Woof

I was discussing the alleged phenomenon of hauntings with a friend of mine, and he said, "There's one thing I've always wondered.  Some people believe that the souls of humans can survive after death, and become ghosts.  If humans can become ghosts, why can't other animals?"

Well, after pointing out the obvious problem that I'm not really the right person to state with authority what a soul, human or otherwise, could or could not do, I mentioned that there are many cases of supposed hauntings by animals.  The most famous of these is the haunting of Ballechin House in Scotland.

Ballechin House shortly before its demolition [Image is in the Public Domain]

Ballechin House was a beautiful manor house, built in 1806 near Grandtully, Perthshire, Scotland, on a site that had been owned by the Stuart (or Stewart or Steuart or Steward, they seemed to have spelled it a new way every time the mood took them) family since the fifteenth century.  The story goes that a scion of this family (sources point to his being the son of the man who had the house built), one Major Robert Steuart, was a bit of a wacko who had more affection for his dogs than he did for his family.  That said, he provided quarters for his sister Isabella, who was a nun -- I'm not sure why she wasn't living with her fellow sisters in a convent, but some claim that it was because she'd had an illegitimate child and gotten herself, um... de-habited?  Anyhow, she lived with them for a time, finally dying and being buried on the property.  As for Major Steuart, he apparently took enough time away from his dogs to marry and have at least one child, John.

As the Major got older, he got more and more peculiar, and finally started claiming that after he died he was going to be reincarnated as a dog.  One runs into these ideas pretty frequently today, but back then, it must have been a sore shock to his nearest and dearest.  So this partly explains why when the Major did go to that Big Kennel In The Sky, his son John rounded up all of the Major's dogs and shot them.

I say "partly" because I fail to understand how, even if you believed that the Major was going to be reincarnated as a dog, killing dogs that were currently alive and therefore presumably none of whom were actually the Major, would help.  But that's what he did.

And boy was he sorry.

Almost immediately thereafter, John Steuart and his family and servants began to experience spooky stuff.  They heard doggy noises -- panting, wagging of tails, sniffing, and the really nasty slurping sounds dogs make when they are conducting intimate personal hygiene.  (Okay, I'm assuming that they heard that last sound.  I certainly hear it enough from my own dogs.)  Steuart's wife several times felt herself being pushed by a wet canine nose, and reported being in a room and suddenly being overpowered by a strong doggy smell.

Other apparitions began -- the sighting of a ghostly nun, all dressed in gray, in the garden; doors that would open and close by themselves; and the sound of limping footsteps (the Major apparently walked with a limp).  Steuart himself was not long to worry about them, because he was killed in an accident, supposedly the day after hearing a knocking sound on the wall.  (Maybe it was a coded message from the Major that meant, "The dogs and I can't wait to see you!")

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of the creator Spettro84, Ghost-BlackDog]

In the 1890s the hauntings were investigated on the urging of a certain Lord Bute -- I can't figure out whether by that time Bute was the owner of the property, or just a busybody.  Thirty-five psychics descended upon the house, which created such a cosmic convergence of woo-wooness that you just knew something was gonna happen.  And it did.  A Ouija board spelled out "Ishbel" (recall that Major Steuart's sister who was a sister was named Isabella, and recall also that this entire family seemed to have difficulty with spelling their own names).  The psychics experienced various doggy phenomena; one of the psychics, who had brought her own dog along, reported that one evening her dog began to whimper, and she looked over, and there were two disembodied dog paws resting on the bedside table.

I'd whimper, too.

In the interest of honesty, it must be recorded that the house was let several times during this period, once to a Colonel Taylor who belonged to the Society for Psychical Research, which is known for its skeptical and scientific approach toward claims of the paranormal.  And Taylor's diary, sorry to say, records that he slept in the Major's bedroom on more than one occasion and experienced nothing out of the ordinary.

Be that as it may, Ballechin House acquired the reputation of being "the most haunted house in Scotland," and by the 1920s became impossible to rent.  It fell into increasing disrepair, and finally was torn down in 1963.  I think this is a little sad -- I'd have loved to visit it.  I might even have brought my dogs. My puppy Jethro is highly alert, even if he has the IQ of a loaf of bread, and would certainly let us know if there were any other dogs present.  I see no reason why it would matter that the canine residents of the house were a bunch of dogs who, technically, were dead.  The "doggy smell" would be adequate motivation for him to bark his fool head off, as would the whole leaving-your-front-paws-on-the-nightstand thing.

