Blinded By The Light

   Blinded By The Light:
   Bruce Springsteen

Note to visitors:  This post's title recalls a Bruce Springsteen song of the same name from his 1973 album, Greetings From Asbury Park, N. J.  The post is not, however, about that estimable song.  Rather, it describes the conversion of Saul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus, before in turn offering that description as a template for the nature of any significant character change.

There is art and there are four music players: two single-track, two multi-track.  The largest multi-track player, in lurid crimson, contains songs that describe those not blinded by transformative light, those in the grip of urges.  A smaller player, in tranquil blue, contains songs that describe those who have found faith and resolve.

Biblical quotations are from the King James Version.  I acknowledge the possibility of scriptural misreadings, and I also acknowledge the opacity of certain verses cited in Romans 7:14 - 23.  Forty-seven scholars translated the 1611 Version, with a seven-man committee specifically assigned the New Testament Epistles, and I'm sure they did their best –– plus, King James probably understood it.  For the rest of us, some of it is heavy sledding.

---

Around 33 - 35 AD Saul of Tarsus was traveling from Jerusalem to Damascus, some 135 miles to the northeast.  A Jewish Pharisee, he hated the early Christian church, its message and missionaries, and he zealously persecuted Christians –– this being the purpose of his trip.  (I am not suggesting that persecutory practices routinely informed Pharisaic doctrine in the 1st century, a period of diverse religious sects and amalgams.)

Saul's journey was interrupted traumatically by a flash of light that caused him to fall to the ground.  He then heard a voice (Acts 9:4), asking:  "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?"  The voice was that of Jesus and Saul was blinded by the experience for three days, during which time he neither ate nor drank.  Afterwards, with the intercession of Ananias, Saul's sight was restored, he was baptized and transformed –– into a Jewish believer in Christ, the promised Messiah. The conversion proper occurred not on the road to, but in Damascus, at Judas's house (no, not that Judas) on Straight Street.

Michelangelo: The Conversion of Saul (c. 1542 - 1545)
Wikimedia Commons: Public Domain

I am skipping the various explanations, theological, neurocortical, psychological, that attend Saul's conversion from hateful Pharisee to the Apostle Paul, to focus on the poetry of the event.

Caravaggio: The Conversion of St. Paul (1600/1601)
Wikimedia Commons: Public Domain

Here you have Saul, blinded by the light, knocked off his perch, evacuated of that which previously had sustained him –– food, drink, ideology, hate –– after which he sees again, only differently, having been straightened out on Straight Street.

His three days' blindness is a kind of death, followed by rebirth as the Apostle Paul.  That this process took three days evokes Jesus's crucifixion and transformation in the tomb from bodily self to abiding spirit.  And as with Jesus there was no pleasure in the process: Saul's conversion was an affliction, a painful gestation into a new identity.

Paul never forgot the before-and-after of this, who he was, what he became, how hard it was, the imitation of Christ that inaugurated it. Meaning: the replacement of bodily imperatives by a spiritual faith in what he calls the "law of God," a faith always at odds with corporality (Romans 7:14 - 23):

   14  For we know that the law is spiritual: but I
   am carnal, sold under sin.
   15  For that which I do I allow not: for what I
   would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.
   16  If then I do that which I would not, I
   consent unto the law that it is good.
   17  Now then it is no more I that do it, but sin
   that dwelleth in me.
   18  For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,)
   dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present
   with me; but how to perform that which is
   good I find not.
   19  For the good that I would I do not: but the
   evil which I would not, that I do.
   20  Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I
   that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.
   21  I find then a law, that, when I would do
   good, evil is present with me.
   22  For I delight in the law of God after the
   inward man:
   23  But I see another law in my members,
   warring against the law of my mind, and
   bringing me into captivity to the law of sin
   which is in my members.

It's hard to be good, hard to stay the course.  Willpower wars with an implacable internal enemy and proves insufficient to the task: Paul doesn't do what he should but instead does what he shouldn’t.  In the grip of continuously competing "laws," he easily falls short of the mark, as do we all in Pauline theology.

What helps?  For the most part, we are saved by faith, or in Paul's phrasing a resolute hope in the unseen:

   24  For we are saved by hope: but hope that is
   seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why
   doth he yet hope for?
   25  But if we hope for that we see not, then do
   with patience wait for it.

