James R. AveriII

University of Massachusetts, Amherst

Spirituality: From the Mundane to the Meaningful-and Back

Journal of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology, 1999, 18, 101-126.

In an address, one should try to make one or two, at the most three, central points. I am about to ignore that good
advice. During the course of this presentation, I will address the following eight questions:
1.What features distinguish spirituality from other psychological phenomena?
2.Can spirituality be explained in terms of ordinary psychological processes?
3.Is spirituality a way of feeling or a way of knowing?
4.Are there realities that we do not, and perhaps cannot, understand?
5.What are the farthest reaches of human understanding?
6.Is the ultimate reality itself spiritual (e.g., God, The One, Brahman, or any of a myriad of lesser entities)?
7.If not, why is the postulation of a spiritual world so prevalent?
8.What relevance does spirituality have for science?

I will not address these questions directly, but they are implicit in what I have to say. At the end of the
presentation, I will answer them explicitly.

Some Personal Background

I approach the topic of spirituality with some ambivalence, so let me start with an explanation. Over the past few
years, I have been involved in a series of projects for the Forest Service. These projects have focused on
theoretical or conceptual issues involved in land management. My role has been as a kind of phiIosophicaI-
psychoIogicaI consultant, such as recommended by Slife and Williams (1997).

The Forest Service has a problem. If a piece of land is to be set aside for a park or wilderness area, it is

relatively easy to determine its monetary value if commercially developed. But commercial interests are not the
only interests that must be taken into account. Thus, if one were to do a cost-benefit analysis, what kinds of
benefits, other than monetary value, does the land afford?

One approach to this question is known as contingent valuation. To give a much oversimplified example,

people might be asked how much they would contribute to preserve a natural resource-the bald eagle, say, and its
habitat. That value, summed over the relevant population, provides an estimate, in monetary terms, of the value
of the resource vis-à-vis commercial interests. Much sophisticated work has been devoted to refining techniques
of contingent valuation, and for many purposes, it is a valuable tool. However, it also possesses an inherent
Imitation; namely, it takes monetary value as the common metric against which all other values are to be
compared. The analysis is thus biased before it even begins.

When people are asked to list the benefits they derive from the natural environment, they frequently

mention happiness, aesthetic appreciation, and spirituality. Those are the topics with which I have been
concerned. Analyses of happiness and aesthetics have been published (AveriII & More, 1992; AveriII, Stanat, &
More, 1998). In this paper, I focus on spirituality.

Having explained the specific impetus for this presentation, I must now explain the source of my

ambivalence. I do not like bandwagons, and spirituality is currently a bandwagon. If you want a book on the best-
seller List, propose a new diet, mention "soul" in the title, or preferably both, as in the popular series Chicken
Soup for the Soul. Angels are definitely in, even making the cover of Newsweek magazine.

Of course, it is not only the popular literature that deals with spirituality. A focused search of the

PSYCHINFO data base for the 10-year period from 1988-1997 yielded 746 entries for "spirituality." To provide a
point of reference, during the same period there were 940 entries under the heading of sexuality. And now that
"religious or spiritual problem" has been made a (nonpathological) category in the Diagnostic and Statistical
Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV) of the American Psychiatric Association (1994), I suspect that the treatment
of spiritual difficulties will rival the treatment of sexual difficulties.

I have yet to mention the most important body of Literature on spirituality, namely, that found in traditional

philosophical and religious works. William James's Varieties of Religious Experience (1902/1961) is still, in my
opinion, the best introduction to this topic. Many other surveys and commentaries are also worth noting (e.g.,
Bucke, 1901/1961; HuxIey, 1985; Laski, 1968; Otto, 1923/1958; Zaehner, 1957). And for the truly ambitious reader,
there is the 25-voIume series, World spirituality; an encyclopedic history of the religious quest, 14 volumes of
which have been published thus far under the general editorship of Ewert Cousins (1985-present). Is it possible to
say anything new about a topic that already has been so thoroughly dissected and analyzed? When I started this
project, I thought I might be able to say something original. Most of my research career has been devoted to such
topics as stress, coping, and emotion. In recent years, I have been particularly interested in novel yet adaptive
emotional responses - in short, emotional creativity (AveriII & Thomas-KnowIes, 1991; AveriII & NunIey, 1992).
Spiritual experiences clearly fall within that category (e.g., AveriII, in press, Study 4).

I learned long ago, however, that whenever I believe I have a truly original idea, a few hours in any good

library will disabuse me of the pretension. That was certainly the case with spirituality. Much of what I have to
say today has been said by others, and in a manner more eloquent than I can hope to achieve. My only excuse
for not stopping at this point is that the issues raised by spirituality are often misrepresented in the popular
Literature and unadvisedly dismissed by academic psychologists as irrelevant to their science.

Three Features of Spirituality

One assignment that I give to students in courses that I teach on stress and emotion is to analyze an

unusual or particularly significant emotional experience. The episodes described are often spiritual in nature. The
following is an example. The student, a woman in her forties, was alone with the sick husband of a neighbor
when he died. Rather than finding the experience frightening, she found it "enlightening." Having given birth to
children of her own, the death of her neighbor's husband highlighted for her the "progressive yet repetitive" cycle
of life. Later that evening, the following events occurred:

I spent a few moments out in the front field with the stars and the darkness. The union with reality was exhilarating. Life made
sense. Recycling was a beautiful word. The thrill of being part of the world and universe in this form was an honor. The
spiritual feeling was not an abstraction from the world of things. Rather, it was part of what I felt was me totality. It offered
an increased wisdom and steadfastness. It offered a more profound understanding of my own existence. It did not suffer
from the arrogant subjectivism of common sense. A trait I normally valued very highly. I felt a union with reality which went to
the very core of my Life.