So, the believers in Survival seem to, for the most part, believe that dogs have an eternal soul.  However, this opens up a troubling question.  Why stop there?  If dogs have an eternal soul, do cats?  (Several of the cats I've owned seemed to be more of cases of demonic possession, frankly.)  How about bunnies?  Or weasels?  Or worms?  Or Japanese beetles?  (I'd be willing to believe that if there are gardens in hell, there'll be Japanese beetles there to eat the roses.)  I find this a worrisome slippery slope.  It may be a cheering thought that something of Woofy's nature will survive his demise, even if he terrorizes the guests with sticking his spectral wet nose into said guests' private regions, but I'm not sure I want to be stung by ghostly yellowjackets, or have to spray my plants for ghostly aphids.  The real kind are enough of a problem.

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The shadow of misrule

One of the most interesting figures from English history is King Henry II, who ruled from 1154 until his death in 1189.

Henry was the first of the Plantagenet dynasty, which was to last another three hundred years.  The Plantagenets are said to have gotten their name because Henry's father, Geoffrey of Anjou, was fond of the brilliant gold flowers of the broom plant (in medieval French, plante genesta).  His claim to the English throne came through Geoffrey's wife (and Henry II's mother) Matilda, who was the granddaughter of William the Conqueror, and who had come damn close to ruling England in her own right during the First English Civil War.

Henry was a larger-than-life figure who spent most of his reign trying unsuccessfully to keep peace in his wide landholdings (he ruled not only England, but Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, and Aquitaine), reining in his redoubtable wife Eleanor of Aquitaine, and later, dealing with repeated rebellions from his three eldest sons Henry and Geoffrey (both of whom predeceased their father) and Richard, who eventually succeeded to the throne as Richard I "the Lionhearted."

The single incident most often remembered about Henry's reign, though, was his clash with the indomitable Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.  (His picking up of an extra syllable -- "Thomas à Becket" -- is a sixteenth-century invention.)  Becket was initially a close friend and confidante of Henry's, and Henry had been instrumental in his succeeding to the Archbishopric in the first place; but once there, Thomas proved to be stubborn and unyielding, and engaged in what amounted to an eight-year-long pissing match with the king regarding the secular authority's jurisdiction over the Church.  Henry, whose temper tantrums were legendary, ranted at a meeting of his counselors in 1170, "What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric!"  (The better-known line, "Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?" is not attested by contemporary historians, although it's certainly a pithy and memorable turn of phrase.)

Either way, four of Henry's knights decided that this was tantamount to a direct order.  Reginald FitzUrse, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy and Richard le Breton quietly left the king's presence, and on December 29, 1170 made their way to Canterbury.  At first, it seemed as if they intended to bring Becket back to apologize to the king; eyewitnesses say they left their weapons outside before they went into the cathedral to confront the archbishop.  But Becket, of course, categorically refused, saying to the assassins, "I am ready to die for my Lord, that in my blood the Church may find liberty and peace."  The four knights rushed back out, grabbed their swords, and cut Becket down on the steps leading up into the choir.

The murder of Thomas Becket (ca. 1200) [Image is in the Public Domain]

What happened afterward is why this story comes up in Skeptophilia.  The four knights, understandably horrified at the repercussions of what they'd just done, took off in different directions, as fast as their horses could gallop.  They reconvened in de Morville's home in Knaresborough, Yorkshire, but the following year all four were excommunicated by Pope Alexander III.  Back then excommunication was a huge deal; it meant you couldn't receive the sacraments of the church, including absolution for sins, so it was considered a sure road to spending eternity in hell.  The four tried to make up for it by going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land -- it's thought that none of them returned, and according to one legend they came to bad ends in short order and were buried outside the walls of Jerusalem with the epitaph, "Here lie those wretches who martyred the Blessed St. Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury."

Thomas was canonized in 1173, and his death turned into a good example of "Be careful what you wish for."  In life, he'd antagonized a lot of people with his inflexibility and sharp temper; after he was murdered, all his failings were quickly forgotten and he became a holy martyr.  (In fact, so many miracles were attributed to him that 350 years later the staunchly anti-Catholic King Henry VIII had Becket's bones unearthed, burned, and scattered to the winds so they could no longer be venerated as holy relics.)  As for King Henry II, he never really recovered from his guilt, both in his own eyes and that of his people.  He undertook a remarkable penance -- he knelt at the site where Becket had died, stripped to the waist, and was flogged by the monks of Canterbury -- but it was the beginning of the end of his reign.  His wife Eleanor left him, his two oldest sons, Henry and Geoffrey, died in 1183 and 1186, and he developed health issues (probably stomach cancer) that ended his life at the young age of 56.

