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Experience Beyond Belief

by Christian de Quncey (Chapter 4 in Radical Knowing. )



I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.” I grew up repeating the Apostles’ Creed, over and over during prayer time at school and at home. Perhaps part of the purpose of prayer, like a mantra, is to induce an altered state of consciousness. It certainly seems to have an hypnotic quality. In any case, as a youngster I found myself saying these words, without thinking, and without really having a clue about the meaning of my declaration. I was saying, “I believe” when in fact what I really should have said was “They believe in God, etc. . . ”—“they” meaning the Church, the Apostles, my teachers, my parents, whomever. But not me. It was not my belief. When I first started uttering such phrases, I was far too young to know what belief was or whether I had any worth proclaiming.



After many years hearing myself repeating this credo, I came to believe that this is what I believed. That distinction is important. It points to some very significant and fundamental aspects of what we mean by “belief.” First and foremost, it reveals what I call the “layering of belief”—the fact that when we examine them closely we find that our beliefs are not atomistic units we can switch on or off independently at will. They are nested, interconnected systems of ideas, forming conceptual structures—our personal and collective paradigms. These cognitive constructs shape our experience of the world and, therefore, hold our reality in place. This is why beliefs are often so difficult to dislodge, no matter how inaccurate, inappropriate or even damaging they may be.

Notice, also, that this type of belief was based on what others believed. I came to believe as I did because authority figures told me I should, because they wanted me to believe it. Belief, then, was a function of trust and, as such, indistinguishable from what I later came to recognize as faith. People in authority had a vested interest in propagating their belief system. The more people shared their worldview, the more secure they felt, and the more stable the cognitive edifice became. Of course, within that structure, the “authorities” held positions of power and influence they wanted to preserve. By getting new recruits like me at such an early age they were bolstering up their positions in the hierarchy.

Now all of this was invisible to me. I was born into it, steeped in my culture’s belief system as deeply as any fish caught in invisible ocean currents. My beliefs were not my own; I inherited them. Like everyone else, I was instantly a pawn in the paradigm. The “authorities” were not just parents, teachers, and church clergy; they included also more remote institutions such as political and economic ideologies, and the scientific establishment. What they all had in common, and what became part of the air that I breathed, was a Greco-Judeo-Christian philosophical heritage. Behind it all was the overarching notion of “The Creator” who started it all.

Later, as I became aware of the conflicts between the teachings of the Church and of science, inconsistencies in the fabric of the cultural belief system appeared. As these scratches and cracks accumulated, they brought the grain of the “transparent” cultural belief system into sharper relief. For the first time, I noticed I was swimming in a sea of beliefs, and I began to ask questions. I wanted to find out which of the two competing belief systems - religion or science - was right. Even though my high-school was a college run by Carmelite priests, as I moved through the educational system I soon realized that the spoils and honors of the battle were going to science. Religion might still be a force to reckon with in Catholic Ireland, but the nation itself was steeped in the wider currents of Western culture. And here, science ruled. For roughly three hundred years, science has been the primary shaper of the Western worldview. Through its technological applications, science has permeated every aspect of our society, and its successes have gained it the status of final arbiter of what is true, workable, and real. Science tells us what we ought to know - even if it doesn’t tell us how we ought to live.

By the time I was 16 or 17, I no longer took my cues from religion, I no longer believed in “God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.” I had switched allegiances, my new authorities were the high priests of science - people like Newton, Einstein, Darwin, and Freud. Evolution, particularly, caught my attention and swept me along in its grand flow. I was awed at the intellectual spectacle of an evolutionary panorama connecting humans and animals, stretching all the way back beyond bacteria and the protists to some primordial bubbling brew of prebiotic molecules. And it didn’t end there. These chemicals themselves were the result of an even greater evolutionary journey among the stars. In plasma laboratories in the hearts of suns, gravity and god-knows-what other forces contrived to cook the simpler elements of hydrogen and helium and produced the complex atoms, such as carbon, which form the backbone of living matter.

It was truly an awesome and captivating picture. And nowhere did it speak of gods or holy ghosts. Matter, blind and random, following a mind-boggling series of purposeless interactions, pulled itself up by its chemical shoelaces over unimaginable eons of time and, through sheer trial and error and a great deal of chance, managed to produce living things that one day would turn around and contemplate this vast evolutionary spectacle. As soon as the primordial cosmic dust had climbed the spiral of matter to reach the bright lights of consciousness, the universe looked back and beheld itself: “Oh my! Did I really do that!”
Yes I was captivated by this story, much more so than by the myth of Genesis that I quickly outgrew. The universe was now populated with new gods, such as Newton’s laws of motion, the laws of thermodynamics and electromagnetism, relativity and quantum theories, and the principle of natural selection. I was now a convert at the altar of science.

