Four Of A Kine

From our Believe It Or Don’t Files, we bring you news of a cow who gave birth to quadruplets.

"It wasn’t that one of his cows had delivered twins that gave Paul Soucie pause when he checked his pasture. Eleven sets of twins had already been delivered this year on the farmstead near Deweese that Soucie runs with his wife, Janet. But what raised his curiosity on the morning of July 12 was that this particular cow still appeared pregnant.

"’I said, "She sure looks full for having already had twins. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has another calf,"’ Soucie said.

"He was right.

"The cow did indeed deliver another calf. Then another one.

"When the Soucies checked their pasture on July 13, they discovered that the cow had given birth to four offspring without human assistance."

GET THE STORY.

Just Imagine . . .

Yesterday I posted a query asking why we should fill up our imaginations with fiction: visions of ways God didn’t make the world.

Earlier today I posted a note that Jesus himself used fictions, therefore they must (in at least some circumstances) be okay to use.

Having established that, I’d like to go into the speculative basis of why they are okay to use.

Because fiction is such a part of our lives, many folks might pass quickly over the question of why we should do fiction at all and not register the full force of the question. For that reason, I tried to phrase the question as strongly as I could, even using prejudicial language and talking about "filling up our imaginations" with how "God didn’t make the world."

The first of these phrases makes it sound as if we’re cramming our minds full of fiction so that there’s no room left for anything else. In some cases, that may be true. Some people live in fantasy worlds, either in the sense of spending an unhealthy amount of time on fiction (like the Star Trek fans satirized in William Shatner’s famous "Get A Life!" sketch on SNL) or in the sense of being literally unable to distinguish fantasy from reality (in which case the person is clinically psychotic).

Those conditions represent the abuse of the imagination (in the case of obsessive fandom) or an outright mental illness (as in the case of psychotics). But just because a faculty can be disordered doesn’t mean that the faculty itself should not be part of human life.

In point of fact, it seems that coming up with fiction is something that is part of human nature. If it wasn’t for Jesus’ use of fiction, one could always say "Well, that’s just because of the Fall," but the phenomenon of storytelling is a true human universal. Every society has fiction, and that’s a pretty good clue that it’s something built into human nature.

The ostensible opposition between our imaginations and how God didn’t make the world is also prejudicial language.

After all: What does one suppose our imaginations are for, anyway? The whole point of an imagination is being able to envision how the world might be but isn’t–at least at present.

It’s true that we can use our imaginations to try to reconstruct the way that the world was or the way it might be right now in areas out of our sight, but one of its principal functions–and very likely its main function–is to enable us to model how the future might go. This allows us to plan, to envision how we’d like the world to be and then determine what’s the best way to move the world in that direction.

What will happen if I ask my boss for a raise? What arguments will be most effective in getting me one? Will this girl agree to marry me? How can I increase my chances of getting her to say yes? How can I get the baby to stop screaming at the top of his lungs? How can I get Fr. to end this liturgical abuse? Etc., etc., etc.

All of these are questions that involve envisioning the world a way it isn’t now. We may be using our imaginations in these cases to figure out how to change the world, but the point is that our imagination is still bound up, part and parcel, with the idea of fiction. Trying out fictions of how the world might be is what the imagination is for.

A person without the ability to engage the faculty of fiction has a broken imagination, and that’s all there is to it.

That’s only one reason why fiction is important, though.

More to come.

What Is Truth?

"For they have set out for his sake and have accepted nothing from the heathen. So we ought to support such men, that we may be fellow workers in the truth" (3 John 7-8).

Since the elevation of Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger to the papacy as Pope Benedict XVI, I have been reading several biographies of him. Among them are The Rise of Benedict XVI by John L. Allen Jr., the Vatican correspondent for the National Catholic Reporter, Pope Benedict XVI: His Life and Mission by non-Catholic Christian historian Stephen Mansfield; and Pope Benedict XVI: A Personal Portrait by Heinz-Joachim Fischer.

One thing that struck me in the various accounts of our new Holy Father is that although his passion for objective truth is like a golden thread woven throughout his life pattern, those who tell his life story remark that he is one of the kindest, gentlest people you could ever hope to meet. He has been known to publicly debate non-Catholics, even atheists, and yet he is acclaimed for acceding to the good points they make. For example, in one such debate, recounted by Allen, before Ratzinger’s election to the papacy, an atheist challenged Cardinal Ratzinger, saying that there was a difference between a "life" and a "person." Yes, Ratzinger acknowledged, that is true and conceded the point by commenting that even a plant is a "life" and that there should be careful distinction between the two terms.

