Note on the Title: The term catholic in this context is not limited to its association with the Roman Catholic Church but is explored in its broader, original meaning—universal. This essay aims to delve into the historical, philosophical, and biological roots of universality itself, examining how the concept of a singular truth or shared experience has evolved over time, across cultures and disciplines. But that was too ambitious…

Sometimes writing helps keep that mental balance, especially in moments of heightened vigilance. My son has enthusiasm for the kitchen—being a "sous chef" in his own way—brings its own energy to the space, even if it means you have to stay extra sharp.

So, as i wait, letting the timing come, I find myself wanting to keep my thoughts engaged while maintaining a watchful eye. Writing, like I do, can be a way of anchoring in the moment, reflecting on what’s happening without being too overwhelmed by it. It’s both a distraction and a way of staying present.

As I set out to study the origins of the word "catholic" and its meaning as "universal," I am immediately confronted by a paradox. The very concept of uncovering a single, overarching truth now feels inherently flawed. In a post-truth world, where narratives have been hijacked, fragmented, and commodified, can we really claim that such a universal truth exists?

This prompts a deeper reflection: Does the pursuit of a singular truth in itself create bias? After all, we live in an era where the systems once designed to discover and disseminate truth—academic rigor, research frameworks, even language itself—have been co-opted. They have become tools of power, used to shape narratives that serve specific agendas. What was once a genuine search for universal understanding has been repackaged by those who know how to manipulate these systems all too well.

The term catholic has always meant universal, but what does "universal" even mean when the very idea of universality has been shaped by centuries of conflicting interests, tribal instincts, and power structures? To follow the conventional path of research—defining scope, setting parameters, relying on established methodologies—seems, in this context, almost complicit in perpetuating the commodification of truth.

It forces me to ask: Should I even follow that path?

Instead, I choose to take a different approach. This research will not chase after a singular, definitive understanding of "catholic" or "universal." Rather, it will embrace the fragmented, evolving nature of truth, drawing from a wide range of perspectives—historical, biological, philosophical, and cognitive. Through this lens, I aim to explore not just what the term catholic has meant historically, but what it can mean in a world where truth is no longer singular but a kaleidoscope of competing voices.

In doing so, I hope to uncover the many faces of universality, recognizing that what we call "truth" is always in motion, shaped by the human condition in all its complexity. This is not about rejecting the idea of universality, but about understanding it as something fluid—an ever-shifting concept that reflects our collective and individual experiences.

In the so-called pursuit of knowledge, we’ve been trained to follow steps, to define the scope, to confine ourselves within boundaries of thought. But what’s the point when the very nature of "truth" itself has been corrupted by those who use formulas to justify their own narratives? I’m not interested in discovering a truth here, not in the way we’ve been taught to look for it. Instead, I’m after something more instinctual, something rooted in human experience rather than cold methodology.

"Catholic" means universal. It’s a word that carries the weight of centuries, a word that was meant to encompass all of humanity, to reflect a shared, all-encompassing truth. But that word—just like the structures that underpin society—has been twisted. What was once "universal" has been carved into a million pieces, each one owned by someone who claims to hold the real truth, the real authority. The church. The state. The media. All of them tell us that they know the true meaning of universality. But do they?

Historically, the term "catholic" emerged from early Christianity, specifically from the Greek katholikos, meaning "according to the whole" or "universal." It was used to describe the universality of the Christian faith—something meant to include all people, transcending geography, ethnicity, and social class. But this early notion of universality was steeped in exclusivity, masked as inclusion.

The Council of Nicaea in 325 AD was one of the first institutional steps toward defining this "universal" faith, but it was also a step toward fragmentation. By declaring certain beliefs heretical and others as truth, the church inadvertently created divisions even as it claimed universality. The cracks were always there. The council, while aiming to unify, essentially created a power structure that decided who was in and who was out of the "universal" faith.

