Mysticism in the Media: Journey, Part 2

Since I published my first analysis of Journey last May, I have played the game several more times. Through these playthroughs I have discovered that Journey is a near-endless well of insights. This, as well as the fact that today is the one-year anniversary of the game's release, leads me to make a few more analytical observations in this post, focusing mainly on the game's mechanics.

Journey concerns exactly what its title suggests: the trips, treks, and voyages which constitute our lives, all involving struggle and transformation in pursuit of a goal. The Mountain is designed to represent that goal, the endpoint at the conclusion of any such personal journey. However, at least for me, the most poignant interpretation of the Mountain is God, his grace, or heaven. In fact, I have found that the various mechanics and elements of the game parallel almost exactly what this specific "journey" is like. Take the "scarf" for instance. In my quest for God, I find that the more I strive to be godly, the happier and more free I become, almost as if I were no longer constrained by the gravity of the natural man. Much like this, the longer the scarf is, the farther you can "fly", metaphorically meaning that you can reach higher places and cross larger gaps. To further the similarity, just as a righteous person needs regular exposure to godly things (such as scriptures or prayer) in order to exercise their freedom, a long-scarfed player needs to regularly "recharge" from the floating red-and-gold cloth encountered throughout the game. 

However, this scarf-lengthening spiritual buildup is far from a one-way process. We will inevitably be led into the temptation that pervades the world, and we will all fall to it at one time or another. In Journey, this principle is represented by the flying stone creatures.

Though we have built up our "scarves" as a result of endless righteous pursuit, it can be instantly torn off when we succumb to the wiles of the adversary. Such spiritual amputation is not easy to repair - it requires the long process of rebuilding your scarf, or in other words, repentance. However, even though these scarf-shortenings can and do happen, it is far from the end. You see, in Journey, you cannot "die"; no matter how far you fall, or how short your "scarf" becomes, you can always proceed in your trek to the divine mountain.

The final scenes of the game reflect yet another spiritual principle. Specifically, I refer to the Gospel's insistence that if we try and inevitably fail to reach God by our own tremendous efforts, God will make up the difference. This idea is called grace, and it is the central climactic theme of the game. When the Journeyer and his companion trudge through the snow, they use every fiber of their being to reach their mountain goal. However, despite their gargantuan effort, they ultimately fail: the Mountain fades from view, and one seems to give up hope. But the brilliance of this part of this game is that it is not the end. This beautiful scene depicts a being who has tried as hard as they can, and though they fail, is elevated by the grace of the divine power which helped them from the very beginning - illustrating magnificently the principle that "we are saved after all that we can do". 

After this resurrection, both symbolic and literal, the game uses this spiritual symbol even more. When we are filled with the grace of God, or with the Spirit, it suddenly becomes natural to live righteously and avoid sin. Things that would be infinitely hard without it become suddenly easy, and what took great effort suddenly become effortless. And what is the Journeyer's dance through the clouds if not effortless? Due to its new, extremely long scarf (and all the connotations that entails) it is able to traverse extremely large gaps, something inconceivable in earlier parts of the game. But the final "chasm", the one ending in the Mountain peak itself, is the most illustrative. When he lives that final archway, he become filled with "light". What cloth had infused in him temporarily all along his journey is now present in him in its fullness, allowing him to soar to his divine goal without pain or even effort. 

As the Journeyer settles on the Mountaintop and walks into the light, you cannot help but feel the godly relief that comes from the Spirit, of a being that has suffered through endless struggles, and finally rests in God.

Saying to Show: Reflections on Wittgenstein's Tractatus

I have just finished the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Wittgenstein, (pictured above) an Austrian-born student of Bertrand Russell, is widely considered the most important philosopher of the twentieth century. This, and the fact that I am currently taking a class about him, means that I have been led to gorge myself upon his philosophical work, beginning with the aforementioned philosophical treatise. And, let me tell you, there is much to partake of.

The Tractatus is Wittgenstein's attempt, through investigations into logic, language, and mathematics, to solve all the problems of philosophy. And even though he himself rejected a lot of its premises in his posthumously-published Philosophical Investigations, I think he did a pretty good job. This is why: by taking a striking turn toward the "mystical" near the end, he uses philosophy to transcend philosophy. The work itself anticipates this, as seen below:

6.54: My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.) He must surmount these propositions: then he sees the world rightly.

In this sense it is not what the Tractatus contains that is important, but what it does not contain. To use a Wittgensteinian set of terms, what it says is irrelevant and ultimately false; what it shows is key.

