A relative of mine recently emailed me and other relatives to ask a philosophical question: Does it matter whether people actually believe the tenets of their religious faith?

I wrote back with a response, which went something like this: Our beliefs and the stories we tell are extremely important. These cannot be discounted as superfluous aspects of a religion. They are important because they affect our real-world decisions. How we think about things matters.

Not long after that, I read the masterpiece Sapiens, by Yuval Noah Harari. Harari, in this book, delves into this topic in a much more comprehensive way than I did. The book helped to clarify my understanding of this philosophical point.

Stories and beliefs have a childlike reputation, as if they are merely tricks to get us to fall asleep; but therein lies their incredible power. Because, as Harari explains, the tricks work: and we are lulled into a world where everyone gets along under the magical umbrella of the story.

He writes: “Myths, it transpired, are stronger than anyone could have imagined.” Humankind is the only species that uses language to tell stories about things not present in the immediate surroundings. My chickens can make a distress call that means “There’s a hawk nearby!” But they cannot make a sound that means “That’s the same hawk we saw yesterday, but different from the one we saw the day before that,” or “That hawk is beautiful, look at those marvelous feathers,” or “That hawk was sent by a great and powerful god!”

Humans can say such things, and through language and myth they are able to build large societies of strangers working together under the same belief systems. Harari calls a belief system an imagined order. And he explains that religion is only one of many spheres in which people use stories and beliefs to foster cooperation. Here’s an interesting passage from the book:

“An imagined order can be maintained only if large segments of the population—and in particular large segments of the elite and the security forces—truly believe in it. Christianity would not have lasted 2,000 years if the majority of bishops and priests failed to believe in Christ. American democracy would not have lasted almost 250 years if the majority of presidents and congressmen failed to believe in human rights. The modern economic system would not have lasted a single day if the majority of investors and bankers failed to believe in capitalism.”

Harari points out that unless you are a true cynic, you believe in at least one, and probably many, imagined orders. The true cynic, he explains, is not apt to cooperate with anyone. In the cynic’s mind, all that talk about religion, patriotism, human rights, finance, politics, romance, and so on is just so much B.S. The true cynic will conclude that it’s better to sit alone with one’s home-brewed beer, cherry tree, and shotgun and try to enjoy life before it’s all over.

But then Harari points out the flip side of this. If you’re not a true cynic and thus do believe in something, it’s ultimately impossible (if you decide to go down that rabbit hole, which may or may not be advisable) to prove the truth of your cherished imagined orders. They are likely, upon logical scrutiny, to evaporate into nothing. This is where the word faith comes in.

And so, as Harari explains, because we have faith in the existence of the monetary system, we can have booming economies, home mortgages, business loans, and one-day Amazon deliveries. Because we have faith in the existence of our countries, we can have complex societies that provide schools, police, libraries, mail service, defense, unemployment benefits, and scientific research. Harari does not try to claim that these things are necessarily better than what humans had originally in their hunter-gatherer state; but he does explain that there’s no going back.

(In order to go back to a pre-imagined-order state, we would have to get everyone to agree to do this together. Otherwise, those with an imagined order would simply cooperate and trounce those without. But the only way to get a large group of people to agree to do something is through an imagined order.)

And so, Harari provides a somewhat tragic but interesting and ultimately, I think, correct answer to my relative’s philosophical question. It is important for people to actually believe something if they are to form a cohesive group of strangers—one that’s not just an accidental encounter of isolated cynics who are unlikely to cooperate. Of course, a few members of a religious group, nation, or financial market can be cynics without the whole operation falling apart. But the majority must believe—especially, as Harari explains, the leaders and the enforcers.

Are you a believer or a cynic?

At the heart of the book Under the Banner of Heaven, by Jon Krakauer, is a philosophical problem. Coincidentally, it’s the same philosophical problem I encountered earlier this year, when deciding whether to travel to London and Paris.

Revelations

In 1984, as Krakauer explains, brothers Ron and Dan Lafferty worked together to murder another brother’s wife and daughter. They took this action because Ron had received a revelation. He had been taking a class on how to receive revelations from God. He typed out the revelations he received. One of them focused on the importance of murdering several people, among them the two that were soon murdered by him and his brother.