As Christianity spread, its claim to universality became even more fractured. Different branches—Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, and eventually Protestantism—splintered off, each claiming their own version of the truth, their own version of "catholicity."

How, then, can we even pretend that something "universal" was ever truly universal when it was always being fractured, reshaped, and co-opted by power? The idea of binding humanity under one banner was always an illusion, a mask that slips further with each generation.

From a biological and evolutionary perspective, humans are naturally diverse—genetically, culturally, and cognitively. We have evolved as adaptable, fragmented beings, constantly shaped by our environments, cultures, and social structures. Evolution itself is the study of fragmentation—different traits, adaptations, and behaviors emerging in response to different pressures.

In light of this, the idea that a single, universal truth could encompass all human experience seems inherently flawed. Take, for example, the cognitive diversity that defines our species: no two people perceive the world in exactly the same way. Our brains are wired differently, shaped by both nature and nurture. This makes the pursuit of universality—whether in religion, culture, or ideology—a contradiction in terms.

Human diversity, from the biological standpoint, isn’t just about outward characteristics like skin color or cultural traditions—it’s embedded in how our brains process information. Each individual brain is a unique neural network shaped by both genetic factors and life experiences. Recent research in neuroplasticity demonstrates that the brain is not a static organ, but one that rewires itself in response to learning, trauma, environment, and cultural stimuli.

Take the work of Lera Boroditsky, a cognitive scientist who has explored how language shapes thought. Her research shows that people who speak different languages often think about the world in fundamentally different ways. For instance, the Kuuk Thaayorre, an Aboriginal Australian group, use cardinal directions (north, south, east, west) to orient themselves in space, rather than relative directions like "left" or "right." This difference in linguistic structure actually affects how they perceive space and time, demonstrating that cognitive diversity extends far beyond just visual perception.

This leads us to a more granular understanding: if such basic concepts as space, time, and color are processed differently depending on cultural and linguistic background, the pursuit of a single "universal truth" is inherently flawed. The variations in cognitive frameworks suggest that the "universal" must instead be seen as a tapestry of subjective truths.

Cognitive scientists have shown that even our most fundamental experiences—like perception of color, time, and space—can vary across cultures. The Himba people of Namibia, for example, have different categories for colors than Western cultures, literally seeing the world differently. If something as basic as color is subject to cultural fragmentation, what does that say about our ability to comprehend something as abstract and complex as "universal truth"?

Evolutionary psychology also suggests that human beings are tribal by nature. We evolved in small, tight-knit groups where cooperation within the group was key to survival, but so was competition with other groups. This tribal instinct persists today, manifesting in everything from nationalism to religious sectarianism. It explains why the idea of a universal truth has always been met with resistance. The instinct to define ourselves against an "other" is deeply ingrained.

The idea of human beings as inherently tribal is not just an anthropological observation, but a result of evolutionary psychology. Studies on in-group and out-group behavior, like those conducted by Henri Tajfel on social identity theory, show that humans have an intrinsic tendency to categorize themselves into groups as a way of securing social bonds and ensuring survival. This isn't just a superficial behavior—it's a deep-rooted evolutionary adaptation.

In prehistoric times, group cohesion and tribalism were crucial for survival. Smaller, cohesive groups were better at protecting resources, managing cooperation, and defending against threats. Over millennia, these behaviors have been hardwired into our social instincts, which explains why modern humans still show preferences for in-groups, whether in the form of nationalism, religious sects, or even corporate identity.

What does this mean for the concept of universality? It tells us that, biologically speaking, humans are predisposed to resist broad, overarching systems that attempt to erase or transcend group identity. The aspiration of universality, as seen in religious or political ideologies, has always been an uphill battle against this instinctual tribalism. This hardwiring for division explains why we often see "universal" ideologies fragment over time, as groups fracture and reinterpret these ideals to suit their own needs and perspectives.

This biological reality is one reason why "catholic" or "universal" has always been more aspirational than achievable. To encompass all people under one truth would require overcoming millennia of evolution that has hardwired us for fragmentation and division.

