My response to an interesting essay by my friend Max Borders (link to Max's essay in the first comment)
Max, I don’t think our core views are all that different. Sure, we might diverge a bit in our elaborations and preferred methods—like psycho-analysis (eeeewwww!)—but that’s more about style than substance.
Here’s my take on why myth and story ARE indispensable: The world is a monstrously complex, high-dimensional beast. Layers upon layers of emergence stack on top of one another, forming intricate ecosystems of interactions (think of Earth itself: a planet teeming with life engaged in endless games of cooperation, competition, and everything in between). These systems hardly lend themselves to formal analysis. Hell, we can’t even crack the math on something as “simple” as the three-body problem! So, when it comes to navigating this tangled web of complexity, we need tools that go beyond linear, analytical reasoning. That’s where stories and myths come in—they’re humanity’s time-tested way of making sense of the seemingly senselessly complex.
For example, whenever I mentor a young man, I have him read three Heinlein novels in a specific order—Starship Troopers, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, and Stranger in a Strange Land. Why? Because these stories convey nuanced, partially contradictory, and yet overlapping perspectives on "how to be a man." The combined effect of these narratives shapes a kind of gestalt understanding that no formal explanation could replicate. I mean, I could try to distill it all into a bulleted list of lessons, but honestly? That’d miss the point entirely. The real magic lies in how those stories interact with the mentee's unique web of memories, experiences, and cognitive structures. It’s not about spoon-feeding lessons but about sparking something deeper and richer.
Now, take this idea and zoom out to humanity’s relationship with the natural world. We’ve done catastrophic damage to the biosphere by reducing nature’s wild, generative complexity to something sterile and one-dimensional. Case in point: the climax forests of Ohio, once vibrant ecosystems, replaced by endless monoculture fields drenched in chemical pesticides. Why? Because our dominant metric for interacting with nature boils down to a single, cold question: “Does it pay?” Occasionally, we stumble into something positive—like ecotourism—but mostly, this profit-driven mindset slashes nature’s dimensionality down to near nothing.
Here’s the rub: “does it pay?” is the core engine of Game A, a system running on borrowed time and hurtling toward collapse. So, what’s the alternative? Stories and the “sacred,” rightly used and understood, can play an important role.
Imagine if we replaced “does it pay?” with something like this: “The biodiversity and impossibly intricate ecological networks of the natural world are the crown jewels of the universe’s unfolding so far, and humanity is but one thread in that tapestry. Unless there’s a truly compelling reason otherwise, never knowingly reduce net biological complexity.” Can I prove that this is the right way to think? No. But does my high-dimensional, mythopoetic intuition scream that it is? Absolutely.
The question is, can we spread this narrative widely enough to tip the scales—to fundamentally reframe humanity’s relationship with the natural world? Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.
Now, let’s talk about the concept of the “sacred.” I’m fine with using that word as a shorthand for how we approach systems of staggering complexity where analytical tools just don’t cut it. But here’s the kicker: this notion of the “sacred” needs to stay grounded. It’s operational, not metaphysical. In other words, it’s a tool—one that’s useful right now, in this particular slice of humanity’s journey. Fast-forward to some distant future where humans (or our successors) wield god-like powers of analysis or no longer care about the biome, and the story might change. And that’s okay.
The strength of invoking the “sacred” lies in its ability to guide practical engagement with complexity. The danger? Forgetting it’s a tool, mistaking it for some unchanging metaphysical truth. If we do that, we risk locking ourselves into dogma, losing the flexibility to adapt our stories when the universe demands something new.
The four quadrants are a good framing, especially when you connect each quadrant to logos, pathos, ethos, mythos. I made a similar matrix once, to try to explain the interplay between curiosity and gullibility. Still trying to refine my use and understanding of the quadrant model.
As to your quadrant of "Fact + Falsehood" . . . I've been pondering that combination a lot over the past year as it relates to evil. The Devil doesn't always lie, but does always attempt to manipulate. And manipulation can be done with things that are technically factual/accurate/correct. If a person looks only for the most obvious lies, that person will be oblivious to a great deal of manipulation.
excellent framework...but then "the devil is in the details" or application. suspect there are Far more "The Science 'facts' " from Q-1...most believe are "settled"...than really belong in Q-4 as intentional deceptions...than we imagine.
