The Soul – A reflection

Introduction

I finished Paul Ham’s The Soul: A History of the Human Mind nearly 2 weeks ago and I am still processing my reactions. I don’t agree with Ham on several interpretations but as a survey of the human soul/mind the book is stupendous in its embrace. It is a history, not a theology.

Below is me processing what I got from engaging with the book.

What we believe

Belief is, I think, distilled in the imagination and then expressed as ideas – as art, as ritual, as dogma. We seek to meet our psychological needs through our beliefs. And so much depends upon whether we are psychologically healthy or not. Also, a lot depends upon our relative state of psychological maturity.

When I finished the book, I felt a bit stunned. The survey of the psychology of some believers left me aghast. It wasn’t that this was news to me, just that the scope was laid out so starkly, so copiously.

The book understandably has a strong focus on religious traditions, but includes philosophy, psychology and AI. The religious traditions are shaped by the psychology of the adherents and believers. People like Dawkins who blame religion have, I think, a poor understanding of what religion is.

Ham asserts that the gods are invented by humans – which is kind of true in that we describe the divine according to our capacity to apprehend it – and then assert that our description is a rendering of an objective reality. However, this is by no means a universal approach. What we choose to believe depends on what we need and our capacity to be aware of the nature of that need.

Belief and morality

We edit what a faith founder said. For instance, many words and ideas have been put into the mouth of Jesus by those writing in support of his mission. It could be fairly argued that Jesus, like the Buddha, delivered a simple but challenging message, which, if taken at face value, would defeat many adherents. Hence Christianity adopted the Jewish tradition – colonised it in fact – so it had a rich resource of God-sanctified outrages to rely upon. A follower could be both faithful and an abuser with no difficulty.

Christians and Buddhists can choose a purist approach – a deeply challenging path of self-awareness. That’s not for everybody. Or they can elect a path of graduated expose to truths and challenges that serves their psychological needs. But that path will also be crafted to attract their interest and commitment, and may include financial, social and political benefits for those who do the crafting.

As a result, moral codes will be designed to meet the needs of all involved. I was interested in the discussion as to whether spiritual salvation depended on works or faith. It can seem like a strange debate to have. Acts of loving kindness don’t stack up against a person who has accepted Jesus as their saviour, but who is neither kind nor loving to many – beyond those in their in-group. And even then they can be cruel to members of their in-group in their faith’s name.

The idea that spiritual salvation is conditional upon accepting and adhering to a theological dogma appeals to many. That’s an interesting barrier to place between a person and their own connection with the divine. Its an effort to control that connection and shape it to conform to the demands of a dogma.

My question is, “What is the psychological need of a person who is committed to exerting that kind of control?” How do they frame their moral argument to justify that choice – to themselves and to others?

It seems that when a spiritual philosophy changes from being a personal pursuit to cultural movement other factors are activated, and these modify how that philosophy is understood and followed. The colonisation of Judaism by Christianity effectively transformed a personal spiritual philosophy into a cultural mechanism which diluted the potency of personal commitment to the original philosophy. What was created accommodated pragmatism, distortion, and corruption – as happens with all scaled up cultural processes.

We are not dealing with something inherent in religion in isolation from other forms cultural activity. We are dealing with something inherent in ourselves and in our cultures. I can now recognise the same problem arising in the public sector – after a career spanning 5 decades.

Just what is religion?

Ham says, briefly, that our ancestors responded to their dawning existential awareness with fear. That’s an attractive argument reinforced by anthropologists. But I think it’s just wrong.

Fear is a sensible response to many things which are a genuine source of peril. Staying alive in one’s organic body is an imperative impulse we mostly have to a good degree. But we are not naturally dominated by fear. It is one colour on the palette of human emotions.

My inquiry into animism [2002 to 2009] convinced me of several things:

  • Our ancestors did not have the binary distinction of living vs inert. They were, I think, biased toward seeing reality as a ‘thou’ rather than an ‘it’. We have superimposed that duality upon human perception with the bias favouring ‘itness’.
  • Our ancestor’s awareness of ‘reality’ included what we’d call extra-sensory perceptions. But we have no realistic idea of what, or how, they perceived the reality around them. But we do know they had beliefs in spirits – which might suggest this was because they engaged with them. The widespread belief, now, is that they were mistaken – because spirits are not real.
  • They made a sensible decision to pragmatically engage with the agencies whose presence impinged upon them in both the physical and metaphysical sense. This was done at a communal level, and it would have included all the elements familiar in magical practice and rituals many of us recognise as elements of religion.