This episode illustrates three features that characterize most, if not all, spiritual experiences: a sense of vitality
(the experience was "exhilarating," a "thrill"), connectedness ("a union with reality"), and meaningfulness
("increased wisdom," "profound understanding"). These features do not exhaust the rich web of connotations that
spirituality has for many people (such as prizing nonmaterial over material goods), but they do provide the basis
for a definition that is neither too restrictive nor too inclusive. Each feature is explained more fully below.

Vitality

The English term "spirit" is recent and culturally localized, but the concept for which it stands is both ancient and
culturally widespread. As described by Smith (1988), the ancient terms related to 'spirit' - ruach in Hebrew,
psyche and pneuma in Greek, and anima and spiritus in Latin - drew on concepts related to air or breathe to
characterize metaphorically the principle of Life. However, vitality implies more than simply living; slugs and
jellyfish are vital in that sense, but I doubt they are prone to spirituality. The vitality of spirituality involves the
power to create, about which I will have more to say later.

Connectedness

Next to vitality, a feeling of connectedness or union with a reality beyond oneself is perhaps the most commonly
mentioned characteristic of spiritual experiences. The union has often been likened to love; and, indeed, sexual
union is a common trigger for spiritual experiences. However, spiritual love has little to do with sensual
gratification; it is ostensibly unconditional or disinterested-Like parental of filial Love. And the "other" with whom
one feels connected need not be a person, but may be conceived broadly, for example, as God, Nature, the One,
or Brahman. Connectedness between oneself and an other presumes unity within the self, at least at the time of
connection. Hence, the sense of connectedness characteristic of spiritual experiences has both an inner and an
outer aspect. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the distinction between inner and outer becomes
moot.

Meaningfulness

Spiritual experiences are almost always described as meaningful, enlightening, even Life-transforming. But in what
sense, meaningful? Consider the following set of Letters:

P R I S T U L I A

These Letters could form a meaningful word, but they do not-at Least not until they are rearranged as
follows:

S P I R I T U A L

What makes the latter set of Letters meaningful and the former not? Following Wittgenstein, we might say that
SPIRITUAL has use as part of a language game, whereas PRISTUIIA does not. Spirituality is, of course, more
than a word, but the same principle applies; that is, an experience is meaningful when it is contextualized as part of
a larger activity.

To say that an event is meaningful does not necessarily imply that the meaning is readily apparent.

Imagine an archeologist who comes across some lines etched in stone. How might she recognize the Lines as a
meaningful inscription as opposed to marks caused by erosion? One indication would be if the same pattern were
repeated in different locations--in short, if the Lines formed an ordered rather than random sequence. The
archeologist might still not know what the Lines meant, only that they meant something. The mere recognition of

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meaningfulness, however, might be sufficient to transform the way the archeologist viewed the people she was
studying (they had a written language), and her career might be changed accordingly (e.g., setting her on a life-
long quest to decipher the meaning of the inscriptions).

The situation is similar with respect to spiritual experiences: What was formerly a set of disorganized

reactions is now experienced as a coherent part of a larger whole, even if its precise meaning remains to be
deciphered.

Related Phenomena

Mysticism. Spiritual experiences can range from the very mild to full-blown mystical states. The latter have

received considerable attention from philosophers in recent years (e.g., Katz, 1992; Stace, 1960; Forman, 1990).
Therefore, in the discussion that follows I draw heavily on analyses of mystical experiences help clarify the nature
of spirituality. It should be recognized at the outset, however, that an experience can be spiritual without being
mystical (but not vice versa).

Religion. Spirituality is often conflated with religiosity. However, religion is neither a necessary nor sufficient

condition for spirituality: A person can have spiritual, even mystical experiences without being religious; and,
conversely, a person can be religious without being in the least spiritual. Religious creeds and institutions may
facilitate and legitimize spiritual experiences, but when religious dogma replaces creativity, spirituality can no
longer thrive.

Wonder. Spirituality shares with wonder a sense of reverence and awe in the face of grandeur, and a thirst

for knowledge about the unknown (Hepburn, 1980). But unlike spirituality, wonder remains rooted in our sensory
and intellectual activities. Wonder focuses on an object, and the more unique and resplendent the object, the
more likely it is to excite wonder. Spirituality, on the other hand, transcends the distinction between self and object
(see, especially, the criterion of unity or connectedness).

Aesthetics. Bourque and Back (1971) hypothesized that "ecstatic transcendental experiences" would be

described as either aesthetic or religious-mystical depending on a person's position in the social order, for
example, high versus low socioeconomic status. In a national survey, they found only partial support for this
hypothesis. However, their basic idea is undoubtedly correct-many people eschew the term "spiritual" because of
its religious or "new age" connotations. The psychiatrist, Viktor Frankl (1069/1988) illustrates this point well. He
used the terms "noological" or "noetic" to refer to the spiritual dimension of human experience, expressly because
he wanted to avoid any religious connotations (p. 17). Frankl's concern was more professional than personal, but
his unease with the term "spiritual" is shared by many people. Spiritual experiences are thus often called by
another name, "aesthetic" being only one possibility.

A Working Definition

In summary, a spiritual experience is marked by feelings of vitality and creativity; a sense of connectedness, both
within the self and between the self and an other; and a realization that life has meaning. Spiritual experiences
may range from the very mild to the mystical; and although often associated with religion, they presume no
particular religious creed or belief in a "higher power."

Incidence and Occasions

Full-blown mystical experiences are rare, as are extreme experiences of any kind. Experiences that border on the
mystical are, however, common. In a national survey, Greeley (1974) found that 35 percent of the American
people reported having had at least one mystical-like experience ("felt as though you were very close to a
powerful, spiritual force that seemed to lift you our of yourself), and about 5 percent had such experiences
repeatedly. This figure accords well with the results of other surveys (see Lukoff, Lu, & Turner, 1998, for a
summary).

