As I wheeled Chris off the elevator, he was quieter than the day before, definitely not in the mood for pranks. He didn’t complain—my husband never complained—yet he clearly wasn’t feeling as well.

Two steps forward, one step back: that still qualified as progress.

Rolling through the hospital hallways, following signs for Radiology, we passed several women wearing nasal cannulas and pulling oxygen-cylinder carts. The sight wasn’t remarkable in that the National Institutes of Health runs clinical trials on virtually every ailment—from the common to the rare, the treatable to the terminal. What was surprising was seeing a cohort of patients similarly afflicted, all female and relatively young.

At least they were ambulatory. When Chris’s doctor ordered a scan this morning, his nurse ordered a wheelchair.

During his first few days after readmission, Chris’s condition fell somewhere between depleted and God-awful depending on the degree of his sawtoothing fever. As his treatments—withdrawal of anti-rejection meds included—began to take effect, however, I’d sometimes arrive to find him sitting up in bed, looking comfortable and alert, like a patient soon to be released.

Towards the end of the week, his humor kicked in. After opening a colleague’s get-well card to find a droll reference to their firm’s new management—a buyout of the Rouse Company was but two weeks away—Chris reached for the bedside phone. When a recording advised him to leave a message, he deepened his voice and pretended to be the CEO. “This is John B—,” he said gruffly. “It’s come to my attention that you have a poor attitude about the merger.”

To me, the spoof was proof of recovery. To his friend, who didn’t recognize Chris in disguise, it was cause to call the head of security: Someone was impersonating the chief executive.

Come Friday, Chris remained frail despite signs of improvement. His nurse took me up on my offer to drive him to his appointment.

In the Radiology waiting room, we found two more women on oxygen therapy. After positioning Chris at the end of a row of seats, I took the one beside him. If silence had been a preference en route, now it was a prescription. No one spoke or made eye contact. No one leafed through magazines, for there were none. No one asked the time or glanced at their watch. It was as if chronic illness had instilled a monkish composure. Or torpor.

I was the only non-patient in the room, the Lucky One. As the others sat alone with their thoughts, I wondered what those might be. That three back-to-back tests followed? That with sick leave exhausted, the boss had to be told? That scrambled eggs might stay down? That last time the shadow had shrunk, so this time, well, don’t get too hopeful?

Or were they trying to avoid thinking, instead imagining doing something—anything—more agreeable? Strolling through the hill town of Assisi. Watching a Coen brothers film. Defending an IRS audit.

One of the women on oxygen finally had enough. Silence wasn’t a chance to grab a shot of mindfulness; silence was a looming endgame. By talking, she could ward off quietus. But she needed a partner.

“What brings you here?” she asked me, in a tone so warm and genuine that she might have been a greeter in a small-town visitors bureau.

She looked about forty, or a little older, but it was hard to tell; illness can age a person faster than a Broadway makeup artist. Although her appearance was middling in every respect—from her height and build to her facial features and shade of brown hair—her spirit was striking. Whether the vivacity was innate or cultivated for survival, she offered me what she desperately needed: a deep breath of fresh air.

“My husband needs an X-ray.” I glanced at Chris. He showed no sign of wanting to engage. Under the circumstances, it felt unfriendly, even hurtful, to not offer more. “He had a kidney transplant a few months ago,” I added. “Now he has mono.”

Immediately, another patient stood and left. Perhaps she went to the restroom, or realized she’d left her purse in the car. More likely, mononucleosis spooked her—even though it’s not an airborne infection.

I paused, realizing that my interlocutor might want to leave, too. She didn’t budge. “How about you?” I asked. In deference to patient privacy, I avoided the politeness of trading names.

“I need a double-lung transplant. There’s a group of us here who have the same disease. We get together every year.” She chuckled. “It’s like a reunion!”

Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, or LAM, is a rare condition that primarily affects women ages twenty to forty. Abnormal cells invade the lungs, as well as lymph nodes and kidneys, leading to reduced pulmonary function and respiratory failure. Treatments, including transplantation, can enhance the quality and duration of life but the disease is incurable. After diagnosis, life expectancy is usually ten to twenty years.[1]

Her disclosure was stunning. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have grasped the challenges she faced, merely to delay the inevitable. No longer.

One day she would lie in an OR, as we recently had. But unlike Chris, whose kidneys were allowed to fail in place, with one of mine nested beneath them, she would have both lungs removed to accommodate her grafts. No matter how damaged and inadequate, those lungs were infusing her blood with oxygen, ridding it of carbon dioxide, maintaining life. Temporarily, she might require a heart-lung machine and a ventilator; ultimately, she’d either breathe though the new air sacs or wouldn’t . . . breathe. If her grafts failed, there was no recourse like dialysis to sustain her.

In short, she would perform a death-defying, net-free launch from a trapeze with no turning back once she let go of the fly bar. Her odds of surviving even five years after transplantation were not much better than one in two.[2]

And that was if she got lucky. With the chronic shortage of deceased-donor organs, lungs might not become available in time. Although living donation was possible, she’d need two Good Samaritans, each providing the lower lobe of a lung.^⁠ They’d face a riskier surgery and longer recovery than kidney donors, which meant friends and relatives were less likely to volunteer.

A radiology assistant called Chris’s name. Together, they disappeared through a door leading to the imaging machines. Moments later, the woman was called, as well.

She’d shared no details about her personal life. She’d only spoken of her illness, which, understandably, had come to define her—from what lung-healthy products she could buy to how she should dress, walk, or perform daily chores, such as unpacking groceries, to minimize exertion. If she seemed compelled to tell me she had LAM, it was not because she sought sympathy; she struck me as someone devoid of self-pity. What she wanted was to be heard. To be heard is to be remembered.

In no time, Chris was back and we were retracing our route through the cold fluorescence of the corridors. As we entered an empty elevator, he said, “You shouldn’t have mentioned I have mono.”

“Why?”

“You saw the woman leave.”

“But she had a right to know. I’d want to know.”

I hadn’t meant to embarrass him. For that I was sorry. But I was as disappointed in him as he was in me. Chris was still “chesting” his health cards, as if this were a hand of bridge, with nothing but his pride at stake.

No doubt a gender difference was at work, a primal XY-chromosome trait, which he’d exhibited many times before: Never show weakness lest a contender seize the advantage—be that your mate, your kill, or your year-end bonus. According to such logic, illness fell between failing and fatal flaw.

A strategy suitable for the savanna or a boardroom, however, is counterproductive in a medical setting where any debility you don’t reveal is one that isn’t treated. The woman I’d just met understood the importance of communication, on every front, regarding her health. I was sorry that my husband didn’t.

And hadn’t.

At the same time, I was grateful. As we made our way back to his room, my mind unspooled a skein of “at leasts.” At least he isn’t suffocating to death. At least he can fall back on dialysis. At least he isn’t alone while undergoing treatment. At least his graft shows no sign of rejection. At least I haven’t had to kiss him goodbye outside an OR and wonder if he would return. At least both of us were able to presume we would return.

Counting blessings was my luxury, not Chris’s. Sick as hell, he was entitled to feel however he felt, unthankful included, with no obligation to parse his advantages relative to others.

Later that night, Chris’s doctor called me at home. He’d had Chris moved to intensive care. He spoke so calmly and matter-of-factly that I didn’t panic. In fact, the thought never occurred to me that every “at least” would soon count for nothing.

[1] National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute, “Health Topics: LAM,” http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/lam (accessed February 1, 2019).

[2] Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network, “National Data: Lung Kaplan-Meier Patient Survival Rates For Transplants Performed, 2008 – 2015; Survival by Single vs. Double Lung (Lung Only),” https://optn.transplant.hrsa.gov/data/view-data-reports/national-data/# (accessed February 2, 2019).