On that note, let me share with you my favorite proposition from this amazing work:

6.41: The sense of the world must lie outside the world. In the world everything is as it is and happens as it does happen. In it there is not value, and if it were there, it would be of no value. If there is a value which is of value, it must lie outside happening and being-so. For all happening and being-so is accidental. What makes it non-accidental cannot lie in the world, for otherwise this would again be accidental. It must lie outside the world.

What Wittgenstein means by "the world" is unlike the normal definition of the term. Instead of meaning the entirety of existence, of things "as they are, as they were, and as they are to come", he simply intends to signify "the totality of facts, not of things" (1.1). The meaning of this phrase may escape the reader, so let me elaborate by saying that, for Wittgenstein, "the limits of my language mean the limits of my world", (5.6) and that "I am my  world" (5.621). If there is something of which I cannot speak, think, or conceive, common sense says that this thing does not exist to me - it is outside my world. And yet, as the above quotation seems to indicate, these extra-conceptual things are the most important entities of all.

But wait! How can something of which no knowledge is possible give value to the world? How does it even make sense that an un-thinkable thing could make life meaningful? For that, I return to the "say"-"show" distinction mentioned above. There is nothing whatsoever that one can meaningfully say about ethics, metaphysics, aesthetics, etc., for as soon as you try, you run into the problem that you lack a "referent". Take free will, for example. Have you ever seen free will? Even if you were to examine the brains of every person on the earth, combing through grey matter for something which accounts for this nebulous quality, would you then hold free will in your hand, so to speak? Surely not. The existence which our agency possesses cannot be pinned down and examined, and so any attempt to reference it in language would lack meaning. But, as evidenced by our encounters in everyday life, these higher things can be shown.

But what is this "showing", really? If I were to put it simply, I would say that to "show" something is to become a manifestation of that entity. Instead of miniaturizing the thing in your head and then conveying it to another person, (as per Wittgenstein's picture-theory of language and thought) showing involves letting that thing act through you, in as vague a sense as possible. For example, if one were to show ethics, he or she would be an ethical person. Likewise, to show free will, he or she would act freely. 

And now we can see where Mormonism comes in. There are many religions and worldviews that try to bring us into contact with existence outside the Wittgensteinian world. For Hindus, this seems to be Brahaman, while for or others it would be the Tao or even God. But many of these religions or philosophies try to exclusively convey this outside world in language instead of through demonstration. Think of pantheism, for instance. A pantheist believes that God is the reality behind the world, beyond language and beyond conceptualization. While this may sound Wittgensteinian, the fact that this too is a representation of God (however ethereal and abstract) is a form of idolatry, a futile attempt to convey someyhing which cannot be said. The reader then may protest by saying that only a literally thought-less person could avoid this problem - every religion, including Mormonism, seems to have claims about the nature of reality. This is true, but you would be missing a key point: in Mormonism, (and other faiths to varying extents) we say not to say, but to show. When we say that God has a body, it is much more than just a fact: it is a way of getting us to feel our significance as a finite being. Likewise, when we believe that families can be together forever, we are led to experience the joy of the familial life. Both of these are exquisite manifestations of the emotional joy at the heart of reality.

What makes Mormonism unique among all religions is that in it the joy of Reality (capital R) becomes most fully manifest in its believers. These are the fruits of the spirit - it's what you feel when you read the Book of Mormon prayerfully, attend sacrament meeting, or go to the temple. For ultimately, I believe that Mormonism's strength is not is saying the truth, but in showing it.

Accepting Finitude

As a part of the curriculum in my Philosophy of Religion course, I have encountered several definitions for the term "religion". And while they all have a good deal of merit, the most interesting one I have encountered thus far is that "religion is man's response to his finitude". All of humanity has an inherent feeling of inferiority when compared with what could be, whether it takes the form of political dissatisfaction, low self-esteem, or even existential angst, and we want nothing more than to transcend our limitations and become more than we are.

Various religions have different responses to this anxiety over man's finite existence. Hinduism promises that by extinguishing the individual soul or ego, we can escape the endless cycle of rebirth and become one with Brahman. In addition, many sects of Christianity believe that through the "beatific vision", one can escape the world entirely by continual direct communication with God. In fact, this is a common thread throughout nearly all religions - one can escape the finite by going to some other realm where it no longer exists. Mormonism, as it turns out, is a striking exception.

Mormonism gives up all notions of transcending the finite world, as we believe that there is no such thing as a realm where there are no limitations or boundaries. Joseph Smith once said, "the same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there [in the Celestial Kingdom]" (D&C 130:2) meaning that in the eternities there will be no blending of essences or merging of being, but only our day-to-day lives continued on for eternity. Furthermore, the doctrine says we will always have this body, and even God himself is and continues to be a man like ourselves.

