The importance of religious experience

Part 2: What’s going on when we experience anything?

The argument from religious experience is a very strong one. If I am experiencing now things in the external world – eg I can see trees and houses, and tables and chairs and people – then I am happy to accept that I am experiencing this table because there is a table in front of me. If I experience internal states – eg feeling happy or sad – I accept that I am indeed experiencing these emotions for real, as I know that this is what I’m experiencing, and, in nearly every case, I can give an explanation of why I’m experiencing these emotions. It would seem strange to be asked to validate these experiences of feelings as though it was possible to argue, “I know you’re feeling happy at the moment, but is it a “real” happiness or is it just something that you’re experiencing in your mind?”. With internal states, I know directly that what I’m experiencing is real, because I have access to my own mind, and with external realities, I am experiencing things in my mind because my senses have communicated them to me – eg I can see a table. There are some difficulties, for example, when people perceive external realities incorrectly, such as colour blindness, or are having hallucinations. However, these objections tend to be of the “on a technicality” basis, and for nearly everyone, nearly all the time, life in practice becomes impossible if we do not accept that the images in our minds exist there because we are sensing an actually existing external reality.

So, when I say that I am experiencing the presence of God, why should that experience be questioned? I experienced the table because there is a table; I experienced happiness because I am happy; I experience God’s presence because there is a God who is with me now.

Of course, God is in a special category here: a reality that is known directly in the mind, rather than communicated to us through our senses from the external reality of the physical world. This sets off alarm bells for many – but perhaps because they are refusing to accept this special category, whereas for believers, that’s why God is God – precisely because he is in a special category of his own. Nevertheless, it is a valid objection: if all the other things we experience directly in our minds are there because they are the product of our internal minds, then surely this must mean that God too is a product of our own minds, rather than an independently existing reality?

The importance of religious experience

(A theological and philosophical reflection in 6 parts)

The importance of religious experience

Part 1: Two options: “I’ve met God” or, “It’s just all in the mind”.

I have believed in God all my life. There have been periods of extreme doubt, when I could easily have given up, but I hung on in there. In recent years, even while teaching philosophy, which is very challenging to faith, I have felt very secure, and this is down to my confidence in the power of my religious experiences. This, ultimately, is the foundation of my faith: I experience his presence. I have no doubt at all about the reality of the religious experiences, and am happy to make the connection and say, “I experience the presence of God because there is a God”. Of course, the alternative explanation is that I have religious experiences – that is not in doubt – but the experiences have a psychological explanation. And in the alternative, there are always heavy overtones of “it’s just” a psychological experience. In many ways, this deflation is justified because the religious explanation is that the experiences have a supernatural explanation, so it is a direct counter to say, “No, there is no such thing as the supernatural; your religious experiences – though undoubtedly impressive – have an entirely natural, psychological explanation. It’s just all to do with how the mind works”.

Of course, it’s not a complete undermining of the believer’s position to say, “It’s just all in the mind”, for where else are we meant to experience anything except in our minds? Nevertheless, it is a valid alternative explanation, and, as I reflect now on my life, I want to consider as carefully as I can, the validity of my religious experiences. I have hung the validity of my faith on them, so I don’t want to have made a mistake!

Awestruck

Part 4: Whole

And so now, at the reflective end of my life (I mean, as opposed to the setting out, beginning, and striving, and lots to do end of my life) I am wondering what it would mean – and is it even possible – to stitch together these two aspects of my life into a coherent whole. On the one hand, I have the practicalities of my everyday living, and on the other hand I have my reflective wonder, just at being here. I feel that there is something broken, or torn, in the way these two things are separate in my mind. I am not berating myself: I may just be mistaken, and it may be an inevitable part of the mystery of life that this is just so. Yet I do feel that perhaps I could have done better. So, perhaps like an expert embroiderer fitting together different pieces of cloth into one extravagant whole, or maybe like a surgeon stitching together two sides of a wound that will not otherwise heal, I want to see if it is possible to fit the two sides together into one whole.