But in the back of my mind, whenever I stopped to listen, there was an insistent buzzing. I noticed that as I tried to connect up my beliefs in science into a coherent picture of the world, there would often be a sort of crackling, as if oppositely charged beliefs were short-circuiting. It was irritating. I couldn’t get it out of my mind and I began to grow suspicious of the narrative of science whenever this electric flash sparked between incompatible beliefs. Something smelled funny. Something didn’t fit. As I pushed farther back along the evolutionary track, back beyond the primordial cosmic gases, the big question always came bouncing up: Where did all this “stuff” come from in the first place? The stories of modern cosmology varied, but the most popular took its cue from Einstein’s general theory of relativity. The Hubble red shift indicated that the universe is expanding, and this implied that at one time, somewhere around fourteen billion years ago, the whole cosmos was squeezed into a particle the size of a proton. This cosmic egg exploded due to internal instabilities and the universe began with a big bang.

Without a doubt, this was a fascinating story to a young mind hot on the trail of origins. But it inevitably led to the question “What caused the Big Bang?” or “Where did the primordial particle come from?” Here, of course, we meet science at the end of its tether. Science, by its own definition, can say nothing about unique events and, besides, inside that putative cosmic particle space and time are shredded beyond meaning, the laws of physics break down, and there is nothing scientific left to be said. Here, science and religion meet head on once again. Here science can no longer ignore the question of creation and, therefore, of a creator. As Whitehead noted: “Science suggested a cosmology; and whatever suggests a cosmology suggests a religion.

At that cosmic singularity, I was back where I started, with a new twist to my credo: “I believe in the Big Bang, the almighty explosion, creator of Heaven and Earth.” In truth, I didn’t know what to believe anymore, and I stopped saying prayers and offering intellectual allegiance to any form of creator—physical or divine. I ceased reciting my mantras and credos, and was left dangling in an enigma.

Living Inside a Question

And that was my first clue. I had followed this thread of belief as far back as it would take me, and what I found at the end of the line, at the ultimate edge of evolution, was a mystery. Belief had run aground and left me with a question. This was a shift for me. Instead of reciting my credo-mantra, instead of turning to authorities for the final word, I found myself living in the belly of a question. With no solution, all I could do was live the question, be the question. And here a new crack in my epistemology opened up. Here was in invitation to a different way of knowing. Here I glimpsed for the first time a whole new vista of knowledge - based not on authority, not on belief, but on experience. It was another turning point. Experience.

Now in my early twenties (continuing my personal story from chapter 1), I asked: What is this “experience” that is leading me in a new direction? Since by this time science had become my touchstone to reality, I turned to physics, biology, and psychology to look for clues to the phenomena of experience and consciousness. The most natural place to look, I thought, would be psychology, and was soon relieved of that illusion. Until recently, psychology was about behavior and, for the most part, the behavior of rats and pigeons. Mind or consciousness, this science was telling me, was not a proper subject for science because it was too subjective. Science (and you could almost hear them breathing in deeply and puffing out their collective chest) . . . science, they said, was objective. Right. In other words, the science of psychology (the very science that means the study of the mind or soul) was telling me that, at best, my inner experience didn’t count—and, at worst, was just an illusion. This was deeply unsatisfactory.

I turned next to neuroscience to see what light it could throw on the question of consciousness. Neurophysiology was pretty much an ally of behaviorism, and tried to tell me that consciousness was just an epiphenomenon. According to this view, mind was what the brain does, and had no substantive existence of its own. The ghost in the machine was reduced to nothing more significant than a hiss escaping from a steam engine. That did not sit well with me, either.
So I turned to evolutionary biology. Whatever else might be going on in the world, the one thing I was most convinced of was the reality of my own experience. Among all the facts and theories of science, consciousness stood out like a shining beacon. It didn’t fit in. Yet it was the single most immediate datum of knowledge that I had. To my mind, consciousness was undeniable. If thinking and intellectual exploration needed a “given” to start off from, this was it. I figured that evolution might be able to show how consciousness came to be in the world.

As I scoured the literature looking for clues to where consciousness first arose in evolution, I noticed something very startling. Not only did psychology fail to address the subject matter essential to its science, biology, also, failed to account for the origin or nature of life. Science, in other words, could not fit either life or consciousness into its worldview. Together with matter, life and consciousness formed a triad of the most prominent features of existence calling for explanation and understanding. Science was wide of the mark on two counts. This didn’t do much to reassure a recently committed, but curious, convert that by pursuing science I was on the right track. Having assessed the evidence in evolution for the origin of consciousness, I discovered there was no point in the process where we could say, “Here, this is where mind begins.” I concluded, therefore, that since consciousness undeniably exists in the universe today, it must always have been here, in one form or another. And with that, I took my first step on the long road to scientific and philosophical “heresy.”