If Mormonism is to deny one of our most basic impulses, why believe in it at all? Wouldn't it be much more convenient to be a pantheist, believing that you'll merge into the infinite and impersonal well of being once you die? It actually would, but to do so would miss the point of spirituality entirely. This is why: true religion teaches us not to flee from the present, finite world, but to embrace it. You see, if we were to seek after the seemingly infinite "other", it would inevitably end in a wild goose chase. In similitude to a dog chasing its own tail, goals would be replaced by newer goals, and our trip to the infinite would never end. Far easier, and far happier to be content with what you have right now. For this is precisely what Mormonism teaches: the materially limited world is what there is, and by becoming aware of this reality, we can come to accept its glory.

Of course, that doesn't mean we can't fulfill our longing for the infinite in a roundabout way. As seen here, the transcendent and the immanent are not mutually exclusive; the closer we get to God, and the more we accept the here-and-now, and the more the infinite infuses the finite to the point where they become indistinguishable.To do this is to extend not in breadth but in depth, and to see exaltation in the most mundane of circumstances. This is heaven - where the boundless and the bounded come together in perfect symmetry, ensuring that the aforementioned sociality would be, as Joseph Smith said, "coupled with eternal glory".

Ruminations on the Sacrament

The sacrament has become my favorite part of church.

Rivaling scripture-reading and prayer, the sacrament as an intensely real spiritual experience is often the most spiritually clear moment of my week. But why do I find it so powerful? Aside from the obvious fact that the Spirit is present, I wonder what specifically invites it to come, what makes it such a unique weekly event. I give an answer with this post. Here I will endeavor to show what components of the sacrament make it the powerful symbol that it is, and where it invites in the Spirit.

Let's begin with the obvious: the bread symbolizes the body of Christ, and thus his incarnation into the world of flesh. On the other hand, the water (originally wine) represents the blood of Christ, or his all-atoning sacrifice. But this just scratches the surface - there are many levels of meaning for this powerful ritual.

For example, the sacrament exists as a uniquely physical aspect of Gospel worship. The bread and water are not abstract concepts which we absentmindedly ponder - they are real objects, which are both tangible and corporeal. This is above all a reminder that we should never deny the physical or the material; God has a body of flesh and bones, and all spirit is matter. But even the specific traits of these objects remind us what they stand for. The bread has concrete substance, and is quite literally in one place at one time. However, the water can pervade space much more readily than its solid counterpart, having the capability of figurative omnipresence. Here, (as Alan Watts once pointed out) the bread and water symbolize the unity of matter and spirit, of the finite and the infinite. But most importantly, these symbols can literally enter into us, and thus become a very real manifestation of the fact that God lives in us, and that by partaking of his fullness, it can become part of our very being.

There is also very clear resurrection imagery in the Sacrament. The cloth draped in turn over the bread and water is nothing less than a shroud, meant to represent the death which Christ experienced. But for each emblem priests uncover the shroud, thus symbolizing that he has emerged from the grave victorious.

In addition, all participants in the Sacrament ritual partake of the bread and water together. We all, more or less, do the same thing at the same time, hopefully thinking the same thoughts. In a very real, yet also very symbolic sense, we become one with those around us.

Finally, we can apply the traditional interpretations of this ceremony to us, as well as to Christ. We commemorate Christ's suffering, yes. But he suffered for all of our sins, and so by partaking of the water we remember not only the pain of Christ, but vicariously the pain of the entire human race.

The sacrament is an intensely real, intensely present experience of spiritual oneness with God and with our neighbor. This is a time when boundaries between the spiritual and the physical become thin, and when we can connect with God readily.

D&C 88 and the Gospel of Thomas

SPECULATION WARNING: I am not preaching certain truth. This post contains pure speculation, which could be entirely wrong. 

In 1945, a cache of ancient texts was discovered in Nag Hammadi, Egypt. The most important of these texts was the Gospel of Thomas, the first page of which is pictured below.

The Gospel of Thomas is a collection of sayings that the author claims were spoken by "the living Jesus". Now, to many members of the LDS Church, the idea of Jesus-isms that can't be found in the standard works makes one quite uneasy. While we are told that if we wrote everything that Jesus said or did, "the world itself could not contain the books that should be written", a lot of the stuff claiming to be said by Jesus is, without a doubt, crap. Out of this concern, let me assuage the reader by saying that I believe the Gospel of Thomas to be mostly, if not entirely, out of Jesus' mouth. How do I know this? It is simply because the ideas within them seem so profound that I do not believe they could have had human origin.