The man had only fallen unconscious, but his family thought he had had a heart attack and brought him to emergency. The initial diagnosis was that his artery was almost clogged up due to cholesterol, and the doctor on duty decided to follow a clean-up procedure. This would be my seventh time in a similar operation, so I was not really nervous. But in the eyes of the patient’s family, I saw panic. Their eyes were screaming for help, and watching them made my eyes almost deaf when I finally managed to throw myself into the surgery room. Oh my comfort zone: staff only.

As the operation started, the serpentine cord that carried the visualization instrument gradually made its way towards the patient’s heart. The walls of the arteries were covered with black remains, fatty tissues were hanging down here and there, and minor clogs were built up at sharp turns. I remembered my dad, who was a plumber. Many times, he was called into the “staff only” rooms for clogged pipes. In contrast to my love for them, the “staff only” rooms were his nightmare. “Poor dad,” I thought, pitying him, even if it was thirty years later.

“Go on,” came an unknown voice, waking me up from my childhood memories. “Where,” I asked in my mind. Then I realized that the camera was showing inside the heart. Looking from within, it only made sense that the man fell unconscious. How could such a heart support the demands of a body?

“He probably hasn’t had a refreshing breath for a long time, and certainly wasn’t able to run with his grandchildren,” I murmured.

“He never did that anyway, so that he should suffer from not doing it now!” answered the unknown voice.

“This is not the time to critique. He is in our hands waiting for help,” I replied.

“Well, do what you can. Even if you can fix the entrance, you won’t be able to fix me. By the way, would you like a drink?”

Wasn’t that a kind heart? Learning who my host was, I rejoiced despite the stress. With the heavy illumination in the surgery room, I was in fact terribly hot at that moment – as if helping my mom while cooking in the kitchen. “Yes, please, a cold drink would quench my heat,” I accepted.

“I am sorry, but I only serve hot drinks here. Cold drinks are served in dead bodies,” teased the heart. “Here is your energy drink.”

“WHAATTT?” I spat all that was in my mouth, and threw the cup towards the heart. The same instant, I received the words of disdain: “Did you just make a heart attack?”

“You are, sir, sucking the man’s blood,” I replied in anguish.

“That is what’s available in here,” answered the heart teasingly. “I have production wells extending throughout his body, and I drink this warm energy drink constantly. Without it, I cannot live. If I cannot live, he cannot live. So it is a win-win situation, you know what I mean?”

“Wait a minute, aren’t you the embodiment of love and compassion? Aren’t you supposed to give without a return?”

“That is true, indeed so. But there is another condition on the same agreement, which says that I have all the rights to defend myself if my carrier denies my rights of privacy.”

A heart defending its privacy from its carrier! I was as bewildered and as silenced as a fetus going through birth. The heart took my confused pause as a request for explanation.

“My carrier developed a habit of welcoming thieves as if guests into me, and they kept robbing me,” the heart cried, collapsing. “After a while, I decided to separate myself from him, even if that meant the end of my life. The first thing to do for winning my independence was not to use his blood. So, I started narrowing the artery that was feeding me. After all, I was doing something I was familiar with: giving without taking. That rendered me weaker; but he became weaker, too. With his health gone, no thieves were interested in him anymore. And I was safe from both my carrier and the thieves.”

Strained between anger and affection, my breaths became deeper and stronger. For relief, I turned my head around. Then suddenly, I started shaking from what I happened to see. “What is this door,” I managed to ask at last.

“Don’t you see the sign? It is a room for staff only.”

“Staff only!” I smiled as if I had found water in the desert. But after realizing that I wouldn’t be able to go in there, I went through a storm of sentiments: outcast, unable, sad.

“You feel distanced, right?” asked the heart, to which I nodded.

“That sign is there so that the grown-ups don’t enter. If you were a child, you would not be able to read it, and would directly rush in without asking.”

“Why children only?” I inquired.

“If you can go through this door in your heart, you can get out into the heart of another person. And if you are a grown-up at that moment, you are going to be treated like a thief in that heart. But if you are a child, you are going to be welcomed as a guest.”

I listened to the heart, waited in front of the door. I thought about the people in my life, especially those with whom I wanted to be closer. This door could be the key. I raised my hand, held the door knob. But then I thought about what I was going to face on the other side. Was I entering as a child? Or was I an ambitious adult who was going to be treated as a thief? It was also possible that my grown-up state could trigger the heart on the other side to react to its carrier just like this one; and that would mean trouble for one of my loved ones…

I certainly was not staff… I stepped back from that door for staff-only, as if waking from a pleasurable dream that I did not want to leave. Then, the heart gently told me: “Go upstairs to the kitchen, now; you are expected to open a clogged pipe.”

You know education is always a hot topic. Everybody has a share and interest in education: Parents, educators, government officials, elected public representatives, nonprofit organizations, religious groups, and so on. Besides, there are many aspects of education, such as finance, law, administration, etc. However, do you also think that teachers have long been overlooked regarding their authority in their own classes? Haven’t they been overlooked regarding their professional development, even though they are the backbone of the education system and they need some assistance in their efforts more than ever? It is good if you also think like me. It is even better if you don’t. Thus, you can share your recommendations with me once you see this school where things are done differently than many other contemporary schools. These teachers at this school see themselves as a learning society. They criticized the status quo they were in some time ago, and renewed themselves collectively. I want you to see the product. Let’s start our journey, shall we?

Room 114

We enter through the big doors of the school. Physically, it is not the best school you would ever see, but it can definitely be said that vitality and cleanliness of the halls stand out. The atmosphere is very welcoming; something is different, but it is hard to tell what it is. I point to the very first door on the right hand side. With pride, I ask if you would like to see this classroom. The sound coming from room 114 is not different from the sound that bees make when they work. As we approach the door, I understand that this is Ms. Williams and her eighth-grade students studying math. She welcomes us and tells us, “please come on in; there are some empty chairs over there,” pointing to two empty chairs, and we make our way towards to the back of the class and have our seats. This is a math class, but I don’t see any numbers on the board or equations being discussed. Soon, we understand that they finished the chapter on expressing roots of cubic equations last week, and today they are discussing a person named Omar Khayyam (1044 – 1123 C.E.). Ms. Williams knew that Omar Khayyam was a philosopher, mathematician, astronomer, and poet. She had formed her students into four groups, and assigned each of his professions to a group, so that they could do some research and present their findings to the whole class. I understand what you mean from the way you look at me: you’re sure this is a math class? you seem to be saying. You’re right to ask. Don’t they need to finish a chapter and pass to the next one immediately, and stay focused on the possible topics that are asked at the end-of-year tests?

Let’s hold on to that question; we can ask this after the class is dismissed. The first three groups already talked about his contributions to philosophy, astronomy, and poetry. We feel very fortunate not to miss at least the last group, who talk about him as a mathematician. I can see brightness in students’ eyes, and their excitement to share everything they have learned with their classmates. The first student, Omar who coincidentally happens to share a name with Omar Khayyam, begins. Omar Khayyam was a scholar among many others of his time. He is best known today for his poetry, but his contribution to mathematics was great. He showed how to express roots of cubic equations by line segments obtained by intersecting conic sections… Another student, Margaret continues: his work on algebra was known throughout Europe in the Middle Ages, and he also contributed to calendar reform. The algebra (from Arabic al-jabr) of Khayyam is geometrical, solving linear and quadratic equations by methods appearing in Euclid’s Elements… April inserts that Khayyam also gave important results on ratios giving a new definition and extending Euclid’s work to include the multiplication of ratios.