Science failed me in two areas: (a) the origin of life and consciousness and (b) knowledge about experience and consciousness itself. If religion, and now science, had failed me, where could I turn to gain access to such knowledge? By this time, I had been paying enough attention to my own experience—for example, experimenting with different techniques for achieving altered states of consciousness—that I knew where I needed to look: beyond belief, beyond external authorities, to the authority of my own internal experience. But I didn’t jettison my trust in science and the scientific method. I wanted to find a way to integrate or harmonize the two, to find a way for experience and scientific experimentation to complement each other.

At this point, I began to dig deeper, beyond the belief structures of science, and started questioning its metaphysical foundations. I discovered an irony, if not a paradox, lurking at the heart of science. Beginning as a reaction to the superstition and authority of the mediaeval Church, science had introduced a new method for gaining knowledge based on the evidence of data experienced through the senses. In other words, science turned away from authority and revealed knowledge to facts perceived by the senses—to empirical knowledge.


However, the paradox is that in its search for empirical knowledge, science has excluded from investigation—even from its picture of the world—the very basis by which scientists know what they know: their own experience. They have exorcized mind from their world picture, so it should come as no surprise that when they look for any signs of consciousness in science, it is nowhere to be seen. By definition, mind is outside looking on, or else it doesn’t exist.

From Authority to Experience

Modern science emerged when naturalists and philosophers began to challenge the metaphysic of belief based on expert testimony. Instead of relying on the authority of Aristotle, St Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, and the Church fathers, the new approach to knowledge in the seventeenth century, proclaimed by Francis Bacon in England and René Descartes in France, established sense experience and reason, respectively, as the criteria and methods for achieving knowledge. The scientific method was born from this union. And from this, a new form of belief arose. Instead of faith, relied on by religion to anchor belief, science now honored a new god of objective, rational, sensory-based empiricism. The “empirical method” had arrived. From here on, belief would be validated by scientific evidence or else it would be discarded.

The irony is that the methodology of science has been so successful at delivering knowledge of the material world through a process of progressive specialization, compartmentalization, and fragmentation that ordinary people once again must turn to scientific “authorities” to tell them about matter and energy, and life and human behavior. In this sense, belief in the knowledge of science must also be based on trust. Scientific knowledge, then, becomes for the masses a matter of faith. If I talk of atoms, electrons and photons, or of genes, DNA and natural selection, or of archetypes, ids, and operands, I must trust in the accuracy, honesty and integrity of others to communicate to me the results of their work based on their experience in their experiments. I have never experienced any of these entities even indirectly. It is all second-hand knowledge to me. I take my science on faith, because the stories seem to fit. But I no longer believe them—not like I believe I am breathing.

And it is not just lay people who substitute faith for knowledge in science. Scientists, too, share this “unscientific” faith because a scientist is only a scientist within his or her own specialized field. When it comes to physics, a biologist is just as much a layperson as an art teacher, a priest, a factory worker or a journalist.

If pressed on this, many scientists will admit that they take the other guy’s science on trust and will point out that their trust is based on a belief in the efficacy of the scientific method. At this point the issue begins to get really interesting, contentious, and troublesome—because now the questioning must focus not on the scientific data, not on the theories, not even on the scientific method itself, but on the metaphysical assumptions underlying the whole edifice of science. This is where things get tricky, this is where many scientists tend to switch off, get confused, get excited, get defensive, and even occasionally get hostile. Whitehead noted: “Science repudiates philosophy. In other words, it has never cared to justify its truth or explain its meaning.”

At this level of questioning the very foundations of science are being scrutinized, and if they are found wanting, the whole edifice may come crashing down. Understandably, this can be threatening to people who have invested whole careers in a particular way of doing science. When a scientist’s ego is enmeshed, even identified, with the structure of his or her science, the scientist will do almost anything to protect it. “Knowledge” gets redefined, confined to facts, evidence or theories that fit the metaphysical structure.

From Science to Scientia

To understand the significance of this redefinition of knowledge, we need to move deeper into our investigation of epistemology—the study of how we know what we know. The word “science” comes from the Latin scientia, which means “knowledge.” It is a relatively recent addition to our vocabulary and we would do well to examine its implications. This is not simply a philosophical exercise, remote from the concerns of everyday life. The implications touch our lives deeply and set the direction and limits to what we can know, for example, about health and healing, about soul and spirit, about our relationship to the environment - and, of course, they impact our education, our technology, our businesses, and our homes.