This is interesting.  Transformational hope is of a special kind, one that exists in the absence of evidence, one that exists because of absence of evidence.  There is no roadmap to salvation that demonstrably and visibly works: no self-help program, no steps or levels, no laws of the Torah which if scrupulously observed will succeed in expunging indwelling "evil."  Paul's Epistle to the Romans is not Dr. Paul's Guide To A Cleaner, Holier You.

Rather it is a call to faith, with emphasis on faith more than correct religious practice.  It is as if you've hit a reef, are shipwrecked, find yourself swimming against the tide toward a faraway shore.  You can focus on your strokes and their tempo, your breathing and the resistance of the water; or if you're Paul, you can focus on the certainty of your eventual arrival on land.  This is not just a shift of attention or, cynically, a distraction from immediate peril.  It is a shift of attention that alters the experience of passing time; that is, it becomes possible to patiently wait because you are confident in the outcome.

Forget shipwrecks.  Say you're tackling some bodily craving, and growing frustrated by the day with your modest progress toward a seemingly unreachable goal.  It's sensible to keep up the good work, follow this or that program –– but wiser still to relegate methodology and rate of progress to the background, while sustaining and making foreground an image of an improved you.  It won't hurt, it will bolster willpower, and time will pass more easily.

I am at best nominally Christian but I like elements of Paul's story: that conversion begins with being knocked silly, shocked out of the habitual; that death of one state precedes rebirth to another; that that rebirth is arduous and painful, such that willpower alone may not be enough; that awakening from blindness rouses resistance from an inertial "law" of familiar, instinctive, and peremptory behavioral tendencies; that faith –– a steadfast vision of a new you –– is heartening, in that it undergirds patience and dedication, thereby lightening waiting-time; that bonds of fellowship can sustain one through this process (Paul was fostering nascent Christian communities after the death of Jesus).

   Kill the Demon: Kieran Kane

Finally, should faith waver, spirits droop, and dedication flag, we have this spur:

The Theocosmic Diagram

Ever heard of Arvid Reuterdahl?  Perhaps not –– me neither until last fall.

He made this drawing:

It is The Theocosmic Diagram, the frontispiece of Reuterdahl's 1928 book The God of Science, and it graphically distills that book's theory: a Theory of Everything whereby Reuterdahl demonstrates the essential harmony of religion, philosophy, science, and proves the existence of God and immortality.  Deeply interested in religion and "scientific theism," Reuterdahl rigorously explored these subjects in The God Of Science, his organizing paradigm being the forms and transformations of energy and the overarching concept of cosmoenergy.

"Cosmoenergy" –– that's a catchy hook; and those visitors wanting more data than that provided above –– which admittedly is a teaser –– well, they are encouraged to click on The God of Science, its full text being available online.

Arvid Reuterdahl (1876–1933)
Minneapolis Tribune, 4/10/21

Returning to the Diagram, its meaning seems clear enough so it warrants little if any explication from my editors and me.  We concede that aspects of the space-time kinematrix may prove thorny, but in greater measure Todd, Cyril and I have faith in the analytic faculties of our readers. (We confess that we ourselves have not actually read the entirety of The God of Science, and further allow that were we true researchers we would have fully stayed the course on these Theocosmic waters.)

But rather than explicate text, we will

offer instead some relevant music to accompany your study of the Diagram.

In different ways these songs address the complexities that surround our understanding of natural phenomena.

Care to know more about Reuterdahl? He was born in Sweden and came to America as a boy, later earning bachelor's and master's degrees from Brown University.  An academic, Reuterdahl taught engineering at various universities, eventually heading the Department of Engineering and Architecture at the College of St. Thomas (now University of St. Thomas), St. Paul, Minnesota.  Among his publications was an influential 1908 text, Theory and Design of Concreted Arches: A Treatise for Engineers and Technical Students.  Click here for access to the permanent collection of Reuterdahl's papers at the University of St. Thomas.

Curious readers will discover that Reuterdahl invented a world alphabet, was founder of the Inter–Church Theistic Alliance, and was awarded an Honorary Doctor of Science degree in 1923 by the College of Fellows of the Academy of Nations –– an honor arguably offset by Reuterdahl's having founded and being Chancellor of the Academy of Nations.)

All that said, Reuterdahl may be more remembered for having spent years attacking Albert Einstein's theory of relativity –– in 1921 referring to Einstein as the "Barnum" of science and accusing him of being, if not an outright plagiarist, someone whose theory had been antedated by others.

