More Than Allegory

by Bernardo Kastrup

  Moreover, it is also a fact that the intellect alone can never deliver transcendent truths, as discussed extensively in the previous chapter. Insofar as the no-myth traditions help us put our intellect in its proper place—that of servant, not of ruler—they help us attune to our true, deepest intuitions. This, too, is essential for healthy myth-making.

  Myth and no-myth can be complementary. The traditions of no-myth help us put the intellect in its proper place and attune to our mythical intuition. They also help us unblock our view of the symbols of consensus reality, so we can reflect upon them more clearly and advance religious myths.

  The true value of self-reflection

  I’ve emphasized the importance of our unique capacity for self-reflection in interpreting the symbols immanent in consensus reality. The idea, as illustrated in Figure 3, was that the images and interactions of consensus reality are themselves pointing to transcendent truths. As such, it is our role as human beings to engage our capacity for self-reflection and attempt to unveil those truths. To do so, we need to bring our deepest obfuscated intuitions up into the field of self-reflection, where they can then be properly elaborated so as to produce answers.

  But there is a problem: self-reflection is largely an intellectual capacity. At the very moment that we bring an originally obfuscated intuition up into the field of self-reflection, we place it in the intellect and, therefore, confine it to language. And since language cannot capture transcendent truths, the whole exercise seems to defeat itself. If we try to apply self-reflection to a transcendent idea, we end up losing its very transcendence through the filter of language; we end up with a well-elaborated circle, but miss the cylinder altogether. Does this mean that our capacity for self-reflection is, after all, useless for decoding the symbols of consensus reality? Does this mean that the no-myth traditions are, after all, right in dismissing the intellect? No, but to see how and why we need to flip our perspective by 180 degrees.

  The true value of self-reflection is not in answering, but in asking. As we’ve seen above, the self-reflective but language-limited intellect will never be able to produce the transcendent answer to the riddle of life. But by progressively refining the way the riddle is posed—that is, the way the questions are asked—the intellect can nudge and guide the obfuscated mind toward increasingly more insightful answers. Indeed, the limitation of the obfuscated mind is not its ability to arrive at answers: as argued in the previous chapter, its range of cognition is much broader than that of the intellect. The limitation of the obfuscated mind is that, because it lacks self-reflection, it simply doesn’t occur to it to ask the questions.

  Here is a way to think about this: when you are dreaming, it simply doesn’t occur to you to ask self-reflective questions that could help you navigate the dream: ‘How did I end up here? What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Where can I go next?’ And so on. Instead, you simply remain immersed in the twists and turns of the dream, uncritically and unquestioningly, like a leaf in the wind. This happens because, while in a regular dream, you lose your ability to self-reflect; you lose the ability to stand out of yourself and evaluate your situation critically. My claim is that the obfuscated mind is just as uncritical and unquestioning as the dream state. We know this because, after all, dreams are expressions of the obfuscated mind.90 As such, by its very nature, the obfuscated mind can’t stand out of itself; it doesn’t occur to it to ask the deeper questions about the nature of self and world.

  That’s why the obfuscated mind needs the self-reflective intellect to nudge and guide it toward answers. For as long as the right questions aren’t asked by the intellect, the ultimate answers of life and reality will remain elusive. And here is where we, self-reflective human beings, may have a crucial role to play: to ask the questions that will evoke the deepest transcendent answers, thereby making them a living reality. Only then will nature truly figure out what’s going on. And to properly play our role, we need to engage our capacities for attentive observation and self-reflection, otherwise we won’t know what questions to ask. ‘Asking the proper question is the central action of transformation … The key question causes germination of consciousness. The properly shaped question always emanates from an essential curiosity about what stands behind. Questions are the keys that cause the secret doors of the psyche to swing open,’91 wrote Clarissa Estés.

  This is the natural way the linguistic intellect and the symbolic obfuscated mind spontaneously cooperate. The intellect self-reflectively contemplates its circumstances and asks progressively more refined questions, while the obfuscated mind—nudged along by these questions—reacts intuitively with symbolic answers. As a matter of fact, this is how every creative person ordinarily operates in any area of intellectual activity, from science to business: first, the intellect contemplates the problem and iterates upon the right questions to ask. Then, you must stop thinking, so the questions have a chance to sink into the obfuscated mind. Once they do, inspiration suddenly strikes, as if out of nowhere. Don’t you recognize this in your own personal experience? If you do, it’s because this is the natural manner in which the human mind operates. The natural role of self-reflection—even in ordinary situations—is to ask the right questions, as opposed to composing creative or original answers through mechanical steps of reasoning. Of course, the answers are just as good as the questions asked, so self-reflection remains just as important as if the intellect constructed the answers itself.