The only Metaphysical idea that I think is truly important is that the world is comprised of paradoxes and trade-offs. Paralogical thinking is how we can balance this understanding. We simply can't understand truth without its opposite. The discernment you speak of is the ability to parse the differences between these extremes.
Max, I don’t think our core views are all that different. Sure, we might diverge a bit in our elaborations and preferred methods—like psycho-analysis (eeeewwww!)—but that’s more about style than substance.
Here’s my take on why myth and story ARE indispensable: The world is a monstrously complex, high-dimensional beast. Layers upon layers of emergence stack on top of one another, forming intricate ecosystems of interactions (think of Earth itself: a planet teeming with life engaged in endless games of cooperation, competition, and everything in between). These systems hardly lend themselves to formal analysis. Hell, we can’t even crack the math on something as “simple” as the three-body problem! So, when it comes to navigating this tangled web of complexity, we need tools that go beyond linear, analytical reasoning. That’s where stories and myths come in—they’re humanity’s time-tested way of making sense of the seemingly senselessly complex.
For example, whenever I mentor a young man, I have him read three Heinlein novels in a specific order—Starship Troopers, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, and Stranger in a Strange Land. Why? Because these stories convey nuanced, partially contradictory, and yet overlapping perspectives on "how to be a man." The combined effect of these narratives shapes a kind of gestalt understanding that no formal explanation could replicate. I mean, I could try to distill it all into a bulleted list of lessons, but honestly? That’d miss the point entirely. The real magic lies in how those stories interact with the mentee's unique web of memories, experiences, and cognitive structures. It’s not about spoon-feeding lessons but about sparking something deeper and richer.
Now, take this idea and zoom out to humanity’s relationship with the natural world. We’ve done catastrophic damage to the biosphere by reducing nature’s wild, generative complexity to something sterile and one-dimensional. Case in point: the climax forests of Ohio, once vibrant ecosystems, replaced by endless monoculture fields drenched in chemical pesticides. Why? Because our dominant metric for interacting with nature boils down to a single, cold question: “Does it pay?” Occasionally, we stumble into something positive—like ecotourism—but mostly, this profit-driven mindset slashes nature’s dimensionality down to near nothing.
Here’s the rub: “does it pay?” is the core engine of Game A, a system running on borrowed time and hurtling toward collapse. So, what’s the alternative? Stories and the “sacred,” rightly used and understood, can play an important role.
Imagine if we replaced “does it pay?” with something like this: “The biodiversity and impossibly intricate ecological networks of the natural world are the crown jewels of the universe’s unfolding so far, and humanity is but one thread in that tapestry. Unless there’s a truly compelling reason otherwise, never knowingly reduce net biological complexity.” Can I prove that this is the right way to think? No. But does my high-dimensional, mythopoetic intuition scream that it is? Absolutely.
The question is, can we spread this narrative widely enough to tip the scales—to fundamentally reframe humanity’s relationship with the natural world? Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.
Now, let’s talk about the concept of the “sacred.” I’m fine with using that word as a shorthand for how we approach systems of staggering complexity where analytical tools just don’t cut it. But here’s the kicker: this notion of the “sacred” needs to stay grounded. It’s operational, not metaphysical. In other words, it’s a tool—one that’s useful right now, in this particular slice of humanity’s journey. Fast-forward to some distant future where humans (or our successors) wield god-like powers of analysis or no longer care about the biome, and the story might change. And that’s okay.
The strength of invoking the “sacred” lies in its ability to guide practical engagement with complexity. The danger? Forgetting it’s a tool, mistaking it for some unchanging metaphysical truth. If we do that, we risk locking ourselves into dogma, losing the flexibility to adapt our stories when the universe demands something new.
Not an easy read. We are so accustomed to take for granted information presented in (pseudo)scientific terms that we swallow fictions whole. Besides, (pseudo)scientific literature is often impossible to follow. Upstream inputs--Sample, Bullshit, et al (2023)--often is more jargon that refers to more jargon ad infinitum that if one had the time and linguistic skills to investigate one would end up hopelessly mired in falsehoods disguised in more falsehoods. Such is the way of modern scholarship. Conclusions based on others' conclusions are almost certain to include dishonest reasoning.
