The point at which an extreme or transcendent change becomes
possible is known as a “singularity.” There are mathematical, gravity, and
technological singularities. They all
mark break-off points, openings to new dimensions of reality. A black hole is a singularity in a region of
space where matter exists in a state of infinite density. Mathematical singularities involve functions
where a change in a variable produce a derivative that is infinite.
Perhaps the most popular use of the term is in talk of the
coming technological singularity. This
usage stands firmly in the tradition of millenarian or psi-fi fantasy. The core idea is that there will come a point
in human history when computerized machine “intelligence” reaches a point
sufficiently advanced that the machines transcend, revolt against, and somehow
take over their human makers. They, not
us humans, will carry on the torch of evolution; and they alone will achieve
digital immortality. Part of this techno-apocalyptic fantasy entails that
computers and computer networks will “wake up,” as science fiction author
Vernor Vinge predicts, in short, become conscious. But they will be “trillions” of times smarter
than us, as inventor and futurist Ray Kurzweil believes, and so will take over
the planet, and have to subjugate or, more efficiently, dispose of us.
Needless to say, I don’t assign much credibility to this
latter-day singularity fantasy, but something about the idea draws me on. Keeping it empirical, let’s consider the idea
of a human singularity. This usage won’t be quite as exact as it is
in physics or mathematics, but the sense is clear from ordinary English usage.
We use singular to describe something
rare, one of a kind, new, special, exceptional, extraordinary.
History is replete with specimens of human singularity,
individuals who have driven the creative advance of the species. We might, for
example, think of “world-historical” figures like Jesus, Socrates, and the
Buddha, each a deeply important human singularity that continues to reverberate
through history. Indeed, every domain of
historical evolution has its various singularities. For art, think Pablo Picasso;
for science, Albert Einstein; for technology, Steve Jobs.
But the human singularities I have mind are the type that
transcend the common limits of mind and body. Specifically, my interest is in
psychophysical singularities, kindled as it was by my research on levitation,
as reported in my book The Man Who Could
Fly, a study of St. Joseph of Copertino.
Almost every feature of Joseph’s life was wrapped in singularity, most
famously in his 35-year-long performance in public as an involuntary ecstatic
levitator.
Psychophysical singularities suggest the emergence of
something post- or super-human. The
following cameo will illustrate.
Ze Arigo, the Brazilian healer, died in an auto accident in
1971 at the age of 49. An overwhelming
mass of facts suggests that this man may be described as a human singularity. (The book to read is John Fuller’s Arigo: Surgeon of the Rusty Knife. Also, Google Arigo and Henry Puharich, to
observe some of the operations and Puharich’s stunning talk on Arigo.)
Arigo was a poor working man of peasant origins who began to
have headaches for no apparent reason.
Something was trying to get through to him, and he was unconsciously
resisting it, hence the headaches.
Eventually, it was learned that it was “Dr. Fritz” calling on Arigo, the
spirit of a German Doctor said to have died in 1918.
Dr. Fritz took possession of Arigo’s body and spoke with a
guttural German accent. Arigo ultimately
came to regard Dr. Fritz as Christ consciousness. Whatever “Fritz” was, it had
one task, which was to use Arigo’s body to heal the sick. And this is exactly what occurred for the
remainder of his life.
Take the event that led to Arigo’s immediate rise to
fame. A distinguished Senator, Lucio
Bittencourt, had stopped in a hotel in Congonhas do Campo where Arigo lived and
the two men met, Arigo on behalf of the local miners. Bittencourt was so taken
with Arigo that he invited him to take a room in his hotel, so they could carry
on their talks. When he retired, Bittencourt was unable to sleep; he had in
fact recently been informed that he had lung cancer.
Dozing restlessly, suddenly a man broke into the Senator’s
room, turned on the light, brandishing a razor, and announced that an operation
needed to be performed. It was Arigo, eyes glazed and speaking with a German
accent. The Senator felt no fear but blacked out. When he woke up, he found
blood on his pajamas and a healed incision on his back. He rose and staggered
toward Arigo’s room, looking for an explanation. Arigo was just as surprised as
the Senator. He had no idea that he had just operated on the Senator’s lung
cancer. But, entranced, he evidently did. It was in the newspapers the
following day, and Arigo was suddenly known all over Brazil.
This was the beginning of a public career of 20 years made
famous for his healings. His office
consisted of a few tables and chairs in some shacks with long lines of
indigent, as well as distinguished, patients, all waiting their turn. Arigo
treated about 300 patients a day, and most of the treatments lasted about three
minutes. He treated all kinds of conditions, from cataracts to cancer. He
deployed two kinds of treatment—operations and prescriptions.
The prescriptions were preceded by diagnoses achieved almost
instantly with a glance. And with a
glance, Arigo gave exact blood pressure readings of his patients. The prescriptions were written with lightning
speed, and in the suitably scientific pharmaceutical lingo. They were
completely original and strange, mixtures and quantities of drugs that no
physician would even conceive no less dare to prescribe; nevertheless, they worked.
