Monthly Archives: January 2016

Jung’s Red Book 2: The God of experience

Though in many ways Jung’s Red Book is a unique text, the closest thing it reminds me of is the texts of Christian mystics who wrestled with God in their own inner experience: people like Julian of Norwich, Richard Rolle, or the anonymous author of ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’. These mystics, writing in the late Middle Ages, could not distance themselves explicitly from orthodox Christian theology in the way Jung could, but it nevertheless seems obvious to me that metaphysical beliefs really didn’t matter much to them. What really mattered was the living God they encountered within. One thing that disturbs me about the language of naturalists and so-called ‘skeptics’ is that they tend to use ‘mystic’ as a pejorative word. But if you genuinely value experience over dogma, mystics are worthy of the highest respect, and Jung is perhaps the most recent and the most striking of them: a man who tried to take scientific method and the experiential God seriously at the same time, whilst being critical of dogma, including the dogmas about God that atheists are rightly critical of. I find the same spirit of objectivity in the mystical Jung of the Red Book as I do in his psychological works.Mandala_from_Jung's_Red_Book_Joanna Penn CCA2-0

The apparent contradiction for the mystic is that God remains supremely powerful whilst being inner. It might be assumed that those who treat God as something within one’s own mind (remaining at least practically agnostic about claims of God beyond the mind) thus reduce God to a kind of powerless abstraction, and indeed some post-modern theology can apparently end up doing this. But this misunderstanding of the implications of an inner focus confuses wider inner experience with mere intellectualisation.   God does not become a mere abstraction when we treat him as an experience, because experience is recognised through the right hemisphere of the brain, and it is the over-dominant left hemisphere that creates mere abstractions unconnected to experience. Jung is very obviously not just engaged in an intellectual reduction of God to left-hemisphere terms. One of the indications of this the power of God as Jung encounters him. We’re talking about a full-blooded God here, not some sort of ‘mitigated’ God. A God who is, indeed, terrifying, in the spirit of the holy awe felt by the ancient Israelites.

Jung’s accounts of his visions bring this tension vividly to life. In the section headed ‘First Day’, Jung encounters God on a mountain path. He is terrified, but oddly enough the God himself also seems to be terrified.

As I approach the top, a mighty booming resounds from the other side of the mountain like ore being pounded. The sound gradually swells, and echoes thunderously in the mountain. As I reach the pass, I see an enormous man approach from the other side.

Two bull horns rise from his great head, and a rattling suit of armour covers his chest. His black beard is ruffled and decked with exquisite stones. The giant is carrying a sparkling double axe in his hand, like those used to strike bulls. Before I can recover from my amazed fright, the giant is standing before me. I look at his face: it is faint and pale and deeply wrinkled. HIs almond-shaped eyes look at me astonished. Horror takes hold of me: this is Izdubar, the mighty bull-man. He stands and looks at me: his face speaks of consuming inner fear, and his hands and knees tremble. Izdubar, the powerful bull trembling? Is he frightened? (p.277-8)

Jung then has a conversation with Izdubar, in which he tells him he comes from ‘the West’, with its science and rationality. On learning this, Izdubar is dismayed. He flings away his useless weapon and falls ill. This seems to reflect the initial impact of the modern outlook on God, which at first looks likely to kill him: the function of God undermined in the human psyche by the left-brain dominant explanation of the ‘natural’ world.

In ‘Second Day’ Jung finds himself on a mountain ridge with a sick Izdubar, whom he realises he loves and wants to save. But Izdubar cannot move, and is too heavy to be carried to safety. Then Jung has an idea.

I: My prince, Powerful One, listen: a thought came to me that might save us. I think that you are not at all real, only a fantasy.

Izdubar: I am terrified by this thought. It is murderous. Do you mean to declare me unreal – now that you have lamed me so pitifully?

