Astrology And Free Will

Astra inclinant, non necessitant.
(The stars incline, they do not compel.)

This ancient astrological dictum ought to be understood in accordance with the Hermetic tradition which gave rise to it. The stars, properly interpreted, are not "out there", but "in here". They are the constellations of our own character and temperament, to which they merely correspond. In the strictest terms, they neither incline nor compel, any more than the hands of a clock incline or compel the procession of time.

Always, in the study of astrological factors, we must bear in mind the unknown, or ungiven factor; which is the individual freedom of the person to whom they bear only partial witness. No rumination on what has gone before, however much it penetrates into the nuances of particular instances or expands to encompass the more general principles, can account for the miracle of the present moment. The merest atoms and the vastest galaxies are phantom distractions, if they do not come to a point, and discover their ultimate terminus, in you. What is matters less than what is recognized, and the will is only truly free the instant it is claimed.

The image reflected in a mirror can tell you something of the state of your health, but it can never tell you as much as you can tell yourself, with the choices you make in response to what the image reveals. The first step is to walk away from the mirror, and to claim your life as your own; not to dwell upon the image any longer than is needed to provoke an authentic, personal response.

All the fateful accidents of environment, of parentage, biology, and breeding must bow the knee to the sovereign will. The world cannot anticipate, -- it can neither explain nor can it contain, -- the mysterious capriciousness of that spirit which inflames it. All these things, no doubt, come to bear upon a man, as the karmic substance which surrounds and encumbers his free spirit. Yet, no path, however deeply cut into the wood, can hold back the sword of an individual determined to carve a new way. The instant he has recognized and reclaimed his power, he is invincible; free for any pursuit he resolutely settles upon. He is the undetermined factor. He is yourself, in this instant; in this eternal moment; this lightning flash, which no clock can track.

Have you been blinded in the darkest depths?
You will be blinded in the light, as well!
Look around you now.

Saint Quixote

Ostensibly, Don Quixote is the story of a man of the noblest aspirations and the scantest means. Despite his humble circumstances, he has cultivated, all his life, a tremendous ambition to become a certain ideal type of hero -- the knight errant, who rides a mighty steed, his armor glinting like a thousand suns in the light of the one, en route to right whatever wrongs he chances to encounter; to slay mammoth beasts, to bring crooked men to justice, to set fair maidens at liberty; in short, to do everything a heroic knight is said in legends to have done. Even after a long life of disappointing confrontations with harsh reality, he is not yet disillusioned, not yet discouraged from chasing his wild fantasy. Rather, his imagination gets the better of reality and, having lost his wits, but not his dream, he sets out, poor and decrepit, yet believing himself smartly armored and armed, to do battle with the forces of evil under the banner of all that is good.

Like its protagonist, the book is both tragic and comic, as the ridiculousness of Quixote's pretensions is off-set by the admiration one cannot help feeling towards his indefatigable high-mindedness. His repeated failures, while laughable, also evoke a sadness, and a strong desire to see him, just once, triumph, and be lauded as the hero he so longs to be. At last, we are brought to consider the nobility of his spirit, which is the spirit of a true hero, regardless of the fact that he is, in all other respects, ill-equipped to enact the visions of his noble fancy. Quixote may be foolish, but he is no fool. His madness is more to be envied than the pragmatism of so many sane and reasonable fools, who have nothing of the hero in them; not even the ambition for heroism, nor the admiration properly owed to it, -- both of which he has in spades.

While various readers have suggested various interpretations beyond the obvious, I cannot help but see the story of Don Quixote as a parable of the Christian life. Cervantes grew up surrounded, not merely with tales regaling the exploits of conventional heroes and men of action, but of monks, martyrs, and priests, as well. Perhaps it is only myself I read, but the book strikes me as one long critique and defense of Christendom, and of the simple people whose admiration for the saints took little notice of their own ill-fittedness for sainthood.

How often do we see people, encouraged by religious fervor, endeavoring to promote and display virtues which they have not, and which may be well beyond their mortal grasp? How common is it, to see them blind, or practically blind, to their own shortcomings, yet, nonetheless, boldly expectant of some miraculous grace which might take possession of them at any moment and, by no real power of their own, transform them utterly into the figures of dignity and compassion whom they tirelessly adore and desire to emulate?