The philosophical problem is this. When you get very silent and pay attention to your mind, or when you pray and listen for a response, or when you wake from an interesting dream, you may receive a revelation. The secular definition of revelation on dictionary.com is “something revealed or disclosed, especially a striking disclosure, as of something not before realized.” Call it the unconscious mind, or call it a god or spirit, or call it the dream world—it’s all the same thing. Perhaps the revelation appears in your mind due to the workings of a higher power, or perhaps it’s a biological process, or perhaps it’s both. In any case, you receive a new perspective on the world and your duties in it, one heretofore unfamiliar to your conscious mind. If you receive a revelation, take it seriously, and act upon it, does that mean you are crazy?

Dreams

I wrote about some of my experiences with dreams in this post about profound dreams that taught me something new about myself. I argued that dreams are worth listening to because, to quote myself, “the unconscious mind often has access to knowledge that the conscious mind does not.”

I elaborated on this topic in this more recent post on a dream about traveling to London and Paris and my decision to act upon that dream. Somehow, as I explained in this post, my unconscious mind synthesized a great deal of information, which meanwhile my conscious mind had not yet synthesized, and presented to me in a dream an unexpectedly original and fascinating idea. Upon waking, I realized that events in my life had aligned. It the perfect year for me to travel solo to Europe. (Under the Banner of Heaven was the book I referred to in that post: the one I finished on the airplane to London.)

The Philosophical Problem

This brings me back to our philosophical problem. Is there any difference between me listening to a particularly powerful dream and acting upon it (thereby vacationing in Europe), and Ron Lafferty listening to a revelation from God and acting upon it (thereby murdering two people)? Here’s how Krakauer presents the problem:

“If Ron Lafferty were declared mentally ill because he obeyed the voice of his God, isn’t everyone who believes in God and seeks guidance through prayer mentally ill as well?”

I would add to that everyone who meditates and dreams and uses insights gained therefrom to navigate their lives.

The conclusion that Krakauer and other experts came to is no, Ron Lafferty is not mentally ill . . . with the possible exception of him exhibiting a diagnosable case of narcissistic personality disorder. However, as Krakauer explains, a large percentage of the population could be properly diagnosed in this way—many of them highly successful in their careers, and the vast majority of them not murderers.

So where did the Lafferty brothers go wrong?

Decisions

I’m going to have to go beyond the analysis in Under the Banner of Heaven to answer this question, because Krakauer leaves the final analysis and judgment up to the reader. But here’s what I think.

If you receive a revelation—no matter whether through meditation, prayer, or dreaming, and no matter whether you attribute it to a higher power or to your unconscious mind—remember that it is just an idea. A revelation is a creative synthesis of a lot of different facts that you are aware of, but have not yet synthesized consciously. It is a new way of looking upon your world and your future.

Your job at that point, as a conscious, thinking individual, is to make a judgement call about that idea. It’s a new idea! It opens up possibilities that you had not seen before! But not every possibility can or should be realized. Some possibilities are not practical, and some possibilities are downright horrific.

And the truth is, revelations can always be interpreted in multiple ways. Your job is not to try to guess, like a slave, what some hidden master wants to passive-aggressively communicate to you, so that you won’t be beaten hereafter. No. Your job is to assess the revelation like you would assess any other idea that you happen to come up with, or that someone else happens to share with you. You can choose to take the idea and live it out in full, or you can choose to change the idea and do something similar yet different, or you can choose to ignore the idea entirely. But the important thing is that you are in control, thinking about the consequences of your actions, and hopefully always striving to make the world a better place.

I am thinking now of the saying “God helps those who help themselves.” There is no instruction manual for life. Not even the most scientific or holy books can tell you what to wear tomorrow evening and whom to meet for dinner. No revelation can tell you that, either.

But books and revelations can give you ideas. And you, with all the power of your conscious mind, can assess those ideas and make the best decisions you can.

While I was preparing to travel to Europe and actually traveling, I did not try to recreate everything that happened in my dream. That would have been ridiculous and probably impossible, and I would have had a miserable time! Instead, I took ideas from my dream that I liked and discarded the rest. In fact, most ideas I gain from dreams I discard immediately. It’s only occasionally that a really good idea comes to me in a dream.

