a necessary first step. Many religious people in that day (probably before 500 BCE) believed in a short history of the cosmos, from Eden until the day when God would establish his kingdom on Earth. Come to think of it, hundreds of millions of people still believe this. They do not believe that “what has been is what will be.” They do not believe that humans have been a very recent blip in the long history of the universe and the Earth. If we are now in the middle of the history of our universe—if the present were located at the pedestal of rocks near Smith Center, Kansas, which claims to be the geographical center of the United States—then a hundred-year lifespan is the width of a finger compared to the width of the North American continent. To the writer of Ecclesiastes, this realization was very humbling, and there was no scientific insight to replace it.
I find beauty and inspiration in the study of science, and in the slow work of doing things that help other people and the world. I am inspired by the fact that evolution has produced a human species capable of altruism. Alas, the writer of Ecclesiastes did not make it that far. I will have several more entries, in upcoming weeks, about Ecclesiastes.
I am amazed that the Book of Ecclesiastes ever made it into the Bible. I can count with the fingers of one foot the number of times Ecclesiastes was ever deeply studied in any of the conservative churches to which I once belonged. Occasional quotes out of context, no more. Not something on any kid’s Sword of the Lord Bible Verse Memorization Chart.
The agnosticism expressed in this book is breathtaking. It is also very cynical, which is about all you could be if you did not believe that God rewarded good people on Earth and you had no alternative. Yet it made it into the Bible, along with the very sexy Song of Solomon which follows it.
And it is blazingly obvious that the last two verses were written by somebody else, which I paraphrase: “Okay, this has gone on long enough. So just get this straight. Don’t listen to all that stuff you just read. Just be afraid of God, be very afraid. Do what the priests tell you God wants you to do, for that is your entire purpose in life. God will announce every secret thought in your brain on judgment day, and everybody is going to know what you were thinking, you little wishy-washy doubters, and then you’ll be sooooooory!” But if you leave off those last two verses, the book of Ecclesiastes is the most heart-wrenchingly eloquent work of agnosticism that the ages have ever produced.
The writer (unlikely to have been Solomon, or a king at all) begins by describing the cycles of the universe. The sun goes around the Earth (from our perspective). The winds blow around the Earth. One generation of humans after another comes and goes. This could be made into an inspiring overview of the universe, but the writer made it cynical instead. All is vanity—that is, everything is a waste of time. He asks, what does a person gain from all of his work? And as the sun and the wind and the water go around and around, it is just such unutterable weariness! Modern historians debate over whether history is one damn thing after another or is the same damn thing over and over again. The writer of Ecclesiastes chose the latter. Not only is there nothing new under the sun, but nobody remembers what came before! This remains true today, when almost every detail of recent history is recorded; it is just that most of my students do not remember any of it.
In my youngest days, I found the hydrological cycle of the Earth (evaporation, condensation, rainfall, groundwater) to be inspiringly beautiful. Ecclesiastes has made it sad. But this was a necessary first step. Many religious people in that day (probably before 500 BCE) believed in a short history of the cosmos, from Eden until the day when God would establish his kingdom on Earth. Come to think of it, hundreds of millions of people still believe this. They do not believe that “what has been is what will be.” They do not believe that humans have been a very recent blip in the long history of the universe and the Earth. If we are now in the middle of the history of our universe—if the present were located at the pedestal of rocks near Smith Center, Kansas, which claims to be the geographical center of the United States—then a hundred-year lifespan is the width of a finger compared to the width of the North American continent. To the writer of Ecclesiastes, this realization was very humbling, and there was no scientific insight to replace it.
I find beauty and inspiration in the study of science, and in the slow work of doing things that help other people and the world. I am inspired by the fact that evolution has produced a human species capable of altruism. Alas, the writer of Ecclesiastes did not make it that far. I will have several more entries, in upcoming weeks, about Ecclesiastes.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi (1)
I will begin a series of postings that deal with what is sometimes called theodicy. There does not appear to be a God who intervenes in the world to place any restraint upon evil, or to provide any encouragement to good. Theodicy is the branch of theology that tries to make excuses for this, and attempts to explain how an all-powerful God could allow the world to be so randomly cruel.
Of course, there are many beautiful things in the world and that have happened to each of us, and I spend a lot of time thinking about the beauty of nature and the intense satisfaction that I feel in my life and work. Please do not get the impression that I am a negative person, however cynical my theological speculations may at times be. In fact, I marvel at how lucky I have been, and reflect that I am not a better person than many people who suffer so horribly. How did I get so lucky as to be born in the United States—a nation that, imperfect as it is, at least has rights that are usually respected?