If science is about knowledge, and this knowledge shapes our lives to such a great extent, then it makes sense to at least inquire, “How do we know what we know?” What does it mean when say that any piece of information amounts to scientific knowledge? We should re-examine the foundations of science to see if it can and does yield the sort of information that we need to live lives rich in meaning, quality, and value. If science cannot meet this task, we are entitled to ask whether it deserves so dominant a place in our society, and whether it needs to be revised or expanded.

Science as currently practiced is failing us because it does not address the realm of inner experience, nor does it question the methodology that removes the observer’s consciousness from the world being observed (see chapter 7, “Shafts of Wisdom”). To develop a true science of inner experience, of consciousness - a science of the soul - we need a radical revision of the epistemology underlying science. We begin by asking, “How does consciousness know what it knows?” “How can consciousness know itself?” We can go further and ask: “How does consciousness work in the world?” The fact of our own experience, the undeniable existence of consciousness, almost compels us to engage in this task. In pursuing such questions, we will find ourselves overturning one of the very cornerstones of modern science: the fundamental metaphysical assumption of universal physical causality - the idea that all events everywhere and at all times in the universe are caused exclusively by physical processes.

The new epistemology must open the way for scientific exploration of phenomena relating to consciousness and inner experience. Until now, the metaphysical assumption of physicalism—that everything in the universe is ultimately made up of physical stuff— along with the methodology of objectivity and replicability have prevented science from investigating mind. Consciousness has been excluded from science on two major counts: First, subjective experience does not meet the requirement for valid scientific data and analysis because it is not public or objective, and therefore cannot be measured. Second, the assumption of universal physical causation precludes the possibility of volition or freewill—of consciousness having any causal agency, of intention having any effect whatsoever on the course of events in the world. Both of these scientific limitations fly in the face of our daily experience.

Transformational Science

In our quest to explore the basis of knowledge and belief, then, we encounter a dramatic gap between the beliefs of science and our own experience. We encounter, also, the centuries-old conflict between religious and scientific worldviews. Although some questions remain exclusive to each camp—for instance, science has nothing to say about the nature of God, and neither religion nor theology has anything to contribute to the study of, for instance, chemical bonds—areas of overlap emerge when we allow consciousness a place within science. For example, both religion and science would be interested in the phenomena of meaningful coincidences, such as synchronicities, miracles, healing effects following intentional prayer, the sense of “second sight” or a “guardian angel” that seems to forewarn of danger, and other psychic phenomena. In addition, both science and religion would be interested in the phenomenon of states of consciousness, such as mystical or religious experiences, or “alternative realities.”

Both science and religion also share a common interest in questions concerning the origin of the universe and the evolution or creation of life and human beings. These three areas will require agreement from science and religion if we are ever to develop a scientia, a form of science based on what William James called “radical empiricism”—leaving out nothing that falls within the range of human experience, and excluding anything that falls outside it.

Such a science would be bigger than knowledge-as-final-truth. Like a religion, or spirituality, based on experience rather than on the authority of dogma, the knowledge of this new science would also be beyond belief. Neither science nor religion, in this new worldview, would lay claim to ultimate truth, or to be the ultimate arbiter of real knowledge. In the mutual co-causality of a self-organizing universe, truth will always be in flux, and knowledge likewise needs to evolve in phase. With this approach, we would have a much broader base of knowledge involving all four epistemological “gifts”: an understanding of physical determinism (combining the Philosopher’s Gift of reason and the Scientist’s Gift of empirical observation and method); an appreciation of psychophysical synchronicities (the Shaman’s Gift of participatory feeling); as well as a form of “knowing-through-being” involving acts of creative intentionality and the grace of communion (the Mystic’s Gift of spiritual practice).

As long as we restrict knowledge to a combination of reason and empiricism, we will remain trapped in the “catch-22” at the heart of science. In order to have confidence in the scientific view of reality, we need an adequate epistemology. But an adequate epistemology implies a prior understanding of the mental processes underlying observation, and for that we already need the scientific epistemology.

Breaking out of this predicament will require a much more open and participatory approach to scientific research—especially when the object of exploration is consciousness itself. Indeed, investigators of consciousness need to be willing to be transformed, to be open to metanoia—a transformation in experience, in their sense of who they are, the nature of the world, and the relationship between the two.