So it’s not crazy to listen to revelations that you receive. What’s crazy—or at least deeply unwise—is to abdicate your natural-born decision-making abilities.

Have you stumbled across any original ideas lately? What do you think of them?

Welcome to Utah

I just learned that the state slogan of Utah is Life Elevated. How ingenious is that?! I am a big fan of double meanings, and this one takes the cake. The whole five-layered, elaborately sculpted, thickly frosted, sugary-as-hell cake. What a great motto!

Utah is famous, of course, for its elevation: both physical and metaphysical. The state’s mountains, and the sporty adventures one can have on and among them, are legendary. Equally legendary is its people’s unique mix of religious beliefs.

Jon Krakauer, Writer Extraordinaire

One of my favorite writers, Jon Krakauer, is famous for writing about life on elevated levels: both physical and metaphysical. He’s a mountain climber who writes about mountain climbing. His writings also focus on extreme adventure in forested regions, deserts, and other wilderness areas far remote from cities and towns. Furthermore, his reporting is so detailed and comprehensive that the writing ascends to the level of philosophy. And yet the writing is not difficult to understand, but instead, intensely and compulsively readable. He likes to write about people whose life philosophies are so rarefied that they stray into mortal danger. To read a book by him is to attempt to enter into a unique mindset, to follow unorthodox ideas to their logical conclusions, to seek out an elevated height, and to descend into tragedy.

That was my experience, anyway, in reading two phenomenal books by him. It was also my experience when, more recently, I took on a third.

Nonfiction Elevated

Into the Wild (1996) is the true story of a young man’s tragic journey into the American West and, ultimately, the wilderness of Alaska. A young man attempts to escape from the confines of society, only to be trapped by the confines of nature. Krakauer also weaves in memories of himself as a young man, who sought to escape the “real world” of society by entering the “realer world” of dangerous mountain climbing. The book offers a unique look into two young men’s minds and adventures: the subject’s and the author’s.

Into Thin Air (1997) is the true story of mountain climbers who paid experienced guides to take them to the top of Mount Everest. Things went horribly wrong, and a number of people, including several guides, lost their lives; others lost body parts due to frostbite. Krakauer was himself one of the climbers; he was there as a reporter. He barely made it out alive. The story is shocking and well told; I could not put it down. It delves into many philosophical realms, as the author tackles big issues, such as these:

• The extent of the responsibility of guides to help other climbers (Does it end and, if so, where?)
• The adventure tourism industry (Is it mainly beneficial, or mainly destructive?)
• The nature of reporting and its inevitable effects on its subjects (Big moral questions here)
• The nature of risk taking (Do people understand the risks they take? Does it matter?)

I could not recommend these books more highly. A+. Perfect 10. If you are interested in human nature and extreme life situations, check them out. Just prepare yourself for a wild and stomach-churning ride.

Murder in Mormondom

It is fitting that Krakauer would next turn his attention to an unusual case of murder in the state of Utah: where life is elevated. In Under the Banner of Heaven (2003), he writes about a group of brothers’ separation from society and adoption of a rigidly fundamentalist life philosophy. He also tells the story of the founding of Mormonism by Joseph Smith, and how the new religion split into different groups of believers, some of them fundamentalists who practice polygamy. And he tries to piece together how these diverse circumstances might or might not relate to the 1984 murder of the wife and daughter of one of the brothers, by another of the brothers.

As Krakauer explains, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (a.k.a. the Mormon church) is a uniquely interesting religion to study. Other world religions, he points out, “enjoy the considerable advantage of having made their public debut in the shadowy recesses of the ancient past. . . . Unlike Moses, Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha, Joseph was a modern prophet who lived in the brightly lit age of the affidavit and the printing press.”

This, he explains, “allows fascinating insights into what makes a religious genius tick.” His book offers these insights, for sure. It also offers insights into what makes the murderer of his story tick—and what, if anything, this has to do with religion and fundamentalism.

Elevation and Philosophy

Are you a risk taker? A believer? A mountain climber? A recluse? A thrill seeker? A journeyer to the wild beyond? A guide to the wilderness? A go-getter? A guide to the holiness beyond?

