Has Neuroscience Disproved the Soul?

What if I told you that all the interactions you’ve ever had on Facebook—shared pictures, comments, wall posts, the whole kit and caboodle—are just a bunch of computer data, a series of ones and zeroes stored on a server somewhere in California?

Would you stop using Facebook? Probably not.

There are some people who discount the possibility of a soul simply because we can scientifically account for every thought and emotion a person experiences. The argument is that, since everything that goes through our brains—random thoughts, creative ideas, and unconscious reactions—can be reduced to a chemical reaction, electrical current, or other observable phenomenon, the idea of a soul is impossible. To put it more simply, this argument says that there is no room for the soul in the brain. Since we can account for everything in the life of the mind, how can the soul possibly fit in?

The answer is simple. Science can observe physical phenomena, but it cannot describe the full breadth of human experience. Science is one valid perspective on life, but it is not a comprehensive system of understanding, nor is it meant to be. Science is a practical art that leads to greater knowledge about the universe, thereby increasing our ability to thrive within it. However, it is not a system of philosophy.

One who allows his scientific conclusions to entirely dictate his view of life is akin to one who sings everything he wants to say. Singing is fine activity and has its place in life, but it should not be the only way to communicate. In the same way, science is important and admirable, but cannot claim more than its due share of our understanding.

So if I tell you that all of your Facebook pictures are just ones and zeroes stored on a server in California, are you going to stop uploading them? No. On the contrary, you might say something like this: “A programmer may be able to see them as ones and zeroes, but they have a much greater meaning. Those ones and zeroes add up to become a picture of me and my family on vacation in North Carolina.”

 
In the same way, the physical and chemical reactions in our brains add up to much more than mere physical phenomena. They are the physical representations of the thoughts, feelings, and memories that make up our lives. There is something much deeper to a human being than simple physicality. Even though we can’t see it, we know it’s there. And we call it a soul.

Thoughtfully,
Joezilla

Don't Forget Your Uppercut

Growing up in the ‘80s or ‘90s, it was a well-known fact that the “start” button paused any and all video games. However, there was one glorious exception to this rule: the uppercut in Punch-Out!

For those who never knew its exhilarations, Punch-Out! was an extremely popular boxing game on NES in which players entered the ring as Little Mac, a pint-sized runt who, through some highly unethical breach of WBA regulations, faced a series of monstrous opponents two or three times his size.

But Little Mac had two advantages: first, his determination to fight and win; and second, the human being controlling him.

Still, once the bell rings and Mac’s first opponent ambles forward, apprehension never fails to kick in. The fact is, the guys you face in this game are huge. Some of them can make mincemeat out of Mac with just a few punches. Mac’s punches, on the other hand, come off as depressingly anemic. Then again, what more could you expect from a guy who has to jump a foot in the air to reach his opponent’s chin? But this little guy is not without his trump card.

Into this daunting situation, Digital Providence has tossed a happy surprise: Mac’s signature move, the spinning uppercut. It takes a lot out of Mac, and is only possible when his confidence is up after scoring a particularly effective shot against an opponent—but when he’s able, Mac spins around, spirals into the air in a dazzling five-foot vertical leap, and drives his little fist straight into the adversary’s unsuspecting face. All this is triggered by pressing the “start” button.

This is quite literally a game-changing punch that has the power to instantly lay out some opponents. And when it’s timed right, this baby is still—in the age of ultra-HD graphics and super-intuitive game engines—still one of the most satisfying moves in all of Video-Gamedom.

So why bring it up now, other than nostalgia?

Sometimes I feel like Little Mac. You know what I mean. Up against huge problems, thinking things like, “I am way out my league here!” or “I shouldn’t even have to deal with this!” or “Why am I boxing with a mutated, 300-pound hippo-man?” Well, okay, only Little Mac has thought that last one, but we’ve all been in the ring with people or problems that seem to vastly outweigh us. And we have felt that primal fear, that deep sense of inadequacy.