A friend and I recently watched a movie called Osama. It was set in Afghanistan under Taliban rule. The movie was all in Pashtun, with English subtitles. It showed the incredible oppression and cruelty of the Taliban, as well as their glaring hypocrisies. It was about a family: a grandmother, a mother, and a girl. They needed an income, and the women were not allowed to earn one. So they decided to disguise the girl as a boy, named Osama, and he got a job. But the Taliban made all the boys go to a military camp, and while s/he was there, she had her first period and was discovered. Just before being stoned, she was spared, but sent to a fate worse than death. If you wish, I will tell you what it is later. Let me know. The response my friend and I had was, in what way do we deserve to escape such suffering?
Of course, there is no answer, because everything that happens is just luck. And I am not the only one who says so.
Consider the series of poems that composer Carl Orff used for his orchestral-choral masterpiece Carmina Burana. It is a primitive and rough piece of music that is almost frightening in its beauty. The poems were collected from medieval minstrels—some in Latin, some in German, some in a dialect that was French halfway evolved from Latin. They celebrate earthly things. Medieval times were supposed to be the age of faith when everybody thought God ruled over a small flat world. But these poems are often openly agnostic and reject the concept of Providence. The first poem in the series is Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi—Luck, Empress of the World.
O Fortuna
Velut Luna
Statu variabilis
Semper crescis
Aut decrescis
Vita detestabilis
Nunc obdurat
Et tunc durat
Ludo mentis aciem
Egestatem
Potestatem
Dissolvit ut glaciem.
Just read that—aloud—and hear the rhythm and rhymes. Powerful! It translates: “O luck, like the moon, changeable in state, you are always waxing or waning. Hateful life is at one moment hard and the next moment watches over the mind’s playfulness. Poverty, power, it melts like ice.” What forgotten minstrel composed these verses, saying that life was both hateful and playful?
The other source of ideas for this series of entries is nothing other than the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament. It is breathtaking in its honesty about the randomness of fate. How did it ever make it into the Bible? I will explore the insights from both the medieval poetry and the Book of Ecclesiastes in upcoming days. Join me!
Of course, there are many beautiful things in the world and that have happened to each of us, and I spend a lot of time thinking about the beauty of nature and the intense satisfaction that I feel in my life and work. Please do not get the impression that I am a negative person, however cynical my theological speculations may at times be. In fact, I marvel at how lucky I have been, and reflect that I am not a better person than many people who suffer so horribly. How did I get so lucky as to be born in the United States—a nation that, imperfect as it is, at least has rights that are usually respected?
A friend and I recently watched a movie called Osama. It was set in Afghanistan under Taliban rule. The movie was all in Pashtun, with English subtitles. It showed the incredible oppression and cruelty of the Taliban, as well as their glaring hypocrisies. It was about a family: a grandmother, a mother, and a girl. They needed an income, and the women were not allowed to earn one. So they decided to disguise the girl as a boy, named Osama, and he got a job. But the Taliban made all the boys go to a military camp, and while s/he was there, she had her first period and was discovered. Just before being stoned, she was spared, but sent to a fate worse than death. If you wish, I will tell you what it is later. Let me know. The response my friend and I had was, in what way do we deserve to escape such suffering?
Of course, there is no answer, because everything that happens is just luck. And I am not the only one who says so.
Consider the series of poems that composer Carl Orff used for his orchestral-choral masterpiece Carmina Burana. It is a primitive and rough piece of music that is almost frightening in its beauty. The poems were collected from medieval minstrels—some in Latin, some in German, some in a dialect that was French halfway evolved from Latin. They celebrate earthly things. Medieval times were supposed to be the age of faith when everybody thought God ruled over a small flat world. But these poems are often openly agnostic and reject the concept of Providence. The first poem in the series is Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi—Luck, Empress of the World.
O Fortuna
Velut Luna
Statu variabilis
Semper crescis
Aut decrescis
Vita detestabilis
Nunc obdurat
Et tunc durat
Ludo mentis aciem
Egestatem
Potestatem
Dissolvit ut glaciem.
Just read that—aloud—and hear the rhythm and rhymes. Powerful! It translates: “O luck, like the moon, changeable in state, you are always waxing or waning. Hateful life is at one moment hard and the next moment watches over the mind’s playfulness. Poverty, power, it melts like ice.” What forgotten minstrel composed these verses, saying that life was both hateful and playful?
The other source of ideas for this series of entries is nothing other than the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament. It is breathtaking in its honesty about the randomness of fate. How did it ever make it into the Bible? I will explore the insights from both the medieval poetry and the Book of Ecclesiastes in upcoming days. Join me!
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