Institutionalization

An important aspect of Sufi teachings is that human structures do not last. Sufis here point at social, not at physical, structures, although physical structures also decay. The main point is that if a genuine spirit has departed a social arrangement (a spiritual community, a teaching group), it may survive for many centuries but only as fossilized imitation. Jesus expressed the same meaning in more poetical language. Matthew 5:13 brings us the words. “Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.” Now, of course, a structure may act as a channel for the spirit. The Sufis therefore say that “the channel doesn’t drink.” They mean that the preachers (and with them also congregations) no longer believe. Perceive. Feel. Are in any way tuned in. This applies to decadent phenomena in religion: it’s all ritual, habit—often, indeed careless habit. Nevertheless, to the “ears that hear” and the “eyes that see,” the spirit will be evident even when those who repeat the words and motions no longer themselves perceive a thing. The spiritual life absolutely requires live participation. The magic bird descends but will not alight on any branch. Today's thought was in part occasioned by news accounts of the American Freemasons will now, under new leadership, begin a “Masonic Renaissance,” not least opening their doors to the public more and incentivizing members to recruit new members. A very old structure, Freemasonry. Is this a sign of decadence or renewal? Or neither?

Revelation and Art, Persuasion and Ideology

Last in a series on Revelation and Scripture.

My presentation on this subject might be summed up in this way: Revelation and real art are closely linked phenomena, closely enough linked so that one might say that they are different words for the same basic experience. The big qualifiers here are, One, that “real art” is difficult to define sharply and itself requires an awakened heart. I’ve discussed this subject in two earlier postings here and here. Two, revelation is equally difficult to separate from moral harangue, legalistic suasion, advocacy and admonition, and other forms of discourse the aim of which is to shape other people’s behavior. I do not hesitate at all to view true revelation as Divine Inspiration. But scriptures are filled with much more mundane writings (harangue, suasion, etc.) which I find difficult to associate with the divine and easily identify with the human.

Thus I would put Revelation and Art to one side and Persuasion (to use a single word for the human part) to the other. Now I would propose that recorded persuasions, once they have been integrated into a society’s collective memory, are gradually transformed into Ideology. And an ideology is always an attempt to shape and control behavior—but with sanctions added for disobedience.

In the first post in this series, I noted that the objections to revelation include two general arguments. One is that the social results of religion (thus of revelation) are wars, persecutions, pogroms, etc. The other is that they present contradictory views of God or of God’s will. And I suggested that the critics’ attacks can be answered satisfactorily. If we accept the division of the phenomenon as I have done—into a presentation of the higher reality as art or as the story of religious experience on the one and into persuasion and ideology on the other hand—the critics’ attacks can be seen correctly. They are directed at those results which arise from ideology. Human beings will always resist coercion. When the religious experience has been transformed into an ideology and thus has assumed a coercive form, it will be resisted. Conflicts will arise, and these, ultimately, will result in mayhem. This will explain why religious phenomena often have bad results. Let’s next turn to contradictory views of God.

These views also arise from the hardening of revelation into ideology. I am a staunch adherent to negative theology, namely the assertion that the Divine is unknowably transcendent. At the same time, as an individual, I too have a picture, as it were, of the cosmic arrangement; it’s only human to make things understandable to oneself. Forcibly to impose my picture on others, however, would be to act against my strongest intuitions—which is that I do feel something but I do not know it as hard fact. I claim the right to see things as I do—and grant that same right to others. People must form their own pictures in their own ways. All claims, therefore, of infallible knowledge arise from the human side of the equation—not from Divine Inspiration. Claims that one view is right and all others are wrong arise from a desire to impose control—thus, again, to shape behavior, loyalty, adherence, and conformity. Granted. Social life benefits from consensus and unity of purpose. But to obtain that illegitimately also introduces in seed conflicts that will later blossom into wars, persecutions, pogroms, etc.

