John Dee was a widely-respected and influential mathematician, navigation tutor, cartographer, and scientific adviser to Queen Elizabeth I of England. When Francis Bacon was just nine years old, John Dee wrote an impassioned introduction to the English translation of Euclid’s Elements of Geometry. In it he glorifies the “thaumaturgy” made possible by the mathematical arts and urges the reader to view the pursuit of scientific marvels as an honorable Christian pursuit and pleasing to God: He also finds it necessary to explicitly distinguish the wonder-working of science from conjury and diabolism. It is easy to see in Dee’s writing the seeds of the spirit of modern science; the conviction that knowledge ought to be pursued liberally and not for its own sake, but for what it can be used. The scholastic tradition of the centuries prior had a different take. Aristotle famously observes that all men by nature desire to know, because to know is man’s greatest activity. Truth is therefore sought for its own sake. Yet Aristotle’s greatest commentator, Saint Thomas Aquinas, explains that, while truth is good in itself, it is possible for the desire or pursuit of knowledge to be sinful; that is, the sin of curiosity. The quest for knowledge becomes vicious curiosity when it is driven by pride, when it distracts from one’s duties, when it involves illicit means, or when it is simply too great an undertaking for his mental resources, as it were, so that one ends up more confused and ignorant than before he started. There is one more way one may fall into curiosity, which is perhaps the most pertinent to Dee’s exhortation; namely, when knowledge is not referred to its due end. In other words, if what one endeavors to learn does not lead us closer to God in some way, such as by increasing our understanding of Him, by rendering the practice of virtue more effective, or by helping us to fulfill our station in life, then we might be giving into curiosity.
The supposed thousand-year suppression of science by the medieval Catholic Church is still a common trope, but Saint Thomas and his medieval colleagues were no opponents of science. Thomas' intellectual work was heavily influenced by the work of Aristotle, the ancient biologist and metaphysician who systematized classical logic. It is well known that Thomas’ teacher, Saint Albert, was among the first proponents of Aristotelianism in Europe. At that time, the university system (which the Catholic Church had recently invented) received newly accessible Latin translations of manuscripts preserved by Muslim scholars in the near east. Albert generated a considerable amount of controversy by his endorsement of Aristotle and patiently restrained his opinions while the Church decided whether the new school of philosophy was reconcilable with the Faith. It decided in Aristotle’s favor, of course.
Those familiar with the history of medieval scholasticism might also be aware of Saint Albert’s love of natural philosophy and his extensive research and contributions in geology, zoology, biology, botany, and astronomy. It is perhaps not so well known that Saint Albert worked on some marvelous science projects in his laboratory at the university of Cologne. One of these projects was an automaton; a mechanical bust which could move and speak of its own accord. The automaton was eventually destroyed, but neither by decree of the Inquisition nor at the hands of a frightened mob. Saint Thomas, the legend says, was poking about in his teacher’s lab one night when he was startled by a jangling voice which belted from the darkness “salve!” Thomas instinctively lashed out at the thing, smashing it to pieces. Albert was of course annoyed that so much of his work had perished so frivolously, but this was anything but a life-ruining moment for him. The purpose of Albert’s study was not to dazzle or to hoard power, but to deepen his understanding of truth. Likewise, the spirit of inquiry evident in scholasticism was typically not curious, because it was not vain.
Whether the spirit of modern science ushered in by John Dee and others of his era amounts to the deification of curiosity is a moot point, but it is clear that Dee was himself a profoundly curious man. In the latter half of his life, Dee toured Europe with his confidant, Edward Kelley, a rather shady character with a checkered past. It had come to Kelley’s attention that the man of science was attempting to extract knowledge from higher “angelic” powers by occult means, so he made his acquaintance with Dee by offering his services as a scryer and a medium. Throughout their travels, the two together conducted countless hours of divination sessions using a variety of implements including sigils, incantations, and crystal balls. Dee recounts these practices in his own diary.
Perhaps the most famous relic of Dee’s career as a conjurer is a polished obsidian mirror, into which he set his gaze and purportedly saw weird visions from another plane of existence. Today his mirror is displayed at the British Museum of History, along with myriad other items which no well-formed conscience would ever consider keeping in his own house; not just objects used in black arts, but sacred vessels that belong in God’s service, and human remains that deserve repose. The display is itself a testament to the vain and voyeuristic spirit of curiosity. Considering the institutionalization of such curiosity and its malign origins, one might be tempted to call such a spirit not merely curious, but luciferian. Again, we can be quite clear in Dee’s case, as the origins of his pastime reveal.
Researchers have ascertained that John Dee’s mirror is ultimately of Aztec origin. Many similar mirrors have been discovered in Mexico and are typically associated with the worship of the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca (sometimes translated as “Smoking-Mirror”). The god was believed to be omniscient; able to see all things in his mirror, including the thoughts and actions of men. The Aztec elite carried obsidian mirrors to show that they too had special knowledge and could commune with the gods by looking into their world through the glass. Smoking-Mirror was thought to be both a creator deity and associated with discord and conflict. Such associations are only paradoxical at first glance. Creation, it seems, is typically a violent affair. To make a house, one must cut down trees, saw them into pieces, and nail the pieces together. Similar acts of violence and struggle go into all manner of making things, whether it is baking bread or birthing a baby. This dynamic is especially evident with the introduction of new technologies: As the mathematical arts produce for us some new marvel, some other artifact is rendered obsolete, and with it all the patterns of life which accompanied it. Creation thus necessitates destruction as the old gives way to the new: So goes the demonic logic.