Everywhere, we see them, loaded up with pretensions, anxious to exhibit character traits which are as far beyond them as white clouds above the muddy earth. They are ridiculous, but they are tragic, as well. If we only knew them half as well as we come to know Quixote by the end of that novel, our laughter and pity would perhaps subside into a quiet admiration, -- even envy, for the majesty of their dream. Like Cervantes' title character, they are possessed by so much more than they possess. Their madness is more sane than the complacency of so many others; no more nor less mediocre than themselves in substance, but lacking that divine spark of imagination and idealism which transfigures even the humblest soul.

In the final analysis, we may be moved to accord them that measure of grace which, by all appearances, continues to elude them. We may conclude that they are, indeed, blessed, and that, if they have nothing else to show for themselves, they have grace. Of course, not the grace which transfigures a man utterly, right down to his behavior and appearance, but, at least, the subtler grace which clothes his soul in fine imaginings, and refuses to submit to the grossest evidence of sense.

These are the dear souls who take heart at the words of Themistocles, who wrote that, "The wildest colts make the best horses, if they only get properly broken in and trained," though there are no great influences surrounding them, to break and train them. However often their passions and tempers get the better of them, their spirits perk up, when they discover this passage from Nietzsche's Zarathustra: “Of all evil I deem you capable: Therefore I want good from you. Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws.” And lastly, but by no means least of all, they are stopped in their tracks by the declaration of Saint Paul, that giant among saints, when he writes, "I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God... I labored more abundantly than they all..."

Faith compels them. Grace will come, they cannot doubt. A thousand times they fall flat on their pious faces, but a thousand and one times they stand up tall, and reaffirm their conviction, in spite of all. Grace will come. At last, it seems to me, their grace has come, albeit in some unexpected and seldom recognized form. Grace does not yet lift them to the heavens, but it lifts them from the dirt. It does not lift them bodily, but it lifts their spirits. It is that in them which refuses to submit, not because ground has been visibly gained, but because it has not been lost. Though the saints may have never once been emulated, the flame of love for them has not gone out, but has even grown stronger, and -- who knows -- may even yet transfigure the flesh.

Centering Prayer

Some points to consider in preparation for centering prayer.

Centering prayer is itself preparation for contemplative (or deep) prayer. So, we are here concerned with the initial stages of the initial stages of deep prayer, seeing that it is essential to observe a proper order in the attainment of virtues, lest we become quickly discouraged by attempting what is beyond our strength, or beyond our skill.

The first thing to consider is sleep. A good night's sleep is the best protection against the pitfalls which attend the beginner in the practice of centering prayer. Likewise, a restorative sleep is the first hint of acquaintance we may have with respect to the experience of that deeper peace realized in true prayer.

"Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Sleep is a perfect place to begin, in seeking understanding of prayer, since it is something with which we are all familiar, and since no person is without an appreciation for sleep; its pleasure, no less than its utility. Rest of the body precedes and anticipates rest of the soul.

For, though the end of prayer is a kind of heightened attention, or wakefulness, it is wakefulness of a peculiar type. It is being awake to the experience of rest. Generally, when we speak of being alert, we imply some sense of tension; a triggering of the "fight or flight" response. Alertness, as it is usually understood and experienced, contains an unmistakable element of stress. This is not the sort of attention we are seeking.

Again, many who have approached this matter have spoken a great deal about concentration. Yet, concentration also tends to be associated with an experience of tension, or stress. This is not the sort of concentration we are seeking.

True prayer is not an act of concentration, which arises in the focussing of personal will. Rather, it is a process of receptivity, arising from the universal core of being. It is simply a way of being present and receptive, at the deepest levels.

Now, receptivity does not mean that we fling the door of the mind wide, and offer an open invitation to every passing thought. On the contrary, it means an openning to what underlies and transcends the occassion of thoughts.

This underlying and transcendant "something" is, ultimately, the working Presence of God, and it is not something upon which attention may be concentrated or fixed. Rather, it is like a warm pool, or a feather bed, into which the soul is freely drawn by the will of God. In order to be drawn into the deeper experience of God's peace, it is enough not to stand on "solid ground"; not to cling with our personal will to the specific perceptions (thoughts, sensations, intentions, etc.) arising within and transiting through the open field of consciousness.