They continue their discussion, asking how these scholars tried to seek knowledge and an answer to who they were; and the great contributions they made towards peace and understanding among people of different origins. However, I am currently very much impressed and I lose myself in the beauty of these students’ discussion that I have found myself holding my breath and forgot about your presence next to me. It was no different than waking up from a dream when the bell was ringing. Sure, I will introduce you to Ms. Williams. I understand that you want to learn more about the uncommon method she adopted for this class: Ms. Williams, do you have a minute, please?

Of course, she says: “I have some time. It’s break time now.” You ask her about the topic and the way she formed her teaching method: Why would you choose a person from old history to discuss? Why do you want your students to talk about poetry or astronomy or philosophy in a math class? Do you think they know enough math to solve the questions on the end-of-year test? Why did you choose a Muslim scholar? Is this an Islamic or a secular school? Would you… and you realize you have bombarded her with your questions. You halt and smile.

She smiles back and says: “Yes, this is a secular state school. We try to practice secularism in a true sense that we can talk about religion, and bring religious materials to school to study, but we never try to impose these ideas into our students’ minds. They actually study very different kinds of perspectives, and they enjoy it very much. We take each student as a whole. Since our topic was roots of cubic equations, and Omer Khayyam was the father of the idea, you happened to see this example.”

“But why would you touch on different areas of study in a math class?” You say without taking a second breath.

Ms. Williams smiles again. “This is very common in our school. I am sure Mr. Wraga next door will also get into some math in his literature class since he knows my course syllabus. We try to keep our teachings interdisciplinary as much as possible. I receive feedback that kids enjoy it greatly. I understand your concern about the tests. However, testing is the very last thing we think of. Most of our students do well at those tests anyway, and those who cannot do so well are seen to be still successful mostly as artists or musicians…”

There is a long pause and silence now, but hurricanes are happening in our minds. How is it possible? What kind of philosophy is this school following? Is it the principal who leads these teachers like a conductor leading an orchestra? As Ms. Williams answered our questions, more questions kept popping up in our minds. The bell rings again, and the break is over. We thank her for letting us sit in the class. We make our way back to the hall again, and I am already elated with the intelligence of these students. You look at my eyes without saying a word, and smile: Room 115?

It was too early for Melanie to congratulate herself because the aliens would always be after her. They would always be looking over her shoulder, keeping track of what she did, trying to read her mind…

Melanie rolled around in bed and looked at her digital clock. It read: 7:39

She groaned to herself. That must mean it was time…

She got out of bed and looked around her room. Everything seemed normal. The sun appeared to be bright as it flooded through her window with the red curtains. Her clinical psychology text books on her desk were exactly where she remembered putting them. Her bed was in the correct position along the wall.

She deliberately avoided looking at the mirror.

She was safe for now; the aliens hadn’t come for her yet. But she knew her neighbor was a Russian spy so it was only a matter of time before he told the aliens about the key she had found…

…the key she had safely hidden under her bed in a Cheerios cereal box. No one could find it there.

Melanie carefully examined the floor she would walk on. She was certain it was safe to walk, but those aliens really knew how to set booby traps. She really had to be prudent-or else!

She carefully placed her foot on the carpet. The carpet had a collage of various, colored squares on it. Aliens always had a hard time getting into her room, but they had implanted sensors under the floor that sent them a signal every time she stepped on the red squares. They did this so they could tell how often Melanie was in her room.

But Melanie had figured out a way how to fight them. If she just avoided those red squares, they would never know.

Stepping on her toes, she tiptoed around the red squares and reached the other side of the room. She carefully checked the books on the desk, the position of her bed, the window and the curtains-avoided the mirror-and then came out of the room.

She quietly pulled her door shut and peeked over her shoulder down the hall.

Oh no! There were too many mirrors!

The mirrors stretched along the wall on either side, disrupted only by the occasional bedroom door. But there were only supposed to be one of them between the master bedroom door and the bathroom.

Hmmm; could this be the aliens?

In any case, she had to avoid the mirrors – the aliens must NOT find out about the key!

She got onto her hands and knees. If she could just slide under the line of the mirrors, she would be safe. Thus she scrambled to the other side, carefully avoiding the red squares on the carpet, and finally got up on her feet at the end of the hall.

It was too early for Melanie to congratulate herself because the aliens would always be after her. They would always be looking over her shoulder, keeping track of what she did, trying to read her mind… Oh no, she hadn’t thought about that! How should she protect her mind?

She would stick it out as long as she could. There was no way she would allow those aliens to get the key! Not while she was still alive.

She had to eat though, or else how could she have the strength to protect the key?

Melanie opened the cereal cupboard and confronted a bunch of boxes. There were Cheerios, Honeycombs, Pops, Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks and many more.

Pleased with the variety, she reached for the Cheerios.

Oh no!

She remembered something.

Last night, she had seen only Honeycombs in the cupboard. Yes, she’d Melanie had gone out with her mother, and they’d only bought Honeycombs. Where did all the others come from?

How could she not have understood? It was the aliens. They must know she had hidden the key in a cereal box. But they didn’t know which one, did they? So they put a bunch of cereal boxes here to see which one she would pick.

But Melanie would not lose!

“Oooooo!” she cooed loudly. “We have Honeycombs! Yum! I love Honeycombs!”

And that’s what she got out of the cupboard and put on the kitchen island. She had to distract the aliens.

She got out her bowl-not the red one; you could never be too careful-and a spoon. These she laid down beside the cereal box. When she had retrieved the milk from the fridge however, things had changed.

There were five sets of bowls and spoons on the island!

She calmed herself down.

This had happened before. It was the aliens’ way of saying they knew she was lying to them.

But she could always get around it.

She touched the first bowl and her finger slipped right through it. Nope, not this one.

Her fingers slipped through the second one but jammed into the third. Hah! That one was the right one.

She poured her cereal and milk into it. Suspiciously, the remaining two bowls somehow filled themselves.

But everything was alright. It didn’t matter how hard those aliens would try to intimidate her, she would be strong.

However, she was very sad. She didn’t realize at the time, but before she found the key – before the aliens and the Russian neighbor – everything had been so easy, so safe.

It was hard to appreciate a good thing when its loss was unimaginable. She had never believed in aliens and now they were in her life, changing things, manipulating her. They were always there.

Her breakfast finished, she finally pulled herself together. It would be alright. Everything would be alright. She was sure of it now.

As she re-entered the hallway, she saw that the mirrors were gone. There was only one, exactly between the master bedroom and the bathroom.

Before entering the bathroom, Melanie paused and looked at herself in the mirror. There was a snake coiled around her temple.

She instinctively reached up but couldn’t feel it.

“You’re not real,” She said to it. “No, none of it is real… the key? The aliens?”

The snake in the mirror bobbed its head in a nod.

It was a wonder why anyone would believe only what they could see when Melanie had to doubt everything in her life.

Something caught her attention and the recognition of her illness faded instantly from her mind. There was red smoke coming from her bedroom.

Oh no, the aliens must know! They must have understood about the Cheerios cereal box!

Art, on its quest for refinement, is the expression of the ethos and values of society. It serves to remind us that life must be permeated with physical, spiritual and emotional beauty. The objects in these Met Galleries are the memoirs of civilization, yet they are not cast in the amber of the past. They pulse with life. They help us to understand how the cultures touched by Islam were built and evolved through the present day. A balanced display of objects of all types and techniques leads the visitor on a rich ride through the artistic, cultural and religious contexts of regional spheres stretching from Rabat to Ulan Bator, from Trabzon to Jakarta.