Henry Ford c.1919 
Library of Congress

But here we are sorry to report that Reuterdahl may have been anti-Semitic in his anti-Einsteinism, in part through association.  That is, Reuterdahl was science editor of Henry Ford's anti–Semitic journal The Dearborn Independent –– yes, that Henry Ford, the industrialist who in the early 1920s published The International Jew: The World's Foremost Problem: a four-volume compilation propagating conspiracy theories that linked Jews to Russian Bolshevism and to control of numerous sectors of American life: finance and the Federal Reserve; the theater, music, and motion picture industries; the so-called Jewish Liquor Trust, etc.  Ford also funded the publishing of 500,000 copies of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a repellent 1903 anti-Semitic hoax presented as truth by Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party.

Now I was thinking it unfair to judge Reuterdahl by the company he kept ... until I came across Einstein's sceptics: Who were the relativity deniers?, a 2010 New Scientist  article by Milena Wazeck, PhD.  Dr. Wazeck is Associate Research Scholar of Environmental Studies, New York University, and below is an article-excerpt that addresses anti-Semitic conspiracy theories.

It specifically cites Reuterdahl:

     For a start, someone's views about whether time could
     be stretched were not defined by ethnicity, nationality,
     religion or political convictions.  Einstein's opponents
     included people who held progressive views, and some
     who were of Jewish descent.  So it would be simplistic
     to characterise the fight against relativity theory in the
     1920s as a one-sided nationalistic or anti-Semitic
     campaign.  Nevertheless, those who opposed the theory
     were not above attacking Einstein the person –– the
     democrat, the pacifist, the Jew.  Lenard, for instance, was
     an early adherent of Nazism and a proponent of the
     nationalist and anti-Semitic "German physics".  By 1922,
     he was already ranting about the Jewish "alien spirit"
     that he claimed the theory of relativity incorporated.

     Aware of their marginalised position, many of Einstein's      
     opponents turned to anti-Semitic conspiracy theories.
     "Our trouble in America is that all scientific journals are
     closed to the anti-relativists through Jewish influence.
     The daily press is almost entirely under the control of
     the Jews," Reuterdahl wrote in 1923.  From this position,
     it was easy for Einstein's opponents to see themselves as
     victims rather than aggressors.  In their interpretation of
     reality, the mere existence of relativity theory and the
     non-acceptance of arguments against it qualified as an
     attack on them.  (Vol. 208, Issue 2786, p.51)

Reuterdahl's tie to Henry Ford is sobering, but this last passage makes me aware how much happier I was when I knew less.  Because up to this point Todd, Cyril and I were, frankly, just playing: we genuinely enjoyed the obsessive abstraction and pseudoscience of the Diagram, and goofing with it.  Now we feel as if we had been absorbed in an intricate rock design, only to find something slimy on the other side.

It may turn out –- should we ever get around to thoroughly reading The God of Science –– that the text is merely wacky and not malignant. Still, it doesn't seem so amusing now, and maybe Reuterdahl should have stuck to concrete arches.

At least you'll like the music.

Wilbur of Buenos Aires

My wife and I are in Buenos Aires, where we are fortunate to have friends Polly and Marco as close neighbors –– so close that we punched an opening through our kitchen wall into their garden.

Two days ago Marco told me that their old dog Wilbur, who died months back and is buried in the garden, used to piss on the flowers of a certain plant (next to which he is buried).  We wondered about this, the peeing on the flowers versus the stalks of the plants –– since, as Marco observed, dogs usually aim for the uprights.

Impatiens Walleriana

The plant Wilbur watered is named Alegría del Hogar (happiness of the home), and a new plant of that species now flourishes atop his spot.  Alegría carries the botanical title of Impatiens Walleriana: Native to East Africa it somehow found its way to Buenos Aires.

Wilbur c.1998 on a day trip to Puerto Madero

A native himself to Buenos Aires, Wilbur was far less traveled, but where he went he went with authority for all his sixteen years –– including our house, which was his house so far as he was concerned.  (At birth, Wilbur was the one male of five puppies: I'm not sure about this but it's possible that a guy growing up with four sisters might possess a certain confidence, and it is a fact that he was one for the ladies and held no truck with males.)

Wilbur was named after the celebrated pig in E.B. White's Charlotte's Web.  A Schnauzer and seemingly a deep thinker, he kept things close to the vest, so he took his flower watering-motives to his garden grave.  Still it should be noted that the flowers Wilbur peed on never died, nor in some sense did he, as his presence abides.