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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.
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. 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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Metahistory Quest Copyright 2002 - 2008 The Marion Institute. |
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