In Search of Healing: Eros or Agape?

So, as some (or most) of you might know, last week from Wednesday to Friday I stayed in Lourdes, France.  Lourdes, France is well known today as a place of healing for the sick -- in 1858, a poor woman Bernadette Soubirous had several apparitions of what is now determined to have been the Immaculate Conception or the Virgin Mary.  Bernadette's experiences with the apparition led her to discover a grotto -- now housing a healing spring -- and also to demand that a priest build a church on the site.  Bernadette had not stated that the spring had healing properties, but after her discoveries, people began to claim that they were miraculously cured by the spring water.  I suppose that these claims originate in the belief that the Virgin Mary led Bernadette to discover the spring for its miraculous healing properties.

Bernadette and the Immaculate Conception (image: sistermariepierre.com)

Today, the sick flock to Lourdes for comfort and healing.  Over 7,000 miraculous cures have been claimed, but only 67 have been acknowledged as 'unexplainable' or 'inexplicable' by the Catholic Church and the Lourdes Medical Bureau.  The Lourdes Medical Bureau itself originates from the skepticism that has always surrounded the miracles, even from the 19th century.  It subjects each miraculous claim to intense scrutiny, sending the patient files to several different doctors before determining that the 'cure' was truly unexplainable in terms of the scientific discoveries of the time.  I suppose Lourdes feels the need to legitimize miraculous claims because it would like to deflect skepticism and safeguard the holiness of the place against fraud.

Crutches hanging at the grotto, as a testament to the miracle cures of Lourdes.

I had expected that this trip would be a highly spiritual experience for me -- especially from participating the candlelight procession at night; however, I found the procession to be disappointing and not as beautiful.  I wish there had been more singing.  

I also didn't watch the procession from above.  I bet it would have been more enjoyable.

Singing Ave Maria and holding up lit candles in the procession. (Image:  author).

I did get what I expected -- a spiritual awakening -- but in much of a different form.  Lourdes is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been in my life.  I felt calm and stable in this place.  I didn't worry about too much, and everywhere I looked I could see a wonder of nature.  

View from the River in Lourdes

Sunrise from the Village des Jeunes (where I stayed) and the medieval fort at Lourdes

I concluded from my experience in Lourdes that beautiful natural surroundings and community [not just the religious fervor] are what make Lourdes into such a healing and spiritual place.  In the morning, I would awake to the soft breeze coming in through my window, and walk outside to breakfast welcomed by beautiful mountains.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I sung in a mass held in three languages, surrounded by French and Italian youth that didn't even know English.  While tightly grasping the hand of the French youth next to me during the Our Father, I remembered that love is a universal language. And with sincerity in my eyes, I shook hands and made peace with the various multicultural participants of the candlelight procession.  In the evening, upon returning to the Village des Jeunes, I embraced an ascetic existence, attempting to leave myself to quiet thought.  Honestly, I surprised myself, because I made it three entire days without connection to the outside world (I chose not to bother finding WiFi).     Through this visit and my various experiences, I learned a lot about myself -- that I enjoy singing, that I want to learn an instrument, that I want to take dance lessons, and that sketching the wilderness is almost like a form of meditation.

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So, now that you know the facets of my experiences at Lourdes, I think that I can explain to you why I feel that Modern Lourdes has gone down a detrimental path.  To me, the religious experience of Lourdes is at odds with the natural experience of Lourdes.  When Bernadette Soubirous discovered the grotto at Lourdes, it would have had a virginal, untouched quality.  It would have been a marvel of the wilderness, not a marvel of human contrivance.

When Bernadette discovered the Grotto, it took several years (around 15, at least) for any large church to be built on the site.  Several healings took place during this time -- I wonder what these were like!  Maybe they owe their power to the power of nature, because I imagine that in addition to the grotto, the trees and river were central to the experience of cures.  Today, however, the beauty of the grotto is crushed under the oppressive weight of a humongous church above, and the bounty of the mountain spring has been bridled with spigots.