A paradise of artistic delight

Selecting these outstanding pieces must have been an emotional and challenging experience for the curators. How to choose only 1200 pieces from the Museum’s vast collections of 12,000 objects to tell the story of the interlinking themes across centuries and continents? The galleries explore the richness of Islamic art in objects big and small: from monumental bronze salvers of princely palaces to humble ceramic bowls, from stylish illuminated manuscripts to Qur’an pages filled with graceful calligraphy, from steel sabers to gardens of textile delights.

Some of the stunning artifacts on exhibit include miniatures from the most famous series of paintings in Islamic art, the celebrated 16th century Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp, ornamental doors from the 9th century royal residence at Samarra in Iraq, a monumental 12th century Seljuk feline incense burner from Iran, a 12th century astrolabe from Yemen, and carved stucco panels from a 10th century house in Nishapur, Iran. Turkish and Mamluk carpets are presented in a room under a newly-assembled wooden ceiling from a 15th century Spanish monastery crafted by Muslim artisans, offering visitors a constellation of stars above and below.

Architecture, one of the most visible and unifying manifestations of the Islamic heritage, has a place here as well. Peeking into the Damascus Room, an intact 18th century reception room from an upper-class Syrian Ottoman house, gives insight onto the daily life of the era. The 11-foot high turquoise tiled prayer niche from a 14th century theological school in Isfahan has been moved to a more prominent place in the galleries (and respectfully reset to its correct kibla orientation), which allows visitors to feel its architectural impact. One of the most popular attractions is the Moroccan Courtyard – a room built from scratch to resemble a 14th century home interior, with intricately carved niches and a bubbling fountain. This graceful gem was created by craftsmen from Fez brought in especially for the project.

Innovative objectives

A desire to rethink the presentation of the galleries prompted the museum to close them for renovation in 2003, two years after the events of 9/11. The curatorial staff set out to sensitively join the galaxy of cultures touched by Islam, and to make its appreciation more accessible by the general public through a judicious intermingling of art objects. The curators chose three major strategies to achieve this monumental task.

Firstly, the official name change from the former reductive “Islamic Galleries” was a bold one. The new name is indeed a mouthful, but it removes the stigma of Islam as opposed to the West and alien, as well as the stereotype of an art produced only in relationship to religion. It effectively dismantles the notion that Islamic art is a single, uniform production.

Secondly, intelligent architecture, using an open plan, created more square footage and brightened the former dim and mysterious rooms into a light and positive space. Lattice screens made in Egypt point the way and provide awareness of the mutual visibility of the cultures. The floors are paved in a different stone for each section, ranging from Egyptian marble inlaid with stars to soft Indian sandstone. Created as well are two new galleries, one linking Spain and North Africa, and the second for the South Asian sphere. The circular path though the galleries encourages visitors to make intuitive cultural interconnections as they rove.

Lastly, and most importantly, the curatorial approach is groundbreaking. The galleries are arranged not in a chronological order, but attempt a more geographical transverse. Particular attention is paid to display objects that emphasize the exchange of artistic influences with surrounding cultures. One gallery is devoted to depicting the imprint of the late Roman, Sassanid and Coptic traditions on the formation of this art. Objects from the Byzantine Empire, China, and Europe are skillfully sprinkled in the cases to highlight the interplay of cultures. Particularly intriguing is portrayal of the hybrid Buddhist-Jain-Hindu-Muslim-Colonial context of the Indian subcontinent. Effort was also paid to present objects which highlight secular and cosmopolitan aspects, not just those exclusively linked to liturgical needs.

In this fashion, the Met galleries help us break with the idea of art compartmentalized solely in reference to a single religious or cultural tradition. Our eyes are lifted towards a more universal vision. The voyage through trans-regional history presented in these Galleries opens new lines of conversation and leads us to contemplate the artistic and historical traditions of our own practices in relation to those of a different civilization.

A reinterpretation of misconceptions

Interpretation of Islamic art in the past by the Western world has often dismissively focused on the visual differences of this art: Islamic art “bans human representation,” Islamic artists “did not understand perspective” in their miniature painting, Islamic art is limited only to the “flat surface” and to the production of the “minor arts,” and “uses only geometry and calligraphy” to express the aesthetic, and so forth. The current presentation allows visitors to see the contrary, persuading them to make up their own mind about how these artists sought to depict the divine and mundane in ways different, yet just as powerful, as those in Western art: flowing calligraphy soars off Qur’an pages as high as the arches of Gothic cathedrals, glass mosque lamps sparkle with the intensity of a king’s gold treasure, colossal wall tiles shine forth with the same inspiration as stained glass windows, and carpets sing as brightly as a Cezanne or Klee painting.

The revised perspective of these galleries, filled with a respectful, reconciliatory motivation, allows visitors to appreciate the distinctive themes and the monumentality of this production, as well as the complexity and diversity of artistic expression. By providing objects illustrating the universal human aspiration towards beauty and refinement in society, we are led to reassess our present relations to these cultures accordingly.

Many examples here illustrate universal human aspirations and the interconnection of the peoples of the earth. Through excellence in craft, these objects poignantly illustrate the hope-filled quest of the honored verse of the Qur’an: “We created you nations and tribes that ye may know one another.” (49:13). The first piece visitors view upon entering the galleries is a large, 10th century white ceramic bowl from Nishapur in Iran, inscribed in a boldly powerful black calligraphy. It sets the tone for harmony, for the potter and the calligrapher needed to work closely hand in hand to produce such a masterpiece. On an Iznik plate from 16th century Ottoman Turkey, the artist has depicted 4 types of flowers – a rose, a hyacinth, a honeysuckle sprig and a tulip – all gracefully springing from the same clump of roots. A special grouping of manuscripts side by side explores the triple traditions of Judaism, Islam and Christianity that lived together harmoniously in medieval Spain. A folio illustrating the preparation of medicine from honey, copied in Baghdad 1224 from the Greek medical manuscript De Materia Medica by Discorides, illustrates the respectful heritage of scientific thought from one culture to the next. A judiciously-situated doorway pulls visitors out of the Egypt/Syria gallery into the room containing the Met’s 19th century “Orientalism” collection. These paintings depict the Middle East as seen through the eyes of European painters. Pausing to look at these colorful and often fanciful interpretations forces us to ask ourselves how we view these cultures today.

A Courtyard of Hope

The mainstream portrayal of Islam is not always kind, and does not usually deal with transcendent beauty, refined ornamentation, or intricate arabesques. Yet one of the most famous hadith, or sayings of the Prophet declares: “God is beautiful and He loves beauty.” Should it thus come as a surprise that this culture has led to the creation of so many great works of art? Perhaps the art at the new Met Galleries will close some chasms and conflicts that plague Muslim-West relations, especially over the last 10 years. Instead of blaring headlines on a newspaper article, perhaps scrutiny of the elegant calligraphy of a Qur’an page will offer grounds for reflection of the other face of the story and provide hope for well-needed harmony. The spiral of galleries ends in the serene Moroccan courtyard. Visitors are invited to linger there a moment and take home with them its restorative light and spirit of tranquility.

A new game

One of the most engaging pieces on display is a 12th century chess set from Iran, one of the earliest to come down to us. Crafted from glazed clay, the modern-looking pieces challenge us to a game. Yet, we cannot play because one piece is missing. Somewhere along the march of time, through earthquakes, Mongol invasions, wars and strife, one pawn has gone missing from this stunning set.

Looking at this chessboard, one cannot help but reflect on the still-charged game of misunderstandings which pits East and West on opposing sides. Does the loss of this representative of castles and conflicts auger a more peaceful society? Perhaps this missing foot soldier can presage the beginning of a new game, one where we are all on the same side of the chessboard; a game without confronting pieces and with reconciliation as the victor.

May the art in these Met Galleries inspire us to write the rules for this new Game of Peace.