I will conclude this with the splendid analogy I have from Arnold Toynbee, the historian. He suggested that the creative leader resembles the Pied Piper who draws others to himself by the music that he plays. That music, which people willingly follow because it is beautiful and moves their hearts—that is what I call revelation. Toynbee then suggests another kind of leadership, that of the drill sergeant. The drill sergeant’s harsh commands, his power to make you drop and give him ten (push-ups, that is)—that is what I call ideology.

These two modes of communication are, alas, hopelessly entwined in each other in the human experience of religion—also of art. Sorting them, paradoxically, requires that you hear enough of the music, and respond to it enough, so that you can make the necessary distinctions and obey the sergeant when the ordinary circumstances make that rationally sensible. Those who cannot hear this music must also be cut plenty of slack. They are the materialistic critics who simply don’t have an ear for music. Therefore they declare all revelation as pure nonsense and balderdash. But knowing why they cannot hear, those who can must give them time.

Am I a Heretic?

Sixth in a series on Revelation and Scripture.

Many religious people who read the last posting and understand its argument, may well say, somewhat impatiently, “Yes, yes—but then it isn’t real.” For them revelation is only meaningful if it is the word of God, taken more or less literally. My view of revelation is therefore seen as heretical. It pretends to be sympathetic to religion but denies it by removing its very force. The word itself, heresy, comes from the Latin meaning “school of thought, philosophical sect.” The Latin came from the Greek for “taking” or “choosing.” That very word was applied to the Sadducees, Pharisees, and Christians in the New Testament (according to the Online Etymology Dictionary accessible here), but the word is translated as “sect” in English versions of the Bible. Heresy therefore is the belief of those who do not hew to the prevailing dogma. But let’s look at the distinction here between revelation and dogma.

Dogma is determined by organized bodies, such as councils of bishops. These bodies take their de facto authority from the population of believers who appointed or elected them; the councils are a social creation and some distance removed from the experience of inspiration. Councils make law. Their rulings have an arbitrary character: Thou shalt. It is by means of dogmatic rulings that revelations, already written down, turn into scriptures. By the time that happens, an extensive consensus has already developed that the writings are holy and carry truth. They are then given additional force by an authoritative body. This is the process whereby the very mysterious experiences of individuals are transformed into writing and then, stamped by social structures, into the word of God. This phenomenon is present in one tradition only, the Western forms of religion, all based on the Judaic revelations that first touched Moses. The peculiar character of inerrancy does not attach to other scriptures produced in other parts of the world; those are not held to be literally God’s word, but they carry the authority of consensus.

When revelation turns into dogma, the inspiration that reaches humanity is on its way to being materialized, reified. Such at least is my view. The content of revelation therefore carries two kinds of authority. It carries an inherent force, that which it actually says. The words may speak to me personally. I may respond to them because my own intuition tells me that truth has reached me. In other words, at some low level, I too am sharing in the revelation. The other authority is that of an official stamp of approval. The church affirms it. In this latter case, however, I have no choice but to accept the revelation, whether I resonate with it or not. As a member of a church community, I am under sanctions if I withhold my total consent.

Revelation, once it has been socialized in this way—especially when it has become dogma—is very far removed from the situation in which it entered this world from the world next door. The problems of religious conflict arise in this process of socialization—the supercharging of an inspiration with legal implications and sanctions. Let me offer an illustration.

Many poetic works of humanity contain inspiration of high potency, but let’s just select one author, Shakespeare, widely quoted by thousands upon thousands of people to convey truth to one another. Shakespeare’s writings have never become dogma. His quotes are presented on a “take it or leave it” basis by speakers and writers. Those who have ears will hear the message. No religious wars have ever been fought, no population harmed by the sword because someone denied the truth of some Shakespearean story or fragment.

My own take on revelation, therefore, is indeed heretical in the context of dogma. But I am a heretic in two ways. On the one hand I view the religious interpretation of revelation as arbitrary law-making in a realm where personal judgment must remain sovereign. On the other I assign genuine truth and transcendental value to revelation and thus become a heretic to the dogma of materialism. The socialization of revelation, however, does have a value. It causes the high inspirations of the past, initially shared by many—because these inspirations affected many people—to be preserved, printed, and distributed widely and over centuries. Thus socialization, including dogma, acts as a channel by means of which revelation reaches me. But here I am reminded of a Sufi saying: “The channel doesn’t drink.” No, indeed. Only people can drink, and each one on his or her own; and you can lead the horse to the water, but you cannot make it drink.