Philosophically, post-modernism throws the final wrench into the idea of universality. Thinkers like Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, and Jean-François Lyotard argued that truth is not something objective or fixed. Instead, truth is constructed by power structures, language, and social narratives. Derrida, in particular, emphasized that any claim to universality is inherently flawed because language itself is always unstable. Words, meanings, and concepts are constantly shifting, slipping away from any fixed point.

In The Postmodern Condition, Lyotard famously declared the end of grand narratives—those sweeping, universalizing stories like religion, nationalism, or enlightenment thinking that attempt to explain everything. In their place, we have "little narratives" that reflect individual experiences, cultural contexts, and localized truths. The "universal" is dead, he argued, because we no longer live in a world where one overarching story can capture the complexity of human experience.

Foucault added another layer to this by pointing out that any claim to universal truth is an exercise of power. Those in power define what is considered true and universal, often to maintain their control over society. The Roman Catholic Church, for instance, used its claim to universality as a tool of control, deciding what was considered heresy and what was "truth." The same can be said for modern governments, media, and corporations, all of which wield the idea of truth to maintain their influence.

From a post-modern perspective, "catholic" was always a tool of power, not a genuine attempt at universality. It was about creating a singular narrative that could dominate and control, rather than a sincere inclusion of all people and all experiences. The cracks were always there because the very idea of a singular, universal truth is a fiction designed to consolidate power.

Today, the idea of universal truth has been further dismantled by the digital age. We are bombarded with information, often contradictory, from countless sources. The internet has democratized knowledge, but it has also fragmented it beyond recognition. There is no longer a single source of truth. Instead, we have echo chambers—digital tribes where people surround themselves with information that reinforces their pre-existing beliefs.

This fragmentation of truth has led to what some call a "post-truth" era, where facts are less important than narratives. We choose the truths that best fit our identities, our ideologies, and our biases. The concept of something universal—something that can be agreed upon by all people—feels absurd in this context. How can we have a universal truth when we can’t even agree on basic facts?

The rise of conspiracy theories, misinformation, and alternative facts is a symptom of this. The more information we have access to, the more fragmented our understanding becomes. The more we claim to know, the less we seem to agree on. This digital age has shattered any lingering belief in universality. If anything, it has accelerated the fragmentation that has always been at the heart of the human condition. Now, as we pour data into this inquiry, what emerges is not a singular truth, but a chorus of voices, each with its own perspective on what "universal" could or should mean. From early church councils to evolutionary biology, from post-modern philosophers to digital information overload, we see that the idea of universality has always been contested, fragmented, and ultimately elusive.

But here’s where it gets interesting: In rejecting the idea of a singular truth, do we open up space for something more? Could universality, paradoxically, be found in the acceptance of multiplicity? Can we redefine "catholic" not as a singular truth, but as an ever-shifting, evolving collection of truths? Could universality be found not in agreement, but in the recognition that our differences are what make us human?

This isn't some poetic, idealistic call for unity. It’s more about acknowledging that truth was never singular to begin with. The cracks were always there, and perhaps they’re the most honest thing we have. Instead of seeking to bind humanity under one banner, maybe it’s time to embrace the fact that we’ve always been many—many voices, many experiences, many truths. That’s the real universal: fragmentation itself.

So let’s shift focus to more contemporary scholars and researchers who are engaging with these topics in fresh ways.

Yuval Noah Harari: In his work Sapiens, Harari makes a compelling argument that what binds large groups of humans together—beyond the tribal—is our ability to believe in collective fictions. Religion, nationalism, and even capitalism are all examples of these shared myths. Harari argues that the "universal" has always been a kind of fiction, a story we tell ourselves to justify cooperation at a massive scale. But in a post-truth world, these stories are under constant attack, fragmenting further as competing narratives challenge their validity.

Harari’s focus on the role of shared myths in creating large-scale cooperation gives us insight into how "catholic" or "universal" beliefs—whether religious, scientific, or cultural—are sustained not because they represent some objective truth, but because they offer a shared framework for humans to organize themselves around. His work highlights the fragility of these frameworks, especially in an era where the speed of information and misinformation can rapidly destabilize any sense of universality.

Timothy Morton: Morton, a philosopher who focuses on ecology and object-oriented ontology, pushes us to rethink what it means to interact with "universal" concepts in a fragmented world. His concept of the "hyperobject" (something so vast and complex that it defies easy understanding, like climate change or global capitalism) mirrors how universal truths once seemed monolithic but are now perceived as overwhelming and impossible to fully grasp.

Morton’s work is relevant here because it forces us to consider the idea that the universal might not be something we can capture and simplify but is instead something we can only encounter in fragments, piece by piece, and often in overwhelming ways. The universal, in his view, is shattered across time and space, too big for any one ideology or narrative to hold together. This idea disrupts the classical view of "catholic" universality and forces us to confront the fact that our search for truth may always involve dealing with incomplete and contradictory pieces of a much larger puzzle.

Historically, religion and science were not always seen as opposing forces; in fact, for much of history, they were deeply intertwined. The term "natural philosophy" was used to describe what we now call science, and many early scientists were motivated by religious beliefs to explore the workings of the natural world, seeing their investigations as a way to better understand the divine.

The Catholic Church, for all its rigid dogma, was also one of the major sponsors of early scientific work. Scholars like Thomas Aquinas sought to reconcile faith and reason, arguing that truth revealed through scripture and truth discovered through observation could not be in conflict if both were properly understood. Even the Jesuits were at the forefront of astronomical and mathematical research, with many Catholic universities leading scientific discovery.

However, as science progressed, it began to challenge religious narratives, especially with the work of Galileo Galilei and later Charles Darwin. The theory of evolution, in particular, caused significant friction between science and religion because it directly challenged the biblical account of creation. What began as an intertwined relationship started to diverge, with science gradually positioning itself as the arbiter of objective truth, while religion became more focused on subjective, spiritual truths.

This shift mirrors our broader exploration of universality—where religion once claimed to hold the universal truth of existence, science increasingly staked its claim as the universal truth of the material world. Yet, as modern science delves deeper into complexity—quantum mechanics, neuroscience, and the mysteries of consciousness—it, too, has encountered fragmentation. The idea of a single, unified "theory of everything" is elusive, and some scientists now argue that reality may be more complex than any single theory can encompass.

The post-modern condition isn’t just a philosophical stance but has seeped into scientific practice as well. Fields like quantum physics have exposed the inherent unpredictability of reality at its most fundamental level, showing that particles can exist in multiple states at once, and that observation itself can change outcomes. This has forced scientists to reckon with the idea that the universe may not be governed by tidy, deterministic laws but by a complex web of probabilities and uncertainties.

In this sense, both religion and science are grappling with the same challenge: how to account for complexity and fragmentation in a way that still makes sense to humans. Religion once provided simple, universal answers to life's biggest questions. Science stepped in to provide more accurate, but still universal, explanations. Now, both are finding that the universal may be an illusion, a simplification that can no longer account for the intricacies of human experience and the natural world.

What emerges from this deeper dive is the realization that "catholic" or "universal" was never a static, singular truth. It was always evolving, shifting under the weight of new discoveries, new ideas, and new challenges. Whether through biological diversity, tribal instincts, or the interplay of religion and science, humanity has always been fragmented, and that fragmentation is what makes us adaptive and resilient.

In the post-truth era, the universal isn’t something we can grasp easily—it’s something fluid, constantly changing as we evolve and reinterpret the world around us. Perhaps the only universal truth is that we are all trying to make sense of it, each in our own way, with our own tools, shaped by our unique experiences and histories.

In the end, the universal isn’t something we need to find. It’s something we’re always creating, together, through the very act of questioning, exploring, and, yes, even fragmenting.