Katharine Branning is the author of a series of essays on Turkey, “Yes I would love another glass of tea” and the curator of the exhibit “Song of Stones” dedicated to Seljuk art held at the Turkish Cultural Center in New York in the fall of 2011.

Zeno of Elea was a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher of southern Italy and a member of the Eleatic School founded by Parmenides. He argued that an object in motion can never pass from one position to another, because between the two there is always an “infinity” of other positions, however close, that must be successively traversed in the course of the motion, and this “infinity” can never be exhausted. David Hilbert is a German mathematician who postulated a hypothetical hotel with “countably infinitely” many rooms, all of which are occupied. Since the hotel has “infinitely” many rooms, we can move the guest occupying room 1 to room 2, the guest occupying room 2 to room 3, and so on, and fit a newcomer into room 1. By repeating this procedure, it may be argued that it is possible to make room for any finite number of new guests, although every room of this hotel initially contains a guest.

The following two quotations from two contemporary authors may provide more substance about the nature of the problem:

On the other hand, involvement with the infinite brings with it a huge range of difficulties. In particular, there are the many puzzles and paradoxes that have been outlined in the pages of this book. Moreover, there are the many quite fundamental problems that arise for such apparently simple notions as counting, adding, maximizing, and so forth. Because we are so firmly wedded to limit notions-“best,” “first,” “greatest,” “maximum,” and so forth-that do not sit easily with the infinite, it is very hard to see how we can make our peace with the infinite.

The infinite has always been a slippery concept. Even the commonly accepted mathematical view, developed by Georg Cantor, may not have truly placed infinity on a rigorous foundation.

In the present article, we attempt to summarize Rene Guenon’s (1886-1951) alternative way of thinking on the idea of infinite from the perspective of the traditional metaphysical science. Much more detailed presentation of his perspective can be found in his (1886-1951) valuable study The Metaphysical Principles of the Infinitesimal Calculus from which we will extensively quote here.

Guenon considered mathematics as providing a particularly proper symbolism for the expression of metaphysical truths to the extent that they are expressible. However, he states that “in order for this to be so it is above all necessary that these sciences be rid of the various errors and confusions that have been introduced by the false views of the moderns.” To follow Guenon’s paradigm it is necessary to start with the metaphysical notion of the universal-All which comprehends all possibilities, the non-manifested as well as the manifested Universe, that is, the cosmos. The universal All leaves outside itself only the impossible that is a pure nothing. A determination is to define a certain domain of possibilities in relation to all the rest which is expressed by Spinoza (1632-1677) as omnis determinatio negatio est (all determination is a negation). The first of all determinations is Being itself. “Number is only a mode of quantity, and quantity itself only a category or special mode of being, not coextensive with it, or more precisely still, quantity is only a condition proper to one certain state of existence in the totality of universal existence.” Number, space, and time are all determined conditions.

The Infinite, understood in its true, metaphysical sense, has no limits since its opposite, finite is synonymous with limited. Therefore, according to Guenon,

… one cannot correctly apply this term to anything other than that which has absolutely no limits, that is to say the universal All. Furthermore, there can obviously be only one Infinite, for two supposedly distinct infinities would limit and therefore inevitably exclude one another.

He further states, “The Infinite, in its true sense, can have neither opposite nor complementarity.” The scholastic distinction between “the infinite in a certain respect” and “the absolute infinite” cannot be accepted. If a thing is not limited in a certain sense or in a certain respect than one can legitimately conclude that it is limited in no way at all, and since a determined thing does not include every possibility, as such it can only be finite.

Given any number, one can form the next by adding a unit gives the sequence of numbers to us. Therefore, we cannot actually reach its limits. However, the impossibility of reaching the limits of certain things in the manifested Universe should not cause the illusion that these determined things have no limits at all. In order to replace the false notion of “determined infinite,” Guenon introduces, the idea of the indefinite, which is precisely the idea of a development of possibilities the limits of which we cannot actually reach; and this is why we (Guenon) regard this distinction between the Infinite and the indefinite as fundamental to all questions in which the so-called mathematical infinite appears.

According to Descartes (1596-1650), the indefinite is that of which we do not perceive the limits, and which in reality could be infinite. On the contrary, Guenon affirms that

(T)he indefinite cannot be infinite because it always implies a certain determination, whether it is a question of extension, duration, divisibility, or some other possibility; in a word, whatever the indefinite may be, and according to whatever aspect it is considered, it is still of the finite and can only be of the finite.

The idea of an “infinite number” understood as “the greatest of all numbers,” or “the number of all numbers” is contradictory. The impossibility of an “infinite number” can be established by various arguments:

(T)o every whole number (integer) there corresponds another number equal to its double, such that one can make the two sequences correspond term by term, with the result that the number of terms must be the same in both; but there are obviously twice as many whole numbers as there are even, since even numbers alternate by twos in the sequence of whole numbers; one thus ends up with a manifested contradiction.

Guenon insists that number, despite its indefinitude, is by no means applicable to all that exists and the multitude of all numbers cannot constitute a number, which, moreover, is finally only an application of the incontestable truth that what limits a certain order of possibilities must necessarily be beyond and outside that which it limits.

On the other hand, the idea of multitude, contrary to that of number, is applicable to all that exists which allows one to speak of the multitude of divine attributes for example, or again of the multitude of angels, that is, of beings belonging to states that are not subject to quantity, where, consequently, there can be no question of number.

Number itself can also be regarded as a species of multitude, but on the added condition that it be a “multitude measured by the unit” according to the expression of Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274).

The term “indefinite” consists of something unfinished. The “non-measured” is that which has not yet been defined, which is only incompletely realized within manifestation. The multitude of all numbers is “innumerable” or “non-measured,” which is not to say they are infinite, but merely that they are indefinite.

Guenon calls whole number as true number or pure number. He accepts that the numbers other than whole numbers can be considered as the extensions or generalizations of the idea of number. However, he adds that these extensions are also distortions. According to Guenon, numerical quantity has a discontinuous character, whereas spatial or temporal magnitudes, for example, are continuous quantities. “Between these two modes of quantity is a difference of nature such that a correspondence between the two cannot be perfectly established.” He distinguishes the arithmetical unit from the “units of measurement,” which are magnitudes of another sort than number, notably geometric magnitudes. He defines a continuous quantity as an extension-however small it might be that will always remain indefinitely divisible.

Guenon is against atomism, which necessarily implies the discontinuity of all things. He argues extension cannot be composed of indivisible elements, for these elements would have to be extensionless to be truly indivisible, and a sum of elements with no extension can no more constitute an extension than a sum of zeros can constitute a number, that is why points are not the elements or parts of a line; the true linear elements are always distances between points, which latter are only their extremities. Points multiplied by any quantity at all can never produce length, since, rigorously speaking, they are null with respect to length; the true elements of a magnitude must always be of the same nature as the magnitude, although incomparably less: this leaves no room for indivisibles.

Further,

The point, which, being indivisible, is by that very fact without extension, that is, spatially null, but which, as we (Guenon) have explained elsewhere, is nonetheless the very principle of all extension.

For Guenon, Zeno of Elea’s arguments are against atomism and indeed, they prove that without continuity there would be no possible motion.

It is this very conception of motion that is in error, for it amounts in short to regarding the continuous as if it were composed of points, or of final, indivisible elements, like the notion according to which bodies are composed of atoms; and this would amount to saying that in reality there is no continuity, for whether it is a question of points or atoms, these final elements can only be discontinuous.

And, “The possibility of motion presupposes the union, or rather the combination, of both temporal and spatial continuity.”

We consider Guenon as an important and prominent example of thinkers who tried to remind people of the traditional metaphysical ideas. This metaphysical perspective does not share the modern tendency to attribute more importance to the practical applications of science than to science itself. This perspective attempts to link science back to principles of a higher order so that a particular science can be used as a support for elevating oneself to a higher knowledge.