The beautiful grotto, smothered by a massive church above.  Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but imagine how beautiful it would have been if you could see the sky or trees that would have been above!  OR the trees that would have surrounded it.

I think the way that nature has been treated at Lourdes is connected to points made in my Paris post on the unveiling and exploitation of nature.  The grotto at Lourdes is definitely a feminine symbol, and this is obviously exemplified that the Virgin Mary has her shrine here.  The visitors to Lourdes may venerate Mary, but they do not realize that they are also partaking in a symbolic exploitation of Mother Earth.  The grotto at Lourdes has three main symbols that establish it as feminine -- the grotto itself, womblike and all encompassing; the spring and its spigots, like a free-flowing supply of milk; and water -- submissive, passive, and omnipresent.  When Amanda stated something in class about how people were screaming and fighting to get at the spouts of water at the grotto, my thoughts congealed.  Desperate for a cure, healing, or some sort of benefit from Mother Earth, many visitors to Lourdes clamber like hungry piglets around a sow's nipples.

Romulus and Remus, suckling from a she-wolf.

I think it's interesting to notice that Lourdes wouldn't work if it was masculine.  It would not make sense if Jesus Christ was enshrined here.  Therefore, while my observations might be a little grandiose, I think it's definitely worth mentioning these symbols and connections.

What would Lourdes look like if it embodied a sense of agape for nature, rather than eros?

I envision an experience focused on the grotto and spring itself.  The way Lourdes is set up at the moment, the grotto is tucked behind the humongous church.  Instead, I think, visitors should directly view the grotto, then continue upwards and around it.  If the site was rearranged, perhaps you would take a procession into the forest, cross the river, and enter the site of the grotto from some sort of bridge.  The grotto would be secluded and quiet.  According to what I heard on the tour, Bernadette even approached the grotto in this way, and she would take her shoes off before crossing the river [I hope I'm remembering correctly] in reverence for the holy grotto.    When conceptualizing Lourdes before arrival, I honestly thought that you would have to pass through a church to get to the grotto, and the grotto would be some quiet, secluded location in nature!  ... I ended up being really wrong.

A more reverent approach to nature reminds me of the spa town in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.  The healing spring that was discovered here in the 1850s is now memorialized but in a much more reverent way. The cliffs above it are free from obstruction, and the area itself feels womb-like and open to the sky.  [I wish I had better pictures].

This might not be perfect, but I think it's a welcome example.

Another building in Eureka Springs, a church to Jesus Christ, called Thorncrown, also seems to act as a monument to nature and a monument to Christianity.  At first, the chapel was going to be built in another location on the same site, but the owner of the land -- highly religious -- intervened, and had the location of the chapel changed based on his account of communications with God [this reminds me of Bernadette]. Thorncrown has been rated among the top 10 buildings in the United States by the American Institute of Architects, and I think rightly so. [If you want to peruse a lot of pictures, go here:  http://www.thorncrown.com/]

The architect of Thorncrown, E. Fay Jones, studied under Frank Lloyd Wright.  Frank Lloyd Wright is known for his buildings that connect with nature -- one of his most well-known buildings is Fallingwater in Pennsylvania.  Nevertheless, Thorncrown acts as direct foil for the ideology behind the church at Lourdes.  In stark contrast to the architect at Lourdes, Fay Jones approached this project with a sense of 'agape' for nature.  He insisted that in the construction of the chapel that no heavy machinery be used, since such machinery risked damaging the ecology of the site.  Furthermore, the entire chapel was constructed by hand, and all the pieces of lumber were of manageable size for teams of men to carry them in their arms.  In these ways, Thorncrown's design seeks to treat nature with respect, and in doing so, has created one of the most spiritually uplifting places I have ever visited.  Thorncrown brought tears to my eyes at the time of my first visit.