Becket's death made such an impression on the English people that it has given rise to a number of ghostly tales.  First, that on the evening of December 29, on the main roads out of Canterbury, you'll hear the onrushing clatter of a horse's hooves, followed by a swirl of icy wind -- the spectral presence of one of the four assassins, fleeing for their lives after murdering the archbishop.  As for Becket himself, he sometimes appears to visitors as an apparition called "Becket's Shadow" -- a vague dark figure with a "pearlescent sheen" and glowing eyes, seen near the pillar where Becket knelt while FitzUrse and the others hacked him to pieces.

It hardly bears mention that I don't give much credence to the ghost stories associated with Henry and Becket, but it does give an extra little frisson to a tale that's really rather sad.  By most estimations, Henry II wasn't a bad king; certainly there were way worse (including his indolent and cruel son King John, who succeeded to the throne after Richard the Lionhearted's early death in 1199 at the age of 41, from sepsis after a wound from a crossbow bolt).  But Becket wasn't an evil man, either.  Hard-headed and self-righteous, sure.  But the collision course the two men ended up on, and the tragedy that eventually unfolded, was as much due to circumstance as intent.  Even the rebellion of Henry's sons (with the connivance of Henry's wife Eleanor of Aquitaine) was a situation where it's hard to pin blame -- it was more what happens when you get a bunch of stubborn and strong-willed people together all of whom think they know the best way to do things.

But even unintentional misrule can cast a long shadow.  Richard I was a blustering bully who had no real interest in governance, and spent a huge chunk of his ten-year reign away on Crusade; John, his younger brother, was roundly hated for his ugly spitefulness, and no one mourned much when he died of dysentery in 1216 at the age of 49.  John's son, Henry III, had one of the longest reigns of any English monarch -- 56 years -- but he was a pious, easily swayed, and not very intelligent man whose obsession with reconquering lost territory in France turned into an utter debacle.  It wasn't until Henry III's capable son, Edward I, was crowned in 1272 -- almost exactly a hundred years after Becket's murder -- that things really began to settle.

It's worth keeping in mind -- especially considering what's happening right now in the United States -- how easy it is to tear things down, and how hard it is (and how long it can take) to rebuild a functioning government.  Any arrogant, entitled prick can run around with a chainsaw; it takes little effort and no brains whatsoever.  Crafting something that actually helps the citizens of the country live better lives requires skill and intelligence and hard work.  Look at what happened in England at the end of the twelfth century, where all it took were hard-headed ideologues refusing to give an inch to precipitate a century's worth of chaos.

How much worse could it be when the ones engineering the destruction are doing it with intent -- vicious and amoral sociopaths who are single-mindedly focused on amassing wealth and power?

Today's elected leaders, though -- and the powerful men who are moving them around like chess pieces, confident that they will never face any consequences -- might want to keep in mind the sobering epitaph carved into King Henry II's tomb at Fontevraud Abbey:

I am Henry the King. To me
Diverse realms were subject.
I was duke and count of many provinces.
Eight feet of ground is now enough for me,
Whom many kingdoms failed to satisfy.
Who reads these lines, let him reflect
Upon the narrowness of death,
And in my case behold
The image of our mortal lot.
This scanty tomb doth now suffice
For whom the whole Earth was not enough.

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Celestial revelations

Once or twice a week I volunteer to sort book donations for our local Friends of the Library biannual book sale.  This particular event, held in May and October and sponsored by the Tompkins County Friends of the Library, is one of the biggest used book sales in the United States -- we process a half a million books a year.  It's an amazing event, raises much-needed money for our library system, and is a must-attend for any bibliophiles.

It hardly needs saying that the sale is one of the high points of the year for me.  I always come back with a huge box of books, because I clearly don't have enough books already.  As the volunteers' presale is on April 27, I've already been snooping around up and down the aisles in the warehouse, scouting out what books I want to pounce on before anyone else has an opportunity to get their grubby mitts on 'em.

Sorting incoming books is a lot of fun, not only because the people I work with are lovely, but because it's highly entertaining to see what people choose to donate.  I've noticed that there seem to be themes -- one day we'll be inundated with books on anthropology, the next gardening, the one after that murder mysteries or religion or science fiction.  There's nothing odd about this, when you stop to think about it.  We all have our obsessions, reading-material-wise, so when people clear out their shelves it's understandable that we'd end up with piles of donations from the same genres.