Jim’s excellent response from FB:
My response to an interesting essay by my friend Max Borders (link to Max's essay in the first comment)
Max, I don’t think our core views are all that different. Sure, we might diverge a bit in our elaborations and preferred methods—like psycho-analysis (eeeewwww!)—but that’s more about style than substance.
Here’s my take on why myth and story ARE indispensable: The world is a monstrously complex, high-dimensional beast. Layers upon layers of emergence stack on top of one another, forming intricate ecosystems of interactions (think of Earth itself: a planet teeming with life engaged in endless games of cooperation, competition, and everything in between). These systems hardly lend themselves to formal analysis. Hell, we can’t even crack the math on something as “simple” as the three-body problem! So, when it comes to navigating this tangled web of complexity, we need tools that go beyond linear, analytical reasoning. That’s where stories and myths come in—they’re humanity’s time-tested way of making sense of the seemingly senselessly complex.
For example, whenever I mentor a young man, I have him read three Heinlein novels in a specific order—Starship Troopers, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, and Stranger in a Strange Land. Why? Because these stories convey nuanced, partially contradictory, and yet overlapping perspectives on "how to be a man." The combined effect of these narratives shapes a kind of gestalt understanding that no formal explanation could replicate. I mean, I could try to distill it all into a bulleted list of lessons, but honestly? That’d miss the point entirely. The real magic lies in how those stories interact with the mentee's unique web of memories, experiences, and cognitive structures. It’s not about spoon-feeding lessons but about sparking something deeper and richer.
Now, take this idea and zoom out to humanity’s relationship with the natural world. We’ve done catastrophic damage to the biosphere by reducing nature’s wild, generative complexity to something sterile and one-dimensional. Case in point: the climax forests of Ohio, once vibrant ecosystems, replaced by endless monoculture fields drenched in chemical pesticides. Why? Because our dominant metric for interacting with nature boils down to a single, cold question: “Does it pay?” Occasionally, we stumble into something positive—like ecotourism—but mostly, this profit-driven mindset slashes nature’s dimensionality down to near nothing.
Here’s the rub: “does it pay?” is the core engine of Game A, a system running on borrowed time and hurtling toward collapse. So, what’s the alternative? Stories and the “sacred,” rightly used and understood, can play an important role.
Imagine if we replaced “does it pay?” with something like this: “The biodiversity and impossibly intricate ecological networks of the natural world are the crown jewels of the universe’s unfolding so far, and humanity is but one thread in that tapestry. Unless there’s a truly compelling reason otherwise, never knowingly reduce net biological complexity.” Can I prove that this is the right way to think? No. But does my high-dimensional, mythopoetic intuition scream that it is? Absolutely.
The question is, can we spread this narrative widely enough to tip the scales—to fundamentally reframe humanity’s relationship with the natural world? Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.
Now, let’s talk about the concept of the “sacred.” I’m fine with using that word as a shorthand for how we approach systems of staggering complexity where analytical tools just don’t cut it. But here’s the kicker: this notion of the “sacred” needs to stay grounded. It’s operational, not metaphysical. In other words, it’s a tool—one that’s useful right now, in this particular slice of humanity’s journey. Fast-forward to some distant future where humans (or our successors) wield god-like powers of analysis or no longer care about the biome, and the story might change. And that’s okay.
The strength of invoking the “sacred” lies in its ability to guide practical engagement with complexity. The danger? Forgetting it’s a tool, mistaking it for some unchanging metaphysical truth. If we do that, we risk locking ourselves into dogma, losing the flexibility to adapt our stories when the universe demands something new.
The four quadrants are a good framing, especially when you connect each quadrant to logos, pathos, ethos, mythos. I made a similar matrix once, to try to explain the interplay between curiosity and gullibility. Still trying to refine my use and understanding of the quadrant model.
As to your quadrant of "Fact + Falsehood" . . . I've been pondering that combination a lot over the past year as it relates to evil. The Devil doesn't always lie, but does always attempt to manipulate. And manipulation can be done with things that are technically factual/accurate/correct. If a person looks only for the most obvious lies, that person will be oblivious to a great deal of manipulation.
excellent framework...but then "the devil is in the details" or application. suspect there are Far more "The Science 'facts' " from Q-1...most believe are "settled"...than really belong in Q-4 as intentional deceptions...than we imagine.