I: Perhaps I have not made myself clear enough, and have spoken too much in the language of Western lands. I do not mean to say that you are not real at all, of course, but only as real as a fantasy. If you could accept this, much could be gained. (p.293)

Eventually he persuades Izdubar to accept that he is only as real as a fantasy “if it helps”, and Jung is then able to pick up Izdubar, who becomes “lighter than air” and carry him home. This is an extraordinary recognition, not just that God remains valuable when recognised as a human construction, but of the incrementality of the ‘reality’ involved: it is not just a question of being real or unreal, but rather of having more or less of the qualities we associate with ‘reality’, such as tangibility, extension in space, causal effectiveness, and so on.

When he gets home, despite being light, Izdubar will not fit through the door. So Jung squashes him into the size of an egg (p.295). Yet, despite being squashed into the size of an egg, God has lost none of his meaning and importance. Jung sings moving ‘Incantations’ over the egg containing God.

Oh

light of the middle way

enclosed in the egg

embryonic,

full of ardour, oppressed…. (p.300)

Come to us, we who are willing from our own will.

Come to us, we who understand you from our own spirit.

Come to us, we who will warm you at our own fire.

Come to us, we who will heal you with our own art.

Come to us, we who will produce you out of our own body.

Come, child, to father and mother. (p.303)

Jung conveys a wonderfully integrated experience here, at one and the same time recognising that we create God, that God is not something threatening us from without, and that God is nevertheless a matter of overwhelming yearning. But nevertheless, such an encapsulated God, without power, cannot fulfil all the functions of God, and Jung wishes to restore him to his former splendour. In ‘The Opening of the Egg’, Izdubar bursts out of the egg.

I: “Oh Izdubar! Divine One! How wonderful! You are healed!”

“Healed? Was I ever sick? Who speaks of sickness? I was sun, completely sun. I am the sun”.

An inexpressible light breaks from his body, a light that my eyes cannot grasp. I must cover my face and cast my gaze to the ground.

I: “You are the sun, the eternal light – most powerful one, forgive me for carrying you.” (p.307-8)

This to me conveys a powerful message about God as meaning. A meaningful God is not an inch less impressive and powerful than a real God. He remains perfect, omnipotent, omniscient and eternal in meaning. But such a God and his infinite qualities should not be an object of belief – for that would fix the nature and qualities of God in relation to everything else. Since God has the archetypal function of projecting forward a complete integration of the psyche, the form taken can vary with each person or each group sharing ideas about that supreme meaningfulness, it being only his function that creates universal consistency.

Elsewhere, Jung describes God as the supreme meaning.

But the supreme meaning is the path, the way and the bridge to what is to come. That is the God yet to come. It is not the coming God himself, but his image which appears in the supreme meaning. God is an image, and those who worship him must worship him in the image of the supreme meaning. (p.120)

This meaningfulness becomes all the more intelligible if we interpret it in the light of embodied meaning. The meaning of God does not have to be tied to beliefs about the circumstances in which propositions about him would be true, as analytic philosophers would have it. It is this representationalist assumption that makes most philosophy of religion a waste of time. Instead, the meaning of God, like the meanings of all other words and symbols, consists in synaptic links formed by associations with our active experience, and built up through inter-related metaphors that connect different areas of that experience. God does indeed reside in our bodies, but no one metaphor is solely adequate to describe him: rather it would require the synthesis of all metaphors into the widest possible meaningful experience. To ‘worship’ God should surely be to try to connect with that supreme meaning – not to reify it, but to get as far as we can in experiencing it.

Personally I find this portrayal of God in the Red Book both liberating and inspiring. One thing I have in common with Jung is a Christian background, indeed being like him the son of a pastor. In earlier life I have tried to evade God and think of him as irrelevant, but, as Jung writes:

God is unavoidable. The more you flee from the God, the more surely you fall into his hand. (p.164)

God is unavoidable, not just for those of us who have an image of God etched into our childhood experience, but even in a sense for others, since the God archetype is a dimension of human experience that may manifest in other ways using other labels, but nevertheless have the same function.