When I was there last Wednesday, the Theme of the Day was the occult.  We had psychic stuff and reincarnation and crystals and astrology and Tarot card interpretation, as well as about twenty books by the famously loony Graham Hancock.  None of this was all that remarkable.  But then I ran into three copies of a book I kinda-sorta remembered hearing about -- The Urantia Book -- and by the third time, I asked one of the other sorters if she knew what it was.

She didn't.  She, like myself, had heard the name, knew it was connected with the occult somehow, but that was about it.

So when I got home, I looked it up, and it's quite a story.

Cover of the first edition (1955) [Image is in the Public Domain]

The whole thing seems to have been the brainchild of one William S. Sadler, although Sadler said he acted only as a channel and that the pages of the original manuscript "materialized" between 1924 and 1935.  Sadler is a curious figure; he was a doctor and an early "health food" promoter, whose wife Lena (Kellogg) Sadler was the niece of John Harvey Kellogg, the inventor of corn flakes.  Sadler started out being a debunker of psychic claims, and in fact wrote a book called The Mind at Mischief in which he exposed fraudulent mediums and their methods of hoodwinking the gullible.

But then... something happened.  It's unclear if Sadler had a change of heart, or if (like the cynical, bored book publishers who decided to out-conspiracy the conspiracy theorists in Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum) he figured he could come up with his own loony idea that would fool people way better than the two-bit mediums he'd debunked.  Whichever it was, in 1924 he launched into a claim that he had become the focus of a "strange communication from a group called the Celestials." 

So he and some friends got together to write it all down.

These writings, which run to two thousand pages, are what were eventually compiled into The Urantia Book.  It wasn't published until 1955 -- because, Sadler said, there'd been questions he and his team had that needed to be "clarified by the Celestials."

But when it finally did hit the presses... wow.

The "Urantia Foundation" -- formed to coordinate printing and sales of the book -- reports that it's still a hot seller.  Between 1990 and 2000, annual sales went up by over a factor of five (from 7,000 to 38,000).  It became downloadable in 2010, and since then averages around 60,000 downloads a year.  Brad Gooch, in his book Godtalk: Travels in Spiritual America, says that the number of Urantia study groups and online discussion groups has been going up steadily in the last ten years and is showing no sign of leveling off.

I'll be honest; I haven't read the book itself and have no real intention to, but the excerpts I've found online strike me as fairly innocuous.  There's a lot of talk about all of us having the "Divine Spark" or an "Indwelling Presence" that guides us toward good behavior, and a "Thought Adjuster" that steers us away from sinfulness.  It seems to have no particular quarrel with other religions and philosophies; the attitude is that they all got some things right and some things wrong, so y'know, we're all on this journey together, live and let live, I'm okay you're okay everyone's okay.  And aliens, but they're okay, too.

Honestly, it's all pretty tolerant and friendly-sounding.  Me, I'd take this over evangelical Christianity in a heartbeat, even if Sadler did make the whole thing up.

What's curious about the people who believe this really is a more-or-less divine revelation from all-knowing Celestial Beings, though, is when it gets to the parts about science -- because in a lot of places, it got the science wrong.  And the really interesting part is that the things they got wrong were, oddly enough, wrong in exactly the way that you'd expect from an entirely non-Celestial human who was writing in the 1920s.  It describes the formation of the Solar System via something that sounds an awful lot like the 1905 Chamberlin-Moulton Planetesimal Hypothesis, which was widely accepted in the 1920s but ruled out on the basis of inconsistencies with known physical principles by Lyman Spitzer and Henry Norris Russell in 1940.  It states that the Andromeda Galaxy is "almost one million light years away" -- once again, the accepted value in the 1920s, before better measurements showed that it's well over double that distance.  Back then, too, the whole "fundamental particle" thing was really taking off, and there was no certainty of how deep the well went -- whether particles would prove to be divisible into ever tinier and tinier pieces with no end, or if there really were fundamental, indivisible particles.  Well, Urantia says that all the known particles are composed of a fundamental smaller piece called an "ultimaton;" electrons, for example, are made of a hundred of them.

Unfortunately for Urantia and the Celestials, however, the Standard Model of Particle Physics, one of the most extensively-tested models in all of science, finds no evidence of "ultimatons," and electrons really do appear to be fundamental and indivisible.

So my problem is that if you're expecting me to accept that this really is some kind of revealed truth -- either from a deity, or at the very least, from some super-smart aliens -- then why'd they get the science demonstrably wrong?  And if they got the facts wrong, on what basis should I believe anything else they say?

As generally "nice" as their philosophy seems to be, I have my doubts.