Imagine: I have just been cooked, and I am now waiting on a dish. Oh, what’s that? A metal thing with four prongs has just stuck itself into my chest, and it threw me into a shaking room with a gate moving up and down. There are, in this room, 32 flat and occluding rocks, some of which are sharp, while some are like millstones, all being lined up in a U-shape row. The frontal rocks have divided me into large pieces by squeezing and cutting. My pieces are pushed backwards by a soft shovel underneath. The rear rocks have made me almost like a paste, thoroughly mashing my pieces. Meanwhile, many taps on the right and left sides and in bottom of the room began flushing water upon me, and the carbohydrates within me have began dissolving by the pityalin enzyme (alpha amilaz) in this water. The flushing water contains substances such as lyzozym and antichore to eliminate any probable microbes within me.

I was fully softened and turned into something almost like gruel, when suddenly I was impelled by the actions of that soft shovel to an extremely tight tube inside of which movements continuously push me downward. A gate opened while I was being brought down and, as I was hoping to enter into a more spacious room and be saved from the compressive movements, I suddenly flopped into a well containing a light-colored liquid. I have come to know, while I was expecting to have some refreshment, that the liquid I flopped into was an acid capable of eroding marble (pH=0,8). I cried ‘Oh My God!’, but it was too late. This acid began to break my proteins down. The pepsinogen which was simultaneously being secreted by some cells over the walls of this large room and which were ineffective within an acid-free environment, became instantly activated by this acid and began to thoroughly break me up. Most of my proteins were broken. While I was wondering and asking ‘how come the liquid I flopped into is capable of eroding the marble but not capable of breaking up this well?’, I have come to notice that walls of the well were coated with a thin layer of mucous substance (membrane) which is unbreakable by acids.

I said ‘Oh My God! As long as you do not permit, these acids, which can erod marble, are not capable of damaging a soft tissue!’. Together with other foodstuff, I have been both blended and broken in this well-like room for about an hour. Later, the outer walls have again squeezed us, and we have been ejected yet again, this time into a new tube at an opposite direction to the one we were just pushed out of, by a sudden loosening and opening of a valve. This tube (called duodenum in Latin) has a length of about 15-18 cm and, appears as if lined up side by side. Here too, we felt wretched and were faced by a basic secretion (sodium bicarbonate) being ejaculated from a tap. This liquid was inactivating (neutralizing) the acids mixed with us, i.e., preventing them from damaging the unprotected walls of the tube which we were in.

Here again the amylaz, lipaz, trypsin, kymotrypsin and carbocsypolypeptidas attacked me, all of which break up, in a respective order, carbohydrates, fats and proteins of my ingredients, along with a lot many other enzymes, and they broke me up to my smallest constituents. Meanwhile, I started pondering the reasons why these enzymes, which are making mincemeat of me, are not damaging the tap (pancreas), which are composed of the same proteins, fats and carbohydrates that they come from. Then, I have come to realize that these enzymes could not become activated in pancreas tissue, since it does not have any activating factors, but they gained shredder features only after we arrived in the tube we are in, and only with the help of such factors which are being secreted from the intestinal walls.

After having been fully shredded within this narrow tube, a green liquid (bile), was poured on us as we were approaching its end. This detergent-like liquid was particularly responsible for shredding the fats in my ingredients. I understood, after all of this, that I was passing through a very excellent factory. As I and my fellow meatballs proceeded inside this narrow tube of approximately three meters long, no part of us remained un-shredded, except the cellulose fibers of plants such as parsley and onion which accompanied us. They continued their journey until arriving at a very thick and short tube. I have found out that their sap have been absorbed and their leftovers, after being amassed for some time, have been thrown into a cesspool called a toilet.

In the meantime, we have noticed that the walls of this tube are plicate and protuberant. These walls are apparently the places where our particles penetrate into another realm through two different ways. We understood that, via rather thin capillary channels situated inside these protuberances, we were being transferred into narrower tubes which contained two different (red and white) types of liquids (blood and lymph vessels). Now, there isn’t ‘me’ anymore, instead, there is only an ‘us’ which is composed of very smaller particles. While glucoses, the simplest forms of carbohydrates and aminoacids, the simplest forms of proteins are being transferred into the red liquid, our fat acid siblings are transferred into the white liquid of lymph vessels. Our glucose and aminoacid siblings have been carried by the red liquid to a factory called a liver. They are being returned to the red liquid after having passed through certain processes and being equipped with some useful characteristics here. But, the fats (lymphs) of the white liquid are, for some reason or another, being separately transferred into the red liquid, bypassing this factory. I learned the reason later: if the fat acids came to the liver together with glucoses and aminoacids, they would spoil this factory and kill its workers.

Finally, the red liquid carried us to tiny cell chambers numbering almost 100 trillion. Each of our tiny particles were sent to separate cells. Here, water, carbondioxide and energy were being produced by primarily coupling of our sibling glucose with oxygen. I learned that energy was needed for the functioning of these cells. Our fat siblings were also being utilized (consumed) for producing energy if glucoses were found insufficient for that purpose. Our amino acid siblings were being utilized (consumed) in the production of sound (strong) proteins and glucoses, and of energy in cases of the unavailability of fat sources for use in the cells’ structures. Excessive amounts of fat and glucose were being stored in these tiny cells. That is to say, I, who was a meatball at the beginning, was converted into water, carbondioxide and energy at the end of this painstaking journey. I was promoted (exalted) to the degree of humanness and rewarded a great deal of honor, as some parts of me became constituent of and some other parts of me assumed responsibility in vital cell functions of the human body.

After all these disintegrations and absorptions, some parts of us took their share in the structure of the body, while some others which were used in energy production including me were converted into a choky and dirty gaseous state called carbondioxide. We have been thrown back into the red liquid again since we would perhaps choke the cells we are within should our density increase very much. We have been brought to a marvellous and sponge-like factory named a lung, and composed of millions of vesicles, by being placed onto a molecule called hemoglobin, which is being pushed by a big pump. We have replaced the oxygen of the fresh air arriving to the lung vesicles. Now is the time for bidding farewell the human body. I thanked God, for I regained my freedom as a carbondioxide passing through and escaping from very dark and narrow places.

However, I was placed upon the leaf of a green plant after aimlessly roaming in the air for some time. After being filtered through the little windows (stoma) over the leaf, I was brought inside by the chlorophyll factory marvelously functioning inside these cells. Here, they forced me to unite with the water brought by tubules from the soil. Upon telling them that I cannot afford to do that, they instantly changed my true nature with solar rays and turned met into a chemical energy depot. I was no more a simple carbon atom; thus, I found a place for myself within an energy-emiting glucose molecule. I was in a position suitably convertible to starch, protein or fats in accordance with the true nature and genetic program of the plant I was within. Something incredible happened while I was swinging around on a green clover leaf. The leaf I was in has been eaten by a cow with real pleasure.

A new chapter has now opened inside the cow’s body. I was assigned with certain duties within the muscle proteins of my new host after having passed through a number of chemical processes. And I really enjoyed them. I was feeling myself more as an animal protein than a simple grass. By leaving the grass for a cow’s body, I was promoted (exalted) one more degree on the way to becoming manifestations of the divine attributes of God.

This blessed animal in whom I was assigned has been sacrificed during a Muslim feast of sacrifice, its meat ground into a meat grinder, and I have been served to you once again as a meatball.

Ali Uguz is a teacher of biology. He lives in Turkey.

Walking into patients’ rooms during random visits always demands courage, self-esteem, and a positive outlook, together with a strong sense of spirituality. But chaplains learn early on to overcome a fear of rejection when they initiate a visit, enter a hospital room and experience a patient who opens their heart in a slow but sincere manner.