Now, I ask:  What if something with a similar sort of outlook had been the shrine at Lourdes?  The soft sound of running water trickling as you sit calmly in a pew?  A place sheltered from the elements yet connected to them?  A place that prostrates you before the wonders of nature?  Perhaps such qualities would increase the adoration of Mother Mary and/or Mother Nature's grace.

Unveiling Nature: Eros or Agape?

La Nature se devoilant devant la Science, or 'Nature unveils herself before Science'.  The picture at the top was taken with my own camera, while the one below is another sculpture of the same work in a different location (Image: flickr, podiceps60).

What an erotic sculpture I viewed in Paris!  At first, I definitely thought it was beautiful.  However, after a while of thinking about it, I have concluded that the sculpture has a much darker side.  I'll delve more into this later.  For now, I'll discuss how it definitely speaks to a widespread philosophy of the 19th century,  including that of scientific naturalism.

Victorian scientific naturalism posits that all natural phenomena are explicable in terms of natural law, and rejects 'supernatural' explanations.  It places nature behind a veil, where it is just the scientist's job to reveal what lies beneath.  In scientific naturalism, Nature holds all the answers, so explaining phenomena becomes merely a matter of finding the information.


Goethe slightly eroticizes nature in his work Aphorisms [http://www.nature.com/nature/first/aphorisms.html], but not to the extent that the sculpture does above.  He seems to have a reverence for nature, when he states:

"She is all things. She rewards herself and punishes herself; is her own joy and her own misery. She is rough and tender, lovely and hateful, powerless and omnipotent. She is an eternal present. Past and future are unknown to her. The present is her eternity. She is beneficient. I praise her and all her works. She is silent and wise."

It's interesting because it sounds like he is talking about a religious figure, such as the Mother Mary.

However, the sculpture I have displayed above is far less reverent than Goethe.  Nature, robed, is removing her covering to reveal her secrets to spectators.  But, the title causes me to pose a question.  The sculpture is called 'Nature unveiling herself before Science.'  This seems to imply a willingness and action on the part of Nature and a passivity on the part of Science.  However, the reality is entirely the opposite!  Science, in 19th century society, is the entity removing the veil, and who knows if Nature is actually willing!  In a way, especially in light of a book I have been reading, I see the mentality behind this sculpture as exploitative and the root of many 21st century issues with the natural environment.

Lately, I have been reading the book Earth in Mind by David Orr [http://www.amazon.com/Earth-Mind-Education-Environment-Prospect/dp/155963295X].  In this book he argues that a widespread disrespect for nature acts as the root causes of our contemporary environmental crisis.  He quotes Stephen Jay Gould [interesting!  we looked at him in class], who states:

"We cannot win this battle to save species and environments without forging an emotional bond between ourselves and nature as well -- for we will not fight to save what we do not love."

Certainly, the sculpture embodies a type of love, but is it acceptable love?  To Orr, this sculpture probably embodies a love for nature in the form of eros, which he defines as "love of beauty or romantic love aiming to possess."  In the 19th century and onward, the prevailing view of nature was to reveal, uncover, unveil, conquer, or master.  All of these verbs imply some sense of possession or control, which fall into the category of eros, despite the possibility that these actions have good intentions.  As Orr states, eros for nature "traps us in a paradox. ... What we love only from self-interest, we will sooner or later destroy."  I don't think that the scientists of the 19th century would have ever thought that their erotic views of nature might have led to severe problems with Nature's exploitation, but little did they know that their journeys to discover the secrets of nature would lead humans to make discoveries that could lead to 'her' downfall.

Orr argues that we need a feeling of 'agape' -- sacrificial love -- towards nature in order to fix the problem. He urges us to be mindful of nature in all our decisions and safeguard the welfare of the biosphere at all costs.  Orr also seems to hint that agape [towards nature] stems from childhood and our innate sense of wonder and awe of the natural world.  In Orr's view, we are equipped with a sense of wonder from childhood, which is stifled by modern conditions, including an education system that stresses 'abstractions divorced from lived experience,' and conditions that keep us perpetually inside, like computers, television, and cars.