A Chosen People

Fifth in a series on Revelation and Scripture.

My own grasp of revelation—as I’ve already laid it out—is that some people are able to have contact with a higher realm and receive inspiration which they personally feel as unusual, from a higher dimension, and filled with energy. This makes the inspiration notable, indeed a singular experience. It will be interpreted as authoritative. Now I want to go beyond that. It also seems to me that the inspiration conveys a value—but that that value is not specifically spelled out. Rather, it is a feeling of exaltation, a meaning but without sharp detail. Therefore it needs a certain kind of reduction to the conceptual level. It will require interpretation, particularly if it is to be conveyed to others. The interpretation is by the recipient—but it will be filtered through that person’s consciousness, knowledge, concerns, and circumstances. By way of example, I want to look at the concept of a chosen people as laid out in the Old Testament, most explicitly in Exodus and then in Deuteronomy.

The recipient is Moses, and the initial instance is the prophet’s mystical experience of a burning bush in which an “angel of the Lord” (initially) appears; but in the same passage this angel is the referred to as “the Lord.” Here the Lord refers to “my people,” meaning the Jews, and speaks of leading these people from Egypt to “a land flowing with milk and honey.” Later, after the great tribulations of the Exodus, on Mount Sinai, Moses hears God say to him:

Now therefore, if ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all people: for all the earth is mine: And ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests, and an holy nation. [Exodus 19:5-6]

We encounter the word “chosen” in Deuteronomy, used my Moses in addressing the people of Israel. The passage is:

For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God, and the Lord hath chosen thee to be a peculiar people unto himself, above all the nations that are upon the earth. [Deuteronomy 14:2]

Now I will stipulate that Moses had a mystical experience—possibly two, one by the burning bush and another on Mount Sinai. The question I would raise is this: Was the inspiration that reached him as specific as the scriptures record it or was it, rather, an authoritative feeling of value which energized a man who was, already, deeply concerned with the state of suffering of his people? The inspiration he received ultimately led to his rise to the leadership of his folk. But was that portion of his revelation by which the Ultimate Being selected one tribe as its people, as its peculiar treasure, as those chosen to be a people “unto himself” and “above all the nations”—was that content specifically in the inspiration? Or was that an interpretation?

To doubt that Moses had an experience is to suggest that he was a thoroughly cynical and ambitious would-be leader who invented an experience in order to influence others. That suggestion I reject for multiple reasons. For one, I doubt that such a man would have achieved what Moses did in fact achieve. At the same time, I have serious doubts imagining that the Ultimate Being would choose a people in the manner here depicted. I would also doubt that God intervenes in his creation in the manner in which Moses revelation would have it.

This, of course, is also the demarcation line between the believer and the unbeliever. If there are only these two possibilities, I am an unbeliever. But I think there is a third way, and I choose to understand the facts before us in another way. It is that we have access to guidance from a higher realm, but that guidance reaches us in such a form that we ourselves must interpret its meaning, in detail, based on what we know and understand. Therefore it is possible to value revelation at one level and to critique it on another: namely on the level of interpretation. Exactly the same rules apply, it seems to me, to the lowest forms of inspiration, such as intuitions. These also carry a feeling of authority, but it is always sensible to test them rationally. Conversely, our reasonings should also have the nod of intuition.

The World Next Door

Fourth in a series on Revelation and Scripture.