If we include more mild episodes, then it is safe to say that everyone has experiences that could qualify

as spiritual. How often is difficult to say. Spirituality is a fuzzy category and, for reasons discussed earlier, people
often eschew the term spiritual when describing relevant experiences, preferring instead to use such terms as
aesthetic, wonderful, inspiring, or meaningful.

Occasions for Spiritual Experiences

Just as spiritual experiences are common, so, too, are the events that trigger them ubiquitous. The most
^common triggers can be divided into four broad categories: (a) religious or meditative practices, such as •prayer,
attending church services, or moments of quiet reflection; (b) aesthetic objects, especially music and , grandeurs
of nature; (c) personal relationships, for example, sharing intimacies, making love; and (d) creative work (Greeley,
1974; Laski, 1968).

Not all occasions for spiritual experiences are positive. In a national survey of 1,503 persons, Borque

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and Back (1971) found that about 15% to 20% of spiritual experiences involved situations of danger, > reversals of
fortune, or the death of a loved one. And this is probably an underestimate, for the context of an experience is often
not distinguished from the immediate trigger. For example, the death of a loved one may provide the context,
whereas an aesthetic object or religious service may provide the immediate trigger. Indeed, if the context is
sufficient, then even the most mundane event can trigger a profound experience,

:

provided the person is

predisposed by temperament or prior training. The complex interplay of predisposing \factors, surrounding context,
and immediate triggers is well illustrated by the following example reported by a student:

Suddenly, abruptly without warning, an extremely powerful force catapulted my consciousness into a realm unknown,
unfamiliar and light years beyond the present time. Either my body and mind merged, or I was unaware of any
separateness. The details of this aspect of the experience are fuzzy, but somehow important. My consciousness was
spinning, turning, traveling so fast that another realm was reached quickly yet farther away than many of the planets in
our solar system. Without transition, a kind of destination or reality was experienced more than arrived at. . . . After a few
seconds that spanned the farther reaches of time, I knew, understood, experienced infinity for both a moment and for all
time. The ending seemed appropriate to the experience, not abrupt but a logical sequence following from the experience. I
was back in present reality yet, the intensity of the experience remained with me for over a day. An aura of light and
power surrounded my entire being and gradually, slowly disappeared. . . . Parts of this experience are profound, others
almost absurd. . . . [But] never has there been any doubt regarding the reality of this experience. The feeling of certitude
remains; there is an existence after death!

The immediate occasion for this experience-described as one of the most significant of her life-was

cleaning the bathtub. But to leave the matter at that would be very misleading. Before the episode occurred, the
student, a young mother, had experimented with yoga, meditation, and drugs. Moreover, her daughter had
recently been diagnosed with a serious chronic illness, which was a source of considerable anxiety. The interests
of the daughter now took precedence over self-interests. Given these background conditions, the concentration
and repetitive activity involved in the mundane activity of cleaning a bathtub was sufficient to trigger a profound
spiritual experience.

This point is important, for it shifts the focus of analysis from the immediate situation to personal and

intrapsychic processes.

Toward an Explanation of Spiritual Experiences

The three features of spirituality mentioned earlier (vitality, connectedness, meaningfulness) are surface

phenomena. They describe; they do not explain. When it comes to explaining spiritual experiences, two
approaches are, I believe, both necessary and sufficient. The first interprets spirituality as an expression of human
nature; the second, as an expansion of the self-as-origin (a rather enigmatic notion that I will explain shortly).
These two approaches are not mutually exclusive, but they do have a somewhat different range of applicability.
In particular, the first approach- spirituality as an expression of human nature-is more applicable to what, for
want of a better term, might be called the "spirituality of everyday life"; the second approach- spirituality as an
expansion of the self-as-origin-is more applicable to the kind of experiences reported by mystics.

Spirituality as an Expression of Human Nature

In one common use of the term, "spirit" implies the "essence" or fundamental characteristic of an object

or condition-as when we speak of the spirit of an age. In this sense, "the human spirit" refers to "human nature"
in its most fundamental aspects. But what is human nature? There can be no set answer to this question, for
human beings are in a continual state of evolution, if not biologically, then socially. We can, however, indicate the
kinds of variables that are relevant to the question.

To facilitate discussion, I will draw on some of the ideas of Carl Jung (1935/1935; 1984) who, more than

most psychologists, has taken spirituality seriously. Jung conceived of spirituality primarily in terms of the
collective unconscious and the Self. (The Self in Jungian terms is not to be confused with the self-concept as
typically discussed by psychologists.) Very briefly, the collective unconscious and its archetypes represent what is
common to all humans, the universal in human nature, as distinct from the cognitive accouterments acquired
during socialization and individual experience. Jung believed that many spiritual practices and beliefs, such as
myths, rituals, and religious symbols, are archetypical in origin. Specifically, when archetypes are projected onto
other people or objects in the environment, powerful emotions may be evoked. Being based on universal themes,
these emotions seem to transcend the individual, and, being fundamental, they are highly meaningful, even
though the meaning may not be immediately apparent.

The archetypes influence not just the way people perceive events, but also the way they respond

behaviorally. Succinctly stated, an archetype is an "instinct's perception of itself," (Jung, 1936/1969, p. 136,
emphasis in original); that is, the apprehension of a situation and the impulse to act are both "aspects of the
same vital activity" (p. 138).