Reading the Red Book has reminded me of how important that function is to me, but it leaves me nevertheless in a continuing indecision about my practical relationship to Christianity that becomes, if anything, more loaded than it was before. Churches are rich sources of archetypal experience, but overwhelmingly still filled with people who externalise and absolutise that experience. Sometimes I encounter the wish to worship God, but any such worship seems destined to be solitary. Perhaps one day there will be a Jungian church led by people who explicitly acknowledge the archetypal  nature of God at every turn: but until that day, it is only churches empty of people that I, perversely, find attractive, and where it seems possible to explore Jungian interpretations of what one encounters in solitude.

 

Link to the first blog in this series: The Jungian Middle Way

Picture: Mandala from Jung’s Red Book: Joanna Penn CCA2.0

Podcast interviews

I just thought I’d let everyone know that the podcasts have been rearranged in the Media menu section to make them more accessible. If you click on Podcast interviews you can still see all the podcasts in chronological order but they have also now been organised into categories, see below. Hopefully, this should make them easier to find if you are interested in exploring a particular theme.

There are also no podcasts this month due to holidays and various things but there should be some new ones coming out in February.

podcastDropdown

Five Principles of Middle Way Philosophy

I’ve now completed a series of six introductory videos, trying to put the key points of Middle Way Philosophy as simply, briefly and graphically as possible. This has been an interesting challenge, not just to my video-making skills, but also in identifying the key principles which are both basic and distinctive of the Middle Way as I have interpreted it: i.e. in universal terms that are not merely taken from the Buddhist tradition, not dependent on authoritative or metaphysical claims, and applicable to every judgement in our experience, from the most humdrum to the most elevated. It’s with these criteria in mind that I arrived at these 5 principles, which I thought it would be worth writing a bit about here.

The five principles offer a breakdown of what the Middle Way most basically involves and requires, and are as follows:

  1. Scepticism
  2. Provisionality
  3. Incrementality
  4. Agnosticism
  5. Integration5 Principles

They are first presented together in the introductory video:

Each of these five principles then becomes the subject of an introductory video in itself. I won’t embed them all here, but you will find them all on the menu above if you hover over ‘Media’ then ‘Middle Way Philosophy Introductory Videos’. All of these videos are 10 minutes or less.

These principles are a basic stripping-down of what Middle Way Philosophy distinctively involves, and they are also aspects of the Middle Way that I generally find absent in other sources about the Middle Way, such as the Buddhist Tradition. Each of them implies and requires the others, so they are interdependent. The Middle Way is the avoidance of positive or negative absolutisation in each judgement. Scepticism tells us why that our basic position is uncertainty and thus why we should avoid ‘truths’ or claims to certainty. Provisionality is the practice of being open to new information in our judgements instead, and incrementality involves recognising that our judgements can be justified when they are a matter of degree rather than absolute. Agnosticism is a further implication of the Middle Way because we need to make an effort to be even-handed in our treatment of absolute beliefs. Integration, lastly but probably most importantly, shows the positive psychological impact of following the Middle Way in resolving both internal and external conflict.

These 5 Principles have to leave an awful lot out, some of which I’ve previously thought to be indispensable. But the process of communicating a synthetic philosophy, I’m discovering, is one of murdering your darlings (as creative writers graphically call it) – letting go of what one previously thought indispensable for the sake of the value and impact of the form one is communicating in. In the videos there is no discussion of embodied meaning, archetypes, science, ethics, religion, objectivity, beauty, authority… and a whole host of other things. However, I do intend to make further videos that will thematically branch out from these basic ones to encompass these other important things. In the videos I have also stripped out any acknowledgement of sources and inspirations, virtually all justificatory argument, and virtually all discussion of the implications. All of these, in the end, can be just clutter if they stop the basic points from coming across.

Lists do seem to be useful to people as portable summaries and aids to memory, which is why there are so many lists in Buddhism. I think this is the right sort of list. It is a kind of unpacking list (as opposed to a packing list) – a list that unpacks basic components from the Middle Way. It’s not a list of ‘truths’: it could be seen as a list of practices, but its focus is judgement. It’s not about what we know, but how we distinctively go about claiming to believe it.