  If the questions sink in, the obfuscated mind always reacts with answers: it is a mental reflex. But for as long as these answers remain there, in the obfuscated mind, they are of limited value to ordinary life. Their true impact is only realized when we intuitively and emotionally experience them with less obfuscation. And since answers to the ultimate questions of life and reality are always intrinsically transcendent, the only way to reduce their obfuscation is to frame them in the form of a religious myth. So here we come full-circle: if consensus reality is a symbol of something transcendent, the only way to unveil the symbol’s meaning is, again, through religious myth. Our myth-making capacity may be our key role in the dance of existence. Only through advancing myth may we be able to ensure that the sun continues to rise every day.

  The true value of intellectual self-reflection is not in answering, but in asking the right questions. By progressively refining the questions, the intellect can nudge and guide the broader obfuscated mind toward increasingly more insightful answers.

  Consensus reality evoking religious myths

  Figure 4 summarizes all these ideas in our familiar template. A lucidly observed consensus fact (1) triggers the self-reflective intellect into stating a critical question in language (2). This is a question we ask ourselves without being able to compose a satisfying intellectual answer. Instead, the question sinks in and pokes the obfuscated mind into spontaneously reacting with a symbolic answer (3), which—if we are attuned and receptive—percolates up into the intellect in the form of a language narrative (4). This language narrative evokes ordinary images and respective interactions (5) that are not consensus facts. Instead, the images and interactions connote a transcendent truth (6). The whole chain 1-2-3-4-5-6 is, thus, a religious myth evoked by consensus reality itself. As such, consensus reality isn’t inherently meaningless or purposeless, as the traditions of no-myth may inadvertently suggest. On the contrary: it is a symbol actively engaging our self-reflective intellect to generate the right questions and, through them, our myth-making obfuscated mind to unveil the answers.

  Consensus reality is trying to get us to ask the right questions. Dramatic life events are forceful, maybe desperate attempts to lead us to these questions. A tremendous mystery unfolds in front of our senses every waking hour of our lives; a mystery more profound, more tantalizing, more penetrating and urgent than any novel or thriller. This unfolding mystery is nature’s challenge to us. Are we paying enough attention to it? Or are we, instead, cavalierly dismissing the whole thing as meaningless illusion?

>   Consensus reality is trying to get our intellects to ask the right questions, so to poke the obfuscated mind into unveiling the deepest transcendent truths in the form of religious myths. As such, our myth-making capacity may be nature’s only chance to grok itself.

  Figure 4. Consensus reality evoking a religious myth.

  Breaking through religious myths

  There is another sense in which the traditions of myth and no-myth can arrive at the same destination. As we’ve seen, a true religious myth indicates the way to transcendent truths. It isn’t the moon, but the finger pointing at the moon. Some of us—the cynics, literalists and fundamentalists—stay fixated on the finger, never looking at what it is pointing at. Others take the hint and discover that beautiful celestial body reigning over the night sky. But a few go beyond watching and visit the moon itself. These latter ones actualize an intrinsic potential we cannot ignore. It is very hard to describe this potential in generic terms, so I will relate a personal story instead.

  I was raised in a largely Catholic extended family and exposed to the Christian myth and liturgy from childhood. Concurrently, I was also strongly influenced by science and the scientific mentality, thanks largely to my father. As a child, the apparent contradictions between these two worldviews didn’t bother me. However, as I grew up and became more critical, things changed. By the time I went to University at seventeen, I was already dismissing the Christian myth as mere fiction and continued to do so for many years thereafter. The scope of my interest in the Christian world became reduced—or so I told myself—to the history and architecture of Europe’s medieval churches. Yet, this modest interest was enough to maintain a tenuous, delicate link to the myth.

  Each time I went to a church and watched the faithful in prayer, I caught myself wondering how the Christian myth could have such a strong hold in the souls of so many otherwise rational people. It didn’t make sense to me and the whole thing felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve. As my interest in, and knowledge of, psychology grew, my curiosity in this regard became even more acute. ‘How? Why? What is it in this myth that has such a grip in the mind of Western civilization?’ To simply dismiss the whole thing by labeling it ‘delusion’ would be—or so I felt—a lazy and unsatisfying way out. It would represent a puerile refusal to acknowledge an undeniable and rather remarkable psychosocial fact, so one wouldn’t need to understand it. With the risk of sounding arrogant, I was too thoughtful to take such a dull-witted exit.