Rather than focusing on cognitive constructs (archetypes) we could thus focus on the systems of

behavior (instincts) the constructs represent. This is the approach taken by Kirkpatrick (in press) who relates
religious sentiments to attachment as a behavioral system. Attachment behavior is particularly relevant to the

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striving for union, which is so characteristic of spiritual experiences. But attachment is only one among "many
behavioral systems, even on the biological level, as the long and inconclusive list of Jungian archetypes
suggests; and there is no reason to assume that spirituality is the exclusive province of any one system. For
example, to sacrifice-which literally means to make sacred - has been an important element in many traditional
spiritual practices, and the sacrifice has often involved killing another human being. Humans are an aggressive
as well as a loving species, and historically, making war has been a close second to making love as a path to
spirituality (Young, 1991).

Nor need we limit consideration to biological systems of behavior. For human beings to flourish, social

and psychological systems are as important as the biological(Averill, 1990). At birth, human infants are
relatively unstructured-"world open." That is one of the greatest biological adaptations of our species. But such
openness cannot endure if the person is to survive. Socialization and idiosyncratic learning rapidly provide
structure to the child's world. In the words of Marx (1 956), "It is not the consciousness of men that determines
their being, but, on the contrary, their social being determines their consciousness" (p. 51). That is an
overstatement; nevertheless, it serves to highlight the fact that "archetypical" experiences are not limited to the
biological realm, but may encompass the core constructs of a person's cognitive system, no matter how those
constructs were acquired.

To summarize briefly, spirituality - at least in some of its manifestations - represents the flourishing of

the individual, the exercise of his or her capacities, whatever their origins. Needless to say, not all capacities can
be exercised at once. The exercise of the capacity may preclude the exercise of another. The important thing is that
the person be challenged, effort expended, and concentration focused. The result is what Maslow (1963)
labeled a "peak experience" and Csikszentmihalyi (1990) calls "flow"-spiritual experiences by other names.

The above account may explain many but not all spiritual experiences. Many spiritual traditions teach

that the person seeking enlightenment must cease all worldly strivings in order to reach a higher (spiritual) plane
of reality. The following passage by the ninth century Hindu, Shankara, is representative:

The truth of Brahman may be understood intellectually. But (even in those who understand) the desire for personal
separation is deep-rooted and powerful, for it exists from the beginning of time. It creates the notion, 'I am the
actor, I am he who experiences.' This notion is the cause of bondage to conditional existence, birth and death. It
can be removed only by the earnest effort to live constantly in union with Brahman. By the sages, the eradication of
this notion and the craving for personal separateness is called Liberation. (Quoted by Huxley, 1 985, p. 22)

Within a Jungian framework, the kind of experience fostered by such spiritual teachings is attributed to the

emergence of the Self. The Self is an archetype, but one more fundamental and encompassing than any other. It
is the principle that integrates the diverse elements of personality into a harmonious whole, and the individual into
the whole of nature. Smith (1990) has compared Jung's concept of the Self to the Hindu concept of atman, which
is the center or ground of the individual and also a manifestation of Brahman, the infinite ground of all being. On a
more mundane level, the Self bears resemblance to the self-actualizing tendencies postulated by Rogers (1961)
and Maslow (1963), among others.

The postulation of a single tendency toward integration or self-actualization cannot be accepted without

qualification. A biological analogy may help to illustrate the problem. Members of a species act in ways that, in
the long run, help to preserve and enhance the species. However, there are no unitary "species-actualizing"
tendencies, only a cacophony of quasi-independent systems of behavior, the net result of which is better
adaptation to the environment.

Needless to say, individual human beings grow and mature in ways that species do not. For example,

during fetal development, specialized tissues and organs emerge from an undifferentiated mass of cells and are
in turn integrated into a working whole. Psychological development, too, involves a complex interplay of both
differentiating and integrating tendencies. But the issue is not whether integration is an important part of
individual development, for it certainly is. The issue is, rather, whether integration- any more than
differentiation-is the expression of a single underlying tendency, such as Jung's archetypical Self. Jung based
his conclusions about the Self on analyses of myths and legends, as well as on the dreams of patients. Also on
the basis of ancient texts, other theorists have reached a quite different conclusion, namely, that an integrated
sense of self is a cultural artifact, not an inherent part of human nature (e.g., Adkins, 1970; Jaynes, 1976).
Simply put, there is no more reason to postulate a single self-integrating tendency than to postulate its opposite,
a single self-differentiating tendency.

But if we reject the notion of a unitary drive toward integration or self-actualization, how are we to

account for the experience of oneness and lack of differentiation that characterizes mystical experiences?

Spirituality as an Expansion of the Self-as-Origin

Charles Tart (1995) provides a convenient starting point for an analysis of this issue. Tart has describes

how, in the early 1970s, a Tibetan lama advised him to look for the "space between thoughts." Tart believes
everyone has fleeting moments of such spaces, which are not to be confused with the suppression of thought or
simple blankness. However, to cultivate such moments, and to hold them in consciousness, is no easy matter.
Only after considerable time and effort did Tart acquire the skill to produce them at will; and having fully

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experienced the spaces between thoughts, he now compares everyday waking experience to that of a zombie -
a being devoid of spirit.

But what, exactly, occupies the space between thoughts? To address this question, a distinction needs

to be made between the subject- and object-poles of experience. The subject-pole is the point in space and time
at which an experience originates. For example, if I see a tree in the distance, I am aware not only of the tree,
which is the object of my experience, but also that the experience is occurring here and now. The subject-pole
has no content in the ordinary sense, but it does enter into consciousness as a feeling of origination. We can
have a presentiment of origination, but no clear idea of it (pace Descartes), for once we try to represent the
subject-pole, it recedes into the background and the self becomes an in intentional object, like the tree in the
above example.