To derive a fully formed subtle world—inhabited by discarnate spirits yet—just by talking about artistic inspiration—and that in order to justify revelation—must seem extraordinarily presumptuous to many. But cut me some slack. Conventional ways of thought are narrow. My projection (but let me say that it isn’t my invention) is derived from the experience of consciousness. And it’s no more outlandish than other projections. Another, equally weird, is to presume that matter can organize itself by accident into living and reproducing species for no reason whatsoever—and that, when the sun goes into nova, all of them will disappear, sight unseen, with no one to remember or to know. Religious systems that project a hierarchy of beings represent just one attempt by humans to understand the world; the evolutionary theory is another. In religious systems the starting point is the personal experience, of being, thus of consciousness. In the evolutionary, the starting point is matter. I’m with Disraeli on the side of the angels—another way of saying that consciousness is prior to matter; without it we wouldn’t even have the concept of matter. Consciousness gives us a sense of meaning. Looking at our life on earth, we see no permanent personal meaning for ourselves. Not surprisingly, we project it beyond our current existence—thus into the world next door.

The point I want to make today is that revelation is always based on a cosmological account. All religions project at least one other world, and if one then it is always higher than this one. They assert that we have either descended or have fallen into this one. And the substance of their teaching is to guide us in our re-ascent. Materialism considers this a delusion and justifies it by saying that hope is more adaptive than despair. Religion will therefore wither away only after the mass of humanity has reached a secure and high standard of living. Troubles multiply? People flock back to church. Adaptive behavior. But it isn’t as simple as that. Some won’t be quite so easily bribed into sleep by panem et circenses. Meaning, dammit! Give me meaning.

Religions offer meaning—and they base themselves on revelation. And those who produce the revelations claim to have obtained them from on high, thus from the world next door. Now here I would like to make a distinction. It is between precise and specific kinds of revelation and the symbolical essences these revelations carry. A precise revelation is that of the fall of humanity by disobedience of a divine command taking place in a specific Garden where the forbidden fruit of the Knowledge Tree of Good and Evil was consumed. Another is the Song of the Pearl, concerning the son of a king sent from the “East” to “Egypt” to obtain a precious pearl guarded by a devouring serpent. I’ve written about that myth here. Yet another is the myth of Mazdaism; it suggests that we are volunteers, descended from heaven, to fight on the side of Light against the uprising revolt of Darkness. Here we have one story of a fall and two of a descent. In all of these stories the central figure of the drama is assisted in its struggles to regain the height by messages (read revelation) provided from the highest point directly by intermediate agents or ministers.

The essence here may be rendered by saying that (1) there are at least two distinct worlds; (2) the lower of the two is inferior to the higher; (3) we are in the lower, engaged in conflicts, for good and sufficient reasons; (4) the aim is to ascend again after some job is accomplished; and (5) those of us engaged in this task get help and guidance from above.

The first and constituting element of this essence is that a world next door really does exist. Without it there is no story at all, no project, no accomplishment, no meaning. But now let us suppose that the real message is the essence—and all of its renderings and elaborations are to be assigned to us, to the people of this world. That is my working premise. What the inspiration from on high really carries to us is this essence. We then formulated it into stories, elaborate it, apply to ordinary life, reify it, in a way—and as we begin to do that, that is when all of the problems of religion begin.

Inspiration - Concluded

Third in a series on Revelation and Scripture

What I managed to say yesterday is simply that inspiration comes from “the beyond,” and in trying to explain it, I’ve produced a model of sorts. How to picture this model? I picture it as two dimensions that interpenetrated each other. One is physical; the other I simply call mental but could also call spiritual. I call the mental “higher.” Furthermore I claim that we are in bodies (rather than that we are bodies)—and that the body’s processes interfere with an unobstructed vision of the “higher realm.” What else did I assert? That our entire soul life—the workings of our minds, understanding, consciousness, and willing—draw their energy or sustenance from this hypothetical higher region or dimension. Our bodies draw their sustenance from the physical world. This is not the traditional description we encounter in religious doctrines. In those doctrines, at least as popularly understood, higher and lower do not interpenetrate. They are distinct locations. The higher (heavens, purgatories) are above us; the hells are below. Dante’s Divine Comedy places them this way. The philosophical structure undergirding western traditional views pictures a hierarchically arranged reality in which entities range from pure matter to pure spirit; to be human is to occupy an intermediate position, a matter-spirit fusion. In this view to be embodied entities is our rightful and permanent condition. We shall always be embodied, even after death—when, after the End Times, we assume our resurrection bodies.