Jung’s Red Book 1: The Jungian Middle Way

I have just finished reading Jung’s Red Book, which is an extraordinary text. Only published since 2009, the Red Book is Jung’s personal record of a series of self-induced visions, which mainly took place between 1913 and 1917, together with Jung’s reflections and interpretations of them, which he continued to refine until about 1930. This book takes us to the core of the personal experience on which Jung drew more circumspectly in his psychological works. That experience is centrally one of integration, as Jung confronts the archetypal expressions of different aspects of himself – sometimes in reverence, sometimes in anger, but always with acceptance of his own multiplicity. The record of that experience often reads like a prophetic or religious text, and the religious language is full-throated and unabashed, but at the same time clearly placed in the framework of an ‘inner’ psychological rather than an ‘outer’ supernatural process.Jung's Red Book

I had at first thought to write a conventional review of the book, but on further consideration decided that this was not the best way of writing about it. For one thing, it is not a philosophical or scientific text: there is no argument in it. It is the record of an experience, and the main way I can assess that experience is by trying to share some of what I experienced as an incredible richness when reading it. It’s not so much a book that can be readily judged right or wrong in itself in any given respect, as one that you can engage in and find useful to a given degree in deepening your experiential understanding of integration and the Middle Way. So I don’t want to review it so much as share some readings of it. My plan is, instead, to write a series of blogs on different aspects of it. It is full of rich quotations, but ones that will nevertheless probably need interpretation.

This will be very much my reading of the Red Book rather than the one I would necessarily expect you to have. Obviously the meaning of any text varies with the reader, but this one most markedly so. I do think some readings are more helpful than others, but it is also easy to understand how such a rich and ambiguous text can give rise to very different readings. Jung’s own words reinforce such an impression:

There is only one way and that is your way.

You seek the path? I warn you away from my own. It can also be the wrong way for you.

May each go his own way. (p.125)

I do not interpret such words in terms of relativism. Some paths can be better for us than others, but Jung warns us against the assumption that we know what the best path is for someone else, or that we should assume someone else’s path is best for us. Jung was born in the nineteenth century, the son of a Swiss pastor, and it is unlikely that his path will very closely resemble most other people’s today. Nevertheless we can learn a good deal from it.

For the rest of this first blog I want to explore the central question of how far the Red Book reflects the Middle Way. I think the answer, obviously based on my own reading, is ‘quite closely’, though not without some caveats. The most important reason that it is about the Middle Way is that the whole text is about a process of integration (even though Jung does not use the word ‘integration’), and one cannot integrate two opposed beliefs or desires if one sees them in absolute terms. In a way the whole book wrestles with the question ‘What do God, the soul, the devil, the dead etc. mean when they are not absolute’? Simply by being recognised as aspects of the psyche subject to integration, they can no longer be absolute.

But I was also gratified to find several explicit mentions of the Middle Way in the text, all of which suggest that the Middle Way was central to Jung’s thinking, even if he did not develop it formally or philosophically in his other writings. There are three explicit mentions, plus of course a great many other points where the Middle Way is implicit.

The first explicit mention is very much in terms of the Christian Middle Way:

Divinity and humanity should remain preserved, if man should remain before the God, and the God remain before man. The high-blazing flame is the middle way: whose luminous course runs between the human and the divine. (p.289)

Here Christ is in a symbolic role as mediator between the absoluteness of the idea of God and the embodied situation of humans. Elsewhere Jung stresses the story of Christ ‘harrowing hell’ between his crucifixion and resurrection, to indicate the ways he symbolically unites heaven and hell, the heights and depths with human experience. If we can hold ideals in mind as meaningful at the same time as addressing the ordinary conditions of human life, we can internalise this symbolic Christ.

The second mention occurs in Jung’s conversation with a librarian, who represents the analytically-bound, scholarly, left-hemisphere-dominant aspect of Jung. Jung tries to moderate some of the librarian’s Nietzschean anti-Christian approach:

“…Like everything healthy and long-lasting, truth unfortunately adheres more to the middle way, which we unjustly abhor.” [Jung said]

I really had no idea that you take such a mediating position.” [The librarian replied]

Neither did I – my position is not entirely clear to me. If I mediate, I certainly mediate in a very peculiar manner.”