The work of God is easiest of all once we have abandoned our efforts at directing our own lives, just as sleep is easy once we have relaxed our grip on the waking world. One cannot force prayer or sleep; only let go of all else, and allow rest to take place. If you know how to sleep, you know how to pray.

But if we have not slept well, we will not be prepared for prayer.

The instant we invite the experience of receptivity, we will be inclined to drop off and, in order to uphold ourselves in the experience, we will attempt a forced application of attention. This will never do. First, the body must be adequately rested, then the soul may begin to take her rest without interference from the material part.

Likewise, we must be fed, so that the pangs of a hungry body do not disturb the more subtle pangs of a hungry soul. As Mohandas K. Gandhi declared, "There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread." This is true in the case of starving peoples, who cannot so much as listen to a spiritual discourse without first receiving some basic sustainance in the form of food. But it is also true of anyone wishing to begin the practice of centering prayer. The body provides enough occassions for distraction without hunger being added to the others.

We must not set out upon this path with any notion of deprivation. Aceticism, often misconceived as a path of lack, is in fact a way of fullness. To be an ascetic is not to deprive oneself of many things, but, rather, to be satisfied with little; to be easily filled.

Having met these first requirements, we may proceed to the utterance of the sacred word. Some may find it helpful to begin with a complete phrase, evocative of higher emotions. For instance, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." This is fine, as it will help us to realize how it is possible for the entirety of the Gospel to be contained or suggested in a single phrase. But we ought to allow the phrase to become ever shorter, until the Gospel is suggested by a single word, and, eventually, by silence. "The Lord is my shepherd," contains within it the proscription "I shall not want," just as "The Lord," contains an awareness of the Lord as shepherd. The more familiar or intimate one has become with the whole of the teaching, the more readily one is able to absorb the entire sense of the teaching in a single word, or in the silence which underlies and transcends all speech. An exploration of the depths always culminates in a "deeper" experience of what lies on the surface.

Choose a phrase or word which, for you, is evocative of the whole of the teaching, being a symbol of the very heart of the teaching. "Father", "Shepherd", "Jesus", "Love," and "Peace" are all possible sacred words which many have found appealing and useful for the purpose of evoking a sense of the holy; and, ultimately, a receptivity to the experience of Divine Presence.

Unlike a mantra, which must be repeated without interruption, or with regularly spaced interruptions, the utterance of the sacred word follows no program apart from that which the soul prescribes, from moment to moment. The word is not a means of concentrating the mind, or replacing one type of content with another, but, of returning the mind to a state of openness, or receptivity.

When we discover our attention being carried away by one perception or another, we return to the sacred word, as to a door, leading onto the spaciousness of receptive awareness. We do not continue knocking at the door, opening and closing it, or dwelling upon its face. We simply pass through it, and when we find ourselves in another thicket of distractions, we conjure up the door and pass through it again into spaciousness.

Once we have entered that open field of silence, we do not need to recall the word. We merely allow our souls to rest, and be drawn into the Presence. Gradually, the experience of spaciousness, and of being drawn, will lengthen and deepen, and it will become less and less necessary to return to the word; which is only a door, or a way, leading into the reality of the divine encounter.

When you have come this far, you will require no further instruction, for the Lord Himself will have become your instructor and guide in the ways of the Holy Spirit.



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Vision without action is a dream.
Action without vision is a nightmare.
~ Japanese Proverb

Reality Regained

Fantasy is the better part of reality. ~ Valus


I have entered the sanctum unworldly,
I have fed from the garden most holy,
Dipped my cup in the fountain of visions,
And walked side-by-side with the godly;

In spirit, was friended by Sweetness,
Fair daughter of Truth and of Goodness,
Who never approached in the harshlight,
But waited in realms of pure noblesse.

And, lo, when I woke, all was not lost;
Some threshold had truly been crossed, -
New wonders infused all my senses;
Soft flames radiated from hoarfrost!

Now I speak for what some have forgotten,
Seeing many have mocked and forbidden,
In rough haste to subtract from the clock
Moonlit hours wherein dreams are hidden.

No fair, faithful account can be made, -
No honest admission asked for and payed,
Which refuses to number the daemon
And all but the drudge has betrayed.