The traditional view, largely based on the Aristotelian concept of substance (form-matter duality) in which neither form nor matter are permanent, has been modified to recognize an immortal, indestructible soul. And this soul alone—not the entire spiritual dimension—interpenetrates the body. In post-Aristotelian religious thought, embodiment is still held to be the natural state of human souls, but physical bodies decay and resurrection bodies are divinely created later. The model I proposed yesterday differs from this one in suggesting that the entire soul-dimension interpenetrates the entire physical dimension, not merely the soul the body. But that, as humans, held in tight unity with bodies (the whys of that we need to discuss too, by-and-bye), the bodily functionalities filter out most of the “higher” dimension so that we don’t ordinarily see it or perceive its presence all about us sharply.

(Here, finding that I used the word “higher,” in quotes, yet again, I would insert a clarifying note. I use that word to indicate a realm of higher subtlety, not necessarily or invariable a better, a morally elevated realm. In my mode of thought, the spiritual dimension also includes hell.)

Now, still in an attempt to make my conception more vivid, let me note that as souls we depend on the soul-dimension as our natural habitat. We live and breathe it, as it were—we live in it spiritually (our bodily life comes from matter) and we breathe its rarefied airs (thus we use its energies). Thus I propose that we are constantly inspired: waking, sleeping, working, playing, etc. But we are unaware of this. What we call inspirations are episodes of unusually intense contact with that dimension when, for some reason or another—exposure to works of arts, an inner striving, a crisis requiring extreme physical exertion, or circumstances when our filtering mechanisms weaken—we are suddenly exposed to stronger manifestations of a dimension in which we naturally live at least the human part of our mixed human-animal life. Our need for sleep may be evidence for this model. In waking states we are more isolated from our native dimension because our bodies more actively filter out that dimension so that we shall pay closer attention to the needs of physical survival. We must restore our spiritual balance at regular intervals by shutting down the noisy machinery. Not surprisingly, many inspirations come in the night.

This much will suffice to make a case for inspiration—and for particularly strong and unusual manifestations of it. But what about the notion that inspiration of the religious kind comes to us from agents, not from environments: from God, angels, saints, and other transcendental figures who act as messengers of God. This is the religious claim. I will get into that subject in the next post in this series. For the moment I will sketch an outline.

The broad framework might be stated as follows. If the soul-dimension is a real world, if we are destined to enter it after we die, that “place” may be conceived of as a genuine realm complete with all of the features of a “world” as we conceive this: thus a composite of environments analogous to those we know in this life as well as other persons, agents, like ourselves. All those elements interpenetrate this dimension, but we don’t see it. If we can enter that dimension now and then while still alive, it makes sense to assume that, from time to time, we may have actual contacts and communications with other being there who, like us, are selves and agents. I’ll say more about this in the next post.

Inspiration

Second in a series on Revelation and Scripture

Let me continue on this subject and, specifically, look at “inspiration.” As I’ve noted in the first of this series in the last post, revelations are said to be inspired. The first task then would seem to be to examine if inspiration has real standing in human experience. I think it does. And I’ll offer a theory of it.

But let me start with a working definition. A good point of departure is to look at ordinary inspiration as the word is used in the arts and in discovery, not least in science. This word, as usually used, refers to insights. They are almost always sudden and spontaneous; the artist disclaims being their source, thus as having “thought them up”; her or she will, however, acknowledge that a certain preparation came ahead of the inspiration, not least a readiness to receive, a listening attitude. We find many examples of this experience in the creative professions: every artist will agree. Inspirations also have an energetic character. They wake us up, delight us, they amaze us. Recognizing them as integral parts of experience, that experience, always, is a clear and immediate intuition that now we “have something,” also that that something didn’t come from us.