The great difficulty we have these days is that we are attuned to our dominant environmental factors. We are bombarded by stimuli, we are pressured to conform to social norms, and our physical being in the world is relentlessly mediated and modified by our own technologies and human-made environments.

We have no idea how our ancestors operated. Our filters process data that comes to us from people who still live in what we’d see as ‘uncivilised’ ways and generate a bias and hubris in favour of our way of knowing. We hold the idea of civilisation as a necessary and desired state for all humans.

Religion is an idea developed by Europeans between the start of the 16th and the end of the 17th centuries. Its an idea that sits firmly in our minds to describe how cultures organised to deal with the spectrum of experiences which impacted them – where God is concerned. Non-God related experiences are described in other, secular, terms – and dominated by materialism.

I will use the term religion because no other alternative term is available. If we understand that it is a modern term, maybe the only alternative is the idea of ‘life’ in which gods and spirits were sensed to play an active role. 

In this sense religion is an effort to make sense of being in the world using the tools at hand. Our transition into materialism arose, I think, from the debasement/complication of religion. As it became more a matter of social influence in service of those disposed to favour faith, dogma, order, and conformity over loving kindness. As the evidence of a viable God diminished, a more sceptical and reasoned form of inquiry asserted itself.

As an idea, religion has been tarnished. When the word is used it invokes a host of negatives. The growing popularity of the term ‘spiritual but not religious’ tells the story. Religion has been separated from spirituality. This is the dogma vs loving kindness divide. In an important sense a ‘natural’ response to the divine has been domesticated and rendered compliant to authority. Hence those who seem themselves as ‘spiritual’ want nothing to do with the cultures of compliance, seen in religious communities.

This is a justified response. It starkly distinguishes between the psychological needs that crave elaboration of the essential theme of behaving well so that one can be ‘saved’ by faith and belief in dogma and sincere acts of loving kindness that are self-directed. 

There was a time when I regularly travelled by train into Sydney. As the train neared Central Station it passed a building which bore a sign – ‘Believe on Jesus and you will be saved.’ Really? The authors of the sign thought that spiritual salvation was a deal based on accepting a belief and nothing else? You didn’t have to work on yourself, just believe a proposition?

Ham records the litany of cruelties that have flowed from such an assertion. It is easy to imagine that an act of belief can quarantine a person from a litany of abuses. You can be cruel yet saved because you believe. A kind and loving person is consigned to eternal damnation because they have the ‘wrong’ belief.

Why do some people still imagine this is okay? The problem isn’t the religion. They’d find some other justification. The ‘problem’ is their psychological need.

For me religion is a far grander notion than what it has become. It will always reflect the culture in which it expresses. We shouldn’t condemn something because it is manifested poorly. Sex and food are staples of our biological reality and yet we have all experienced awful manifestations of them. Fasting celibates motivated by terrible experiences are scarce.

I am arguing for a rethinking of what religion can be rather than discarding it. It isn’t universally a bad thing, and if we imagine what it can be we can open doors to potential we can’t presently see. Thinking begins with imagination. It isn’t about grinding through rational processes. The history of science tells us this.

To me what we have called religion is a holistic response to life as we experience it – dogma free.

Where do we go from here?

The Soul has obliged me to think more deeply on the nature of psychological needs. If reincarnation is a valid idea, it suggests we enter our biological lives with existing needs and triggers that then get tangled up with whatever nurture experience we have. Karma is profoundly complex, maybe? It’s not the simplistic moral ledger balancing vices and virtues of popular belief.

Quite some decades ago now I had an interview with an non-physical entity who was the teacher of an occult group I was then associated with. The entity expressed through the partner of the group leader. I have had several such interviews since then with other entities.

I was having issues with the group. I was frustrated and impatient. The entity told me things about me which were beyond the insight capacity of the group leader and then observed that magick wasn’t my challenged area. I had major challenges in myself.

That statement has stuck with me since then. I recall it regularly. Indeed, my life has been a struggle with self-awareness and balance. Still is in a lot of ways. I have a sense at times that in a past life I was an extreme believer, maybe a participant in the Spanish Inquisition I have no evidence that I was, its just that that time strikes me as being at least indicative – it gives shape to a deep sense that I was a perpetrator of cruelty in the name of my faith.

