Against Scientific Magisterial Imperialism

Mike King
London Guildhall University
kingm@lgu.ac.uk

Abstract

This article explores a long-held unease about the approach that scientists take to spiritual questions. While we celebrate the new openness of science to questions it used to reject, there can be dangers in using the scientific paradigm in an attempt to understand areas of human experience outside of its natural remit. This article picks up on Wilber’s idea of ‘epistemological pluralism’ and Gould’s ‘Non-Overlapping Magisteria’, laying out the epistemological differences between science and the spiritual. While the parallels between them are remarkable and worthy of pursuing, we should avoid what is effectively a ‘magisterial imperialism’ – a situation where the spiritual can only be articulated in terms of science. This is an argument against a false synthesis of foundational, but different, areas of human experience and endeavour.

Non-Overlapping Magisteria

Those who have read Stephen Jay Gould’s ‘Rocks of Ages’ will understand the reference to ‘magisterium’ in the title of this essay. With this term Gould intends to convey a sphere of human activity and understanding with natural boundaries, which can be properly understood only within its own terms. He proposed a relationship between science and religion that he terms ‘non-overlapping magisteria’ or NOMA for short, and this essay is a plea to the Network to seriously consider his proposition. In essence the argument is for a true dialogue, mutual respect, interest, and an exploration of parallels, while against a false integration and synthesis. Above all the argument is against the unwarranted extension of the scientific paradigm into the spiritual – against a scientific cultural or magisterial imperialism.

Gould is not the only one to suggest that the interests of both the scientific and the spiritual are best served by respecting boundaries. In the Network review of Wilber’s ‘The Marriage of Sense and Soul’ an emphasis was placed on Wilber’s notion of ‘epistemological pluralism’, and it was this that persuaded me to read the book. I was disappointed to find that although Wilber recognised that ‘epistemological pluralism’ – that is the distinct and different criteria for truth required by science and religion – was really needed, ‘scientists would not concede’ to this proposition. Hence Wilber’s book is a capitulation, doubly disappointing as he made a brave attempt in an earlier work, ‘Quantum Questions’ to point out that the mystical understanding of the great quantum scientists came not from their science, but from a pre-existing gift for mystical thought. In the preface to ‘Quantum Questions’ he notes that putting forward his perception, that science does not, and does not need to, support mysticism, was to swim against the tide. Has Wilber therefore simply turned and allowed himself to be swept along by the current of Western thought? No, I think he is too courageous and honest a man to do that. The fact is that he, like so many in the Network struggling to integrate the scientific and the spiritual in their lives, are pursuing an integration on science’s own terms. Wilber’s personal scientific preoccupation is developmental psychology, a discipline entirely rooted in Western scientific thought, and it colours all his valiant explorations of spirituality, both East and West.

Let me put my cards on the table. I believe that to ‘integrate’ science and religion is as foolish as trying to ‘integrate’ chalk and cheese – we will land up with an entity that is no use either on the blackboard or in a sandwich. However, the damage in the case of science and religion will be largely one way, to the detriment of religion. Why? Because that is the nature of all imperialism, that it imposes a dominant ideology on a weaker one; at the same time it has no idea that its actions are destructive, partly because the weaker ideology is largely complicit in the process. This is to speak in the language of political activism however, and I intend to offer a much softer and more closely argued dynamics of the situation. The great blessing of the present tide of thought is that science seems to be offering a support to the spiritual, and to stand like a rock and resist the tide is not in this case to oppose this support. It is to argue that this phase is a transition, and that unless we are aware of the magisterial imperialism that is inevitably bound up with this transitional thinking we shall drown the faculty we came to rescue.