This said, opinion the splits. Some will argue that inspirations do not, repeat not, come from any outside source; to the contrary, they are the end result of subconscious brain activity. This view is legitimate enough, but if brain activity is viewed as purely naturalistic—thus if combined with a denial of mind as a separate reality—it forces the conclusion that many of our most astonishingly creative insights are the consequence of random chemistry. We’re forced to a decision here because we don’t really understand these processes mechanically—if they are purely brain-based. To assign them to the subconscious amounts to substituting one word, easily associated with brain activity (a word like reflex, which also is), for another word, inspiration, which hypothesizes some kind of higher mental realm. In our direct experience inspirations have a creative aura that puts them in the mental realm; they are exceedingly complex on examination and always surprising; they don’t resemble unconscious outcomes, like reflexes, which are adaptive rather than creative.

A decision is needed. Hence what follows is addressed to people who feel spontaneously drawn to the view that mental operations have an immaterial grounding. Those to whom the materialistic explanation sounds innately more reasonable won’t see any merits in the hypotheses I’m about to offer—despite the fact that what I propose also adequately explains their leanings.

My own theory of inspiration might be put this way. Our selves, our souls, belong into another and higher region. Even in these bodies, our mental operations are therefore grounded in another region or dimension. We don’t draw on its energies much, certainly not in our mundane activities, but when we are engaged in creative ventures, our use of higher energies increases and the filtering processes that keep it more or less inaccessible and certainly invisible get in the way of our creative endeavors. The listening stance that we assume when we’re trying to produce arts, understand difficult problems, understand the physical world beyond the kinds of actions we have in common with chipmunks, in creating arts of all kinds—in words, sounds, or visions—that attitude of listening is testimony of our effort, somehow, to reach a dimension native to us although we’re unaware of it except as motions of our will. Here I would stress two things. One is that active involvement in a problem often interferes with its solution, especially when we hit a snag. Inspirations often arise precisely because we turn aside from the problems, release them from active consideration, when we let our minds wander, or sleep, or engage in relaxation. While we thus remove some of the interference, some element of our mind or self is able to contact a more energetic realm, our native dimension. There the elements of the problem are resorted, new linkages form, and visions that don’t reach us in waking states appear. The solution, more or less complete—but by no means fully worked out—then suddenly presents itself in time. The Aha! moment follows. Sometimes we remember participating in this process while we are asleep but dreaming.

This theory fits experience rather well. It explains why inspiration sometimes reaches us suddenly and, at other times, flows like a river. In the first case it was blocked, had to be allowed to cumulate; in the other our personal openness to a higher energetic streaming was greater and therefore every note was perfect and every stroke of the brush brought delight.

I note that these entries require more space than I like to devote to a single blog entry. Therefore, to go on, I’ll need another day.

The Song of the Pearl - I

The world’s mythologies seem to agree that humanity once lived in a perfect world: Paradise. The names we use are unimportant if they mean the same thing. So what happened? We find two explanations. One is that humanity sinned; as punishment we were expelled from Paradise into a harsher world. The other is that humanity was tempted to realize special pleasures or powers it hoped to gain in a realm it couldn’t see; once we descended into that lower realm, we got caught and entangled. In essence the two stories are the same. To sin is to want and grasp a lesser good. Both in the Christian and in the Hindu models, the same motives have the same consequence. Welcome to the Vale of Tears in one case, Welcome to the Wheel of Karma in the other. Notice that in both cases a vast community is involved. We see this most clearly in the Christian doctrine in which the guilt of the original couple clings to all of their descendants. The only rational way to see this is to assume that Adam and Eve stand for humanity as a whole. And let’s not get excessively rational. These are myths and we must understand them at the poetic level. Debates about sin clinging to DNA, for instance, are out of place; they’re not poetry but quibbling. Notice also that in both cases the lower state is due to individual decision; descent or exile is chosen by a free act of the will.