Contrast this generous and humble attitude with that of certain non-Catholic Christians and even some Catholics who appear to be just as passionately concerned for the purity of objective truth, even to the extreme of fashioning faddish "No Compromise" bracelets, but who cannot concede that anyone but they could be right in every detail. A person must either agree with them on everything they declare to be The Essentials, or, quite literally, be facing damnation.

My question then is how passion for objective truth can place one person on the road to sanctity and others on the road to sanctimony.

Perhaps the answer is that there is a difference between a love of truth and a love of being right.

A love of truth can allow a man to be one of the staunchest defenders of Catholic orthodoxy of modern times and yet also allow for him to be personal friends with those who sharply disagree with him. Dr. Fischer, for example, recounts how Cardinal Ratzinger confided in him before the opening of the conclave that he hoped that the new pontiff, whom Ratzinger in no way thought would be he, might choose Ratzinger’s favorite papal name, "Benedict"; yet, at the same time, Dr. Fischer counsels supporters of women’s ordination that they may yet have hope of succeeding in the generations to come. In other words, Cardinal Ratzinger could both be a defender of Catholic orthodoxy and a personal friend of someone whose own views on certain issues apparently are quite heterodox.

On the other hand, a love of being right can allow non-Catholic Christian apologists to bicker viciously among themselves over whether Roman Catholics are Christians and all but excommunicate those they perceive to be Dancing With Roman Wolves. It can also allow certain Catholics to bicker among themselves over whose interpretation of Vatican II is Right and to dismiss as lost in the quicksands of "modernism" any who, for example, attend the standard rite of the Mass or who think Vatican II was a Good Thing.

Perhaps the key to choosing the road to sanctity rather than the road to sanctimony is to understand that we must be servants of the Truth — fellow-workers in the Truth, so to speak — rather than masters of Truth who keep Truth as our personal possession.

Truth is Someone, an infinite Someone (cf. John 14:6), and that means that it is outside ourselves and cannot be packed fully into our finite minds. We can have access to the Truth, like the householder who inventories his storeroom and continually finds treasure both new and old (cf. Matt. 13:52). It also means that we may not have the access to Truth that others have. The Church is the depository of all Truth and will be guided into all Truth, but individuals may not see some facets of the Truth that other individuals do. It is for us to accept those facets, "baptize" them where necessary, and discern how they fit into the larger Truth entrusted to the Church. It is not for us to dismiss others, even those of different religions or of no religion, as know-nothings. They may not know it all, but then neither do we.

In short, to be at the service of the Truth is to admit the possibility of being wrong. Without an ability to acknowledge when we are in error — or that it is even possible that we might err — we will never grow in Truth. We’ll have only that Truth about which we are sure that we’re right and no more.

A Knock-Down Blow

Let me give you what I consider to be a knock-down blow for the hypothesis we considered earlier that we shouldn’t be filling up our imaginations with fiction–imaginings of the way the world ain’t. I’ll offer additional arguments tomorrow (and I’m sure others will or by the time you read this already have offered them in the comboxes), but this one I consider a clincher:

Jesus used fiction.

If you think about it, that’s what his parables are: They’re short fictions.

When he starts talking about a man who went away on a journey and entrusted his property to his servants, it would be a mistake for someone in his audience to yell out "What was his name?!"

Someone actually does do that in Monty Python’s The Life Of Brian when Brian tries to tell a parable, but it’s missing the point. It’s a mistake.

It would be even more of a mistake to try to find out when and where the guy lived in history. When Jesus says things like this, he doesn’t have particular historical individuals in mind (so far as we know).

As a result, his parables are fictions. They may teach truths about the world, but the contain elements that aren’t the way the world is (or was or will be).

And if Jesus can use fiction . . . then so can we.

What's The Point?

A reader writes:

I was wondering if you would have any insight into the contradictory translations of Isaiah 63:9 in the RSV-CE and the NAB.

While taking a class on the theology of the Holy Spirit, I came across the fact that this verse is rendered differently in the two Catholic translations:

Isaiah 63:9 (RSV-CE)

In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.

Isaiah 63:9 (NAB)

in their every affliction.

It was not a messenger or an angel,

but he himself who saved them.