We are a fusion of nature [what we bring with us] and nurture [our life experiences in our organic body]. That fusion of itself is deeply complex and in a world full of others similarly steered who knows how easy it is to be diverted into mistaken paths in the name of virtue.

In part religion frames how we imagine reality, and how we behave in it. Its core is essentially animistic. Christianity started to depopulate the ecology of spirit so it could disenfranchise agents that did not conform to its dogma. It also sought to diminish the validity of non-conforming thinkers through torture, death and banishment. These were the first steps toward atheism and materialism.

Why did anyone imagine that a religion that behaved so brutally and against the values of its ‘founder’ would flourish? It did flower briefly and has been diminishing steadily for a very long time. I am inclined to think the decline happened when the word religion was invented – so there was a sense of something was not that. We created the idea of religion so we could escape from what had been created.

Science, liberated from materialistic dogma is delicately restoring the ecology of spirit, albeit in language that is new and ideas that are tentative. But the signs are unmistakeable.

In terms of spirituality, we must think psychologically and look closely at what impels our need to craft beliefs we imagine will satisfy our needs.

Conclusion

For me The Soul has been an extraordinary stimulant that has signposted where my earlier inquiry into the nature of belief should progress.

I commend the book – all 800 pages and over 38 hours as an audiobook – as a remarkable effort at writing history of the soul/mind. I saw a review that complained Ham said gods were a human invention – and therefore the book wasn’t worth the read. But it isn’t a book pushing a dogma. There is no hint of dogma, just an opinion – mildly offered.

Ham isn’t right, but neither is he wrong. It’s a position one can hold and do no injury to the vast scholarship necessary to craft this book. You can’t write a book like this without some hint of imperfection.

It doesn’t have a conclusion – as in a summing up and a declaration of what is in the author’s mind. That conclusion is up to the reader. I hope you engage with it and get as much out of it as I did.

Night sky, day sky

Introduction

I seem to have been deluged by videos on the theme of our ancestors engaging intensely with the night sky and orientating structures to the solstices or stars.

Back in 1997 I had moved to a remote house outside Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania. I was taking up a role as Community Recovery Coordinator in the wake of the shocking mass shooting event the year before. One evening I had gone to bed before 22:00 but was unable to get to sleep. I lay in bed in a dark room with my eyes mostly closed for around 4 hours. I may have drifted off briefly. Around 02:00 I heard a car approaching. I assumed it was my sister who was late leaving Hobart. I suddenly remembered I had forgotten to leave an outside light on as promised. I sat up and glanced out the window as I was about to turn the light on. I was stunned by what I saw.

The sky was awash with light of such intensity I felt overwhelmed. I could see stars well enough but not with a dark backdrop, rather wash of light that ranged from soft to strong. Everything felt so close. There was no moon. I wanted to stay gazing out the window, but I had to get downstairs. I have to confess I also felt a sense of relief as I turned away.

I had looked at night skies for many years before then. I had lain by campfires in the Tasmanian wilderness a gazed up into clear cold skies where the stars were crisp, and the Milky Way was bright. But I had never seen anything like that night at Port Arthur. What made this experience so unique wasn’t the sky. My eyes hadn’t been exposed to light for around 4 hours. Every other time I had looked at a night sky there had been light from campfires or torches.

This experience had a profound impact upon me and transformed how I thought about how our ancestors saw the heavens. Below I want to reflect on this theme.

Proximity

I grew up leaning how far away the moon, sun and stars are from Earth. Our ancestors didn’t have those ideas. They were out of reach of course, even when they climbed a mountain.

In Genesis 11:1-9 we are told of people determined to build a tower that “reaches to the heavens” (NIV). How close were “the heavens” to them? If my experience was any guide, they were very close – but just out of reach. Our ancestors also thought the (night) sky was a place. That suddenly made sense to me. It had a sense of presence. It was somewhere not too far away. It was part of where I was – like the far bank of a wide river is.

The heavens, in this sense, are part of the environment – the world of human experience. There was movement, and any movement in one’s environment was meaningful. Such movement should be observed and interpreted. The heavens were populated, like the Earth.

Paradoxical nature

The heavens were not visible in the daytime. When they were visible, they were not reachable by any living person but shamans. Hence there was a strange duality – visible then invisible, close but out of reach.

Our ancestors were animists. Their reality was full of lives. Heaven and Earth were a unity – a community. They interacted.

We have replaced place and presence with space and absence. Either way the difference between ‘here’ and ‘there’ is replete with potential. Our potential expresses absence and remoteness – which may be why what comes out of our sense of potential expresses as UFOs.

