Why Myth?
Myth matters because it connects us to truths deeper than facts. Throughout my life, mythic stories have been a source of endless fascination: the Sunday school stories of a global flood and the exodus from Egypt, the legendary figures of Brazilian folklore I grew up with, the intricate family trees I would draw in middle school connecting the Greek pantheon, tragedies both ancient and modern, all the way up to the superhero movies of the Marvel cinematic universe. But these myths, especially the really old ones with staying power, have their way of seeping deeper than surface-level entertainment. These stories have been guides to me, conveying wisdom and wonder that factual discourse alone often cannot capture.
As a student of theology and literature, I've seen how ancient narratives and modern myths alike can shape our values, inspire empathy, and provide a shared language for our experiences. Myth opens a door to transcendence, inviting us to explore meaning beyond the surface of daily life. But as a scientist by training and an engineer by vocation, I've also seen the allure of leaving myths behind: the promise of a more objective, less superstitious, data-driven world.
Myth is the deep grammar of belonging. Long before we master logic, we navigate the world by story-patterns that tell us whose we are, what time it is, and what a life well-lived looks like. In the framework developed by philosopher Ken Wilber, these maps of meaning evolve over time (magic ⇢ mythic ⇢ rational ⇢ pluralistic ⇢ integral), but they never disappear; they simply refactor. When the stock market nosedives or a diagnosis shatters a family, the data may explain what happened, yet people still ask the question that resists empirical explanation: “What does it mean?”
In an age increasingly governed by data and pragmatism, I believe myth maintains a crucial role: it re-enchants the world. My fascination with myth is rooted in its power to transform perspectives. Whether it's the parables of sacred texts or the epic journeys of fantasy literature, these stories endure because they speak to the human condition in timeless ways. They weave together imagination and truth, bridging the gap between what is and what could be. I think the mythical worldview is just as much responsible (and therefore just as needed) for our collective growing up as the Enlightenment and the scientific revolution.
My professional arc keeps returning to that hinge between myth and modernity. In my undergrad at TU, my chemistry lab notebooks sat beside Whitman and Chinese poets in translation. When I worked at a competitive healthcare IT company, I learned that the success of a $200-million EHR rollout turns on whether clinicians believe the software’s mythos of care. Civically, my public tech projects translate sacred, often distant symbols into accessible experiences for congregants, skeptics, and the spiritually curious alike. They demonstrate that myth is not escapism but the operating system of cogent moral action.
Personally, I carry the Christian confession “the Word became flesh” alongside Wilber’s conviction that Spirit keeps unveiling itself stage by stage. That dialectic drives my research question: How do we compose and curate myths robust enough to endure astrophysics yet tender enough to heal trauma? Joining this seminar lets me test that question in dialogue with classicists, digital humanists, and Indigenous scholars, refining my craft as a 21st‑century myth‑engineer.
Engaging deeply with myth through this fellowship is an opportunity to celebrate the importance of storytelling in contemporary life. Myth has shaped my creative vision — it compels me to craft experiences that resonate on a symbolic level. I want to explore why myth has this enduring power and how I can harness it in my own work to spark awe and understanding in others.