Interestingly enough, there is a section in the Doctrine and Covenants which, if boiled down to its bare essentials, has practically the same message as the aforementioned gospel. This is section 88. In this post I will essay to show, through side-by-side comparison, that these two works come from the same source, as they are both inspired.

First, let me share with you saying 77 from the Gospel of Thomas:

 "It is I who am the light which is above them all. It is I who am the all. From me did the all come forth, and unto me did the all extend. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there."

Next, for comparison, consider D&C 88:41:

"He comprehendeth all things, and all things are before him, and all things are round about him; and he is above all things, and in all things, and is through all things, and is round about all things; and all things are by him, and of him, even God, forever and ever."

As you can see, these two are radically similar. Both tell us that God surrounds the universe in different ways, and both tell us that God can be found anywhere and everywhere.

Next, here is Thomas's saying number 3:

"The kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty"

Compare that to D&C 88:47-50: 

"Behold, all these are kingdoms, and any man who hath seen any or the least of these hath seen God moving in his majesty and power. I say unto you, he hath seen him; nevertheless, he who came unto his own was not comprehended. The light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not; nevertheless, the day shall come when you shall comprehend even God, being quickened in him and by him. Then shall ye know that ye have seen me, that I am, and that I am the true light that is in you, and that you are in me; otherwise ye could not abound."

Consider the last sentence in the D&C excerpt. Could there be a more glorious good news that this, that God lives in us, and that we live in him? And could there be a more perfect match for Thomas 3? He is inside us, and by knowing ourselves, we can know Him.

As a brief digression, let me expound on the D&C verses for a bit. It says earlier in the same chapter that "there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no space", meaning together with the above quotation that whenever we see, we see kingdoms, and therefore see God. However, it also says that, despite our seeing Him, we do not comprehend Him. God is figuratively camouflaged, visible to all, yet hidden in plain sight. But one day, it says, we will see him for what He is, and we will know that He has never left our view. 

Finally, consider number 5 of Thomas's sayings:

"Recognize what is in your sight, and that which is hidden from you will become plain to you . For there is nothing hidden which will not become manifest."

Together with D&C 88:66-67: 

"Truth abideth and hath no end; and if it be in you it shall abound. And if your eye be single to my glory, your whole bodies shall be filled with light, and there shall be no darkness in you; and that body which is filled with light comprehendeth all things."

Both excerpts offer the possibility of omniscience, if we will only pay attention to the light of God eternally before our eyes. If we become single to the glory of God, we will comprehend all things, and nothing will be hidden from us ever again.

That's about it. There are many more similarities, which I won't go into. You can, though. I urge you to read both works, as they each contain the light of the Gospel.

Love, Pain, and Faith

In my head, a perfect storm has been brewing. Various ideas which swirled around in my head until recently without direction have now coalesced to become something beautiful, something worthy of shouting from the rooftops. But first, let me share the components of this amazing intellectual concoction.

First, I have recently become enamored with a certain Søren Kierkegaard.

Kierkegaard, who lived in early-nineteenth-century Denmark, is well-known for several reasons. On the one hand, people regard him as the founder of existentialism. He was also a Christian, and so people think of him in addition as one of the greatest Christian philosophers and theologians of all time. But his significance to me lies in his beliefs concerning "uncertainty". He puts it best in his pseudonymously-written work Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments, as follows:

 "[Truth is] objective uncertainty held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness"

To me, what this means is that you cannot escape from the unsure. Ultimately, definiteness and certainty are complete illusions, meaning that you must continue through your life with faith as your only assurance. It is a scary thought, but a profound one at the same time.

The second component of my perfect storm is a book called The God Who Weeps, written by Terryl Givens, (along with his wife, Fiona) whom I have had the privilege of meeting in person.

Though this book says many things, the most relevant point made by it is that heaven is not merely a place of happiness - it is a place where Gods and angels weep over the pain and sins of the human race. In other words, it states that love and suffering are intimately connected.

When these two thoughts came together, I was on the bus, and I was traveling to my place of residence after finishing the first two finals of last semester. A tragedy (which I won't go into) had just occurred, and while I was pondering on the suffering that it would cause, I watched as a disabled man boarded the bus in a motorized wheelchair. For reasons I cannot explain, I suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of love for this person. Unlike at other, less-noble, times in my life, I did not look down upon him in any way - he was a son of God, a manifestation of his glory, and a miracle. It was not long before this new-found love began to extend to everyone that was there with me. The flaws, imperfections, and humanity of every single person in my line of sight made them seem incredibly beautiful.