This suggests to me that, although Jung assumes the Middle Way a lot of the time, he never actually developed it explicitly in the way he is using it here (to avoid both extremes of a polarised intellectual debate). Perhaps he was afraid that public development of it was incompatible with the public reputation he wanted to cultivate as a scientist. But Jung’s corpus of writings is large and I have certainly not read it all, so I’d be happy to hear from anyone who’s come across a more explicit development of the Middle Way in Jung elsewhere.

The third explicit mention occurs in a discussion of ‘stretched hanging’ which Jung had experienced in a vision, hanging between heaven and hell. Again, Christ is the symbol of it.

To deliver the men of his time from the stretched hanging, Christ effectively took this torment upon himself and taught them “Be crafty like serpents and guileless like doves.” For craftiness counsels against chaos, and guilelessness veils its terrible aspect. Thus men could take the safe middle path, hedged both upward and downward.

But the dead of the Above and the Below mounted, and their demands grew ever louder. And both the noble and the wicked rose up again and , unaware, broke the law of the mediator. They flung open doors both above and below. They drew many after them to higher and lower madness, thereby sowing confusion and preparing the way that is to come. (p. 357)

The madness of the above here could be identified with what Buddhists call eternalism: the belief in positive absolutes such as God’s absolute existence and absolute command. The madness of the below, on the other hand, would involve nihilism, or the rejection of any moral judgement being better than another. The Middle Way requires craftiness not only in avoiding chaos, but also in avoiding rigid order, but guilelessness in making a straightforward response to the Middle Way itself.

‘The way that is to come’ here may be a reference to a recurring theme in the Red Book, which is the First World War (hardly surprising, since Jung’s visions either anticipated it or occurred during it). Jung clearly blames the ideological madness of the First World War on this kind of polarisation, and was well aware that Christians fought on both sides in absolute belief that God was on their side. Jung also writes elsewhere that “What stays in balance is correct, what disturbs balance is incorrect” (p.266), very much suggesting his moral commitment to avoiding this polarisation.

However, before leaving you with too unequivocal an impression of Jung’s relationship with the Middle Way, I must also mention some caveats. Obviously it is one thing to use the term ‘middle way’, and another to develop and apply a strong understanding of it which avoids any kind of appropriation by creeping metaphysical assumptions. As I’ve already mentioned, my impression so far is that although Jung’s understanding of integration was both profound and pioneering, its relationship to the Middle Way in his thinking was probably sketchier. The Red Book is also a very ambiguous text, which makes it pretty wide open to metaphysical readings, and I’m sure that the metaphysicians will already have been at work on it. In the comments section of my earlier ‘Middle Way Thinkers’ blog post on Jung, I have already had a discussion with ‘Gregory Wonderwheel’ who wanted to interpret Jung metaphysically.

It also has to be said that some of Jung’s own tendencies encourage such metaphysical readings. He is pretty incautious with the terms he uses throughout – basically he will take almost any terms from traditional religion (including ‘truth’, ‘knowledge’, ‘redemption’ and ‘revelation’) and trust entirely that the context will safeguard such language against absolutizing interpretation. For this reason, beware of apparently absolutizing Jung quotes taken out of context. Near the end of the book, too, his ‘Seven Sermons to the Dead’ seem to come close to offering us a metaphysical scheme (of the ‘Pleroma’, which is nothing and everything) based on that of Gnosticism, most of which seems to bear no relationship to any practical application. At the same time, these sermons are hedged around with the kind of disavowals that seem familiar from Buddhism (‘It is fruitless to think about the Pleroma’ – p.510). As with Emptiness talk in Buddhism, I often just want to shout back in frustration, ‘Well, why are you thinking about it then?’ Whether Jung’s gnostic cosmology is metaphysical or not is entirely a matter of contextual judgement, but it certainly threatens to turn into a diversion if one wants to use the Red Book as a text supportive of the Middle Way.