Arigo had no medical knowledge, training, or experience whatsoever. And he had no recollection
of writing them. This process of diagnosis and prescription writing was
performed and observed thousands of times. For all the weirdness of the
prescriptions, they never caused any harm or ill effects. And they brought
positive help and cures, often of fatal diseases. Clearly, these are impossible
performances, in manner and effect, unless we posit some extra mode or
dimension of intelligent reality operative but transcending present science.
Surgical operation was the second type of treatment. Playwright, documentary film producer, and
author John Fuller called Arigo “the surgeon of the rusty knife.” His operations were positively surreal.
Nothing could be more wrong, indeed, horrific, as to how he performed surgery on his patients. To begin with,
septically: Arigo would take his penknife, or any handy blade lying around,
however filthy, and roughly plunge it into the flesh of his patients, rapidly
excising diseased tissues.
Patients never felt pain (although they sometimes appeared uncomfortable) and, incredibly,
were never infected. Bleeding was minimal and Arigo could stop the bleeding
with a command. The wounds healed rapidly, without stitches.
Once the operation was over, the gruff martinet “Dr. Fritz”
became the amiable, easy-going Arigo with his pious wife and brood of handsome
children. How all the rules of reality can be broken while producing such
healing marvels is a mystery—signs of a human singularity.
Arigo was singular in his purity of purpose. He never took
money or gifts for his healings. He had no choice in the matter; the force
compelling him was beyond his control. To profit from his gift would be
sacrilege; during his whole career, he worked at menial jobs to support his
large family.
Arigo gained a vast following, a grateful populace, and a no
less grateful class of distinguished acolytes. He restored the sight of the son
of the famous singer, Roberto Carlos. He
cured a kidney disorder of the daughter of the President of Brazil, Juscilino
Kubitschek, who was himself a surgeon. The condition that Arigo cured in her
had stymied doctors in Europe and America.
But aside from friends and admirers, Arigo also acquired
enemies, powerful ones, too; the State, the medical profession, and the
Catholic Church were all against him. The State would try and jail him twice
because he was patently guilty of breaking the law, which forbade “the practice
of illegal medicine.” He had no degrees, diplomas, or certificates; he just
repeatedly did the impossible.
The medical profession was against Arigo for legal reasons,
and for reasons of incredulity, jealousy, and perhaps fear, when in fact earnest
curiosity would have been the appropriate response. Fortunately, many
physicians did eventually come to observe him on the job.
The Church decided that only bona fide Catholics are allowed to perform miracles. If you’re, say, a Kardec-style Spiritualist
(popular in Brazil), or keen on some other spiritual discipline, miracles could
get you into serious trouble. The Church attacked Arigo and accused him of
witchcraft and profiteering, both lies.
Arigo always asked his friends to pray for his enemies, and
he served them and strangers for free and with love. Arigo actually behaved
like a saint, displaying the Church’s “heroic virtue,” without calling it that.
Judged and jailed twice, his better friends prevailed, and he was back playing
the part assigned to him by the mysterious Dr. Fritz. The tide of opinion turned. Plans and
appropriations were in place to expand his facilities and bring in a team of
scientists to study Arigo, who welcomed the idea. He, in fact, welcomed scientists observing
him, and many did.
But at this point fate took a sinister turn. It was early
January 1971, and President Kubitschek and Arigo had a meeting. Arigo explained, as he had to others, that
for the past weeks he’d been dreaming of a “black crucifix” and that this was
their last meeting. He predicted he would soon die a violent death. On January
11, his car skidded on a rainy road into a truck that killed him.
But the story of Dr. Fritz continued and got stranger. He
apparently needed to keep on working as healer for the poor and needy, and had
taken possession, reportedly, of at least three other men to carry on his
posthumous crusade of supernormal healing. Two of those also predicted their
own deaths and died violently. A third appeared,
performing Arigo-like marvels, but also awaited his predicted violent end. “Dr.
Fritz” (whatever that stands for) apparently operates from outside our reality-system. The persons it seems to use to do its
work are then disposed of.
What’s behind the singular career of someone like Arigo is a
mystery. The phenomena observed in broad
daylight for 20 years cannot be explained, even with remote plausibility, by
established science. Its singularity is of the type that suggests a higher
order of human function that revolves around astonishing healing powers.
Various sorts of human singularity range from historical to
recent times and from individuals to group events. So, in the 20th century, we have
Padre Pio’s 50 years bleeding stigmata, never infected, and exuding unexplained
fragrances. At the moment of his death, the last flake fell from his
stigmatized left hand, leaving no scar on his body, after being an open wound
for 50 years. Leaving no scar was inexplicable, according to dermatologist John
Sweeny of Columbia University Hospital, whom I questioned about this.
Many other candidates could join the roster of human
singularities. Again, in the 20th century we have banker,
journalist, and physical medium of amazing versatility, Franek Kluski
(1873-1943) producing sounds, violent psychokinesis, apports, levitation in the
form of objects changing their weight, all sorts of photic phenomena, inexplicable
odors, materializations of birds and other uncanny forms, apparitions of known
deceased people, and so on.
The fact is that all sorts of human singularities are part
of the historical landscape. They need to be teased out of oblivion and
appreciated for their significance. A
more detailed taxonomy of human singularities might help us imagine the
possible direction of human evolution.