Psychology and Religion

I recently finished reading extracts from several of Carl Jung's works. The following is a rather long quote from his book "Psychology and Religion". I think it's profound in what it says about mass psychology and the history of religion. I don't know that I agree with the cultural and psychological reasons he gives for the Protestant Reformation. But for the rest of it, I think he has some excellent points. The emphasis below is mine.

It is rather astonishing ... that the Protestant schism could not have been avoided. But since Protestantism became the creed of the adventurous Germanic tribes with their characteristic curiosity, acquistiveness, and recklessness, it seems possible that their peculiar nature was unable to endure the peace of the Church, at least not for any length of time. It looks as if they were not yet advanced enough to suffer a process of salvation and to submit to a deity who was made visible in the magnificent structure of the church. There was, perhaps, too much of the Imperium Romanum or of the Pax Romana in the church - too much, at least, for their energies, which were and still are insufficiently domesticated. It is quite likely that they needed an unmitigated and less controlled experience of God, as often happens to adventurous and restless people who are too youthful for any form of conservatism or domestication. They therefore did away with the intercession of the Church between God and man, some more and some less. With the demolition of protective walls, the Protestant lost the sacred images that expressed important unconscious factors, together with the ritual which, from time immemorial, has been a safe way of dealing with the unpredictable forces of the unconscious. A vast amount of energy was thus liberated and instantly went into the old channels of curiosity and acquisitvieness. In this way, Europe became the mother of dragons that devoured the greater part of the earth.

Since those days Protestantism has become a hotbed of schisms and, at the same time, of rapid advances in science and technics which cast such a spell over man's conscious mind that it forgot the unpredictable forces of the unconscious. The catastrophe of the first World War and the extraordinary manifestations of profound spiritual malaise that came afterwards were needed to arouse a doubt as to whether all was well with the white man's mind. Before the war broke out in 1914 we were all quite certain that the world could be righted by rational means. Now we behold the amazing spectacle of states taking over the age-old totalitarian claims of theocracy, which are inevitably accompanied by suppression of free opinion. Once more we see people cutting each other's throats in support of childish theories of how to create paradise on earth. It is not very difficult to see that the powers of the underworld - not to say of hell - which in former times were more or less successfully chained up in a gigantic spiritual edifice where they could be of some use, are now creating, or trying to create, a State slavery and a State prison devoid of any mental or spiritual charm. There are not a few people nowadays who are convinced that mere human reason is not entirely up to the enormous task of putting a lid on the volcano.

This whole development is fate. I would not lay the blame either on Protestantism or on the Renaissance. But one thing is certain - that modern man, Protestant or otherwise, has lost the protection of the ecclesiastical walls erected and reinforced so carefully since Roman days, and because of this loss has approached the zone of world-destroying and world-creating fire. Life has become quickened and intensified. Our world is shot through with waves of uneasiness and fear.

Protestantism was, and still is, a great risk and at the same time a great opportunity. If it goes on disintegrating as a church, it must have the effect of stripping man of all his spiritual safeguards and means of defense against immediate experience of the forces waiting for liberation in the unconscious. Look at all the incredible savagery going on in our so-called civilized world: it all comes from human beings and the spiritual condition they are in! Look at the devilish engines of destruction! They are invented by completely innocuous gentlemen, reasonable, respectable citizens who are everything we could wish. And when the whole thing blows up and an indescribable hell of destruction is let loose, nobody seems to be responsible. It simply happens, and yet it is all man-made. But since everybody is blindly convinced that he is nothing more than his own extremely unassuming and insignificant conscious self, which performs its duties decently and earns a moderate living, nobody is aware that this whole rationalistically organized conglomeration we call a state or a nation is driven on by a seemingly impersonal, invisible but terrifying power which nobody and nothing can check. This ghastly power is mostly explained as fear of the neighboring nation, which is supposed to be possessed by a malevolent fiend. Since nobody is capable of recognizing just where and how much he himself is possessed and unconscious, he simply projects his own condition upon his neighbor, and thus it becomes a sacred duty to have the biggest guns and the most poisonous gas. The worst of it is that he is quite right. All one's neighbors are in the grip of some uncontrolled and uncontrollable fear, just like oneself. In lunatic asylums it is a well-known fact that patients are far more dangerous when suffering from fear than when moved by rage or hatred.

I love how he talks about the collective insanity of the human race. I visited Auschwitz about a month ago. I am still working through the pain of that experience, having seen so much tangible evidence of our collective insanity and the violence and suffering that it can engender. The quotes in this blog post come from a series of lectures Jung gave in 1937, so he does not refer to the second World War and the holocaust. But his analysis seems very prescient of those later events.