Because of his love and pity

he redeemed them himself,

Lifting them and carrying them

all the days of old.

In the RSV it was the angel that saved them; in the NAB is was not an angel.

A book used heavily in the class was The Holy Spirit: Growth of a Biblical Tradition by Fr. George T. Montague.   Fr. Montague makes a passing reference (on page 54) to the verse:

"…depending on how the identical Hebrew letters are pointed, one can derive the [opposite] translation…"

I was wondering how Hebrew works, such that you can get an opposite translation from the same characters, differently "pointed."

Sure, no problem. First, take a look at this Hebrew word:

This is the word B’reshit, which is the Hebrew equivalent of "Genesis." It’s pronounced something like "bray-SHEET."

It’s the first word in the book of Genesis, and it’s customarily translated into English as "In the beginning."

Now, the thing about the Hebrew writing system is that it developed over time, and originally it didn’t have any vowels, just consonants.

In modern Hebrew script, the consonants are written in the large, black blocky letters that you see here. Originally, b’reshit would have simply been written B-R-SH-T (only in Hebrew letters). If you were an ancient Hebrew, you would have relied on your knowledge of Hebrew vocabulary and context to figure out what words you were looking at in the text from just the consonants.

KND F TH WY Y CN WTH THS TXT.

Only they didn’t have spaces between written words then, either, so it all would have run together.

Over time, the Hebrews noted something about writing their text this way with only consonants.

It sucked.

So they started coming up with different ways to indicate what vowels ought to go into words. One of the first attempts was to impress certain consonants into doing double duty, so sometimes they represented consonants and sometimes they represented vowel sounds. Kind of like our letter Y, which can be either a consonant or a vowel.

That happens in Hebrew, too. In b’reshit the next to last letter (starting from the right) is a yod, which can be either a Y or an I sound. Here, it’s an I, though it sounds like a long-E (as in "sheet’).

These double-duty consonants made it much easier to figure out how to read texts, and so they became known as "the mothers of reading" (Latin: matres lectionis). 

Unfortunately, there were only four maters, and they didn’t help enough, so the scribes set about coming up with real vowels.

Instead of coming up new blocky letters to put in the middle of words, they decided to rely on little dots, like the ones you see under several of the letters in b’reshit. (Arabic and Aramaic use similar systems of little marks above and below their consonants, too.)

For example, under the second letter (counting from the right) of b’reshit has a couple of dots under it that look like a colon laying on its side. That’s the mark for a long-A vowel sound. (The A-sound in "bray-SHEET.")

Over time, they also came up with spaces between words (as you’d see in a modern Hebrew Bible) and other marks to help the reader out. For example, in the first letter of b’reshit there is a dot right in the middle of the letter. This is because the letter can be pronounced either B or V, but the dot tells you to pronounce it B.

Similarly, there is a dot over the right hand side of the fourth letter, which looks kind of like a stylized W. This letter can be pronounced either S or SH. If you put a dot over its left side, it’s S, but if you put the dot over its right side (as here) then it’s SH.

The guys who came up with these marks were known as the Masoretes, and they didn’t finish their work until the Renaissance, giving us the fully-marked or Hebrew Bible called the "Masoretic Text." Since the marks are (mostly) dots, the process of adding to a Hebrew text is called "pointing" it.

Pointed texts are much easier to read, but they are harder to write, and so today in Israel newspapers, street signs, and books are commonly written in unpointed form. Texts where getting the exact reading correct–like the Bible–are written in pointed form to eliminate ambiguity.

As you can imagine, there can be considerable ambiguity without the vowels, spaces, and other marks. Sometimes the meaning of a sentence can change dramatically or even reverse itself without these to help us along.

Unfortunately, the Masoretes were not (despite some claims otherwise) divinely inspired in their readings, and so it is possible for them to have gotten things wrong, and a translator who doesn’t simply accept the reading they gave a word will have to make a choice about how it should be understood.

That’s what’s happening in the case of Isaiah 63:9.

As you can see, there is a disagreement with the RSV translators and the NAB translators. I haven’t looked it up, but my guess is that the RSV is going with the Masoretic reading and the NAB is going with an alternate reading.

What’s The Point?

A reader writes:

I was wondering if you would have any insight into the contradictory translations of Isaiah 63:9 in the RSV-CE and the NAB.