Anyhow, now I know way more about The Urantia Book than I did.  If you're intrigued, and going to be in Ithaca during the first week of May, you can pick up a copy or three at the book sale.  Today I'll be heading down in an hour or so to do my shift sorting more books.  I wonder what the Theme of the Day will be?  Sports?  True Crime?  Graphic Novels?  Self-Help?

Amish Romances?  I kid you not, there's a whole shelf full of Amish Romances.

When you deal with a half a million books a year, there's bound to be something for everyone.

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Taking the plunge

When I was in my twenties, I lived near Seattle, Washington.  It's a lovely part of the country -- absolutely a gardener's paradise, and I was only a few hours' drive from both the ocean and the mountains.  I spent huge chunks of my summers back-country camping in the Cascades, Olympics, and along the Pacific coast, getting as far away from the noise and traffic of the city as I could reasonably manage.

On one particularly memorable trip, I did a solo hike up and over Teanaway Pass in the Cascades, and camped by lovely, crystal-clear Ingalls Lake.  (Fans of my fiction might recognize this as the setting of a very important scene in my novel Kill Switch.)  On the hike in, it'd been one of those unusual blistering hot days the Northwest occasionally gets; not a cloud in the sky, temperatures around 85 F.  By the time I got to the lake and my planned campsite, I was drenched with sweat.  The lake looked really inviting, so I first shucked my backpack, then all of my clothes, and took off at a run for the water.

I was literally mid-swan-dive when I had a sudden, horrified realization.

Ingalls Lake is fed by glacial meltwater.

I must have looked like one of those comical Looney Tunes characters, frantically bicycling my legs in a futile attempt not to plunge into water that was probably around 40 F.  The cold shock was one of the most intensely unpleasant sensations I've ever experienced.  I was out of there, standing naked and shivering on the shore, in five seconds flat.

At least I wasn't hot and sweaty any more.

So I learned a valuable lesson that day: never jump into water before you've tested the temperature.

I have since that time only had one other cold plunge experience, this one knowing ahead of time what I was in for.  It occurred when I was in Iceland in 2022 with a group of nine other guys.  There's a general rule that the overall intelligence of a group of guys is inversely proportional to the number of guys in the group, and this was no exception.  So yeah, we all got naked and jumped into a freezing-cold lake in Iceland.  I don't have any photos of the actual plunge -- which, after all, would be NC-17 rated anyhow -- but this was my reaction afterward, when I'd gotten at least partially dressed:

I think the V-for-Victory stance was more "Yay, I survived" than "Gee, that was fun."  Because the fact remains that I hate being cold.  I have a nice swimmable pond in my back yard, and I take advantage of it when the water is warm enough to suit me, which in the upstate New York climate is the first two weeks of August.  I've got nothing against showing skin -- I'll shuck my shirt without hesitation if it's hot out, and skinnydip if those I'm with have no objection -- but when the weather's cool, I'm in several layers of Smart Wool.

The reason all this comes up is because of a study at the University of Ottawa that was the subject of a paper in the journal Advanced Biology last week that looked at whether the whole trendy Ice Plunge thing actually has any measurable health effects besides making your teeth chatter, and to my surprise, it turns out it does.  They took ten healthy young men, and subjected them to cold water immersion for a grand total of an hour spread over seven days, and then did blood tests to see how their bodies responded on the cellular level.

The results -- after only a week -- were striking.  Cold tolerance increased, which is not all that surprising; but what is more interesting is that autophagic function, which is the body's cellular waste disposal system, improved dramatically.  This process is involved with response to stress, and is critical for repairing damaged or aging tissues.

"We were amazed to see how quickly the body adapted," said study lead author Kelli King.  "Cold exposure might help prevent diseases and potentially even slow down aging at a cellular level.  It's like a tune-up for your body's microscopic machinery...  This enhancement allows cells to better manage stress and could have important implications for health and longevity."

Even so, I don't think I'm going to be joining our local Polar Bear Club any time soon.  The sheer discomfort of being that cold isn't worth any gains I might achieve.  Maybe, like the guys in the University of Ottawa study, I'd acclimate, but I doubt I'll ever get to find out.  I'll stick with relaxing hot showers, and swimming in my pond when the water's nice and warm.

And -- above all -- testing the temperature of lake water before I commit myself to a head-first dive.

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The letter and the labyrinth

A year and a half or so ago I wrote a piece about some of the biblical apocrypha -- books and epistles and letters and whatnot that didn't make the cut to be part of the canonical Bible when the whole thing was hashed out at the Council of Rome (382 C.E.), the Synod of Hippo (393 C.E.), and the Synod of Carthage (397 C.E.), after which the Bible had something close to its current form.  (As I mention in the post, the idea that canon was established at the Council of Nicaea in 325 is a commonly-held misconception; Nicaea had nothing to do with decisions about what was scripture and what wasn't, but was about the nature of the Trinity and how to determine the date for Easter.)