Such caveats should not be off-putting on balance. The Red Book is overwhelmingly experiential in most of its course, and there is a great deal more to say about it – for example, about the riches of its approach to God, to evil, to gender, to death, to Christianity, to the eucharist, to pride and humility, to power, to the individual and the group, to embodiment, to language, and to symbols. But all of these other themes will have to wait for other blogs.

What’s wrong with cliché?

I used to have colleague who could never use a straightforward phrase about the start or beginning of anything: instead, he’d say “Your starter for ten is…”. I’m not even quite sure where this particular catch phrase comes from (I suspect some past TV quiz game). He had a great many other similar verbal mannerisms, which I would sometimes find irritating. Similar feelings assail me when I look at a rack of popular greetings cards like that pictured below. However, both then and now, I find it difficult to justify my irritation. What is, after all, wrong with cliché? Why shouldn’t people talk (and write) in whatever ways they like? Is it just a kind of cultural snobbery to decry it?Cliche cards

I put my own instinctive responses to cliché down largely to early literary study, as the first subject I studied at university was English Literature (before later changing courses), and one of my earliest aspirations was to be a poet. In both literary and creative writing circles (especially poetic ones) cliché is the ultimate social no-no: the basis on which unsatisfactory texts are dismissed and the prime way we tell good poems from bad ones. One of the prime values we were looking for in culture was freshness in the use of metaphor. But, looking back, nobody in those circles ever gave me a reason why this was such an important aesthetic  imperative. It seemed to be simply a matter of social agreement. Sometimes I would disagree, fro example when I found that a text that might be otherwise described as ‘littered with clichés’ did also have something interesting to say. The content did seem to me more important than the form, and too much focus on the avoidance of cliché can make one focus disproportionately on the form.

But now, looking back at these issues from the standpoint of Middle Way Philosophy, I do think that there are some good reasons for generally trying to avoid cliché in one’s own writing and speech (or, to put this more positively, trying to use fresh metaphors to convey our experience). It comes down to trying not to entrench over-used synaptic tracks. If we rely over-much on one particular kind of language, this will tend on the whole to propel our thoughts down certain well-accustomed routes. Our judgements and thus our beliefs may then more easily become rigid, and ill-adapted to new circumstances. Even philosophers and scientists, who deal primarily with the assessment of beliefs, may thus benefit from some attention to the words they are using to express their beliefs. The arts, with their emphasis on developing new metaphors and new symbols, can help to constantly expand the resources we have to draw on to develop more adequate ideas about things. Our concern with such things does matter, because we are modelling our brains and their capacities as we choose one word or another.

But at the same time it also seems important not to absolutise this general rule. There may often be an asymmetry between the originality of our language and the originality of our ideas, and some people may be better at making full use of limited linguistic resources whilst others squander the immense linguistic resources on developing inconsequential ideas. The relative importance of avoiding cliché also depends very much on where you start. For some people expressing their thoughts in any kind of language, however hackneyed, may be a big step forward. What may be a cliché to us may also not be to them, because of differences in culture and experience.

The variability of what people consider to be a cliché can be judged from an interesting Wikipedia list of words that have been ‘banished’ by bodies such as the BBC and New York Times because they are considered clichéd. Some of these words seem to be in widespread general use (“conversation”), but perhaps become clichés when used in a particular way. Some are probably clichés  in particular contexts unfamiliar to me, such as ‘walk it back’. There’s no mention of the ones that irritate me most, which tend to be the language of an exclusive group (obviously not one I belong to) that is unthinkingly assumed to be universal (e.g. ‘lolcats’ or ‘man flu’).

My suggestion for the general avoidance of cliché is just not to try too hard. Sometimes an original metaphor may come to you, but generally straightforward, moderately formal language does the job best. Instead of ‘Your starter for ten’, you could just boringly say ‘We’ll start with…’. Instead of ‘lol’ you could just say ‘that’s funny’. The more straightforward the language, the wider the range of people it will communicate with. An association between clichés and in-groups may thus be avoided, and any tendency you have to assume a certain limited audience for what you want to say also challenged.