The strongest lies most easily pass as truth. Of course, only God can create, properly speaking. We know from divine revelation that creation is from nothing, and it is a peaceful process. God spoke, and it came to be, and it was good. When creatures produce something, they ideally elevate one form of existence into a more noble one: It is, for example, better for a tree to house the sons of God than to stand alone in the wilderness. Any heartache that accompanies man’s attempt at ordering the world is a consequence of sin. Yet in the haze of sinful ignorance these truths are easily missed, and one should expect prevarication from an infernal spirit masquerading as a creator deity.
Those under the spell of such a spirit, as John Dee was, might accustom themselves to the idea that the marvelous products of knowledge require sacrifice. Dee’s curiosity was motivated by the desire to produce wonders. He recounted tales of marvelous images which fooled the senses, mechanical doves who sang as sweetly as real doves, and artificial eagles which could fly of their own accord. The beauty of ages past which we as a society have sacrificed for such vanities has become a tired topic. But each person who yields to curiosity must inevitably render sacrifice as well. There is an allegory hidden in the explicit sacrifices which the Aztecs made to Smoking-Mirror. A full year before the sacrifice was to be made, a prisoner of war was selected. For that year, he was treated as though he were the god himself. He was given royal clothes, luxurious living arrangements, and even a modest harem. He spent his time indulging himself, eating, and playing music. Finally, on the day of the sacrifice, he was brought to the temple where the priests cut out his heart.
I would wager that what motivated the Aztecs to sacrifice to this cruel deity is precisely what motivated the royal English scientist to continue some of their traditions. It is what today motivates a growing social acceptance of occultism in general, even as we simultaneously lionize science. We are all perhaps primed to accept the vain promises of unbounded inquiry because we unwittingly participate in its rituals. Most of us carry on our person a little device into which we gaze for countless hours. We tend to think of our little black mirror as a kind of window. Through it we can see what we presume is the whole world. Some even impetuously declare that the whole sum of human knowledge is contained in it. The Aztecs thought of mirrors as windows into another realm. I remember playing with mirrors as a child, trying to outwit my reflection or to see around the corner of the mirror’s boundaries. But all this is childish fancy. Mirrors and windows are two very different things.
Windows are meant to let the light in and to let a person who is inside see what is outside. Those who have heard the saying “eyes are windows to the soul” might have heard it in the context of art. Eyes are a very telling feature of the face. If you look at a person’s eyes, you can get a read on what is happening interiorly. Hence, an artist can say a lot with eyes. The saying is also used in the context of spiritual direction. Saint Thomas notes the special relationship vision has to knowledge: Knowledge begins in the senses, and sight is our primary sense. All manner of things can enter the soul through the eyes. We must therefore take great care in what we set our gaze on. Custody of the eyes is a rare virtue today, but one can imperil his soul by simply looking at what is unwholesome. Mirrors, on the other hand, reflect. They turn our vision back onto ourselves. Mirrors are therefore a symbol of pride and vanity. No one complains about the overuse of windows, but spending too much time before a mirror is a strong indication of vice.
Maybe it is fair to say that a smartphone is a window in some ways; in others it is a mirror. In its glass we can conjure up whatever we wish to see and learn whatever we wish to learn. Though its obsidian surface is animated by the hidden processes of arcane mathematical arts, its use of course does not qualify as a direct compact with demons. However, it is certainly a product of the kind of spirit which we have presently identified, and its utilization very easily disposes one to pay tribute to such a spirit in perilous ways.
“Screen time” is not an uncommon object of fasting for Christians today. To warn of its mere overuse has become a platitude. But what we might miss between the platitudes of older generations and the tired pre-internet romanticism cherished only by the extremely online is a kind of knowledge that absolutely cannot be received through the glass. This knowledge is at first apophatic; a purely negative experience of life without the mirror. One who fasts from screens will invariably find, alarmingly soon, that the world is in fact very big; overwhelmingly big. And in the immensity of the world, he might find himself terribly alone. His friends are likely many miles away. He might find that his own microcosm, disconnected from the others, is quite empty. He has only so many things with which to occupy his time; books and a few odd hobbies perhaps. His leisure time moves excruciatingly slowly. In the immensity of his time, he might have an unbearable many thoughts; thoughts that cannot be developed or verified by a quick Google search. Out of sheer necessity, he might begin to develop what the Benedictine tradition calls “poverty of mind,” wherein he abandons the cacophony of thoughts that are vain, distracting or unhelpful, and embark into a desert of internal silence. With grace, his curiosity will begin to wear off.
The experience might gradually become kataphatic; one that is positive and enlightening. He might become aware that his brain is purging itself of excess humors; clarifying his thoughts and alleviating his anxieties. As he becomes more acutely aware of the present, so too will he begin to sense eternity. His soul becomes still, and prayer feels natural. Maybe.
More likely, he will become enamored anew at the thrill of the little world in the looking glass. He will gaze back into the mirror, despite his better instincts that he is watched inasmuch as he watches; that he pays for his curiosity with indulgence; that his indulgence is preparing him for a final sacrifice.
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