There are, however, two other myths on offer. Today they are minority views—and the views of very small minorities at that. One is the Mazdean (Zoroastrian) belief according to which we are here because we volunteered to take part in an act of creation. God willing I’ll get to that one in another post. The other is that we were sent in order to develop, rendered in the terminology of obtaining a great prize. In both of these myths we are innocent as we set out. In the other two models we are already guilty on arrival, even as “innocent” babes. In all of these models—whether innocent or guilty as we come—we can fail in our mission and, if we do, we remain in the realm of darkness. That realm of darkness is defined in different ways: in Christianity it is hell, in Hinduism and Gnosticism it is another life, in Mazdaism it is life with the dark force that represents one polarity of existence. Here I want to give a sketch of the last, the developmental model.

That model is succinctly rendered as the Song of the Pearl, sometimes as the Hymn of the Soul, found in one of the apocryphal books of the New Testament, The Acts of Thomas, embedded in that book but dating from an earlier time. You can read that song here. To reach the actual text, search for “108”; that search will put you at its beginning within the book. The song is quite short and easily read and there is the benefit of getting the information at first hand. But I will summarize it.

The story concern the son of a king who, in early youth, is sent from the “East” [read Paradise] down to Egypt in order to fetch a great prize, a pearl held by a devouring serpent. The child is stripped of its ceremonial garment and clothed in a yellow garb, provisioned and sent down. The child is guided at first but, at the borders with Egypt [read our world] he is left to himself. He remains conscious of his past until he partakes of the local food; it causes him to forget his real status (son of a king) and his glorious past home. He falls into a deep sleep from which he awakens only when at last a special letter, aimed at awakening him again, reaches him. This then causes him to remember why he came to Egypt and what he had to do. He proceeds to obtain the pearl by charming the serpent into sleep, obtains the pearl, and begins the trip home. Arriving there he strips off the filthy garment he had worn in Egypt [his body] and puts on the bejeweled garment of his native land [the spiritual body]. In due time he presents the pearl to the king.

The Song of the Pearl is usually classified as a Gnostic myth, but one finds it in various forms in Sufic and other traditions as well. Having reached us in the Acts of Thomas, it was obviously also valued by the early Christians.

Let me now add three personal reactions to this tale—and to models of development in general. These are summary in nature. I’ll use a future post to look at the myth in some detail. It takes more space than I have here.

First, let me strip away the mythical form and simply assume that a soul-community, an “order of the soul,” has discovered that life in the harsh confines of the material order is capable of educating souls—meaning to “draw out,” to realize hidden potentials. If we take that to be a plausible concept, namely that souls can be educated and improved, and that certain environments and experiences can further that development, the model starts sounding reasonable. But that model only becomes acceptable if we further assume that the majority of souls on earth will benefit, will gain something real from the process. This is not difficult to accept. The vast majority of people are decent—they live, struggle, and pass on. The degrees of improvement would vary, as they do in all models of education; and some few would fail.

Second, I would point out that near-death experience reports tend to confirm this model. They do not confirm all models in the same way. In many NDEs, the individual, wishing to go on and to realize the obviously superior values available on that side of the Borderzone are told that they must return; their time has not yet come; they have things still to accomplish. Some individuals also know this and return on their own accord, not because they’re urged.

Third, this model features a good deal of interaction between this realm and the higher one, the “East.” The soul is sent from there with appropriate provisions. It is guided on the way down, it is assisted while down here (although I’ve omitted that from my summary), it receives an enlightening “letter” from above. My own experience and observation is that communications, of sorts, do reach us here in various forms, most notably but not solely by means of intuitions and inspired revelations.

More on this in future posts.

Communications II

In the spiritualistic context, communications are understood as messages between two agents, one embodied and one a spirit—with the medium acting as an enabler or intervenor. Here the activity is equivalent to “conversation” or to “exchange.” But what is it that is being exchanged? Meanings capable of being rendered into concepts.

In ordinary experience, however, we also encounter all kinds of other forms of communication that don’t display real-time “give-and-take” characteristics. Examples are signs and broadcasts. These are messages put out by an agency on purpose; the message has a meaning; but when it is issued, no one in particular is being addressed; the target is everyone in general. These broadcasts are in the “Hear ye, hear ye!” category. They also convey concepts. The message may be spoken or written or may simply be an image, thus a left-pointing arrow to indicate a sharp curve on a highway.