I might also add that our sense of wonder likely has diminished in the modern era just from the loss of the night sky to light pollution!  This might have detrimental effects; Orr argues, "As our sense of wonder in nature diminishes, so too does our sense of the sacred, our pleasure in the created world, and the impulse behind a great deal of our best thinking."  But maybe we cannot even escape our loss of wonder, because, it seems that the more we unveil nature, the less nature is a mystery.  Maybe we're becoming bored with nature, and maybe that's why we abuse her.

Perhaps it would have been better if nature had kept her ankles covered.  Then our voracious human appetite wouldn't have began to devour her.

Conscious Automatism: Part Two

An analysis of the overarching imperative for a certain molecular configuration to exist for as long as possible
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A question that has plagued me for some time, which also has roots in the consciousness debate:  Why does everything that lives want to procreate in some way?  Why is the underlying motive of every living action traceable to a 'desire' to continue living, or to duplicate?

One might say that this 'underlying motive' is just necessitated by the fact that our world's existence requires everything to duplicate.  We wouldn't exist, and nothing else living would exist if this was not so.  But this doesn't explain from where this 'underlying motive' originates.

[Note:  I also believe that 'underlying motive' is personifying the mechanism too much.  The push that keeps everything procreating... and its source... is such an abstract, nebulous idea, that it is hard to put it to words.
A push involves a push-er.  A force involves something to apply the force.  A motive implies someone behind the scenes.  Saying that everything 'wants' to procreate also seems too anthropocentric.]

When you conduct an experiment in chemistry class with different concentrations of molecules that react with each other, you will always find that the reaction will eventually find equilibrium.  These molecules are not alive, and they are not constantly fighting to overtake one another.  Natural laws always dictate that the experiment will turn out the same way.

One might see the universe as a much more complex chemical experiment, where many different chemicals are dumped into one big beaker.  If you then extrapolate my example above into this situation, one might conclude that eventually the system would find an equilibrium, and would stay at that spot for quite a while.  I see this idea of chemical equilibrium mirrored within the example of a living population reaching it's carrying capacity.  But obviously, these living equilibriums are disturbed every so often... the carrying capacity lowered or raised, due to random forces in the environment... like a new predator, or a famine, or such.  Things like this don't occur in a simple experiment with two different chemical substances.  All of these examples are just a testament to how intricate our universe really is.

This might leave us with a palatable option.  Perhaps the universe is like a chemical experiment in extreme slow motion, where the size and time scale of the experiment is so vast that we (humans) are unable to realize that the state of things on the earth is comparable to an intermediate configuration of a molecule in a chemistry experiment.

But -- does any of what I say above explain why proliferation is such an imperative?  Atoms and lower-level molecules don't multiply.  But much larger, complex groups of atoms or molecules copy themselves.  Where did this switch  happen?  Where is the line drawn between non-multiplying and multiplying?  Maybe the line is the formation of DNA... but a mystery still remains:  how did DNA even come about?  It doesn't make any logical sense that a certain number of molecules (that don't multiply) would eventually come together in a configuration that would then begin making copies of itself (Note that I struggled and failed to avoid the word 'itself' here -- a word that seemingly connotes that the DNA molecule, by referencing itself, has an awareness of itself ... or some sort of consciousness.  I find this really, really weird.  The thought ties my brain in knots).

William James' essay Are We Automata?" (a rebuttal to Huxley's argument mentioned in the earlier blog post) touches on the conundrum I have outlined above.  James regards survival as an ideal or a value, which consciouness would have to give to the system.  For James, survival seems to have no tangible basis.

