A Religious Secularism

My last day in Paris is one I’ll think back on with a particular fondness. In the morning, as I mentioned in my last blog post, the whole group went to the Musée des Arts et Métiers, which was awesome! But with my free afternoon away from the class, I went to check out Le Pantheon.

The outside of the Panthéon; clearly, impressive
but I've seen lots of impressive things this summer

The outside of the Panthéon is impressive, but it’s the kind of impressive I’ve gotten used to going to a school like Yale and having spent the last few months in Cambridge (which sounds bad, but it’s a little inevitable). Anyway, while the outside was pretty cool, I was absolutely gobsmacked (yes, gobsmacked; the only word I can think of with the appropriate connotation) by the inside.

Before walking inside, all I had known of the Panthéon was that it is meant to be France’s secular testament to those great minds that contributed to the worlds of literature and science and statecraft and knowledge in general. And, I had heard that Voltaire and Rousseau were buried there, but I didn’t give it a second thought. You have to put dead people somewhere, right?

Anyway, the inside was gobsmackingly incredible. The inside is laid out in the shape of a Greek cross (which seems like a trend; the Salpêtrière was laid out in the same way too). At the head of the cross is a statue of Marianne, the traditional symbol of French liberty and reason, at La Convention Nationale. You can see that the principles she stands for are being celebrated. In the middle of the cross, there are four statues dedicated to the French Revolution and its intellectuals. Of special mention is the statue commemorating Diderot’s Encyclopedia, and maybe the ancient beginnings of Wikipedia. My favorite is this one where lots of brilliant men are frozen in mid-boogey—or maybe that’s just my take on it.

French Revolutionaries sure
do know how to get down

A statue to honor Diderot and his Encyclopédie 

Marianne at the head of the Panthéon

Voltaire's final resting place in
the Panthéon's Crypt

What’s most interesting to me about The Pantheon isn’t the crypt with Voltaire’s and Emile Zola’s remains, but the implications of the immense mural painted about the entire interior. It depicts St. Genevieve, the patron saint of France. But what exactly is a Catholic saint doing in a shrine to secularism and intellectual achievement?

To be fair, the Pantheon was originally built as the Abbey of St. Genevieve, so perhaps the artwork is leftover from the less secular days of France. But even since its commissioning in 1790 as Le Panthéon proper the building has reverted twice to a church, yet always to return to a meeting place of great intellectuals complete with the saintly artwork. Why does secularism seem to triumph over religious stricture?

A little bit of The Apotheosis of Saint Genevieve

Maybe the Panthéon proves that there really is no such thing as secularism, that nothing can ever really be free from any religious bearing. Since much of history (and even current events) is based on religion and religious conflict, maybe it’s wholly appropriate that there is at least a shade of religious belief in most secular institutions—especially governments. England still has a state religion and the American Constitution (my favorite document!) is firmly rooted in the Judeo-Christian tradition, just to throw out a couple examples.

But even beyond a history rooted in religious beliefs, there is something to be said for a world not rooted in the shackling of man’s intellect. That type of world order doesn’t exactly lend itself to Newtonian physics, or Hume’s skepticism, or really any new secular knowledge. I really do believe that religion, inadvertently or otherwise, and despite persecuting its forefathers for their scholarship, laid the foundation for intellectual exploration. When God makes man the stewards of His creation, there is a certain amount of freedom that that imbued upon mankind, not the least of which is the freedom to explore the natural world. Perhaps it's this idea, the superiority of man and his intellect (which isn't necessarily religious, but I'll argue has its roots in Scripture) that gave rise to all the compendia of knowledge.

Is it possible to measure humanity?

Loyal readers! I have triumphantly returned from my latest bout of global travels-- this time to Paris and Barcelona via London. Needless to say it was incredible and I've got the stamps in my passport to prove how worldly I am now.

The Eiffel Tower in Paris on a gorgeous, but
 rather toasty summer day

Though it seems like forever ago at this point, I spent my last morning in Paris in what is now certainly one of my favorite museums in the world: the Musée des Arts et Métiers. I got to see Foucault's pendulum that proved the rotation of the earth; I spent some time looking at ways of keeping time that never caught on; I witnessed the vogue of static electricity; and I got spooked by some creepy dolls.