Jung continues:

The Protestant is left to God alone. For him there is no confession, no absolution, no possibility of an expiatory opus divinum of any kind. He has to digest his sins by himself; and, because the absence of a suitable ritual has put it beyond his reach, he is none too sure of divine grace. Hence the present alertness of the Protestant conscience - and this bad conscience has all the disagreeable characteristics of a lingering illness which makes people chronically uncomfortable. But, for this very reason, the Protestant has a unique chance to make himself conscious of sin to a degree that is hardly possible for a Catholic mentality, as confession and absolution are always at hand to ease excess of tension. The Protestant, however, is left to his tensions, which can go on sharpening his conscience. Conscience, and particularly a bad conscience, can be a gift from heaven, a veritable grace if used in the interests of the higher self-criticism. And self-criticism, in the sense of an introspective, discriminating activity, is indispensable in any attempt to understand your own psychology. If you have done something that puzzles you and you ask yourself what could have prompted you to such an action, you need the sting of a bad conscience and its discriminating faculty in order to discover the real motive of your behavior. It is only then that you can see what motives are governing your actions. The sting of a bad conscience even spurs you on to discover things that were unconscious before, and in this way you may be able to cross the threshold of the unconscious and take cognizance of those impersonal forces which make you an unconscious instrument of the wholesale murderer in man. If a Protestant survives the complete loss of his church and still remains a Protestant, that is to say a man who is defenseless against God and no longer shielded by walls or communities, he has a unique spiritual opportunity for immediate religious experience.

I feel like Jung is saying that we have an opportunity to wake up, to bring into conscious awareness the unconscious forces that drive us. If we have stripped away the ritual, the symbolism, and the dogma, we have a risk and an opportunity of facing our unconscious demons head-on. This could drive us insane or it could be the catalyst for a spiritual experience, a profound awakening, and a deep transformation.

I think that's worth thinking about. And worth experiencing.

The Canvas of the Psyche

I've been studying the writings of Carl Jung lately.

I'm no expert in psychology. My initial introduction to modern psychology really turned me off to the discipline and it took many years for me to become interested in it again. Psych 101 started off with Sigmund Freud. Unfortunately, I found Freud's approach to psychology to be narrow and juvenile in its hyper-focus on sexuality as the driver of psychological disturbance. As I've learned more about Freud, I've come to see that he was really quite brilliant. But I still think his underlying model was overly simplistic.

More recently, I've come across Jung (pronounced Yoong) who was contemporary with Freud, but whose opinions diverged from Freud's in a way that I think is really interesting.

Picture of Carl Jung

Jung seems to have developed a more thorough theory of the psyche. And I find it very satisfying. At least what I've understood about his writings so far. In this blog post, I want to share with you a mental model I've begun to develop as a result of my budding understanding of Jung's thinking.

Keep in mind, this is my attempt to capture only a very small part of Jung's thinking. But I think it's pretty cool.

Ok. Here goes.

Think of the psyche as a canvas. A broad, massive canvas that represents our control of autonomic processes (heart rate, breathing, digestion, etc), sensory inputs (sights, sounds, etc), our imagination, memories, desires, emotions, thoughts, etc. All of this is a canvas. And we'll call it the psyche.

What is written or painted on the canvas is constantly changing. We are continually reinventing ourselves, painting and repainting, whether we are aware of such changes or not. I would guess that we're often not very aware of the changes being made.

Now think of conscious awareness as a light, or lights, that illuminate this canvas. The light covers only a small portion of the canvas at any moment. There may be some areas of the canvas the light can't directly reach. But where it can reach, we see a play of lights that illuminate a complex pattern on the surface of the canvas. And in addition to the dynamic of a constantly evolving painting on the canvas, the illumination pattern from the lights is always moving, always shifting.

Unconsciousness represents whatever isn't illuminated by the light. Whatever portions of the canvas (or psyche) that remain dark.

As a child, I learned about conscious vs subconscious states. And I had a very simple model in my mind. There was a line that divided consciousness from subconsciousness. And that was it. Just a straight line. It never moved. Above the line was consciousness. Below the line was subconsciousness. That was it.

Jung doesn't like the term subconscious. It's easily misinterpreted. It implies something below consciousness. And it probably lends itself to simple, inadequate mental models like the one I had in childhood. Jung thinks a better term is unconscious. There may be things above, below, or wherever, of which we are not aware.