A particularly interesting form of this “broadcast-style” communication is music. For purposes of discussion, let’s eliminate words set to music as in songs or operas and stick to pure compositions of sound. These musical messages have structure. In that they aren’t random noise, they have meaning. If we stick to clear and obvious forms, we can identify the seeming intention behind the music, or its the content. It may be rousing, martial, passionate, pastoral, sensuous, innocent-childish, tense (used in movies), lulling, exalted, transcending, and so on and so forth. Music therefore has a meaningful content usually labeled as emotional. The feelings aroused are a good match for other experience that produce the same emotions. Yet another way of looking at music is to see it as a structured form of energy. Its conceptual content is diffused; its feeling content is concentrated. Within the boundaries of the emotion, the listener can apply any number of fitting concepts to the sound. To put this more emphatically, the individual who hears the music is free to interpret it conceptually using his or her own ideas as they happen to occur. The ideas are not explicitly present in the music, but the music is compatible with the ideas. An eerie, tense piece of music may be added to a ghost-movie, a spy-thriller, the story of a lovable dog about to encounter a snake, a marital conflict, and on and on. The eerie music, however, is incompatible with love-scenes or birthday parties or the birth of a baby—unless the newborn just happens to be Damian.

I’ve gone in this direction—broadcasting, music—by way of introducing a speculation. It is that meaningful flows of energy, thus structured forms of energy, may be reaching us in this dimension from the order of the soul. I don’t conceive of these as coming from active agencies, thus angels or demons; others use yet other words for immaterial agents. I think of these flows as part of the normal environment of the soul-order, flows that have a dynamic behavior. The individual’s inner state can draw such energies towards itself; if the inner state is high, it will draw high energies; if the state is low, it will draw negative forms of the same energy appropriately structured.

Now here I’m really reaching, thus I’m engaging in pure speculation, but I think that experience provides a foundation of evidence for it. To give that experience a recognizable name, let me call it inspiration. Everyone experiences inspiration, but it is particularly obvious to those engaged in the arts. You have a general idea, a feeling and a fuzzy concept of what it is you’re trying to express. And suddenly the inspiration is right there. The hands start moving, images begin to flash, the words begin to flow. This last process, a reaction to the inspiration, is the action of the person, I believe. But the inspiration that triggers it is energy attracted by the inward groping of the agent’s will. Inspiration will flow—if the individual is at all in a listening state. But the result is due to the individual. A confused, unskilled, careless person will produce a chaotic sort of work, no matter how strong the inspiration is. The highly skilled, intelligent, and disciplined person will produce a fine piece of work even from a faintly-perceived inspiration. Great works of art signal very high gifts, very deep listening, and very strong flows from the beyond.

With this I have at least outlined how communication from the beyond, from another order, reaches ordinary people on more or less a daily basis. This is a hypothesis, of course. The reason why I find it plausible is because I’m certain that our consciousness, mind, soul—you name it—originates elsewhere and, in its normal operation, it uses energies from its native order even on the material plane. What we call inspiration is the noticeable manifestation of this linkage. It may very well be present in many other ways of which we remain unaware. One of the reasons why we notice it is because it surprises us. We get the most wondrous ideas when we are “in the zone,” as the phrase has it. We know full well what kinds of results we usually get. Great art, even a fortunate poem, is inexplicable in the ordinary way.

Some individuals are quite dense and “hear” very little of this heavenly music; at the other extreme are very gifted people who literally swim in the current. Being closed or open to the flow does not automatically translate into tangible achievements. Two factors are involved. To be effective in translating the inspiration, the individual must be competent in the tooling of this world as well. It did not in the least surprise me, therefore, that in Sufi teachings—one of the most mystical approaches to reality—the minimum qualification of the initiate is that he or she should be a “householder,” meaning somebody who’s already proved his or her competence in getting things done in the real world.