Some of the automata on display at the
Musée des Arts et Métiers

These automata were popular in the 19th century for performing tasks that were once thought to be uniquely human. In this YouTube clip, one automaton is writing poetry. In this clip, another automaton is playing the piano, mimicking the motions of a pianist in the thralls of a beautiful sonata. In this final clip, an automaton is writing in ornate script. I've already been confronted with the moral conundrum of what it means to be human in this class, but it was never so starkly laid out before than in the automata and the museum's visiting art exhibit.


Enki Bilal was the artist. I've never really been into cartoons or modern art in general, but I'd also never been in an exhibit that so thoroughly engaged all five of my senses. It was entitled Mécanhumanimal and depicted semi-terrifying man-machine hybrids and a dystopian world wholly devoid of any warm, fuzzy emotion I'm familiar with. I was actually a little terrified walking through the dark hallways and hearing mechanical breathing not unlike Darth Vader and looking in a mirror to not see my reflection but a digital skull.

Mécanhumanimal by Enki Bilal

Like I said, I have no artistic expertise of which to speak so my reading of Bilal's work could be COMPLETELY wrong, but I'm willing to embarrass myself here. The exhibit felt like the struggle between two definitions of humanity: the mechanization and brutal futility of emotion versus passion and brutally raw emotion. I was really struck by one drawing entitled Romeo and Juliet. Echoing the Shakespearean drama, a bloodstained lover was holding a bloodstained gun to his temple, holding his dead beloved. Over his shoulder lurked clean-cut henchmen seemingly awaiting the couple's demise.

I could not describe the look of utter surrender and passion in the figure's eyes and credit to Bilal for being able to convey those emotions so vividly. Clearly in this instance it was those emotions that defined his humanity, the very reason for his existence. But what of the mechanized temptresses I saw in the other drawings? Was it the passion they evoked that made them human or was it an abdomen of flesh and blood?

Were these figures human at all? Are machines then capable of these same human emotions? And then there's the issue degrees of humanity. Does the depth of the emotion I feel determine how human I am? Or is it how successfully I can complete certain tasks? Or how quickly I learn and forget?

My brother, a soon-to-be-lawyer, and I often argue over which one of us will provide the world with the more valuable service? I think that as a doctor, I'll be the one doing more good (but I expect his net worth might prove me wrong someday). I'm not sure I've ever been able to articulate this clearly enough to him, but I think I'll be providing the more valuable service because I will be the one required to feel emotion. In practicing and perfecting the craft of medicine, I will necessarily have to empathize with patients and allay their fears. As a lawyer, I'm not sure my brother will necessarily need to feel the pain of his clients so thoroughly. Surely, the experience of feeling this emotion contributes more to the human race than protecting monetary assets.

In any sense, I hardly expect to define humanity or chart out a scale of it any time soon. But at least I know my father will always agree with me, that medicine is more valuable than legal training, even if it is only to keep peace in the house. 

A Visit From the Lourdes

Pope Benedict XIV, born Prospero

Lorenzo Lambertini, brought the Church back

 to some more academic roots and strengthened 

the institution of miracles with strict scrutiny

Yesterday, we were lucky enough to be visited by Alessandro Francisis, Director of the Lourdes Medical Bureau. His résumé is impressive, to say the least. He was educated in Naples as a pediatrician, elected to the Italian Parliament, and made frequent trips to Lourdes as a volunteer in his youth. A few years ago, he was appointed Director of the Lourdes Medical Bureau, where he uses his medical training to ascertain which unexplainable cures are actually miracles according to the Lambertini Criteria set forth by Pope Benedict XIV.

The field of medicine has been growing more clinical, more technical over the past decade; yet, Dr. Francisis was adamant and sincere when he called the medicine he practiced an “art”. The idea of medicine as art really struck me, particularly as someone who wants to be a doctor someday. He spoke reverently about the physical examination of a patient, relating to us stories of physically getting on patients’ levels at Lourdes so as to fully invite their concerns and eliminate any opportunity for intimidation. He even makes a conscious effort to not look at his watch so that visitors to Lourdes know that they are indeed his priority for the moment. All this stems from a religiously rooted belief that everyone deserves this type of spiritual and medical attention. I admire the unique way he seems to connect with his patients on a personal, spiritual level. I know I’m afraid of getting too emotionally involved with my patients in the future to be able to make clear-headed medical decisions, but Dr. Francisis seems to have mastered that craft.

Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man
Maybe medicine can be an art form

I was immensely comforted by Dr. Francisis belief that the pursuit for knowledge is never-ending. There will always be “something we have to reach”, he says. He continued to say the “gift of intelligence, the freedom to do research” were all “gifts from God”. I don’t think there’s anything in life I love more than learning, so the idea that the quest is never ending makes the nerd in me really rejoice. However, Dr. Francisis also said there would always be room for a spiritual explanation; humanity will never come to anything so completely so as to negate the necessity and divine action of God.

That there will always be room for divine explanation is comforting and completely terrifying. Like I said before, I never want to the process of learning to end. But to think that there will always be a gap in human knowledge that can only be filled by divine forces is also a little scary. On some level, humanity will always be self-destructive and helpless, but to have no earthly remedy for these situations is mildly terrifying. Sure, there’s “always going to be space for wonder”, but I don’t want wonder to hinder what I can accomplish on my own. At what point will God’s presence become an excuse to no longer pursue worldly knowledge? When is the human intellect and experience no longer adequate?

Maybe all this is a personal crisis of faith, my inability to accord the God I was taught to believe in with the world I see today (and the world I imagine there will be). Dr. Francisis told us of his own religious misgivings when he was 17 and working at Lourdes, confronted day after day with sick children. I would love to visit Lourdes and witness the type of overwhelming and unquestioning faith that people exhibit. I’m not sure what I would learn, but I’ve got this feeling that it would be incredibly illuminating experience.

Lots of people volunteer at Lourdes each year. I'll see if
I can convince my mother to come with me

Where oh Where is My Polymath?

I really like guys who can talk about finance. And politics. And molecular biology. And now evolutionary biology. And the law. And morality and ethics. And obscure social constructs. I really like guys who know about everything.

And you’d think Yale University would be the place to find that guy? Well, maybe he exists, but it feels a monumental task to find him. But, more so than my unreasonable taste in fellas, I think this is indicative of my generation’s loss of the polymath.

Maybe the polymath I'm looking for
is in my beloved Sterling Memorial Library

For those who haven’t bothered to look it up, a polymath, as defined by the OED, is “A person of great or varied learning; a person acquainted with many fields of study; an accomplished scholar”. Alfred Russel Wallace comes to mind. He’s most famous (as I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts; sorry for being repetitive!) for not getting his due credit on the theory of evolution by natural selection. But after his work was jointly published with Darwin, Wallace went on to do some other impressive, although questionable things.

Wallace held well-respected opinions on social policy, publishing Land Nationalisation; Its Necessity and Its Aims in 1882. He also backed a monetary system based on pure paper money, and declared himself a socialist. Wallace, to my hearty displeasure, was also set firmly against vaccination in the Victorian era. And, in The Wonderful Century: Its Successes and Its Failures, Wallace analyzed the scientific and technological advances of the 19^th century, but also criticized the century’s social shortcomings. Clearly, Wallace was well versed in all the relevant topics of the era.

I don’t think that person exists today, the modern Renaissance man who can be well-respected across even wholly different disciplines. Much of that has to do with the culture of skepticism that has pervaded Western culture since the Enlightenment. But more than that, people confine themselves to certain areas of pronouncement. For example, in class we read Huxley’s 1874 On the Hypothesis that Animals Are Automata, and Its History. More than one of us, including one of our professors, thought that it was odd that a British naturalist was pronouncing the nature of mankind as it relates to theological matters. Is science not firmly out of the religious realm? Alfred Russel Wallace clearly did not think so.

The Lourdes Basilica Church
I'll get a chance to learn from Alessandro Francisis,
Director of the Lourdes Medical Bureau tomorrow.

Perhaps it’s just too difficult to be so widely read today. There is simply just too much knowledge in the world to be conversant in all areas of potential study. And there’s the very real possibility that no one will take you seriously if you do decide to comment on such varied matters. Given that I’m in no danger of being mistaken for a polymath, I’ll take my sweet time learning from all those almost-Renaissance figures about me now.