We can now return to Tart and the "space between thoughts." Broadly speaking, thoughts constitute the

object-pole of experience; to think at all is to think of something. If thought could be eliminated, during those
moments all that would remain in experience is the subject-pole-a presentiment of the self as the origin of
experience. The self-as-origin is not to be confused with Jung's archetypical Self, discussed earlier, nor with the
self as an object of experience, which is a product of a person's self-concept. In the theological literature, the self-
as-origin is typically interpreted as an immaterial entity (e.g., the soul or atman) that imparts life to an otherwise
inanimate body. At the other metaphysical extreme, the self-as-origin has been interpreted as a kind of
nothingness: "There is no such substratum; there is no 'being' behind the doing, effecting, becoming; 'the doer' is
merely a fiction added to the deed - the deed is everything" (Nietzsche, 1887/1969, p. 45). But of course, there is
something behind the doing. Psychologically speaking, that something is the capacities of the person for
perception and action, reverberating in consciousness as the origin or subject-pole of experience.

How is expansion of the self-as-origin possible? The subject- and object-poles of experience stand in a

reciprocal relation to each other-if one is diminished, the other expands. From this perspective, then, the key to
mystical experiences is to be found in the deconstruction of the object-pole (cf. Deikman, 1969). The object-pole
presumes a system of cognitive constructs ("thoughts") by which objects are constituted and related to one
another. Systems of cognitive constructs can be aligned along two axes-differentiation and integration.
Differentiation refers to the number of discrete constructs within the system; integration refers to the linkage
between constructs. As illustrated in Figure 1 (upper left quadrant), deconstruction of the object-pole, and hence
increased spirituality, is associated with increasing levels of integration, but decreasing levels of differentiation.

Figure 1. A two-dimensional representation of cognitive systems. Phenomenologically, spirituality increases as
constructs within a system become more integrated (linked with other, more remote constructs) and less
differentiated (have more inclusive and permeable boundaries).

Imagine a state of consciousness where integration is complete, and there is no differentiation between

constructs. Ex hypothesi, there would be no object-pole to the experience; however, the subject-pole-a sense of
origination-would remain, indeed, would increase in prominence. One possible result would be the kind of
experience described by mystics the world over. (Other possible results, which will be discussed shortly, are an
acute anxiety attack or depressive episode.)

Deconstructing our cognitive apparatus is no easy task, especially because some of our constructs are

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Spirituality

"hardwired," the product of biological evolution (cf. Jung's archetypes discussed earlier). Indeed, according to
Katz (1992) insufficient evidence exists to substantiate the claim that even mystical experiences lack structure.
Katz points out that the only record we have of such experiences is what the mystic says, and that a careful
reading of mystical reports reveals a subtle but uneliminable influence of ideological and cultural factors. Only by
abstracting from the record, or by focusing on isolated passages, do commonalities emerge across mystical
traditions, and hence an apparent lack of mediation.

Tart (1995) would of course disagree. So, too, does Rothberg (1990), who points to the lengthy and

rigorous training that often precedes the attainment of a full mystical experience. We should at least accept as a
possibility, Rothberg argues, that such training is on occasion successful'.

However this dispute is resolved, if it is even resolvable, the following conclusion seems warranted:

Spirituality, especially in the more mystical extremes, involves a progressive integration of a person’s cognitive

system with little differentiation among whatever constructs might remain, as a result, the self-as-origin becomes

an increasingly salient aspect of experience.

Explaining versus Explaining Away

I have now offered two types of explanation for spiritual experiences, namely, as a manifestation of

human nature (an expression of vital functions) and as an expansion of the self-as-origin (through deconstruction
of the object-pole of experience). These explanations differ in important respects; in particular, deconstruction of
the object-pole of experience cannot be considered a natural part of human nature. The distinction, however, is not
without precedent. Based on an analysis of drug-induced states, Fischer (1971) distinguished between two
conditions, one ergotropic (high physiological arousal) and the other trophotropic (low arousal), both of which can
lead to mystic-like experiences. Fischer's distinction may be mapped onto the present one in the following
manner: Spirituality as an expression of human nature typically involves active engagement with the environment
and hence high arousal, whereas deconstruction of the object-pole of experience typically requires disengagement
(as in meditation) and hence low arousal.

The two types of explanation are not, however, mutually exclusive. When completely involved in an

activity, other aspects of consciousness recede into the background, making room, so to speak, for an expansion
of the self-as-origin. Moreover, through the activation of opponent processes, a state of high arousal can prime
the individual for the opposite state, which fact may help explain why spiritual experiences sometimes follow
situations of danger or extreme exertion.

But whatever the underlying mechanisms, at this point a general objection might be raised. By explaining

spiritual experiences in terms of ordinary psychological processes, have I not trivialized spirituality, robbed it of its
meaning? I do not believe so.

Whether an explanation diminishes or enhances an experience depends less on the nature of the

explanation than on the interests and purposes of the observer, that is, the person having the experience. Is the
enjoyment of a meal diminished by knowledge of the ingredients and their manner of preparation? For the casual
diner, perhaps, but not for an aspiring chef.

To take a more serious example, are the beauties of a rainbow diminished by an understanding of optics?

As great a thinker as Goethe seemed to think so. In 1810, he published a two volume work, Zur Farbenlehre,
attacking Newton's theory of color, and thus demonstrating, in the words of Boring (1950), "what assiduity will do
when backed by self-assurance" (p. 20).

Goethe was a poet and playwright as well as a naturalist. He was an astute observer, but his interests

were more in the phenomenology than in the physics or physiology of experience. I do not know whether Newton
ever commented on the topic, but if he had, I suspect he would say that an understanding of optics enhanced
rather than diminished his experiences of color.