APOLOGIA PRO DEUS SUA

In Defense of His God

---

Anyway whats the use of theories that are left untested?
How can we know they are true?

---

Many scientific theories have survived through countless tests and remain theories, despite the insistence of the public that they are proven facts. Gravity and evolution, according to the scientists who study them, are theories, not facts. I subscribe to them, but in the full knowledge that they are not proven facts.

Your question, though, is based on the assumption that we are working with untested and untestable theories. I would refer you to the conscientious labors of numerous mystics, all through history, who have put certain theories to the test, and provided  convincing evidence of their effectiveness. No, we are not talking about so many of the dogmas and exoteric religious claims which most atheists and agnostic like to point at and mock. We're talking about something much deeper.

First of all, when the mystics speak, they are not usually attempting to put forward a host of facts and theories. They are providing a symbolic framework which has been found useful for centuries, for the purpose of generating the most immaculate virtues and the most ecstatic experiences. They repeatedly urge us not to take their words at face value, but with a grain of salt. It is not that what they are saying is untrue, but, rather, they are attempting to communicate truths which transcend our powers of articulation. If we focus on the words, the surface, then it is easy to mock. But, if we read them as they were intended to be read when they were written, and focus on what the words are indicating -- which is not themselves -- then we may begin to perceive realities which require no further proof.

Let me ask you,
Do you believe in kindness?
Is it a theory or a clear reality?
Is there merely evidence? Or proof?

Most people would say they believe, and that they have seen evidence. Many would say it is proven, if not by the acts of others, then by feelings they have personally experienced and acted upon for no other motive than to express what they were feeling; to express kindness; to be tender; to comfort and uplift, etc. Most scientists would label this "anecdotal evidence" and consign it to the scrapheap, if they hadn't experienced it themselves.

Next question:

Do you suppose kindness has limits, or do you believe a person can be so inspired and overwhelmed with kindness that they may be willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of expressing and imparting that kindness?

There are distinctions of degree, and distinctions of type, but, often, we give different names to things, seemingly distinguishing them by type, when only the degree has changed. When does a cluster become a pile, or a pile a mound? Or a mound a hill? Or a hill a mountain? At some point, maybe an arbitrary point, we say, "That's not a hill. That's a mountain." But, shave one inch from the top, and it is a hill once more.

Well, what about a mountain of kindness? Some would say, "That's not kindness. That's love." So maybe love is only a greater concentration of kindness? Still, there are many things we call love, despite the fact that they have considerable limits. At some point, we start to talk about "unconditional love". We don't change the word, we just add another one. But the distinction between some forms of love, and those forms which we call unconditional is at least as remarkable as the distinction between a mound and a mountain.

You step out of your house and are met with all sorts of advertisements and all sorts of expressions. You see a sign calling a hamburger "incredible". Somebody says to you, "Listen to this song. It's amazing." But, if the hamburger is incredible, and the song is amazing, then what words are left to describe experiences more wonderful than these? Can you use the same word to describe a peak experience that you used to describe a hamburger? I believe you will naturally reach for more grandiose terms. You will not think it an exaggeration to say that the moment was "mind-blowing", despite the fact that your head is firmly planted on your shoulders. You will say, "That was magical," even if you are a man loyal to the most cold-blooded scientific calculations. Even if you don't believe in magic, and are using the word metaphorically, nevertheless, you cannot imagine a more fitting expression.

It appears to be a fact of life, that people who believe strongly in goodness, -- and not merely goodness, but greatness, -- tend to be idealists. When they imagine love, they think mountains, not molehills. They experience feelings of expansiveness, and refuse to reduce those experiences to numbers, statistics, and manageable terms. They don't want to make things smaller which, to them, are larger than life. They find themselves, almost unconsciously, using metaphors in order to indicate the greatness, the overwhelming size, of what they are feeling. They become poets, who do not live in their imaginations, as lunatics do, but who allow their imaginations to impregnate reality with a level of significance which plain language cannot begin to express.

Even if you cannot bring your imagination to life,
you can still bring life to your imagination, --
and maybe, in the end, that is the finer thing.