It is at these moments that we need to remember the spinning uppercut. There is power, there is greatness, placed within you. Find it and claim it. Don’t be afraid to use it. Never fear greatness, because greatness is your destiny.

And there is nothing more satisfying than feeling that spinning uppercut hit its mark!

 

Confidently,

Joezilla

The Eternal Losers and The Power of Christ

Were you as creeped out as I was when you heard that there might be a consecrated host at the Harvard black mass?  While the fight to get it cancelled was totally worthwhile, here’s why you can rest easy tonight regardless of the outcome.

I admit it--when I heard that a Harvard student group was sponsoring a “reenactment” of a satanic ritual involving a potentially consecrated Communion host, I was not only angry, but also a little scared.  After all, Catholics believe that the consecrated host is Jesus—not a symbol or a reminder, but Jesus, truly present, in the flesh and blood.  While we agree with outside observers that the physical characteristics do not change, we believe that on the level of its identity—its substance, to use the theological language—it is truly, really, totally Christ.

So if somebody who hates Christ (or thinks they hate Christ, because if they really knew Him they would almost certainly love Him) gets a hold of one of these consecrated hosts, I start to wretch at the possibilities.  Though I had always brushed such thoughts under the rug of my conscious mind in the past, this Harvard story made that impossible.

Thankfully, God (Who cannot be abused, hurt, or controlled by any of us idiots down here) decided in His mercy and goodness to show me why such worry was unfounded.  Take a look at this post from Elizabeth Scalia’s blog, which talks about why such satanic rituals do not actually possess the power they claim to have:

“Christ gave himself to us, freely, of his own free will. A Gift freely given. If someone takes the Gift and spits on it or whatever — they’re only destroying what was given to them, they are destroying what is ‘theirs.’ They don’t in any way destroy the Giver of the Gift, or lessen the Giver, or the Gift. So they have no power over it, they can’t dominate it. All they can do is destroy themselves within themselves.”

 

The consecrated host is the presence of Jesus, but Jesus is a suffering servant who submitted himself to extreme denigration and humiliation for our sake.  His presence in the Eucharist is that same gift, which we are free to accept or reject.  While desecrating the Eucharist is an outrageously sinful act, it does nothing to injure or even demean God Himself.

Simply put, they have no power over God!  They never could.  And while we’re bashing devil-worshippers, I’ve also always wondered why, if someone believes in God, they would purposely choose to “worship” the guy who got kicked out of Heaven by God.  Purposely picking the loser—isn’t that sort of like choosing to play as Jigglypuff in Super Smash Brothers?  But I digress.

 

Now, mind you, I’m not trying to minimize the reality or power of the devil.  He was created as an angel—which means that, in terms of creation, he’s way more powerful than any of us on our own.  But we have ways of keeping him at bay and protecting ourselves.

I remember the advice I got from someone on the beach in Hawaii: never turn your back on the tide.  If you do, it can kill you.  It’s so easy to write it off as nothing, but people have literally been swept away by creeping tides that unexpectedly descended upon them when they turned their back.  Satan is much the same way.  Always keep one eye on him, and be aware that he is actively trying to mess with you.  Whatever you do, do not write him off as a legend or a myth.  As they say in The Usual Suspects, “the greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world that he doesn’t exist.”  Don’t fall for it.  He’s out there, and he doesn’t like you.

But the good news is this:  God has given us a protector who has already once beaten the tar out of Satan, and is totally willing to do it again whenever we call upon him: Saint Michael the Archangel.  This supernatural guardian—who, I contend, must actually be way more ripped and imposing than the girly-man he is usually depicted as—is more than willing to step up and defend us from the devil whenever we ask.  Take a look at the statue pictured below.  Now we're getting somewhere!  That's more the Michael that I believe in.

 

And since, in writing this post debunking his followers’ false power, the devil may be a little extra peeved at me, I finish with this prayer—in which I have complete faith as a means of protection from all the attacks of the evil one:

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.  Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.  May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host [remember, that means army!], by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen.

Now, let’s say it again!