Spiritual experiences go to the very core of our being and our place in the world. Any explanation that

seems to diminish their importance will rightly be resisted. However, nothing I have said thus far need diminish the
importance of spiritual experiences, any more than the study of optics need diminish the appreciation of color.
That depends on the interests of the observer, not on the nature of the explanation.

Spirituality in the Broader Scheme of Things

Earlier, I commented on the relation between spirituality, on the one hand, and experiences such as

wonder and aesthetics, on the other. Those comparisons were lateral-among sister species within the same
genus, so to speak. I now want to look upward in the hierarchy. To what genus-or genera-does spirituality
belong? I will explore two possibilities: Spirituality as a way of feeling and as a way of knowing.

Spirituality as a Way of Feeling

Few people would deny that spiritual experiences are emotional. That, however, does not tell us much,

for emotions form a heterogeneous category. Emotions can be distinguished according to whether they are self-
focused, other-focused, or self-transcending. In self-focused emotions, of which pride, shame, guilt, and shyness

7

are prime examples, the self is made the object of the emotion (Lewis, 1993). For example, when proud, I feel 5
good about my self; and when ashamed, I feel bad about my self. Because emotions of this type accentuate | the
difference between self and other, they are inimical to spiritual experiences. (Note that in this context the self
refers to an object of experience and is not be confused with Jung's archetypical Self or with the self-as- origin
discussed in the previous section.)

Other focused emotions are the most common variety. Examples include love, grief, fear, awe, reverence,

anger and the like. Many emotions of this type are compatible with spiritual experiences; in fact, they often form part
of the context in which spiritual experiences occur (e.g., following bereavement or a brush with death). But the
relation can be more than contextual. When "caught up" in an other-focused emotion, a person may "forget" his or
her own self, and. especially if the results are positive, interpret the experience as spiritual. Such a state of
affairs was implicit in our earlier discussion of spirituality as a manifestation of human nature.

Both self- and other-focused emotions presuppose well-established ego boundaries, or cognitive

structures. If the cognitive structures which help define the self-as-object are disrupted, whether through
meditation, drugs, traumatic experiences, or whatever, the individual becomes engulfed in an undifferentiated
flood of experience. This defines the class of self-transcending emotions, of which mystical experiences are one
example. Anxiety and depression also belong in this category.

Consider the following three descriptions: The first, by an anonymous physician, involves an acute

anxiety attack; the second, by the composer, Hector Berlioz, a period of depression; and the third, by the author,
Arthur Koestler, a spiritual experience.

It is as difficult to describe to others what an acute anxiety state feels like as to convey to the inexperienced ' the feeling of
falling in love. Perhaps the most characteristic impression is the constant state of causeless and apparently meaningless
alarm. You feel as if you were on the battlefield or had stumbled against a wild animal in the dark, and all the time you are
conversing with your fellows in normal and peaceful surroundings and performing duties you have done for years. With
this your head feels vague and immense and stuffed with cotton wool; it is difficult, and trying, to concentrate; and, most
frightening of all, the quality of your sensory appreciation of the universe undergoes an essential change (an anonymous
physician, quoted by Landis & Metier, 1964, pp. 241-242).

It is difficult to put into words what I suffered-the longing that seemed to be tearing my heart out by the roots,
the dreadful sense of being alone in an empty universe, the agonies that thrilled through my me as if the blood
were running ice-cold in my veins, the disgust with living, the impossibility of dying. ... I had stopped
composing; my mind seemed to become feebler as my feelings grew more intense. I did nothing. One power
was left to me – to suffer (Berlioz, quoted by Jamison, 1993, p. 19)

The infinite is an infinite mass shrouded in a haze. The significance of this fact swept over me like a wave. The wave had
originated in an articulate verbal insight; but this evaporated at once leaving in its wake only a wordless essence, a fragrance
of eternity . . . . Then I was floating on my back in a river of peace under bridges of silence. It came from nowhere and flowed
nowhere. Then there was no river and no I. The I had ceased to exist . . . . The ‘I’ ceases to exist because it has, by a kind of
mental osmosis, established communication with, and has been dissolved in, the universal pool. (Koestler, 1954, p. 351-352)

There obviously are marked differences in affective tone between these experiences. But there are also

noteworthy similarities. Each involves powerful feelings that seem to engulf the individual, unbidden; sensations

and perceptions no longer conform to actual events; the total experience is ineffable, that is, difficult to describe in

ordinary language; and there is an actual or impending dissolution of the self-as-object (the "I" and its

accouterments).

Other similarities could be mentioned between anxiety, depression, and spirituality. As mentioned earlier,

situations of danger and bereavement, which typically elicit anxiety and depression, are also common occasions
for spiritual experiences. (For example, Koestler's experience occurred while he was in a Phalangist prison
during the Spanish civil war, faced with possible execution as a spy.) It is also a common observation that anxiety
and depression frequently accompany incipient or deficient mystical endeavors (what John of the Cross,
1618/1987, called 'dark nights of the soul, or what William James, 1902/1961, discussed under the category
of "The Sick Soul").

What tips the balance so that spirituality rather than anxiety or depression is experienced? A person's

temperament and related neurophysiological mechanisms undoubtedly play a major role. Otherwise, there
would not be such great individual differences in the ability (or susceptibility) to have such experiences, nor would
drugs have the influence they do. A person's belief system-implicit or explicit, secular or religious – also helps
determine the nature of the experience. Koestler's spiritual experience, cited above, provides a good example. He
saw a kind of justice in his imprisonment and possible execution, for he had, in fact, worked as a propagandist to
defeat the Phalangists. This belief, he indicates, helped alleviate "the long periods of inner darkness, petty
resentments and fear" (p. 357) that he also experienced while in prison. Finally, a person's habitual modes of
coping, and the affordances provided by the immediate situation, must also be taken into account. When cognitive
structures are threatened with collapse, a person can seek to escape; give up in despair; or embrace the
dissolution as a sign of union with a more encompassing reality.