  One day, I had an experience that answered all those questions to my own satisfaction. I happened to be visiting one of Europe’s oldest and largest churches: Cologne Cathedral, in Germany. I had no specific agenda during my visit. I was just there, absorbing the ‘vibe’ of that amazing place. As it happens, my gaze got caught by the large crucifix above the golden shrine of the Three Kings (see Figure 5). There was the figure of a man, nailed to a cross, in a dramatic depiction of great human sacrifice. At once something flipped inside me, like a sudden shift of perspective: I had gotten it. I had been suddenly ‘carried over’92 directly to the transcendent cognitive space the icon was pointing to all along. I knew what the Christian symbolism was attempting to convey. ‘The Event of the symbol is a stunning, unexpected moment when something … in the world takes your breath away,’93 explained Cheetham quite accurately. Could I articulate my epiphany in language? I could try, but I know that it would be completely misunderstood, no matter how carefully I chose my words. I know it because I would misunderstand it completely if someone else tried to describe it to me. The insight escapes language and can only be conveyed—precariously as it may admittedly be—through the religious myth. All I can say is this: that sudden epiphany confirmed the validity of the Christian myth to me and, simultaneously, shredded it to pieces. It was an ‘Aha!’ moment that, while making clear why the Christian myth is what it is—it simply couldn’t be any different—it also showed that the truth has very little to do with the myth as expressed in words. Although this may sound like a contradiction, my living experience wasn’t contradictory at all: it made perfect sense at a non-intellectual, heart-felt level. I had glanced at the cylinder beyond the shadows.

  Figure 5. The shrine of the Three Kings behind the altar of Cologne’s Cathedral, Germany.

  The experience I am trying to describe wasn’t rapture or ecstasy. It was simply an insight of understanding that escapes the boundaries of the intellect and resolves paradoxes; a syzygy or coniunctio, as Jung called it.94 It was like a subtle but powerful shift of perspective that instantly placed me where the myth had been pointing to all along. In my childhood I could see the moon; in my early adulthood I could only see the finger pointing at the moon; but, during that fleeting moment in Cologne Cathedral, my cognition left the firm earth of the intellect and I was on the moon.

  I could only characterize this experience as serendipitous grace. Other than to say that the religious myth—by pointing—somehow helps create the conditions for the experience, I don’t know how or why it actually happens. I only know that it happens. Either way, here is the point I am trying to make: when the experience does happen, the religious myth dissolves itself like clouds dissolve as they surrender their rain. After all, once on the moon, one no longer needs to follow the pointing finger. If anything, one finds the finger pointing directly at oneself! In the template of Figure 2, it is as if one’s cognitive vantage point shifted from the intellect (12) to transcendence itself (14); from the earth to the moon.

  It is this graceful self-dissolution of a religious myth that brings us back to the traditions of no-myth. In both cases, there are no narratives left to speak of, but only a direct, living, transcendent experience of truth. Yet, as discussed earlier, this transcendent experience is usually short-lived. It certainly was for me and I don’t know anyone who lives permanently on the moon. Therefore, even for those lucky souls who receive the grace of experiencing a transcendent truth directly, the religious myth remains an important reminder; an important link to transcendence that infuses meaning into earthly life after one’s cognitive vantage point returns to the intellect. The pointing finger now says: ‘Look! You’ve been there! Never forget what you knew to be true then!’

  And as for those still to leave the earth for the first time, the religious myth allows them to know that the moon exists. It allows them to contemplate the true beauty and transcendence of the moon from a distance, even if only with their peripheral vision. The clearest view possible, as we’ve seen, is achieved when one takes the religious myth emotionally onboard as though it were the literal truth. This is well worth the effort. After all, being able to watch the moon from the earth, although admittedly not the same as being on the moon, certainly allows for a much broader and truer view of reality than spending a lifetime staring at the ground. Moreover, who knows when serendipitous grace might strike?

  A religious myth can create the conditions for a direct experience of a transcendent reality. If and when the experience actually happens, the myth dissolves itself. But once the experience is over, the religious myth remains an important link—a reminder—between ordinary life and transcendence.

  PART II: Truth

  These things never happened, but they always are.

  Sallust

  Chapter 5

  The quest for truth

  You’ve just finished reading Part I of a book that deals largely with religious myths. Why have you read it? What made you pick up this book? Why are you interested in religious myths to begin with? What is it about religion that has so powerfully drawn the soul of humankind for so many generations?

  The answer is the innate, irresistible intuition most of us share that religious myths can point the way to a truth beyond the appearances of ordinary life; a truth that promises to liberate us from existential despair. The very existence of religious myths reflects humankind’s archetypal quest for liberation.

  Yet, because of the elusive nature of truth, the successful truth-seeker needs to negotiate his or her
way through a vast tangle of subtlety, nuance, self-deception and paradox. So before we begin to talk about the destination—that is, about truth itself—let us illustrate the nature and challenges of the path in the form of a myth (What other format could be more appropriate?). This will give us intuitive context and set the stage for everything that follows.

  The myth below is the story of Castor and Pollux, twin brothers that couldn’t be more different. Their epic journey mirrors aspects of ourselves as we seek liberation. Indeed, Castor and Pollux live within me as they probably live within every human being who is sincerely engaged in this ultimate quest. By hinting at the very questions we will soon be facing, I hope their story will prime you for the remainder of this book.

  The seer

  Castor and Pollux sailed far, to a distant island beyond the boundaries of maps, in search of Phineus, the seer. Upon arriving, exhausted but exultant, they immediately sought an audience with the famed blind prophet. Pollux, carefully trying to disguise his identity as son of Zeus—who had caused the blindness of Phineus—was the first to speak: