Here is a movie called "Pope Joan" many of you are unfamiliar with...
Johanna Anglicus, our heroine, is an extremely gifted girl who suffers first hand the superstitious nonsense propagated and preached against anything female, leaving them little more than subservient and beholden to the whims of the male dominated society. The gate to the world of anything worth knowing was locked, only the re-birth as a boy giving you the key. Johanna doesn't wait for divine intervention.
Johanna thirsts for knowledge and secretly learns by listening to lessons her father, the village priest, gives her two brothers. Although apparently learned, he reveals himself to be a complete misogynist, doling out severe punishment he thinks appropriate for such behavior. Bring out the whip.
The story tries in vain to immerse us in what it was like to be a woman during that time. Religion and law almost identical, both thoroughly infused in society. Learning anything academic thought to be against the scriptures, the teachings of God. And there were very few exceptional males in higher positions willing to give a girl a chance. Johanna encountered a few mentors. But she soon realized it was better to just switch genders.
Interesting dialogues in the movie:
Hrotrud, the village midwife of Ingelheim, struggled through the snow toward the canon’s grubenhaus.
"There is a saying among our people. ‘A wise man’s heart is seldom glad.’”
“Indeed,” Aesculapius went on, “is it not lack of faith that leads men to fear the scrutiny of reason? If the destination is doubtful, then the path must be fraught with fear. A robust faith need not fear, for if God exists, then reason cannot help but lead us to Him. ‘Cogito, ergo Deus est,’ argues St. Augustine, ‘I think, therefore God is.’”
“You must learn from my mistake,” Gudrun said fiercely, “so you do not repeat it. To marry is to surrender everything—not only your body but your pride, your independence, even your life. Do you understand? Do you?” She gripped Joan’s arm, fixing her with an urgent look. “Heed my words, daughter, if you ever mean to be happy: Never give yourself to a man.”
The bud of a rose grows in darkness. It knows nothing of the sun, yet it pushes at the darkness that confines it until at last the walls give way and the rose bursts forth, spreading its petals into the light.
“Changeling child, you are what you will not be; what you will become is other than you are.”
Strange, the workings of the heart. One could go on for years, habituated to loss, reconciled to it, and then, in a moment’s unwary thought, the pain resurfaced, sharp and raw as a fresh wound.
The incongruity of the sacred altar and its pagan base seemed to Joan a perfect symbol of herself: a Christian priest, she still dreamed of her mother’s heathen gods; a man in the eyes of the world, she was tormented by her secret woman’s heart; a seeker of faith, she was torn between her desire to know God and her fear that He might not exist. Mind and heart, faith and doubt, will and desire. Would the painful contradictions of her nature ever be reconciled?
Why, she wondered, do we always reserve our worst hatred for our own?
“Surely you know, Holiness, that the size of a woman’s brain and her uterus are inversely proportionate; therefore, the more a girl learns, the less likely she will ever bear children.”
In another note...
Interesting book, this "Discourse on Method" by Descartes. He starts off doubting everything so he can find the things he simply can't doubt. Trees and grass and buildings and people, sky and sea and animals. Out they go. I guess he figures they could all be just illusions.
And then he finds there is one thing he can't doubt:
"I think, therefore I am."
Hmmm. That seems almost too simple. Let me try it on myself. "I think, therefore I am." But what if I am mistaken in thinking that I think? Well, if I'm mistaken, it is I who am mistaken, so again, I must exist.
Okay. That seems like a pretty clean argument, Now I know I exist (as if I was ever in doubt), but I wonder how that helps me know if there is a God.
Well, let's follow his argument one step further:
I think I am imperfect, therefore I am imperfect.
Descartes didn't put it exactly that way, but I think that's what he meant.
Okay, I know me fairly well and I know I am imperfect. I think of my lack of wisdom, my tendency to make mistakes, my sins. Yes, it appears I am imperfect. But wait! Maybe this notion that I am imperfect is wrong. Maybe I am just imagining that I'm imperfect. Maybe I really am perfect!
Sigh. No, I'm afraid that doesn't work. It is self-contradictory.
If I think I am imperfect but am actually perfect, then I made a mistake by thinking I'm imperfect. And if I made a mistake, then I am imperfect.
So, nothing else may exist, but I have established beyond any ability I have to doubt that A) I exist, and that B) I am imperfect. So far I'm with you Descartes.
But this brings up an interesting thought: I am imperfect compared to what? I can't be imperfect unless there is a perfect. I can't be wrong unless there is a right. I can't be lesser unless there is a greater.
So it appears there is something - something perfect! - that is separate from me. It can't be me, because if it was me it would be imperfect, because I am imperfect, and obviously the perfect can't be imperfect.
And what is the perfect like?
Well, the Perfect (I'd better start capitalizing it now) must be perfect in every way I'm imperfect. While I'm sure I can't name all the ways I'm imperfect, I know my knowledge is imperfect, so the knowledge belonging to the Perfect must be complete. I also know my reasoning is imperfect, so I'm sure the Perfect thinks flawlessly. I know I'm not always good, so I know the Perfect must be utterly holy.
In fact, perhaps I should start saying, "God."
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