While taking a class on the theology of the Holy Spirit, I came across the fact that this verse is rendered differently in the two Catholic translations:

Isaiah 63:9 (RSV-CE)
In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.

Isaiah 63:9 (NAB)
in their every affliction.
It was not a messenger or an angel,
but he himself who saved them.
Because of his love and pity
he redeemed them himself,
Lifting them and carrying them
all the days of old.

In the RSV it was the angel that saved them; in the NAB is was not an angel.

A book used heavily in the class was The Holy Spirit: Growth of a Biblical Tradition by Fr. George T. Montague.   Fr. Montague makes a passing reference (on page 54) to the verse:

"…depending on how the identical Hebrew letters are pointed, one can derive the [opposite] translation…"

I was wondering how Hebrew works, such that you can get an opposite translation from the same characters, differently "pointed."

Sure, no problem. First, take a look at this Hebrew word:

BereshitThis is the word B’reshit, which is the Hebrew equivalent of "Genesis." It’s pronounced something like "bray-SHEET."

It’s the first word in the book of Genesis, and it’s customarily translated into English as "In the beginning."

Now, the thing about the Hebrew writing system is that it developed over time, and originally it didn’t have any vowels, just consonants.

In modern Hebrew script, the consonants are written in the large, black blocky letters that you see here. Originally, b’reshit would have simply been written B-R-SH-T (only in Hebrew letters). If you were an ancient Hebrew, you would have relied on your knowledge of Hebrew vocabulary and context to figure out what words you were looking at in the text from just the consonants.

KND F TH WY Y CN WTH THS TXT.

Only they didn’t have spaces between written words then, either, so it all would have run together.

Over time, the Hebrews noted something about writing their text this way with only consonants.

It sucked.

So they started coming up with different ways to indicate what vowels ought to go into words. One of the first attempts was to impress certain consonants into doing double duty, so sometimes they represented consonants and sometimes they represented vowel sounds. Kind of like our letter Y, which can be either a consonant or a vowel.

That happens in Hebrew, too. In b’reshit the next to last letter (starting from the right) is a yod, which can be either a Y or an I sound. Here, it’s an I, though it sounds like a long-E (as in "sheet’).

These double-duty consonants made it much easier to figure out how to read texts, and so they became known as "the mothers of reading" (Latin: matres lectionis). 

Unfortunately, there were only four maters, and they didn’t help enough, so the scribes set about coming up with real vowels.

Instead of coming up new blocky letters to put in the middle of words, they decided to rely on little dots, like the ones you see under several of the letters in b’reshit. (Arabic and Aramaic use similar systems of little marks above and below their consonants, too.)

For example, under the second letter (counting from the right) of b’reshit has a couple of dots under it that look like a colon laying on its side. That’s the mark for a long-A vowel sound. (The A-sound in "bray-SHEET.")

Over time, they also came up with spaces between words (as you’d see in a modern Hebrew Bible) and other marks to help the reader out. For example, in the first letter of b’reshit there is a dot right in the middle of the letter. This is because the letter can be pronounced either B or V, but the dot tells you to pronounce it B.

Similarly, there is a dot over the right hand side of the fourth letter, which looks kind of like a stylized W. This letter can be pronounced either S or SH. If you put a dot over its left side, it’s S, but if you put the dot over its right side (as here) then it’s SH.

The guys who came up with these marks were known as the Masoretes, and they didn’t finish their work until the Renaissance, giving us the fully-marked or Hebrew Bible called the "Masoretic Text." Since the marks are (mostly) dots, the process of adding to a Hebrew text is called "pointing" it.

Pointed texts are much easier to read, but they are harder to write, and so today in Israel newspapers, street signs, and books are commonly written in unpointed form. Texts where getting the exact reading correct–like the Bible–are written in pointed form to eliminate ambiguity.

As you can imagine, there can be considerable ambiguity without the vowels, spaces, and other marks. Sometimes the meaning of a sentence can change dramatically or even reverse itself without these to help us along.

Unfortunately, the Masoretes were not (despite some claims otherwise) divinely inspired in their readings, and so it is possible for them to have gotten things wrong, and a translator who doesn’t simply accept the reading they gave a word will have to make a choice about how it should be understood.

That’s what’s happening in the case of Isaiah 63:9.

As you can see, there is a disagreement with the RSV translators and the NAB translators. I haven’t looked it up, but my guess is that the RSV is going with the Masoretic reading and the NAB is going with an alternate reading.