The greatest poets tend to become mystics. I don't mean the most talented or intelligent, but the most idealistic. It's something of a paradox, since the mystic is really more practical than the poet. It's just that his dream is so big, it cannot possibly be channeled onto the page, -- it must be lived! Does it matter, whether the things he imagines are products of his own unbridled fancy, arising from the depths of his own ecstatic heart, or, if his imagination, like a sublime antennae, has taken hold of some transmission outside of himself? Even if we could prove one or the other, what difference would that make?

Not convinced? Sit tight. I ain't done yet.

One day, your girlfriend is telling you she "loves" you, but, then, the very next day, she breaks up with you. Did she stop loving you in a day? Of course not. She assures you that she still loves you, and maybe she does love you, but not the way she used to. You see older couples, still together, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes, and you start to wonder, "Was that real love? If she really loved me, she would have been devoted to me. She never would have left."

Next question:
How powerful does love need to be, in order to be "real"?

And if you had an experience of love which utterly obliterated and put to shame everything else you had previously called "love", what would you call it? What word could you find, big enough to express that word? You might be the most skeptical man in the world, but I'll bet you anything you would not object to calling it "God"; metaphor or no metaphor. You might even start talking like these holy fools, speaking in grandiose terms, employing metaphors left and right. When love becomes so real to you, it seems to be present and alive. In spite of yourself, you may try speaking to it, or listening for it, as though it might have something to say. Have you ever listened for love? Or imagined what Love might say, if love were a person?

How many people do you meet in a day who seem unconscious or fake? They may not be literally sleeping, yet they are unconscious. They may not be made of plastic, yet they are fake. But, no, this is all metaphor! This is madness. We can't speak this way! Of course, they are real; they are people. You can almost touch them.

Perhaps the power and reality of love is only limited by the heart's capacity. Somewhere, someone may be transmitting songs more beautiful than any we can hear on our radios, since, if a frequency is high enough, no antennae can receive it. Does that mean it does not exist?

If the equipment is not fit to contain it, a powerful charge of electricity will fry it like a mosquito in a lightning storm. Is that level of voltage good for nothing, just because we have yet to build a capacitor which can harness it?

Edison made thousands of attempts to invent a lightbulb. He said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Eventually, he got it to work. Later, Nikola Tesla found a way to make it work in every home. Now, what about the millions of people who burn-out, trying to invent God, or trying to create in themselves a mind capable of harnessing the light of God? Are they failures? Or have they succeeded in showing us millions of ways not to make a "lightbulb"?

The truth is, history is full of enlightened people; people who got it done. It's not difficult to see and bask in their light. There's no need to reinvent the "lightbulb", only learn how it works, and build it for yourself. Build it out of yourself.

Jesus said, "Who has ears to hear, let him hear." He might also have said, "Who has words to speak, let him speak." Even if his words seem absurd to you, like the fancies of poets and madmen, or a pretty commercial, full of false advertising, he may really be giving expression to something more true than anything you have allowed yourself to imagine thus far. He may be transmitting on a frequency too high for you to hear. Raise your antennae! Lift your heart to God, and see what it picks up. It might just blow your mind.

What Is "God"?

If we wish to know the truth about religion, and "God", we must study the mystics, -- not the masses, as is so frequently done. More than that, we must go the way they went.

The true mystics of all faiths have always asserted that "God" is simply a word, a name, for something which defies description, and which may only be hinted at through actions, images, and ideas. It was the opinion of many such mystics that this "something" is worthy of a great name, and that no greater name could be found than the name of "God". Likewise, many things in their experience are described as "sacred", "holy", or "divine", because no lesser words seemed fitting. This is, of course, a value judgment, and not open to dispute.

The word "God" may apply to the ultimate truth, but it may also apply to the images we have conceived (perhaps drawing upon archetypes already seeded within our own subconscious minds), in order to bring us closer to that truth. The former is the common root of all mystically inspired faiths, while the latter are individual outgrowths, variously expressed. In the first instance, we can say very little about "Him"; maybe nothing at all. In the second, we must reflect that our conceptions are flawed; that, by their very nature, they have the power to reveal, as well as to conceal, spiritual realities. If symbols or symbol-systems do not resonate with you, simply find another way which feels more comfortable for you.