I think the canvas model captures this nuanced understanding of the term unconscious. And it acknowledges the changing nature of the conscious state. We're not consciously aware of the same things all of the time. We shift our attention with an act of will, though our will is limited. Sometimes we can't shift away from certain areas no matter how hard we try. And we can't become aware of others. At least, not through a simple act of will. But within a certain region of our canvas of unconsciousness, we can choose what we want to focus on.

The concept of illuminating a canvas also allows for a blurring of the lines between the two states (conscious vs unconscious). The light diffuses through the air, and the border between light and dark is not a thin line. It's a gradual gradient from light to dark. And I think this is a much more accurate way to think about the two states. Everything in the psyche is both conscious and unconscious to some extent. And the lines separating them are blurry.

The whole canvas is unconscious. And even when the light shines directly on a portion of it, the light varies in intensity, never fully illuminating any portion of the canvas with perfection.

And even the darkest portions of the canvas will still receive some amount of light, however small, due to diffusion of the light through the air and diffuse reflections off the canvas.

A picture that gives some idea of what I have in mind is shown below. It's not perfect, but ... it's the closest thing I could find.

Another thing I like about this model is it places no constraints upon the total amount of light that is available. The area of the canvas covered by our conscious awareness can grow or shrink throughout the day, depending on the time of day, our state of mind, what we eat or drink, as we awaken or fall asleep.

Based on my limited experience with meditation, I think that the practice of meditation may be something that can help us develop a brighter and broader illumination of the canvas. So at any time of day, no matter our physiological state, we can be more awake to ourselves and the world around us. This comes about by developing our mental awareness through a regular practice of meditation.

I'm thinking of two specific types of meditation here. In one, we focus our attention on one specific thing. We exercise our ability to focus our attention and intensify the light of our awareness on one specific piece of the psyche - for example, on breathing. This would be a narrow beam spotlight shining on one very small part of the canvas. And while we allow thoughts to come and go if they want, we maintain our attention on one thing, like the breath. It seems to me this practice helps us focus the light and increase its brightness.

Another type of meditation involves maintaining a calm, constant awareness of anything that wants to arise. With each thought that arises, you hold it in compassionate awareness, allowing it to express itself and to simply be what it is. We can still use the breath to focus our attention, but we're open to watch anything that wants to manifest. In fact, we encourage the chaos to manifest. We just avoid getting caught up in any of it. We watch it, but we don't get consumed by it. This would be like a diffuse illumination of as much of the canvas as possible. And it seems to me this practice helps us, among other things, to expand our ability to illuminate any portion of the psyche we want and bring unconscious elements into conscious awareness.

This is similar to Jung's concept of "active imagination," in which you set the stage with a scene, then tap into your unconsciousness, allowing it to manifest symbols, visions, memories, archetypes, etc. By remaining conscious, in this half-dream state, you can consciously interact with elements of your unconscious in an attempt to understand and better integrate them into your psyche.

The idea here is that many of us actively avoid illuminating certain parts of our canvas. This might be due to fear, guilt, or whatever. But the unconscious continues to paint the canvas in those areas. And without the light of consciousness, those paintings can get ... weird. What remains in the dark is not evil, but it can become unbalanced over time. By facing our demons, with acceptance instead of judgment, we can begin to actively paint those areas. And we can begin to heal. We begin to become whole.

I want to keep thinking about this model. But so far, I think it makes a lot of sense. One major limitation is it doesn't allow for the expansion of the psyche over time. As we mature, our psyche grows and becomes more complicated. Maybe the canvas magically stretches and grows over time?

What do you think? I'm interested to hear anyone's thoughts on this. Especially if you know anything about psychology. Does this model make sense? Is it weird? Would you make any changes to it? If so, what would you change?

If this model does make sense, then I have one big question (and a few related ones). What exactly is the light of consciousness? Where does it come from? If it's not part of the psyche, what is it? It seems like it's the only thing we can really control. Does that mean it's who we are? If so, what is that? And finally, if it's who we are, is it possible for the light to become aware of itself? Could it illuminate itself? And what would that look like?

Insecurity

The reason why we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind the scenes with everone else's highlight reel.

- Steven Furtick

The Present Moment

If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.

- Ludwig Wittgenstein in Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus 6.4311

Who Am I?

I think of myself as a pretty average guy. But in my quieter moments, I know that's not true. I am not average. I am not typical.

But when I try to describe myself, I find it very challenging. I am many things. And none of them. The best description I can come up with to convey my essence is simply:

I am me.

If I try to use other words, I find myself floundering. I am a man. But while that's probably pretty useful information, it fails to capture the essence of me. I am an engineer. Again, useful. But ultimately, not me.