What's interesting is that even since all of the late-fourth-century wrangling by the church fathers, there hasn't been an end to what is Holy Writ and what should be written out, because new documents keep popping up.  The most famous are the Dead Sea Scrolls, discovered between 1946 and 1956 in the Qumran Caves near Ein Feshkha in the West Bank; those, although they were certainly a fantastic historical and archaeological discovery, didn't much affect religious belief, because they were mostly composed either of (1) canonical Old Testament books, (2) writings that we already knew about but had been declared non-canonical apocrypha (like the supremely weird Books of Enoch), or (3) descriptions of religious and secular law.

Sometimes, though, a document is discovered that leave both the historians and the devout scrambling for an explanation.  And that brings us to the "Mystic Gospel of Mark."

You ready for a tangled tale?

Back in 1958, an American historian named Morton Smith was poring through some old manuscripts at the Monastery of Mar Saba, and found a handwritten Greek text appended to the end of a seventeenth-century printed edition of the writings of Ignatius of Antioch.  Smith identified the text as an eighteenth-century copy of a letter from the theologian Clement of Alexandria (150 - 215 C.E.), which made reference to the Gospel of Mark -- not the standard version, but a longer, "secret" gospel (τοῦ Μάρκου τὸ μυστικὸν εὐαγγέλιον).

Smith hand-transcribed the document, then requested (and was approved) to take the original to the Greek Orthodox Library in Jerusalem.  Despite Smith writing a paper on the discovery in 1960, little attention was given to the document; as far as we know, only three other scholars ever set eyes on it, the religious historians David Flusser, Shlomo Pines, and Guy Stroumsa.  Stroumsa, who saw it in 1976, appears to be the last person who gave the manuscript a close look.  Smith took photographs of the pages in question, but the document itself mysteriously disappeared some time between then and 1990 and hasn't been seen since.

One of Smith's photographs of the alleged "Mystic Gospel of Mark" document [Image is in the Public Domain]

The putative Clement of Alexandria letter included two passages that occur nowhere in the current Gospel of Mark, but were supposedly from the longer "Mystic Gospel."  One passage is much lengthier than the other; and it's that one that caused a furor, especially given how Morton Smith translated and interpreted it.  Here's Smith's translation:

And they come into Bethany.  And a certain woman whose brother had died was there.  And, coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus and says to him, "Son of David, have mercy on me."  But the disciples rebuked her.  And Jesus, being angered, went off with her into the garden where the tomb was, and straightway a great cry was heard from the tomb.  And going near Jesus rolled away the stone from the door of the tomb.  And straightway, going in where the youth was, he stretched forth his hand and raised him, seizing his hand.  But the youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beseech him that he might be with him.  And going out of the tomb they came into the house of the youth, for he was rich.  And after six days Jesus told him what to do and in the evening the youth comes to him, wearing only a linen cloth over his naked body.  And he remained with him that night, for Jesus taught him the mystery of the kingdom of God.  And thence, arising, he returned to the other side of the Jordan.

So yeah.  Smith interpreted the naked young man "remaining with Jesus that night" to mean that not only did Jesus condone homosexuality, he participated in it.

You can see why that turned some heads.

Whether this interpretation alone was the cause, historians immediately started claiming the whole thing was a forgery.  Quentin Quesnell stopped just short of accusing Smith outright, but said that the "hypothetical forger matched Smith's apparent ability, opportunity, and motivation" (Vigiliae Christianae, vol. 71, no. 4, pp. 353–378).  Stephen Carlson went even further, as you might surmise by the title of his book on the subject -- The Gospel Hoax: Morton Smith's Invention of Secret Mark -- and points out that a 1910 catalogue of the holdings of the Mar Saba Monastery Library doesn't list the book where Smith allegedly found the document, and from that (and the book's later mysterious disappearance) Carlson concludes that Smith forged the letter, then made sure the original vanished so that modern hoax-detection techniques such as ink analysis wouldn't reveal what he'd done.  Jacob Neusner, a historian specializing in ancient Judaism, called it "the forgery of the century."