The only Metaphysical idea that I think is truly important is that the world is comprised of paradoxes and trade-offs. Paralogical thinking is how we can balance this understanding. We simply can't understand truth without its opposite. The discernment you speak of is the ability to parse the differences between these extremes.
Max, I don’t think our core views are all that different. Sure, we might diverge a bit in our elaborations and preferred methods—like psycho-analysis (eeeewwww!)—but that’s more about style than substance.
Here’s my take on why myth and story ARE indispensable: The world is a monstrously complex, high-dimensional beast. Layers upon layers of emergence stack on top of one another, forming intricate ecosystems of interactions (think of Earth itself: a planet teeming with life engaged in endless games of cooperation, competition, and everything in between). These systems hardly lend themselves to formal analysis. Hell, we can’t even crack the math on something as “simple” as the three-body problem! So, when it comes to navigating this tangled web of complexity, we need tools that go beyond linear, analytical reasoning. That’s where stories and myths come in—they’re humanity’s time-tested way of making sense of the seemingly senselessly complex.
For example, whenever I mentor a young man, I have him read three Heinlein novels in a specific order—Starship Troopers, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, and Stranger in a Strange Land. Why? Because these stories convey nuanced, partially contradictory, and yet overlapping perspectives on "how to be a man." The combined effect of these narratives shapes a kind of gestalt understanding that no formal explanation could replicate. I mean, I could try to distill it all into a bulleted list of lessons, but honestly? That’d miss the point entirely. The real magic lies in how those stories interact with the mentee's unique web of memories, experiences, and cognitive structures. It’s not about spoon-feeding lessons but about sparking something deeper and richer.
Now, take this idea and zoom out to humanity’s relationship with the natural world. We’ve done catastrophic damage to the biosphere by reducing nature’s wild, generative complexity to something sterile and one-dimensional. Case in point: the climax forests of Ohio, once vibrant ecosystems, replaced by endless monoculture fields drenched in chemical pesticides. Why? Because our dominant metric for interacting with nature boils down to a single, cold question: “Does it pay?” Occasionally, we stumble into something positive—like ecotourism—but mostly, this profit-driven mindset slashes nature’s dimensionality down to near nothing.
Here’s the rub: “does it pay?” is the core engine of Game A, a system running on borrowed time and hurtling toward collapse. So, what’s the alternative? Stories and the “sacred,” rightly used and understood, can play an important role.
Imagine if we replaced “does it pay?” with something like this: “The biodiversity and impossibly intricate ecological networks of the natural world are the crown jewels of the universe’s unfolding so far, and humanity is but one thread in that tapestry. Unless there’s a truly compelling reason otherwise, never knowingly reduce net biological complexity.” Can I prove that this is the right way to think? No. But does my high-dimensional, mythopoetic intuition scream that it is? Absolutely.
The question is, can we spread this narrative widely enough to tip the scales—to fundamentally reframe humanity’s relationship with the natural world? Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.
Now, let’s talk about the concept of the “sacred.” I’m fine with using that word as a shorthand for how we approach systems of staggering complexity where analytical tools just don’t cut it. But here’s the kicker: this notion of the “sacred” needs to stay grounded. It’s operational, not metaphysical. In other words, it’s a tool—one that’s useful right now, in this particular slice of humanity’s journey. Fast-forward to some distant future where humans (or our successors) wield god-like powers of analysis or no longer care about the biome, and the story might change. And that’s okay.
The strength of invoking the “sacred” lies in its ability to guide practical engagement with complexity. The danger? Forgetting it’s a tool, mistaking it for some unchanging metaphysical truth. If we do that, we risk locking ourselves into dogma, losing the flexibility to adapt our stories when the universe demands something new.
Not an easy read. We are so accustomed to take for granted information presented in (pseudo)scientific terms that we swallow fictions whole. Besides, (pseudo)scientific literature is often impossible to follow. Upstream inputs--Sample, Bullshit, et al (2023)--often is more jargon that refers to more jargon ad infinitum that if one had the time and linguistic skills to investigate one would end up hopelessly mired in falsehoods disguised in more falsehoods. Such is the way of modern scholarship. Conclusions based on others' conclusions are almost certain to include dishonest reasoning.