How do you, with your fervently held beliefs and penchant for adventure, keep yourself from falling off a (physical or metaphorical) cliff?

Hello, fellow residents of our beautiful planet! I am writing this blog post from a cute Danish cafe in London. Here is a photo I took from my seat in the cafe. If you know me at least a bit, and if you look closely at the photo, you may be able to guess my favorite part of it. However, as that detail is rather inconsequential, let me tell you something of greater importance. Let me tell you how I got here.

Oops! How I got here is inconsequential, too. I flew. (That last sentence was a clue, RE the detail in the photo!) It was a long flight—at least for a travelphobe like me. I finished a book. Exciting! I love finishing books. But in the scheme of things, that was not so exciting, really, so let me please get to my point. Let me tell you why I got here.

Four months ago, as I explained in my post from January 25 called Dreams, I had a dream. I dream vividly most nights; but only the rare dream manifests as a sort of lesson-cum-guidepost, express from my unconscious mind.

In the dream, I bought a flight to London. I bought the ticket amidst a group of friends, as part of a special discount rate; but each of us was traveling separately, and I would be traveling alone. Once I arrived in London, I discovered that my family was staying in nearby rooms. However, I decided to ignore them, since they wanted to do things that I didn’t. What I really wanted to do while in London was see a performance at the Paris Opera House; and that’s what I was making plans to do when I woke up.

Strangely enough, this relates to the book I finished on the plane. I’ll be writing previews of that book shortly. This story about my dream and how it influenced my life will perhaps be useful as we try to piece together the central philosophical problem laid out in that book. But I am getting off track again! So here’s what happened next.

Upon waking, I understood that the dream was important, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. In full—that is, partial—disclosure, there was also a segment of the dream that pertained to my love life. I would not like to share the details; I would merely like to note that the dream had multiple significances to me. (A multiple significance, in case you were wondering, is somewhat similar to a multiple orgasm, except that it’s not just for women; but I am getting off track again!) And so, realizing that my unconscious mind may have been trying to tell my conscious mind something, I kept thinking about the dream.

Within a few days, I was astonished to realize that I wanted to take a solo trip to London and Paris. This might not seem like such an astonishing wish to you; lots of people want to go to London and Paris. It was shocking to me, however, because I have always been a travelphobe.

There were so many things about travel that frightened me. I was scared my plane would crash. I was scared I would get irredeemably lost in trying to navigate public transportation. I was scared I would lose my passport or get beaten or harrassed or raped. I was scared I would spend a ridiculous amount of money, only to instantly get homesick for my garden and birds (that was another clue!). I was scared I would be obliged to do something touristy that I didn’t want to do.

But most of all, I was scared that the jostling and angled sunshine and lack of sleep that are inherent to travel would trigger a migraine. As I explained in my post from December 26 called Medical Mysteries (Part 2), I have suffered from periodic migraines for my whole life. They always last exactly ten days. They are debilitating, involving level-10 pain, aversion to light and noise, expulsion of stomach contents, and much moaning and rolling around amidst bedsheets.

As I explained in that post from last December, I had been unexpectedly rescued by magnesium in an easily absorbable form. I had not experienced a ten-day migraine since beginning my vitamin supplement regimen; and that happy streak continues to this day.

A miracle! Was it a god of travel—perhaps Hermes, a.k.a. Mercury—who had come to my aid?! But I will stay on track with this story, I promise.

The point is, my unconscious mind had realized, long before the “I” that I’m better acquainted with did, that my recent deliverance from periodic migraine hell opened up the door for me to travel. It further realized that my dilapidated and largely nonexistent love life would be a boon to me while traveling, for I would not have to compromise on how I would spend my time. Moreover, it realized that London was a perfect destination for doing things I love to do—namely, enjoying literature and music. Finally, it realized that the Paris Opera House is not that far from London, in the global scheme of things; and what, it mused, is the point of middle age, if not to fulfill fantasies you had while 12 or 13 years old?