It was then that I realized I knew absolutely nothing about any of them; they were strangers, people whom I would probably never see again. But I loved them, with all of my heart. Suddenly, the voice of Kierkegaard spoke to me: these people were an objective uncertainty, and I was holding onto them with the most passionate inwardness. It became clear in that moment that all love involves uncertainty, whether it be with a complete stranger, a child, or even a spouse, because we can never know the innermost thoughts of another. In other words, love occurs despite an imperfect knowledge.

But I also felt a profound vulnerability. At most other times in my life, I had been content to live within my tortoise shell of numb comfort, and had refused to open myself up to the magnificent, albeit dangerous, wonders of the world. It is only when I began to venture outside of it that I become exposed to new heights of emotion, and to feel the raw joy that comes from experiencing the divine nature of the world's inhabitants. But I also began to feel incredible pain at their suffering. This love, which mixes joy with sorrow, is completely and totally divine. By exercising it, perhaps we as human beings can see the world as God does, and thus gaze into his heaven.

One can identify this love with something else, too. For what is love, as I have portrayed it, but a manifestation of faith? When we truly love another person, we believe them to be nothing less than a miracle. But we do not know this, we can only have faith in it, trusting that it is true despite the insufficient evidence of our senses.

In summary, I would say that pain, love, and faith are all intimately connected phenomena, having the unavoidable reality of uncertainty at their core. And in conclusion, I'd like to say that I wish all of you to have the same experience that I had on the bus - it was truly a revelation.

The Theatrical Universe

Though my interests lie in the intellectual, my roots actually deal far more with the artistic than the abstract. To put it a little more clearly, I come from a theater family. My great-grandparents (Ruth and Nathan Hale) were the founders of a series of theaters scattered across the Western United States, several of which bear their name. My parents run one of these, the Hale Center Theater Orem.

All of this means that I was brought up around the stage. I am familiar with theatrical nomenclature, and rules such as "don't touch props" were drilled into my head from a very young age. And while I am not much of an actor myself, I know quite a few of them.

In my time with these actors, I have become aware of the two dominant ways by which it is possible for them to do their jobs: technique and method acting. If you are a technique actor, you ideally control your movements, facial expressions, tones of voice, etc. with exact precision. You know precisely what to do to elicit a certain emotion, and have excellent control over your physical body. However, if you are a method actor, you forgo all deliberateness for an entirely different approach. The method actor, in short, tries to be their role. Insofar as they are able, they consciously try to forget that the world beyond the boundaries of the stage exists, making their mind into the character's mind (at least until the curtain call). Some method actors will even try to "be" their role while offstage, (or off-camera) in order to integrate themselves into it as much as they can.

The reader may wonder what this has to do with mysticism, or even with religion. To that reader, I offer this observation: I believe, as Shakespeare said, that the entire world is a stage. We, as immortal spirits, are the actors which play out the roles of our lives, acting the highs and the lows of our existence as a piece of art. But our spirits do not merely act - they are method actors. In fact, they are so good at it that they rarely, if ever, even recall that they are in a play. And you don't, do you? Yes, I believe that the veil of forgetfulness mentioned in doctrine is nothing less than a fourth wall separating us from our audience and director, none other than God himself.

But doesn't this necessarily conflict with the seriousness of God's plan? Wouldn't it be negating the gravity of salvation to see it through such a light-hearted lens? I don't think so. You see, to display the world as a performance puts the plan of God into incredible context, as it means that we are creating a work of art for the glory of God. Everything we do gains a certain significance when looked at artistically, (as expounded upon here) and so to do this with the plan of salvation makes it infinitely more meaningful. We are judged based on our works, sure. But I believe that we can see our works in the context of a performance. Like any performance, our director will judge the actors by how well they follow the script. And what, pray tell, is this script? It is the role we are foreordained to play, as seen in patriarchal blessings and other places. Of course, this director is a little laid-back, and so we are allowed quite a few artistic liberties. Ultimately, however, God sifts the actor-wheat from the actor-chaff by seeing how well we perform whatever it is we perform.

This has an amazing consequence. As with any play, the hardest roles in this life will be played by the best actors. Think of those born into destitute circumstances or with disabilities - they were given that role so that they could shine where others could not. They are not in any way being punished - God is challenging them due to their ability.

Finally, this play will end as all other plays do, with a curtain call. All of us, whether currently on life's stage or not, will drop our act and show ourselves for who we really are.  At that point, we will no longer see the world as a place full of suffering and misery; we will celebrate it for the masterpiece that it is, giving a magnificent bow amid raucous applause.

I look forward to that day, and to the remainder of the performance preceding it. Break a leg!