It is important to acknowledge the nature of this transformational shift and its impact on epistemology—on the relationship between the knower and the known. The central issue in any rigorous investigation of consciousness concerns a shift from concept-based epistemology—models and metaphors derived from cognitive and intellectual modes of thought—to more experiential modes of knowing. Without this shift, it will be “business as usual” in science, albeit with new sets of concepts and new models. We would remain stuck in the old concept-based epistemology and miss the essential point of consciousness study.
The nature of this transformation shifts epistemological exploration to a different level. It involves a different kind of knowing, a different way of knowing. It arises from knowledge rooted in the being of the investigator, dissolving the usual distinctions between knowledge and the knower. It is not knowledge as usually conceived in science, consisting of discrete facts resulting from precise measurements of selected variables. It is not conceptual or sensory knowledge. As an experience, it is not communicable solely through the typical media of words, formulas, mathematical symbols, and other images. Any such description is, at best, a metaphor or model of the experience, and not the experience itself. Yet a skilled and trained scientist or teacher would be able to communicate the experience to students prepared and willing to undergo a transformational experience themselves.

Such an approach can break through the circularity of requiring a prior epistemological methodology in order to explore or develop an epistemology of consciousness. It lifts the exploration out of the closed-circuit of concepts in the mind of an observer observing the process of observation in order to know how he or she knows. When the knower and the knowledge become indistinguishable in the transformation of experience, the conceptual loop is short-circuited and a new kind of knowledge emerges in lived experience.

If at this point it sounds like we are talking religion or spirituality as much as science or philosophy that is because the new epistemology we are indicating transcends that distinction when it comes to an investigation of consciousness. However, we are not simply talking religion any more than we are simply talking science. We are taking an approach to knowledge that combines a transformation in consciousness (“religious” or spiritual experience) with rigorous empirical investigation, reporting, and testing (scientific methodology). As always, the experience of consciousness itself will be ineffable (whether gained through religious or scientific practice); but that does not exclude it from the domain of scientific investigation.

The transformation in experience that the scientist undergoes while exploring consciousness is essential for the kind of direct and deep insight required to gain knowledge of the psyche. Without it, the scientist would be blind to the phenomena and processes of our “inner worlds.” Such “inner vision” is the starting point—the sine qua non—of consciousness science. It is the source of data that, later, the scientist can build into a communicable model. Like all abstract concepts and models, neither the recipe nor the menu is ever the experience of the meal. The model is not the reality, but it enables scientists to intersubjectively agree on translatable elements of the experience, and to communicate them in ways that may be further tested and explored.

However, as in any other scientific activity, there comes a point when, no matter how sophisticated, the theory must be tested empirically if it is not to remain an intellectual game. Consequently, the scientific process of data gathering, hypothesis and model formation, and empirical testing applies equally to investigations of consciousness as it does in any other area of science. The work of a theoretical particle physicist requires years of training to know how to devise experiments to test, say, theories of quarks or superstrings. Likewise, the work of the consciousness theorist requires dedicated and lengthy training in psycho-spiritual discipline in order to test conceptual models of consciousness against the sharp edge of direct experience.

Toward an Open Paradigm

The purpose of this re-investigation of the epistemological basis of science is not to hasten the advent of a new paradigm. Such a shift would only displace the problem. It would mean substituting one set of beliefs (physical causality, reductionism, objectivity, determinism) for another set of beliefs (co-causality, synchronicity, holism, subjectivism, self-organizing principles). Even if the new paradigm were an improvement on the old, it would still confine us to a blinkered view of the world.

The aim of this work is to create epistemological openings for a multiplicity of worldviews. This does not mean opening the floodgates to an undisciplined hodgepodge of ideas and flights of fancy. I am not advocating “smorgasbord epistemology.” The point is to create an open-ended paradigm unanchored within the confines of any conceptual system, while being accessible to all.
The “open paradigm” (or “meta paradigm,” as Peter Russell calls it) would rigorously and continually re-examine - through direct experience - its metaphysical underpinnings and, whenever possible, uproot any that seemed to be settling into a system of fixed beliefs. The aim of such an open paradigm would be to transcend all belief systems, while not negating them. It would recognize that anyone who engages the question “How does consciousness know itself?” must source the vitality and growth of their knowledge in experience, and move beyond the authority of belief. The open paradigm, then, is not a matter of any particular set of concepts - it is about experience beyond belief.
Next, we will focus on the topic of experience itself, and lay a foundation for the difficult task of exploring consciousness through words and ideas. We will find out how to avoid the greatest pitfall in this work by clarifying the different meanings people use when talking about “consciousness.”


Endnotes

1. This topic will be explored further in Book Three of my “Radical” trilogy.

Posted: August 8, 2004.

Return to the preceding chapter, Intention Creating Reality.

LINK to Christian de Quincey: www.deepspirit.com


 

 
 
 
 
 

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