I am often quiet, sometimes gregarious, usually kind, sometimes annoying. I am sometimes weak, at times full of energy. Sometimes ill, but typically healthy. I am tall.

I am a husband. A father. A friend. A coworker. I am full of thoughts and passions, emotions and memories. I have a house and a car. I like to work with my hands. I love to learn. I love books and movies.

I love the way my sheets feel when I first lay down to sleep. I love to wake up early after a good night's sleep, when my mind feels sharp and my creativity is at its best.

I love people. I love life. I love what I have become.

But what exactly is that? What am I? Who am I? I know my name. And I know many things about myself. But none of them really get at the core of my being. All of them are just appendages.

There is a Buddhist concept of "no self," which I take to mean that what we think we are is just an illusion. I believe what the Buddha meant is that our ego, our collection of ideas about who we are, is ultimately not real. And the essence of who we are is something else. But what is that essence?

Is it like a flickering flame, ever changing, but manifesting as a more-or-less consistent entity? Is it like a lump of clay, slowly molded and reshaped over time? Is it something else entirely?

These analogies are useful for pointing my mind toward the truth. But I don't think the essence of who am I is something my mind can grasp. I have no name for it. Maybe there isn't one.

But when I am quiet, I think I sort of touch it. I experience something that feels ... authentic. Real. More real than anything I see in my physical world. Sometimes, I feel like I connect with something bigger than myself ... and sometimes I feel like I connect to my inner self. And sometimes those feel like the same thing. I touch the thing for which I have no name.

Am I delusional? Possibly. I might be crazy. But this connection seems to light a fire inside of me. It seems to make the world deeper, richer, infusing life and color into everything I see and do. It makes everything come alive. It makes life beautiful.

Is this God? Am I connecting with Him? I don't know who or what God is, though I used to think I did. When I am quiet, is it God that I'm connecting with? Or life itself? Or the universe? Is there any difference? Am I a part of God? Like a cell in a larger organism? Or am I just nuts?

I have no answers to these kinds of questions anymore. I used to think these kinds of questions were crucial. And answers must be found. And have been. But life feels more full when I sink into uncertainty about things like this.

I am not average. I am not typical. I don't think any of us are. I'm fairly sure there is no such thing. I am me. And I don't know what that means. And somehow, that acceptance makes me happy. And peaceful.

The Wisdom of Uncertainty

From the time I was a child, I was led to believe that knowledge is power. Knowledge of things as they are, an understanding of truth, are to be sought for a number of reasons. And there is truth in that. But somehow, I missed the counterbalance to that lesson.

It took many years of experiences that sometimes knocked on my beliefs and my worldview to come to understand the limitations of knowledge. A study of philosophy helped. I began to see that knowledge, if it exists, is very rare. Much more rare than I had previously supposed. I began to see that certainty, far from being the power I had once imagined it to be, was very often a weakness.

There is great wisdom in uncertainty.

I had been taught that faith was powerful. And developing faith could eventually lead to knowledge ... certainty, which ultimately destroys the faith that built toward certainty.

I still believe faith is powerful. Not because it approaches knowledge, but because it falls short of it. Faith is powerful because it understands its limitations. It avoids certainty.

I used to think doubt was the opposite of faith.

Then I learned that faith's opposite was closer to fear.

I think both of those are true in some sense, but a few years ago, I came to the realization that the opposite of faith was more like certainty.

Faith is powerful. It recognizes the wisdom of uncertainty. And it fully embraces its lack of certainty, its lack of knowledge, and enjoys the humility that comes from not knowing.

Faith is powerful.

And uncertainty is the beginning of wisdom.

What do you think? What does faith mean to you? Is the opposite of faith doubt? Is it fear? Is it certainty? Is it something else?

Do you think certainty is a strength? Is it potentially a weakness? Can it be both?

A New Path

Imagine you have lived your whole life searching for something. Something magical. A spiritual experience. A connection to something. You’ve had a taste of it now and then. Once in a while, you’re sure you’ve had a rich taste. A taste that goes so deep, it changes your entire perspective on life. It changes you. And you’re so sure of the experiences, that they set you on a path that dramatically alters the way you live your life, influencing everything you do. Creating for you a powerful identity that forms the basis of your thoughts, words, and actions.

But no matter how powerful the taste these experiences give you, it always feels like it’s just a hint of the real thing. Like the real thing might not be accessible, at least not in this life.

Now imagine that your world is turned upside down. And the method by which you were seeking for that spiritual connection is seriously called into question. And you stumble onto something that delivers the spiritual experiences you seek more powerfully and more consistently than ever before. And imagine that instead of feeling like a hint or a shadow of the real thing, this new path you’ve stumbled on seems more real than anything that came before.