Not everyone is so sure, though.  There are a good number of historians who point out that the photographs of the document (which still exist) demonstrate a sure hand at writing eighteenth-century Greek calligraphy, and further, that the writing style and word choice is completely consistent with known writings of Clement of Alexandria.  Producing such a close match, they say, would have been beyond Morton Smith's knowledge, skill, and ability.  New Testament scholar Bart Ehrman, in his book Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew, writes, "It is true that a modern forgery would be an amazing feat.  For this to be forged, someone would have had to imitate an eighteenth-century Greek style of handwriting and to produce a document that is so much like Clement that it fools experts who spend their lives analyzing Clement, which quotes a previously lost passage from Mark that is so much like Mark that it fools experts who spend their lives analyzing Mark.  If this is forged, it is one of the greatest works of scholarship of the twentieth century, by someone who put an uncanny amount of work into it."

And the historians are still arguing about this.  One of those impossible questions to settle, as far as I can see, given that the original document is AWOL, whether by accident or design.  Responses by scholars and interested laypeople vary from "it was a hoax from beginning to end, and Smith did it" to "the letter isn't authentic but was an earlier forgery, and Smith got fooled but was acting in good faith" to "the letter was an authentic transcription from Clement, but the passages weren't actually by the Evangelist Mark" to "okay, they're by Mark, but the gay Jesus passage is being mistranslated or misinterpreted" to "yay!  Gay Jesus FTW!"

It's hard to escape the conclusion that everyone's taking this and finding ways to use it to support whatever it was they already believed.

The problem here is that the evidence we actually have is somewhere beyond thin -- a photograph of an eighteenth-century transcription (for which the original is lost) of a third-century letter (for which the original is even loster, if it ever existed in the first place) of some extra passages for a Gospel that a even lot of the devout think wasn't itself written until at least three decades after Jesus's death.  So from that, you can conclude damn near anything you want.

I mean, I love archaeology and history, but really.

So that's our excursion into the labyrinth of biblical scholarship.  Me, I think I'll move on to something I can be more sure about, like quantum physics.  At least there, the whole concept of the Uncertainty Principle has a clear definition.

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Haunted housewares

I don't own many things that are all that old.

I'm referring to human-made objects, of course.  I have a couple of Devonian-age brachiopod fossils that I collected in a nearby creek bed that are around four hundred million years old.  In general, rocks are more unusual if they're really new; I have a piece of basaltic lava rock I brought back from my trip to Iceland a couple of years ago that was part of an active flow only a few years ago.

Human-made things, though, don't usually last very long.  I don't have anything "passed down in my family" that goes back more than two generations.  I have a couple of beautiful old bookcases that belonged to my paternal grandmother, and that's about it.  As far as other antiques, the two oldest things I own are both musical instruments -- my Ivers & Pond piano, which was made in Boston in 1876, and a wooden keyed flute I got (no lie) in a used-goods store in Tallinn, Estonia, which was made in France in around 1880.  Interestingly, I got both of them super cheap.  The flute was unplayable because the middle joint had a crack, which I had repaired when I got back to the States, and the piano I got for free -- it'd been sitting in someone's garage, unplayed, for years -- so the only cost to me was hiring some piano movers, and then getting it tuned once I got it into my house.

Otherwise?  Most everything else we have is pretty recent.  We've been told our home decorating style is an apparently real thing called "Shabby Chic."  I don't know about "chic," but we've definitely got the "shabby" part locked down.  The fact that my wife and I are both Housework Impaired, combined with owning three dogs, makes it unlikely we'll ever be featured in Home Beautiful.

The reason this all comes up is that I just stumbled across a curious Japanese legend called Tsukumogami (つくも神) that says if you own an object that is over a hundred years old, it becomes a Yōkai (妖怪, literally, "strange apparition"), a sentient being imbued with its own spirit.  These spirits can be benevolent or malevolent, or sometimes maybe they just need a hug:

The Lantern Ghost, by Katsushika Hokusai, ca. 1830 [Image is in the Public Domain]

Some of the objects that allegedly became Yōkai include a pair of sandals, a lute, a folding screen, a sake bottle, a gong, a vegetable grater, an umbrella, a mirror, a teakettle, and a clock.  There are lots more, though -- an eighteenth century book called Hyakki Tsurezure Bukuro (百器徒然袋 -- literally, "One Hundred Haunted Housewares") describes all kinds of haunted objects, including the terrifying Menreiki (面霊気), a horrible monster composed entirely of masks:

The Menreiki, from Hyakki Tsurezure Bukuro [Image is in the Public Domain]

I love masks, and actually collect them, but if they start coming to life and chasing me around, I'm done.

What I find fascinating about stories like this is how specific they are.  It's not just a vague "things going bump in the night" kind of legend; this is a koto (a Japanese zither) suddenly growing a horrible face and lots of extra strings:

Koto-furunushi, from Hyakki Tsurezure Bukuro [Image is in the Public Domain]

My reaction to all this is not simply my usual rationalism kicking in, wondering, "Why would people believe this when it so clearly doesn't ever happen?"  It's also considering how scary it must be for people who think the world actually works this way.  Of course, I've had the same thought about fundamentalist Christians, who think that an all-loving and compassionate God would make you burn in agony for all eternity because you occasionally look at naughty pictures on the internet.

So Tsukumogami is an interesting legend, but I'm just as happy it's not real.  If my piano suddenly became self-aware and started playing eerie melodies at one in the morning, I think I'd opt right out.  Or, worse, if it started critiquing my playing.  "Merciful heavens, Debussy would be appalled.  Maybe you should go back to playing 'Chopsticks,' or something."

I'm hard enough on my own self, thanks.  I don't need some possessed musical instrument weighing in.

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Lightning rod

In 1904, biologist Joseph Grinnell formulated what has since become known as the Competitive Exclusion Principle: if two species overlap in their niches, the degree of overlap correlates to the degree of competition between them.  If the competition becomes too high, eventually one of them is outcompeted and dies out.

Contrary to the "Nature is red in tooth and claw" view of the natural world, however, many species solve the problem of competitive exclusion in remarkable peaceable ways.  Some partition the habitat -- for example, species of insect-eating warblers in my part of the world avoid competing for food by splitting up where they forage, with some species mostly staying in the treetops, others in the the forest midstory or undergrowth.  Elaborate cooperative strategies are also remarkably common -- witness lichens, which are a symbiotic pairing of an algae species and a fungus, where the fungus gives the algae housing, and the algae photosynthesizes and donates some of the nutrients to its host.

So despite how it's often characterized, nature doesn't always land on the violent solution.

Sometimes, though...

There's a rain forest tree found in Panama called the almendro (Dipteryx oleifera).  It's in the bean family, Fabaceae, which you can tell if you look at its pinnately-compound leaves and showy flowers:

It can get up to 55 meters tall, which is a necessity in the rain forest.  Dense patches of rain forest have such a thick covering of leaves that only two percent of the incident sunlight reaches the forest floor.  Understory plants have evolved to cope with the perpetual twilight -- this is one of the reasons why rain forest plants often have very dark green leaves.  The density of pigments allows them to trap every photon of light they manage to receive.

Trees, though, compete by elbowing each other out of the way, trying to grow as tall as possible so as to access light, and in the process, shade out the abundant competition.  But not only do rain forest trees have to worry about nearby trees, they also have to deal with lianas, vining species that twine up tree trunks and drape themselves over the canopy, hitching a ride on their taller, sturdier neighbors, and shading them out in the process.

Well, the almendro has evolved a strategy for dealing with all of that at once.

A study this week in New Phytologist looked at a peculiar pattern that ecologist Evan Gora, of the Cary Institute of Ecosystem Studies, had noticed: almendros seemed to have an unusually high likelihood of being struck by lightning, but almost never sustained any significant damage from it.  Well, after a five-year study, Gora and his collaborators found that almendros that were struck usually just lost some leaves and small branches, while other species sustained significant damage, with 64% of the struck trees dying within two years.

Not only that, but the lightning strikes completely wipe out any lianas.  Almendros that were hit by lightning not only recovered quickly, they had their tangle of vines blown to smithereens.  And neighboring trees that were jolted by the strike -- through sparks jumping from the almendro -- often died, too, freeing up more living room.

The data shows that living near an almendro raises a neighboring tree's likelihood of being killed by a lightning strike by 48%.  "Any tree that gets close," Gora said, "eventually gets electrocuted."

How the almendro has managed to evolve into a natural lightning rod is uncertain, but it has been found that the cells in its wood have wider channels for water transport, making the wood more electrically conductive.  Most of the damage to trees from lightning strikes occurs because internal resistance causes the electrical energy to dissipate as heat, making the sap boil and triggering the trunk to explode.  Lowering the electrical resistance allows the current to pass through the trunk and safely into the ground with less heating.  This means that not only does the almendro not suffer as much damage, it actually attracts lightning -- electrical discharges tend to follow the path of least resistance.

So even if sometimes the natural world does evolve nice, friendly, cooperative solutions to the problems of survival, sometimes it... doesn't.  Even the trees don't always.  Like the Ents and Huorns from Tolkien's Fangorn Forest, sometimes the trees deal with their enemies by taking matters into their own... um... branches.

Think about that next time you're going for a nice stroll in the woods.

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