As human beings, many of us find it helpful to make use of a human symbol for God. In attributing personal characteristics, we are speaking in a figurative way. Figurative is not necessarily the same as fictional, but neither is it matter-of-fact. In the Hindu tradition, they have a notion of "the chosen ideal". The devotee selects from a pantheon of gods or avatars the one to which he/she feels a special affinity. This "chosen ideal" serves as a stand-in, or surrogate, for The Ineffable. Many people find it helpful to focus their devotions on this symbol (or Word), while retaining an awareness of "God" as something utterly beyond conception, and certainly beyond description.

The greatest mystics have found, through the experience and practice of deep meditation, a level of consciousness so secure, so peaceful, and so profound, that they were able to experience a complete transcendence of the personality, the body, and all sense of separateness; with the input of the mind and senses hushed, they were able to sink, and to settle, into the very seat of their being; to actually experience their interconnectedness with everyone and everything. The love and fearlessness this inspires has made these individuals beacons of virtue. The best of them have become enduring symbols for something infinitely greater than themselves; historical guideposts, signifying the revelation of the purest truths and mysteries.

All notions and symbols for God serve their purpose only when sacrificed to something beyond themselves, and, ultimately, to something beyond all; "except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."

The Extraverted Introvert

Some of you may be familiar with Susain Cain's bestselling "Quiet: The Power of Introverts", and with "the Quiet Movement" it has spawned. I'm a huge fan of Ms. Cain, and, for the most part, an introvert, who has spent most of his life bucking against the conventions of an extroverted society.

At the same time, I can be fiercely outspoken (and, admittedly, verbose) on matters of importance to me. I can easily be frustrated with people who hold their cards closer to their vests, reluctant to bring their more private thoughts into the public arena. I welcome the openness, the sharing, the exposure to scrutiny and discussion. All too often, we can become walled-off within the echo chamber of our own minds. Even though seeming to offer sufficient challenges to ourselves, by meticulously questioning and reworking our own perspectives, we can prevent any real challenge to our way of thinking if we are not willing to subject ourselves to the onslaught of other minds.

Moreover, it seems to me that, what a man has discovered in secret, he has a rather clear duty to express openly. What is the point of leaving the world, and entering the desert, if not to return to the world for the purpose of shedding that light which we have forged in darkness? Silence can equally imply both consent and dissent, but only speech -- and, indeed, action (the most sincere and open form of expression) -- will make our position explicit.

There appear to be two relatively distinct schools of thought on this matter, although a truly balanced approach would rather suggest a synthesis of the two, than an undue emphasis on either one or the other.

According to the first way of thinking, which reflects a polytheistic approach, we ought to embrace one another as unique animals, or different members of a single body, each with a separate function. Each of us should be respected and honored for our strengths, and pardoned for our weaknesses; hardly expected to exhibit a more holistic and complete type of perfection. We are not to criticize the carp for his inability to fly, or the lark for his inability to swim. Each of us has our respective role to play in the larger drama, and ought to focus most directly upon that work to which we are best fitted. And so on.

According to the second way of thinking, we ought to give equal, if not greater, consideration to the development of our weaknesses, as to the exhibition of our strengths. We must not be satisfied to play a given role, but must strain after proficiency -- or, at the very least, competency -- in the widest possible variety of roles. Indeed, it may be that we cannot even hope to expertly perform a given function without first acquiring some skill in a variety of other capacities. The dreamer who is impractical cannot bring his dreams to completion, and the man of the world cannot attain the true peaks of experience without some powerful inner vision.

While cooperation between peoples, and a reasonable division of labor, is essential to the harmony of any society, an inward and individual harmony must also be sought. There is no small portion of wisdom in the reflection that we ought to honor people (including ourselves) for those specific gifts which they (or we) bring to the table in greater abundance, and to make concessions for those gifts in which they (or we) are lacking. This is only to show appropriate respect for what has gone before. Nevertheless, the recognition of what truly is, in this moment, must include an appreciation for what else may be. Not merely our gifts, but our potentials, must be counted.

The Renaissance philosophers were not mistaken in the special position they accorded mankind, among all the animals. Not that we are necessarily greater, -- since the Renaissance philosophy did not glorify the best which was in us without excoriating the worst; calling us, at one and the same time, both better and worse than the beasts -- but, that we have the potential to be something more complete; not merely more than the animals, but even more than the gods; who can only inspire, according to their respective natures, a particular aspect of ourselves.

We are not called to emulate the gods, but God Himself.

We are called to wholeness.