Confidently,

Joezilla

P.S.:  Read the whole post at Elizabeth Scalia’s blog here.

12 Years A Slave: Feel-Good Movie of the Year?

Why was I clicking my heels in the parking lot after seeing this movie?  While you might be inclined to suspect me of insanity, the truth is quite understandable.

But first, let’s be clear: 12 Years A Slave is absolutely not a “feel-good” movie.  It is an intense and gritty immersion into the inhumanity of slavery, the racial and sexual injustice of past societies, and the disturbing potential for human depravity in every age.  It contains scenes of brutal torture (less bloody but about as intense as The Passion of the Christ) and is speckled with cruel and dehumanizing speech.  There are very few punches pulled in this movie’s presentation of historical realities.

It is even-handed in its approach, presenting slave-owners as the mixed bag of humanity that they surely were—though all were complicit in a morally offensive societal structure, some no doubt treated their slaves with a degree of civility or even kindness, while others inflicted unspeakable evils upon their fellow men and women.  The film shows examples of both, though it centers on a particularly disgusting example of the latter type.

In short, for those who have not yet seen the film, it is likely what they expect it to be: intense, eye-opening, moving.  However, all this serves to intensify the question of why I would feel happy after seeing this movie.  Patience is a virtue, and it’s time I rewarded you for it.

12 Years A Slave made me feel exceptionally grateful.

I take many things for granted, you see.  My family.  My home.  My freedom.  The basic civility and social decency of the people I meet in the world.  The fact that people (mostly) stop at red lights.  These things come to mind easily when I try to name them, but on a typical day I am not overcome with gratefulness for them.

Have you ever rear-ended a car on the street?  I did several years ago, and the first feeling I remember having is a sharp double-edged regret.  The first edge was, of course, regret at being distracted and running into that Chevy Tahoe’s bumper; the second was subtler, but no less real: I regretted not appreciating what I had before the hit.  Before the hit, I had a certain insurance premium.  Now, it would go up.  Before the hit, I had a class I was going to be on-time for.  Now, I would be late.  Before the hit, I had a peaceful drive ahead of me.  Now, that peace was shattered.  The thought that went through my head was, “Man, everything was going so well before this happened…and I didn’t even know it!”

Whenever I pass a minor car accident on the road now, my heart pangs with empathy for those involved.  I’ll bet they weren’t appreciating what they had before the hit, either.

The protagonist of 12 Years A Slave, one Solomon Northup, is a victim of the same dangerous mindset, and his ordeals drive the point home about as effectively as 100 auto crackups.  Solomon is a free black man in New York prior to the Civil War (which is a really strange name for a war, now that I think about it).  Solomon has a wife, two children, a house of his own, and a profitable career as a violinist.  He is respected, applauded, and afforded the same rights and privileges of others in his society.  Virtue and discipline have played a key role in his success, to be sure—but in the final analysis, he is lucky.  He has been equipped by God’s providence with a healthy environment and good people.  And like many people in similar situations, and like me, he takes almost all of it for granted almost all of the time.

Suddenly, his world is plunged into chaos as he is abducted and sold into slavery under false pretences.  Laboring at the plantation of a warped and cruel man, Solomon slowly, painstakingly, surveys the depths of misery and depravity his race is subjected to in the pre-war South.

And soon those days back in New York take on a new light.  Suddenly, the veil is lifted and Solomon’s former life—which for many of us is routine, as it was for him—is revealed to be the Shangri-La that it really was.  And as the possibility of returning to it dims, every under-appreciated moment stings like another lash of the whip.  How he would love to go back and relive one of those “routine” days!  How different those responsibilities now appear.  What were considered burdens are understood as privileges.  And life’s great blessings are, for one sublime season, truly recognized.

By now, you might have realized that I am no longer talking about Solomon Northup.  I can’t speak for what he, the historical figure on whom the film is based, felt as the grim reality of slavery dawned on him each morning.  But I know how it made me feel to see his story dramatized, super-sized, and projected on the screen.

It made me feel happy.  Thanks be to God, now and forever!