What would this mean? Again, I don’t really know. Not even sure what it is I’m trying to do – so how will I ever do it? Maybe, it’s like this:-

We must live with an awareness of the wonder of life. Of the sense of giftedness. Of the exultant joy and unplumbable depth of being here. We must look up regularly to give thanks, and allow deep gratitude to sink into the reservoirs of our souls, till, full to the brim, we overflow in springs of reverence for life.

And now the difficult bit. When we turn our attention from the wonder of the horizon to the intimate work of our hands and minds, this must not be a wrenching away of our attention from wonder, but a conscious pouring into this moment of the creative joy of being here. It is our particular expression of what it means to live. Our contribution to the whole. It is the unity of the finite with the infinite, of the temporary with the everlasting, of the particular with the universal. It is the creative task of choosing from the infinite possibilities of what I might do in this moment of time and place the particular thing that I want to do, and then committing myself to that, to produce something ourselves that is beautiful and good. Something that is ordinary and wonderful. It is the way that our everyday living produces something wonderful – something that cannot be seen when we are up too close to it, but it can only be viewed by looking back from a distance, and then we understand what this wonderful thing is that we are doing. The two things do belong together; each one creates the other. We do not have to be afraid that whenever we look at one we are losing the other. But I think, perhaps, it just is impossible to look at both at the same time, just as it’s impossible to look at the sun, and even when it’s setting, it’s still too bright until there is just the tiniest fragment left, for the last moment before it slips down out of sight. Such are the two aspects of our lives. Never seen together, yet utterly reliant on each other, we can understand their unity, even if we cannot see it. And, if not being torn in confusion, but gently resting in this understanding, though we cannot see their unity side by side, yet we can experience oneness.

Awestruck

Part 3: Stitching together

I may well just have made a mistake. I have noticed something – that life is ineffably wonderful – good – but have been knocked off course by this, when our task is to notice the beauty and then get on with what we’re doing. Certainly, up till now, I have found it impossible to do both things at the same time. And perhaps it just is impossible. And this discord that I have found – the thing that makes me feel torn – is just one of those mysteries of life that we cannot plumb. But I do want to consider now if it is possible to “stitch together” the two variations of awareness – our awareness of what we’re doing and our awareness of the wonder of being able to do anything. And I wondered just now if I have been “knocked off course” somehow, but this suggests a going wrong in some way. When perhaps I would be better to return to our starting illustration that I have been “stopped in my tracks”. We felt that that was an entirely positive and good experience.

So, I am puzzled, but not too distraught by this mysterious dilemma of wanting to place my attention in two mutually exclusive places, for I am aware that life is something that we do when we’re too busy to notice. As we pay our close attention to what it is that we’re doing, perhaps it is then that we are creating the precious wonder that we then notice the next time we look up. Yet, is there more? I don’t know. But I will explore and see what I can find.

At some point in my teenage years, I became overwhelmed by the beauty of nature and the wonder of life. I remember looking at flowers and the blossom on trees and I could not believe that anything could be so beautiful. This is “ordinary” life, yet it is so extravagantly extraordinary. No wonder, walking home from school, I would look up to the sky and it was just so overwhelmingly obvious that God was beaming down his love. How else could you explain this wonder and love?

Yet you have to go to work. And do the washing up. And go to work again. You get drawn into the tasks of building a career, of making a home, of building a family. You get drawn into routines and many things become oh so familiar. But still, at the corner of your vision, and when you have a moment to look up – and it only takes a moment – there is the wonder and beauty and joy of it all, and you discover that you have not lost it; it has not left you; it has been running alongside you in a racing wave of exhilaration, and of deep peace, keeping you company through all your busyness – though you were far too busy to notice its company – till you looked up again. And there it was. And there it is.