Depending on which tendency predominates, the result may be anxiety, depression, or a spiritual

experience. The relation between anxiety, depression, and spiritual experiences is obviously more complex than
these few remarks suggest. But I emphasize the similarities for two reasons. The first is to help demystify
spirituality. Anxiety and depression illustrate the fragility of our cognitive structures; spirituality capitalizes on that

8

same fragility. Second, few people are tempted to interpret either anxiety or depression as providing insight into
an ultimate reality. I believe that temptation should be resisted in the case of spiritual experiences also.

But here a critic might interject: Spirituality is not simply a way of feeling, it is also a way of knowing (cf.

James, 1902/1961); and knowing implies a reality that is known.

Spirituality as a Way of Knowing

Everyday knowledge is mediated by cognitive constructs. Spiritual knowledge, by contrast, is often described as
an unmediated apprehension of the "true" meaning or essence of things. Recall the description by the student
quoted earlier of her experience as she was cleaning the bathtub: "After a few seconds that spanned the farther
reaches of time, I knew, understood, experienced infinity for both a moment and for all time. . . . [N]ever has
there been any doubt regarding the reality of this experience. The feeling of certitude remains; there is an
existence after death!" How are we to interpret such claims to knowledge?

At this point, a post-modernist might point to the relativity of all knowledge, and, relatedly, to the social

construction of reality through discourse. But that is not the course I wish to take, for I must admit that I do not
fully understand post-modernism (and to the extent that it treats science as just another form of discourse, and
reality as a mere construction, I have serious misgivings). However, in addressing claims to knowledge, whether
by mystic, scientist, or anyone else, I do believe the relevant starting point is ordinary language. I therefore draw
on John Austin's (1946/1961) analysis of how the statements, "I know" and "I believe," are used in everyday
discourse.

Austin points out that there is no necessary difference between objects of knowledge and objects of

belief--what one person knows, another may only believe. Also, a person may act in much the same way, based
on either knowledge or belief. Perhaps knowledge involves a special cognitive process that belief does not.
Austin also rejects this possibility. To say "I know," he points out, is not the same as saying, "I have performed a
specially striking feat of cognition, superior, in the same scale as believing and being sure, even to being merely
quite sure." For example, when on the scale of probability does belief suddenly change to knowledge - at 90%,
99%, 99.9%? Or is 100% certainty required? If so, few people could claim knowledge about anything, which, of
course, we all do in everyday affairs, and legitimately so (Hume's skepticism notwithstanding).

Wherein, then, does the difference between knowledge and belief lie? Austin compares statements of

knowledge to promises. Saying "I know" is like signing a promissory note or offering a guarantee. It is a social act
that cannot be reduced to intrapsychic (cognitive) processes. Of course, due to changed circumstances, I may
ultimately be proved wrong in a claim to knowledge, just as I may be forced to renege on a promise or forfeit on a
guarantee. But at the time I claim knowledge I cannot also admit uncertainty. The statement, "I know that such
and such is the case, but I may be wrong," violates accepted social practice, the language game in which claims
to knowledge have meaning.

Knowledge is not unique in its promissory quality. Love, for example, is not simply an intense form of liking

(Averill, 1985), nor is anger an intense form of annoyance (Averill, 1982)-avowals of both love and anger carry a
commitment in much the same way that a claim to knowledge does. Or, to put the matter conversely, claims to
knowledge and avowals of emotion share important features in common. Once this is recognized, the focus of
analysis shifts: The noetic quality of a spiritual experience is not attributable to some special insight into "a higher
plane of reality," but, rather, to a sincere and almost unshakable faith that the experience is self-validating -as is
the case with other emotional avowals.

Does this mean that spirituality is irrelevant to the pursuit of knowledge, that there is no reality beyond

that ordinarily conceived? That is not the inference I wish to draw. Therefore, let me return for a moment to some
of the ideas of Charles Tart, whom I cited earlier regarding the "space between thoughts." Tart (1972) has
proposed the development of state-specific sciences. Through meditation or drugs, for example, a person may
come to experience the world in radically different (state-specific) ways. While in that altered state of
consciousness, Tart argues, the canons of scientific method-careful observation, hypothesis generation and
testing, independent verification-should still apply, if a claim to knowledge is to be warranted.

Tart professes to be an empiricist and scientist. He has no "holy" doctrine to defend, nor does he feel in

some special relation to a Higher Power. His proposal for state-specific sciences should be taken seriously;
nevertheless, I believe it is misleading in an important respect.

If the history of science teaches us anything, it is that current ways of thinking are limited. They will be

superseded, just as Einstein's theory of relativity superseded Newtonian mechanics, and Newtonian mechanics
superseded Aristotelian physics. It would be misleading to say, however, that Einstein was in a different state of
consciousness than was Newton or Aristotle - if by a different state of consciousness we mean the type of
undifferentiated feelings described by the mystic.

Again, a critic might object, and even cite Einstein in support. According to Einstein:

The most beautiful and profound emotion we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the sower of all true
science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know
what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull
faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling, is the center of true religion. (Einstein, quoted
by Frank, 1947, p. 284)

9

But in this passage, Einstein is explicitly referring to the "sower of all true science," not to that which is

sown. In other words, we must distinguish between the process of gaining knowledge and the products of that
process, that is, the facts we claim to know. Spirituality, like science, has more to do with the process than with
the product.

Spirituality and Creativity

A cynic might say that spirituality is a sign of ignorance, not knowledge. In a sense that is true, but not in the
sense implied by the cynic. Spirituality lies at the border between understanding and ignorance. When we
peer across that border, we can shrink back in fear or, in the words of Einstein cited above, we can experience
"the sensation of the mystical." The greater our understanding, the more we must recognize the vastness of
our ignorance. In this sense, spirituality is - and properly should be - a sign of our ignorance.