Yes—in my youth, I had an obsession with The Phantom of the Opera, both the book and the musical. So I am going to go see that old building where some of the events depicted really occurred (and where some, being romantic exaggerations, did not). And I’m going to do many other literary- and musical-type activities in Paris; and I’m going to attempt to say something comprehensible in the language, and to understand something someone says to me. Because my adult, conscious mind has realized that the Paris Opera House is merely a sentimental excuse to force me to venture very far outside of my comfort zone. To experience something that, sure, lots of people experienced at a much younger age, but I have not yet: to be alone in a faraway culture of people who speak a language that’s foreign to me.

Speaking of language—I have been enjoying hearing British accents all around me. This is not a “pigeon” English, but the genuine article. (That was your third and final clue! If you have not solved the puzzle by now, I fear there is no hope for you . . . though perhaps the answer will come to you in a dream.)

But back to the point. The point is that the human brain has both conscious and unconscious parts. Managing the interplay between the two of them, in my experience, is key to living wisely. To be solely led by one or the other is a grievous mistake. In conclusion, here is a view of the interior of the Danish cafe, behind me. There are no hidden secrets in this photo . . . at least not that I know of. Those are elsewhere. Has your unconscious mind spoken to you lately?

During the past few weeks, I attempted, with minimal success, to read two books in French. One was Olivier Bourdeaut’s playful novel Waiting for Bojangles, a recent international bestseller. The other was Samuel Beckett’s haunting play Endgame, which premiered in 1957 and is a literary classic.

And so I was surprised, and a little weirded out, to learn that my pairing of these two works is more apropos than I had realized. According to this World Literature Today article, the title Waiting for Bojangles (in French, En attendant Bojangles) is an allusion to another famous and classic play by Beckett. Here’s what the article says about Waiting for Bojangles:

“With its irreverent reference to Samuel Beckett’s En attendant Godot (1952), the novel’s title is a call to be mindful of the futility of endlessly waiting for fun, love, or fulfillment.”

Waiting for Godot is not a play I have read. However, rumor has it that Godot never arrives. If Waiting for Godot is anything like Endgame, it’s a bleak and beautiful masterpiece that is likely to shuttle one into an existential depression, if one isn’t careful.

In contrast, Mr. Bojangles does arrive in Waiting for Bojangles—in sound and spirit, if not in the actual flesh. And while the story has its sad moments, it never falls into melancholy. And it definitely never descends into grim philosophical musings about the meaningless of existence.*

In the novel, the boy’s parents love to dance to the song “Mr. Bojangles” as sung by Nina Simone. But when the song’s not on, it’s not like the characters are moping around waiting for it to play again. No, they’re finding other ways to live it up. They’re dancing to other music, making up stories, throwing parties, and doing various outlandish things, all in the name of whimsical pleasure.

In this household, there’s no waiting around for joy to magically show up. No matter how horrible their circumstances get, the characters insist on enjoying life. And they insist on altering their circumstances to make life maximally enjoyable. They even insist on enjoying life to the very detriment of living. If they were in the play Waiting for Godot, I’m pretty sure they would be calling up Godot and harassing him with jokes and enticements and crazy stories until he gave up and made an appearance. He might arrive delighted, or he might arrive enraged—but you can bet that he would arrive.

Is the title Waiting for Bojangles, then, misleading? Since the characters aren’t exactly sitting around looking at their watches, waiting for something fun to happen, is the title more paradoxical than descriptive?

Not so fast. The French phrase en attendant can be translated as “waiting for”; but that is not the only translation. Other translations include “while waiting for,” “pending the arrival of,” and “in anticipation of.”

The alternate titles While Waiting for Bojangles, Pending the Arrival of Bojangles, and In Anticipation of Bojangles strike me as more precisely true to the story. The boy’s mom and dad are always looking forward to dancing to the song. This is their best bliss. But in the meantime (which is another translation of en attendant), they are living it up in grandly wonderful ways.

Of course, the title as given is the best choice. It’s the most concise and lovely. And it refers back to Beckett’s play. But I find it fascinating that it has connotations in French that do not translate into English.

Are you sitting around looking at your watch, as you wait for Godot or Mr. Bojangles or whomever or whatever to show up? Waiting is a reality of life. The important question is, what are you doing in the meantime?

*This is merely to state a fact. I have no bias against bleak works of literature that question the meaning of existence. Actually, I like them. A lot.