"Mr. Darwin regards animated nature as a sort of table on which dice are continually being thrown.  No intention presides over the throwing, but lucky numbers from time to time  fortuitously turn up and are preserved.  If the ideas we have advanced concerning the instability of a complicated cerebrum be true, we should have a sort of extension of this reign of accident into the functional life of every individual animal whose brain had become sufficiently evolved.  As his body morphologically was the result of lucky chance, so each of his so-called acts of intelligence would be another; and ages might elapse before out of this enormous lottery-game a brain should emerge both complex and secure.  But give to consciousness the power of exerting a constant pressure in the direction of survival, and give to the organism the power of growing to the modes in which consciousness has trained it, and the number of stray shots is immensely reduced, and the time proportionally shortened for Evolution" (James, Are We Automata?, 16).

In our modern world, there are a few problems with James' argument.  We know (at least we're pretty sure) that thinking, learning, and 'consciousness' cannot influence DNA, which means, really, that an organism doesn't have "power [to grow into] the modes in which consciousness has trained it," thereby undermining James' idea of consciousness as having a direct effect on evolution.  But, it must be recognized that James seems on the right track in some respects.  It is obvious that evolution does not work without a dog-eat-dog world of reproducing creatures.  But what made and keeps the world this way?

It is true that our bodies -- moving conglomerates of molecules-- contain a plethora of chemical reactions with components that need to stay at certain concentrations to stay in motion, and that our bodies use this motion to maintain the reactions at these concentrations.  But why should the alarm bell sound when these chemical reactions near equilibrium (meaning bodily motion would begin to slow or stop?).  Why does this huge, orchestrated group of chemical reactions tend to preserve itself by reusing its products and ultimately obtaining more reactants from outside the closed system of the body?  Why does every action of the body tend toward survival, including its choices and values? In light of all this, it seems that life wouldn't have came about in a universe with no consciousness.  I could be missing a link here, but... I must say, I think James was on to something.  I would definitely like to read more.

Oxford Museum of Natural History: A Temple to Nature as Revealed by Human Endeavour

Oxford Museum of Natural History, a Gothic beauty.

I'd like to share the ideas I've had for my research on religion, evolution, Gothic architecture and the Oxford Museum of Natural History.

Oh, the light pours in, illuminating the wondrous world of Natural History.  Religious?

I have yet to look into Deane and Woodward (the building's architects) but to this point, I have examined the work of John Ruskin, who was a large influence in the building's design.  Here's a look at the building's history if you want more information:  http://www.oum.ox.ac.uk/learning/pdfs/arch.pdf.  Ruskin wrote a beautiful essay on Gothic architecture within the second volume of his Stones of Venice, titled "Nature of Gothic."

In this essay, Ruskin highlighted several characteristics of Gothic architecture that are, firstly, visible within the Natural History Museum, and secondly, seemingly inspired by the study of natural history and transformist ideas (the precursor to Darwin's theory of natural selection).   I will mention three of them, highlighting their places within the building and their connection to latent ideas of Victorian transformism.

The first characteristic of the Gothic style, "Savageness"

Ruskin seems fascinated with Gothic style's history because he believes it rose out of the constraints of the Northern Europeans' environment.  First, he describes the north as so:

"the earth [heaves] into mighty masses of leaden rock and heathy moor, bordering with a broad waste of gloomy purple that belt of field and wood, and splintering into irregular and grisly islands amidst the northern seas, beaten by storm, and chilled by ice drift, and tormented by by furious pulses of contending tide, until the roots of the last forests fail from among the hill ravines, and the hunger of the north wind bites their peaks into barrenness; and, at last, the wall of ice, durable like iron, sets, deathlike, its white teeth against us out of the polar twilight"

He says these characteristics manifest in the style of Gothic, as follows:

"[the Northern European craftsman] with rough strength and hurried stroke, he smites an uncouth animation out of the rocks which he has torn from among the moss of the moorland, and heaves into the darkened air of the pile of iron buttress and rugged wall, instinct with a work of an imagination as wild and wayward as the northern sea; creations of ungainly shape and rigid limb, but full of wolfish life; fierce as the winds that beat, and changeful as the clouds that shade them"

I find this very interesting because of two reasons.  Ruskin seems to view the Gothic style (or architecture in general) as adapted and influenced by its environment, just like evolving animals would.  He seems to think that the building style reacts to the cold by becoming more rough-hewn, and that the clouds that often come and go inspire the creativity to fill the building with various ornaments.  Or, perhaps he thinks that the harshness of the northern  environment, filled with ice 'like iron,' would inspire spindly, harsh, pointy buttresses and arches.  (Look at how pointy the arches are in the Museum!)