Are there limits to human understanding? Without doubt, but it is difficult to say exactly what those

limits are. Modern science provides us with powerful tools for thinking about the world, just as it provides us with
powerful tools for acting on the world. For example, by the time they graduate from high school, most students
today can perform mathematical feats that were impossible for the most highly educated person of the middle
ages. The future promises even greater possibilities for understanding; but to achieve that understanding, we
must be willing to overcome well ingrained habits of thought.

The way we experience and conceptualize the world is, in part, the product of millions of years of

evolution (cf. the earlier discussion of archetypes). Our hominid ancestors did not adapt to a macrocosm of
infinities and infitessimals, of light years and black holes; nor did they adapt to a microcosm, a world of the
mind turned back upon itself in introspection or meditation. That is what makes science so difficult-we must
learn to think about the world and ourselves in ways that are not natural for us as a species (Lorenz, 1962).

If we are to enlarge the borders of our understanding, then, we must be creative. And, as mentioned

earlier, creativity is a common trigger for spiritual experiences. This is not surprising, for some of the
same mechanisms that mediate creativity also mediate spirituality, for example, making the borders of cognitive
constructs more permeable and inclusive (reducing differentiation) and establishing a network of associations
between remote constructs (increasing integration).

Recently, there have been renewed attempts to reconcile science with religion. If one means by

religion a system of beliefs based on faith and an institutional structure to enforce conformity to those beliefs,
then continued separation is preferable to reconciliation. If, however, one means by religion an unprejudiced
quest for understanding (cf. Batson & Schoenrade, 1991), then a reconciliation between science and religion is
not necessary, for separation has never occurred. Religion as quest Is simply another name for spirituality (cf.
earlier quotation by Einstein).

Unfortunately, what often passes for spirituality is the mere recognition that the world revealed to us by

science is limited and arbitrary. We are not gods, but we would sorely like to be. We want to know everything,
to have an answer to every question, and even more importantly, to avoid the implications of our own mortality.
That is an impossibility, so we invent a transcendental world and populate it with spirits created in the image
and likeness of ourselves, a world in which we, too, might prosper without end.

The world depicted by modern science is not particularly comforting in these respects. Consider the

following passage by Bertrand Russell:

Blind to good and evil, reckless of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for Man, condemned to-day to
lose his dearest, tomorrow himself to pass through the gate of darkness, it remains only to cherish, ere yet the blow of
darkness, the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day; disdaining the coward terror of the slave of Fate, to worship at the
shrine that his own hands have built; undismayed by the empire of chance, to preserve a mind free from the wanton tyranny
that rules his outward life; proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his knowledge and his
condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding Atlas, the world that his own ideals have fashioned despite the
trampling march of unconscious power. (Russell, 1917/1957, p. 54)

Written early in this century, Russell's description of the natural world as matter in motion is better suited

to classical mechanics than to contemporary physics. But that is not important. To many, the world depicted by
Russell, and by much of modern science, is incompatible with a spiritual world, for example, as described by
mystics. The spiritual world is alive, meaningful, and infected with values-much like the world that our remote
ancestors perceived. Russell's world, by contrast, is lifeless, without purpose, and blind to both good and evil. Yet,
I find Russell's world to be strangely satisfying, more so than the world of the mystic. Remaining proudly defiant
of the irresistible forces of nature, creating what little light we can before the inevitable darkness that to me
epitomizes the human spirit.

Conclusion

To conclude this presentation, let me return to the eight questions I asked at the outset, with a brief

answer to each. What features distinguish spirituality from other psychological phenomena? Spirituality is marked
by a sense of vitality, connectedness, and meaningfulness. Shared beliefs and group identification may facilitate

10

these features; at its best, however, spirituality is opposed to dogma and conformity of any kind, no matter how
comforting they may be.

1.Can spirituality be explained in terms of ordinary psychological processes?

I believe it can be, along the lines I

have sketched, namely, as an expression of human nature and as an expansion of the self-as-origin.
2.Is spirituality a way of feeling or a way of knowing?

It is primarily a way of feeling. As such, it share features

in common with anxiety and depression, two other emotions that mark the human condition.
3.Are there realities that we do not, and perhaps cannot, understand?

Undoubtedly. A chimpanzee cannot

understand infinities and black holes. It would be hubris, indeed, to assume that we, a species not far removed
from chimpanzees, are so endowed that nothing exceeds our capacities for understanding.
4.What are the farthest reaches of human understanding?

That is difficult to say. Just as technology allows us to

extend our physical capacities, so, too, does it allow us to extend our mental capacities. The limits of this
extension are not yet in sight.
5.Is the ultimate reality itself spiritual (e.g.. God, the One, Brahman, or many of a myriad of lesser entities)? I

doubt

it. We should avoid the tendency to reify spiritual feelings into spiritual beings.
6.Why, then, is the postulation of a spiritual world so prevalent?

As human beings, we cannot escape our

biological and social heritages, which have conditioned the way we think; nor can we escape our future, which is
death-the ultimate loss of vitality, of connection to those we love, and of meaning. We therefore invent a spiritual
world that accommodates in perpetuity the good and familiar aspects of our present world.

What relevance does spirituality have for science? Spirituality does not yield factual knowledge, and in that
sense it is not complementary to science. However, spirituality is part of the creative process by which science
advances. In the final analysis, spirituality reflects the never ending quest for understanding. I do not expect
everyone to agree with these answers, for that would violate the concept of spirituality I have been presenting,
which is more about asking than about answering questions

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