What would you do in a situation like that? Would you follow your heart and continue along this new path? Could you abandon what you had known and loved, knowing it would hurt friends and family? That you would lose friendships? That you would be misunderstood? That you would be judged? Or would you stay with what was comfortable and familiar, knowing that your heart wasn't quite in line with it anymore?

I found myself in this position a few years ago. And as my journey unfolded, for me, the choice was clear. Although it would be painful, I knew I had to follow my heart. I didn't feel like I could do otherwise and maintain my integrity.

I was raised in the LDS Church. From the time I was young, I had had a number of powerful experiences that seemed to point to the possibility that the LDS Church was the true church of God on the earth. And that through its teachings, priesthood authority, and ordinances, I could draw nearer to God than by any other method. The logical chain ran on to many other beliefs that shaped my worldview, but I think that’s the core of it. The LDS Church was it. I had found the pinnacle of religion and spirituality. All that remained was for me to stay on the path and become the man God wanted me to be.

And I was on that path for several decades. I served a full-time, 2-year mission for my church. I was married in an LDS temple. My wife and I started a family, trying our best to teach our children to live by the principles that were taught by the church through its scriptures, leaders, and most importantly, through what we called the Spirit of God – a direct connection to God from which we could receive inspiration.

I served in many different volunteer positions in the church. I lived my life according to the church’s teachings the best I knew how. And I was consistently striving to better understand those teachings and underlying principles so I could become more and more the man I believed God wanted me to be.

Then I entered a period of darkness that refused to be dissipated by the teachings and principles of my church. And I stumbled onto some teachings from eastern traditions that led me to a powerful practice of meditation that turned my entire world upside down. This practice rapidly dissipated the darkness, bringing a powerful sense of light and peace into my life that rivaled anything I had experienced previously.

I began to experience a connection with something that felt very familiar. Previously, I would have called it the Spirit of God. But these connections weren’t precipitated by prayer, scripture study, ordinances, or anything directly related to an external Deity. At least, not that I could tell. They were precipitated by meditation and a series of teachings, independent of God, that I gradually internalized, leading me to let go of all judgment, clinging, aversion, self-loathing, and a whole host of other unhealthy thoughts and emotions. The experiences were completely self-driven. No reference to God. No calling upon Him for Grace. Just a simple looking inward and a consistent, powerful healing process. And, independent of God, these experiences were more powerful and consistent than anything I had ever experienced during those many years where I was directly calling upon God.

How was it possible to have deeper spiritual experiences outside the church than I had ever had in decades of searching for them inside? Was it possible that I was using the wrong method? I can’t adequately describe the torturous path I embarked on as I began to question my deepest, most cherished beliefs. But as I began to truly open my mind to the possibility that the church was not the right path for me, the light began to pour into my soul even more. If there is a God, I must conclude that He led me away from the faith of my childhood.

But why? The short answer is: I have no idea. And I’m not sure it matters. What I do know is that the path I’m on is good. But my experience has taught me that I don’t need to cling to it. Maybe my path will change again. I would be fine with that. I’ll follow wherever the light leads.

I appreciate my religious background. The LDS Church is a really good organization. It helped prepare me to live a good life and to embark on this new stage in my journey. I have no bad feelings about my past. Some things could have been better. Some ideas that were pounded into my head as a child might not have been the healthiest. But that accusation could be brought against my scholastic education as well as my religious education. That’s just life. Everyone was trying their best to help me along the way. It wasn’t perfect? Bummer. As my perspective broadens, I shed the unhealthy over time. No big deal.

I have no idea where my path will lead. But I am grateful for my past and my present. I think the future will be wonderful too. I have many friends and family whose faith still lies with the church I left. For them, I’ll offer up the possibility that my future will bring me back to the church. I personally don’t think that’s likely, but … if the church is what it claims to be, I’m sure the light will lead me back. Maybe God just wanted to take me on a different path for a while to teach me some things He couldn’t teach me in any other way. And when I’m done, I’ll find my way back.

But maybe I’ve simply found something better. At least for me. For right now. By soaking in the concepts and practices of eastern traditions, I think I’m becoming a more well-rounded man with a broader, more open, more inclusive perspective than I had before. I was raised in a very western culture. Balancing that with a bit of the east has been really good for me. I don’t think either culture has all the answers. But as the concept of yin and yang shows how to bring together what seem to be complete opposites, perhaps the way to peace is to raise our perspective, to see the unity among what appears to be dichotomy, and to find light and joy amidst the chaos.