Some people think it is about religion. But I found that people accept or reject a chaplain’s visit for a variety of reasons. Religion often never enters the conversation. Chaplains are, in most cases, expected to leave that part to the patients. We just carry them wherever they want to go. Sometimes people respond that they are “Okay that way,” which I interpreted as having their own way of meeting their spiritual or emotional needs. For many, loneliness was one of the main reasons to accept, and anger, the main reason to reject a visit from a chaplain.

In the emergency room, when doctors put forth their greatest efforts to save a patient’s life, death is oh so near. How this death, which we always imagine as being a million miles away from us, so close at that moment? I reflect; “Am I in the same room with the angel of death at this very moment?” The reality of death removes all blocks between the chaplain and the patient; it brings us back to our humanness and our primordial state in front of God.

I encounter lonely, elderly men. These were once tough men, brave men; men who fought in our country’s wars. They were hard workers, often at menial jobs done sacrificially to provide for their families. Most never knew how to express their emotions. Many of them, shattered by the horrors from fighting in wars and suffering family tragedies, needed to be heard. It is a privilege to be the one listening to their stories and moved by a compassion that was never before experienced.

It is not often that any of us witness older men shedding tears. In the privacy of our visit, they voiced their doubt, fear and anger. “No one should ever have to see what I saw, what I was involved in. God – where was God then?” My heart would be crying out to God, “How do I respond? What do I say?” They were asking difficult questions that deserved more than a glib reply. I did not possess the words or the compassion in my own strength. I needed to increasingly rely on God in my encounters. I too wondered “why” and felt their fear and frustration. I listened. I know “God works all things for the good for those who love him” (Romans 8:28). Yet, meeting these men and women, voicing their prayers and concerns to God with them, I grieved.

A life-threatening illness grants a saint’s wisdom to the most vulgar person. Not an automatic or an easy transition, but it cultivates the soul gradually, inch by inch. Since the time Albert learned about his cancer, he has been seeing through a different lens; “All my accomplishments, my goals and ambitions meant nothing for me in seconds when I learned that I had cancer.” Lost is the pleasure of health, and the reality of life and death are finally under daylight. The sick person has the longest time in the world to reflect on this.

Anxious and distressed, an old lady complains that the young do not understand the suffering that old age brings. “Why does God, whom we know as merciful and compassionate, let us suffer?” is a common question among the sick. Some patients are angry with God. Their inner struggle covers up the beauty behind the illness. Yet, it is not ours to correct anything too fast. Their feelings are precious. Acceptance of God’s will can eventually follow the anguish, uneasiness and questioning in the beginning of illness.

To say that life sometimes hurts and is often unfair is an understatement. And it does not satisfy the “why” questions. Facing what is a major fear of all people, the loss of all we hold dear – abilities, youth, dreams, beauty, wealth, pride, fame, life itself – we can only listen.

They see with the eye of certainty and I come to understand with them, that our bodies are prone to separation and death; and the pleasures of this world do not continue. This warning is very bitter and painful at first, yet then it becomes beautiful. We should remember that we are mortal; we have a duty in life and we should prepare well for the next life. It is said that a good friend is harsh but honest. So is illness, it seems.

Sometimes being around patients’ sadness, fear and hopelessness day after day is depressing. But the most draining encounters are with the ones who have turned completely away from God. I honestly grieved for those, who in their times of terrible tragedy, seemed to feel no need for God.

Amidst the dark thoughts, I hear a patient reminding me that life is not only about sickness, but it is a reflection of God’s beautiful Names in miscellaneous ways. I happen to see only the sad part of patients’ life stories, as a chaplain, but that is not all. “Just as, through hunger, you learn of His Name, the All-Providing, so too through your illness, you come to know His Name, the All-Healing.” Thoughtful as he is, Jack says: “I might have cancer now, but I appreciate life in general; there is so much that I am thankful for. Just one big thing that I learned from my sickness: I never thought that I took life for granted. But now, I understand that I did.”

Arthur Frank, a former cancer patient and the author of At the Will of the Body, says there is a problem with the view that physical recovery is the ideal ending of illnesses. He asks “if recovery is taken to be the ideal, how is it possible to find value in the experience of an illness that either lingers on as chronic or ends in death?” Along the way of a health problem, there is the opportunity for spiritual transformation and renewal. This renewal, as a result of physical illness, is the ideal. Either an illness ends with death or not, but one should be aware that there is more than pain that one can receive from illness. From Job we learn, “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” (Job 2:10).

I feel that this man who became poor-looking and weak in the hands of his illness was one of the fortunate ones, as he benefited from this gift of his serious illness. While some of his fellows become neglectful and forget God Almighty through the calamity of good health, this man’s long talk was only about God’s beautiful Names. His illness is good health while for some of his peers good health is a sickness.

Listening to patients is the most valuable gift that one can offer them. Asking questions to make patients talk is one major task of a chaplain, and preaching is not a way to reach out to them without truly understanding their problems. Who would care to listen to any advice without given the right of being heard? As I listen to the words of wisdom pour out of this very old man, he reprimands me and says “You’re the one who should be preaching to me, but here I am preaching to you.” Yet I smile at these words of comfort about God’s love and our need for Him. And I remember the verse: “Those who say when afflicted by calamity: “To God do we belong and to Him is our return” (Qur’an, 2:156).

Lucinda Miller is ordained in the Free Methodist denomination and is now serving as a hospice chaplain. Gulsum Kucuksari is in the process of completing her PhD in Islamic Studies at the University of Arizona.

Notes

1. Said Nursi. The Gleams, Twenty-Fifth Gleam, NJ: The Light, Inc., 2008, p. 292.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid. p. 293.

The infinite! No other question has ever moved so profoundly the spirit of man; no other idea has so fruitfully stimulated his intellect; yet no other concept stands in greater need of clarification than that of the infinite. David Hilbert

The concept of infinity has always fascinated humankind. The excitement and awe that are affiliated with the very idea of this concept inspire us. Poets, philosophers, artists, astronomers, mathematicians and ordinary people have pondered the questions related to infinity over the centuries. Is the universe finite or infinite? Is matter or space infinitely divisible? Is there eternal life? Where does a finite being get the idea of infinity from?

In this article, we first consider the concept of infinity from a mathematical point of view and then try to explain how that is connected to Divinity and the Attributes of God. An incorrect understanding of infinity in mathematics leads to seemingly irresolvable paradoxes; likewise, an incorrect understanding of the Attributes of God leads to an incomplete or incorrect understanding of creation.

Mathematical infinity

Any serious consideration of infinity inevitably leads to mathematics, where the concept has its deepest roots. Mathematicians use the symbol ∞ to denote infinity. To many people infinity is a sort of number that is larger than all other numbers. However, that is not an adequate description of infinity. Strange things can happen in the realm of infinity. Many intuitive ideas fail when infinity enters into the picture. This leads to apparent paradoxes. Here is one example that is attributed to David Hilbert (1862–1943), the famous mathematician whose quotation appears above.¹ Consider a hypothetical hotel with infinitely many rooms. On a stormy night all the rooms of the hotel are occupied, and a wet and miserable couple shows up asking for a room. The concierge comes up with this clever idea to make room for these people. He says, “The hotel is full but here is what I can do for you. I can move the guests from room 1 into room 2, the guests from room 2 into room 3, and so on. The guests in room n will move into the room n+1, for each n = 1, 2, 3, …”.

So, if we can have a hotel with infinitely many rooms it is possible to accommodate an incoming guest even if the hotel is totally full. But then we see that by a similar reasoning we can accommodate any number of guests, and in fact infinitely many more guests! Clearly, this is not possible in ordinary hotels with finitely many rooms that we are familiar with.

To get more sense of what might happen in the realm of infinity let us consider a couple of other examples. You would have no trouble accepting that two sets have the same number of elements if there is a one-to-one correspondence between them. For example, the set {Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday} has seven elements because it is in a one-to-one correspondence with the set {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7} given by Monday1, Tuesday2,Wednesday3, Thursday4, Friday5, Saturday6, Sunday7. Note that there are other possible ways of setting up a one-to-one correspondence between these two sets but what matters is the existence of one such correspondence.

There is absolutely nothing surprising about this example. We all know that there are seven days in a week. However, if the concept of infinity pops up in a similar situation, counterintuitive conclusions are obtained. You may be surprised to find out that the set of all positive integers {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,…} is in a one-to-one correspondence with the set of even positive integers {2, 4, 6,…}. One way of setting such a correspondence is

1 2 3 4 5

← ← ← ← ←

2 4 6 8 10 …

Therefore, there are as many even (positive) integers as there are of all (positive) integers (this is a mathematically correct statement), even though the set of even integers is a strictly smaller subset of all integers. Such a situation is not possible with finite sets.

There are other well-known examples of “paradoxes” involving infinity such as Zeno’s paradox, and Gabriel’s horn.²

Treating infinity as if it is like other numbers, even with the assumption that it is greater than all other numbers, is a major reason for these “paradoxes.” Their resolutions are obtained with a proper understanding of the nature of infinity and the concept of limit. For example, adding or subtracting one element, or any finite number of elements, from an infinite set does not change its size. In some cases adding or subtracting infinitely many elements from an infinite set does not change its size either!

Even mathematicians struggled with the idea of infinity a great deal before rigorously formulating the concept and the rules about it. The fundamental notion of modern calculus is limit, which is intimately connected to infinity, in terms of either infinitely small quantities referred to as “infinitesimal” or infinitely large quantities. It took mathematicians a long time to formulate the modern rigorous definition of limit, the rules involving infinity and infinite quantities, and sets of infinite size.

Infinity and understanding the Attributes of God

While the concept of infinity is essential in mathematics, it is not the only field where it is so important. Another field in which the concept is very important is theology. The concept of infinity is intimately connected to the concept of Divinity. In mathematics, compared to infinity all numbers are equal, and equally small. This fact is mathematically expressed as a/∞ for any number a, whether it is 7 or 17 million. This is parallel to the theological fact that compared to God we, and the rest of the creation, are infinitely small. Nobody can claim to be greater than any other human being or any other being in the universe, no matter how powerful or wealthy he or she might be. Therefore, we cannot attribute to anybody greatness to the degree of regarding him or her as divine. Nursi expresses this view in the following words:

“O human! It is a Qur’anic principle that you must not consider anything other than God Almighty as greater than you to the degree that you worship it. Nor must you consider yourself greater than anything and thus claim greatness before and dominion over it. For, just as all creatures are equally far from being the Object of Worship, they are also equal in being creatures.”³

We have seen that treating infinity like other numbers (even with the understanding that it is greater than all other numbers) leads to seemingly irresolvable paradoxes. Similarly, treating God like humans leads to an incomplete and incorrect understanding of God and the creation. God is not only greater than all that is created, He is also not bound by the kinds of restrictions that created beings are subject to. With His infinite power, creating one flower is as easy for Him as creating all the creatures on earth every spring. Creating all the trees in the world is no more difficult for God than creating one piece of apple. He can create countless things at the same moment. Creating a trillion things is no more difficult for Him than creating one thing.

Unfortunately, it is all too common to see the evidence of attributing incorrect characteristics and restrictions to the Almighty. For example, some “try to free God from the burden of special acts of creation”4 by attributing the development of species to evolution, natural selection, and random phenomena. They do not seem to understand that it is no “burden” for God to create anything, whether it be a tiny individual or billions of species. He can create a great number of things at once. He is not forgetful or incompetent. Nothing He does interferes with another one of His actions. He continues to create every moment everywhere in the universe and He has power to do so. He is closer to every one of us every moment than we are to ourselves: Assuredly, it is We Who have created human and We know what suggestions his soul makes to him, and We are nearer to him than his jugular vein (Qaf 50:16). Therefore, there is no burden for God in dealing with special acts of creation.

Since we are subject to many restrictions as humans, we may fall into the error of attributing similar restrictions to God. So, we need to be more careful when we consider the Attributes of God. One of the restrictions by which we are bound is time. Unlike us, God is above and beyond time. Many people have difficulty comprehending the idea of destiny (or qadar, or divine decree in Islamic literature). If we understand that God is not restricted by time, it becomes much easier to understand this concept. Since He is beyond time, He does not need to “wait” to see the consequences of events in the universe. While it is not our purpose to have a full discussion of this important article of faith here, we want to point out one of its connections with the topic. A detailed explanation of divine decree can be found in Said Nursi’s Twenty-sixth Word.5 Those who do not understand that God is not restricted by time ask questions like, “What was God doing before creating the universe?” This question is meaningless with a proper understanding of the Attributes of God.

Attributing to God deficiencies by which we are constrained, such as forgetfulness, tiredness, and incompetence, is a great mistake, one similar to treating ordinary numbers like infinity. It leads to paradoxes that we cannot resolve. It prevents us from having a proper understanding of God and the creation. We can only understand the mystery of the creation by a proper understanding of its Creator, and we need to be very careful when talking about the Attributes of this Creator.

Nuh Aydin is an associate professor of Mathematics at Kenyon College, in Ohio, USA.

Notes

1. Maor, E. To Infinity and Beyond: A Cultural History of Infinity, Birkhauser, 1987. See also http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/davidhilbe181572.html; http://www-groups.dcs.st-and.ac.uk/~history/Quotations/Hilbert.html; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilbert%27s_paradox_of_the_Grand_Hotel
2. Ibid.
3. Nursi, Bediüzzaman Said, The Gleams, Seventeenth Gleam, NJ: Tughra Books, p. 160.
4. Collins, F. S. Language of God, Free Press, 2006, p. 140.
5. Nursi, The Words, Twenty Sixth Word, NJ: Tughra Books, pp. 479–494.

It was interesting to understand in time that animals, plants and children were never made of paper and adults started wearing costumes and masks of papier-mâché only when they wanted to be something they were incapable of, and when they knowingly tried to convince others of their worth or unknowingly believed in their genuine worth. Tearing up this last group of people was the most amusing part of my task, since till the very last second they would think that they were, in fact, real. That day, as I entered the conference room a man in his fifties was talking about a subject that had been attacked by many others before. He talked in a soft voice that had a sort of compassionate timbre and an overwhelming modesty to it. When asked a question, he would turn to the questioner with his whole body and answer all points one by one, without faltering. He saw me enter the room, but he didn’t avoid my eyes and welcomed me with a smile, contrary to all previous speakers –real or paper- since I became famous. I listened patiently to the very end and observed his movements.

Finally I stood up. Feeling the pride of my colleagues’ looks, I walked and stopped right in front of the speaker. He was surprised. As I lifted my arm to touch his shoulder he took a step back, and he waved his head as if saying no and smiled at me with the most kindhearted eyes I have ever seen. I returned his smile with malicious disdain and I pressed on to grab his shoulder. As I touched his arm, I felt that it was harder than most paper people, which gave me more joy knowing that I caught a very good impostor. Then, I felt a cold in my palm and saw that my fingers were falling to the floor. The speaker, as if expecting this, held my arm and made me crouch with him, being very careful to hide all this from the audience, picked the broken clay pieces off the floor and put them in my hand. He once again looked at me with the most kindhearted eyes.