Our ‘heaven’ is unthinkably vast and remote – there is no place amenable to life as we define it anywhere near our ability to go there. In fact, it has been a rational act by our culture’s ‘finest minds’ to wonder whether we are alone in the cosmos – in terms of life in general and intelligent life in particular.

If by ‘heavens’ we mean literal physical places there could be something in that. However here we are seeing the conditioning of materialism imposing a dogma. The ‘heavens’ might also be states of reality expressed in other dimensions – signified by a perception of the night sky.

Other dimensional realities are testified to in accounts of OOBEs, NDEs, dreaming, mystical encounters and so on. Arguably imagination at least participates in such realities too. And let us not forget the technological phenomenon of ‘virtual reality’.

By stripping away any sense of interdimensional reality we not only dispossess ourselves of a legacy as old as human history, we replace relational proximity with spatial loneliness.

That encounter with the heavens I experienced was intense and intimate. Its still there. Its just that we are functionally blind to it. Where and how we live now has dulled our vision.

Three points on the horizon

As I write this, we are coming up to the summer solstice in just under 3 weeks. On 21 December (give or take a little) the sun will rise in the morning on the eastern horizon at its most extreme point north. From there it will travel south until it hits its most southerly point – the winter solstice. The mid-point between these two extremes is recognised as the autumn and spring equinoxes, depending on which direction the sun is travelling along the horizon.

The solstices are clear markers. The sun reverses course. All you need is a fixed point and repeated timely observations sufficient to establish a pattern.

Cultures around the world have used the solstice sunrise to orientate their important structures. In one sense it’s a primary, easy, thing to do. It enables a reliable awareness of the passing of a year – giving a foundational sense to the rhythm of Earthly time. Yet on that foundation more complex examination of how the heavens behave been based. Arguably our present astronomy was born from that original measurement.

We have able to do so much more because we invented the clock. We agree on when is midnight and hence can coordinate so many time sensitive activities – like flight and train timetables (so we don’t have crashes), when businesses open or close, and (in days gone by) you could catch the news on your telly (that still happens, only fewer people are bothered).

These 3 points on the horizon also set the year into seasons. If we take the summer solstice as a starting point, we have the summer season through to the autumn equinox. Autumn continues from there to the winter solstice, and winter extends to the spring equinox. Spring proceeds to the summer solstice and the cycle begins again. Seasons aren’t real in the sense that they are defined by anything other than convention, but the rhythms of weather and the response of animals and plants are real. They may be messed up now, though.

These days the popular convention is that summer starts 3 weeks earlier on 1 December. Have we forgotten the solstice or are we simply seduced by human fiat to measure time by a made calendar rather than natural event?

The ability to see

That early morning encounter with a stunning sky was an accident in the sense I did not consciously intend it to happen. It helped me appreciate that what appears to our eyes isn’t always what is present. How much do we not see?

I got a telling lesson a few years later. In 1999 I had enrolled in a Social Ecology course, and I had an elective called Sense of Place. The idea was to select a location and return to it regularly over several weeks and note how one’s perception of that changes.

I selected a 100-metre-long portion of Broadwater Beach. I thought I’d do a photographic essay. On my 5th visit I was in a state of despair. All I could see was the same beach I saw on my first visit. Then something profound happened. I suddenly noticed patterns in the sand created by mineral and organic content, wave behaviour, the tides, wind, rain, the angle of the sun, and whether there were clouds.

Light reflecting off wet sand was golden in the morning and silver in the afternoon. I started going before sunup and late in the afternoon before the light had fled. What I feared was the same old beach visit after visit was transformed into a captivating ever changing canvass. The spirit of the place was making sand art and I was coming to see it.

What was supposed to have been a month-long exercise became a 5-month passion. I ended up offering 30,000-word project report with photos and poetry. My supervisor was okay about me doing that, so long as I didn’t bore him.

I haven’t looked at a landscape or a place the same way since then.

Conclusion

It is interesting that the day sky hides so much. It shows us our waking mundane world but hides the full spectrum of its subtle relationships with levels of reality that are fundamental to our full sense of who are.

What I learned at Broadwater Beach was to shift my expectations and allow the daylit world to show me more. Port Arthur was about my eyes being dulled by light. Broadwater Beach was about my mind being dulled by sight.

In both cases it is about not being to see what is there, and not being able to have a deep relationship with what is present.