"Changefulness"


Ruskin believes that variation within architecture reflects the natural environment and is good for human health.  He also thinks that it allows the building to be adaptable to its design requirements.  He states:

"All the pleasure which the people of the nineteenth century take in art, is in pictures, sculpture, minor objects of virtu or mediaeval architecture, which we enjoy under the term picturesque:  no pleasure is taken anywhere in modern buildings, and we find all men of true feeling delighting to escape out of modern cities into natural scenery"

The Oxford Natural History museum certainly wouldn't have been the same without Gothic's ability to accommodate various forms of ornamentation.  The building itself is part of the museum.   Various ornamental capitals, column bases, and window mouldings display a plethora of natural species and features. (see below)

Pillars for the second floor loggia showcase various types of local stone, and the labels for these types of stone are even carved into the bases of the column -- emphasizing that the building is its own museum!  (see below)

The cast iron arches are painted with foliage, light seeps in through the glass canopy, and arches stretch outward from each column like branches of a tree.  You can tell that the building evokes this feeling within its modern visitors, as they have emulated it in the top floor of the building (see below).

Perhaps, even, Gothic style, for the Victorians, encapsulated the mechanism of life, which God designed to accomodate infinite variation and transformation.  Ruskin uses the pointed arch as his choice example of Gothic structural 'changefulness':

"The pointed arch was not merely a bold variation from the round, but it admitted of millions of variations in itself;  for the proportions of a pointed arch are changeable to infinity, while a circular arch is always the same"

Notice that the museum makes use of Ruskin's conception of changefulness -- look at how the arches are stretched and compressed to span different widths and stretch to different heights depending on their intended function and location.  Much like animals, the Gothic style could adapt to a building's programmatic needs.

"Naturalism"


Ruskin:  "The third constituent element of the Gothic mind was stated to be Naturalism; that is to say, the love of natural objects for their own sake, and the effort to represent them frankly, unconstrained by artistical laws."

Ruskin's words seem to reflect the new Victorian inclination towards the search for the truth through impartial, secular science.  This characteristic reflects the purpose of a natural history museum: to openly display specimens for examination by visitors. This characteristic, 'Naturalism,' brings me back to my point that the Gothic style allowed the Oxford Museum of Natural History to become a museum in its own right.  Even if all the displays were taken out of the building, in many respects, the building would still perform as a museum, with its various ornaments, faithfully carved and rendered by the hand of an attentive craftsman.  (The ornament in the museum took so much labor and time that all the ornament for the outside wasn't even completed because the budget ran short! ... see below)

If you look closely at the window to the right of this one, you'll notice it doesn't have any ornament like the one on the left -- whoops!

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Gothic was the perfect style for the Victorian Era because of its freedom from rigid architectural dogma.  The Gothic style, in its birth during the 10th - 13th centuries, had been a reaction to the rigid Romanesque style (hailing from Classical Greek and Roman architecture), which required symmetry and uniformity between architectural elements.  In Ruskin's words:

 "For in one point of view Gothic is not only the best, but the only rational architecture, as being that which can fit itself most easily to all services, vulgar or noble."

Furthermore, Gothic style, since it had typically been used for churches when it was conceived, has always carried pious undertones with it.  The mingling of these religious undertones with a natural museum is interesting and quite intriguing -- it leads a visitor to think that the building might be a cathedral to nature!  By the end of my research on the museum, I would love to pin down some evidence that the architect thought of this building in this way.