Awestruck

Part 2: Torn

But what if we could stitch together the everyday and the wonderful? I am tempted to say that all life has that awestruck quality to it, but I may be going too far, losing touch with reality – and certainly leaping ahead. For we are still struggling to make sense of what these awestruck moments mean, let alone claiming that all life is like that – not even, all life “should” be like that, but all life “is” like that. But, of course, I am being ridiculous. We enjoy sentiments such as, “All life is a prayer”, but our experiences of being awestruck are as they are precisely because they poleaxe us with their beauty, their wonder, and their rarity. (“Poleaxe” – a strangely violent illustration, yet somehow doing justice to being completely floored – perhaps in a spiritual rather than a physical way, cut in two). So, ridiculous to even suggest that, somehow, all life is like this. Yet, I have a peculiar intuition, just out of sight, around the corner of my mind, that I should blurt this out. What is it that I’m reaching for?

When I am on holiday, my greatest treat is to have the morning free to myself to read. We will have hired a villa somewhere with a beautiful view. My wife and daughters have each found their own favourite spot and will be enjoying themselves too, so I can mentally, “leave them at peace” and enjoy my free time. Compared to the busyness of my working life, this day of holiday is sheer bliss. I know we will meet up later for lunch and I will enjoy their company, but for now, this is all for me: the time and place, and the freedom. I want nothing more than to sit right here and read my book.

And my book is so absorbing and enriching. Yet, I look up often. Partly to admire the view, but also partly, to revel in the sense of time and place and freedom. So, I am torn. There is great joy in reading my book. But the greatest joy of the occasion is the time and place and freedom to read. If I focus my attention on the wonder of this freedom, I am not actually reading. Yet, if I read – loving every minute of it – I feel I am missing the opportunity to revel in the freedom of this time and place. Yet, if I do not read, I have an opportunity – and I love the opportunity – but I am not actually using the opportunity to do anything. This is an abiding problem for me. Life strikes me as so ineffably wonderful and beautiful that it demands and deserves my full attention to honour it with my devotion. Yet, I must also “do” something with the wonderful opportunity that life is offering to me. But while I am “busy” doing this, I am not aware of the preciousness of what it is I’m doing. I want to focus intently on what I’m doing, while also looking up and looking around me to value the context in which I am intently doing.

Awestruck

(A reflection in 4 parts)

Awestruck

Part 1: That moment

We all know the experience. We have stepped into a cathedral, and we stop in awe, looking at the vaulted ceiling, astounded by the sense of space, the cavern of air between the pillars. Or we are out on a walk in the countryside enjoying the beauty of nature, when we turn a corner and behold a vista of extraordinary beauty. We stop and stare in awe.

Notice, that we have been stopped in our tracks. There is something in the experience that forces us to be still. We sometimes say that air is “heavy” with scent, and in a similar way, the very air becomes heavy with beauty. We cannot – for a moment – press against it. Or, rather, it seems an offence to move, showing a lack of respect for the wonder of the moment. We must stop to do it justice, to honour it. We dare barely breathe lest we disturb the perfection of what we are experiencing.

We recognise that we have encountered something rare and precious. We feel anointed to be there and share something so special. Everything else fades away; it loses focus: all our attention is here and now. In a moment, the spell will crack, and normality begin to pour in through the fissures, but, for now, we are in an enchanted realm, that was here all along, and we have now stumbled into it. Our heart soars; the fences of our minds are blasted away, casting our vision to the far reaches of the horizon; yet, if we are alone, we may well kneel in silent reverent awe and devotion. To be alive to experience this, and to know it, and to be held in it.

These moments are, indeed, rare and precious. We do not quite know what to do with them, except treasure them in our hearts. But they are so very out of the ordinary that it’s just too hard to fit them together with our everyday lives – and so we don’t. Does the wonder of these moments mean that the rest of our lives are tawdry by comparison, or do they mean that these are truly “magical” moments, not connected to “real” life?