The spiritual life of the West is desperately in need of rescue of course, and we don’t initially question where the lifebelt comes from. Religion in the West has undergone a Great Catastrophe, symbolised by the Inquisition, an institutionalised version of the Western instinct to fear religious difference. In contrast the religious life of the Indian subcontinent never underwent such a catastrophe, at least not until the import of Western religious intolerance in the form of Islam. It is in the contrast between the propagation of Buddhism and Christianity that we can learn most about how the Eastern mind retained its spiritual life and about how the Western mind is thoroughly traumatised by it. Through the two emperors, Asoka and Constantine, who respectively took obscure religious cults and turned them into religions of empire, we can see the outward symbols of the difference between East and West. Ultimately it remains a difference of temperament. For the Eastern outlook spirituality itself was the source of social cohesion, while for the West it was uniformity of spiritual outlook, that is uniformity of credence, that was the source of social cohesion. Persecution of the heretic was the price to be paid for stability, and it is a myth to think that persecution was a characteristic of Christianity or the Church – we know many cases of bishops rescuing heretics from the mob. It was a characteristic of an obsessional Western mind, one that could not bear paradox. Instead of seeing that the spiritual life of a community was more precious than any doctrinal difference, it pursued doctrinal uniformity until ‘doctrine’ became the hollow shell whose reality had long fled. The Reformation and the counter-Reformation merely cemented a spiritual literalism in Europe that never existed in India. But it prepared the ground for science.

Of itself, science, or to be more accurate, physics, could never have been taken as an ‘alternative’ to religion or in any way antithetical to it, were it not for the collective spiritual trauma suffered by the West. The Inquisition represented only one face of the dogmatism of religious life in 17th century Europe, the other being the reliance on the church for knowledges that are structurally outside its spiritual remit. It matters nothing that Jesus said no word on the subject of cosmology or cosmogony; the Church’s view on these matters was the last word. And when science undermined this oracle, it seemed to many that religion itself was undermined. Almost all of the science / religion debate today still takes place in terms of conflicting ‘explanations’. Nothing Jesus ever said was an ‘explanation’ of anything, and to see the spiritual life as a set of alternative ‘explanations’ is a fallacy that the West has persuaded itself of. It has done so in the absence of a common, shared, spiritual life, an experience of the heart and mind that is expansive, non-analytical, and unrelated to questions of ‘how’. 

Science seems to be offering support to religion after a long period where it was unjustifiably cast as its opponent. Put simply, science has found its boundaries. The three ‘new’ science of the 20th century, quantum mechanics, relativity and chaos theory, all show that under certain conditions ‘explanations’ of causality break down – quantum mechanics for the very small, relativity for the very fast, and chaos theory for the very complex. At these boundaries we observe all kinds of fascinating parallels with spiritual insights, both East and West. And this is the crux of the present problem. Having delivered us to the shores of the territory marked ‘spiritual’, the momentum of the scientific paradigm seems to be carrying the intrepid explorers inland, that is to colonise the unfamiliar territory. The ‘savages’ that occupy this world, so undermined in their own estimation of their worth and life-skills, seem to welcome the strangers and their technologies. Stepping out of this metaphor for a moment, the fact is that the intellectual vigour of the West has poured itself into the scientific and the political, leaving the spiritual as the domain of the kind-hearted and the ignorant; underdeveloped and flying below the cultural radar of the West. Now, when the great intellects of the modern world finally turn their analytical powers to the neglected world of the spiritual, there are no giants of the spiritual world to oppose their cultural imperialism or moderate the exchange.

The Buddha and Consciousness

This is all by way of preparing the ground for the case against scientific magisterial imperialism. Let us look at an example to illustrate the subtlety of the phenomenon (for if it were a gross adventurism we would all be alerted to it already). I have for this purpose chosen Alan Wallace’s excellent article in the December 2001 issue of Network, entitled ‘The Potential of Emptiness: Vacuum States in Physics and Consciousness’. I should preface my remarks by stating my great respect for Alan, having had the pleasure of hearing him in dialogue with the Dominican Laurence Freeman, and thus aware of his commitment to the spiritual life, in this case Tibetan Buddhism. I hope that the following will be taken, not as a criticism of Alan in the slightest, but as an anatomy of the Western mindset, one that is so rooted in the scientific paradigm that it carries it unawares into completely unrelated domains.

Alan draws the parallels between ‘emptiness’ as a core Buddhist teaching, with the vacuum of the physicists, saying that ‘Buddhist science investigates consciousness and Western science investigates physical phenomena’. The explication of the parallels is instructive and illuminating, and is concluded with the proposition: ‘When these two traditions of experiential and rational enquiry are integrated, we may see a new Noetic Revolution that will be of the greatest significance for humanity.’ But can the fields, the magisteria, of science and religion be integrated? Not in their own terms is my thesis. Before explaining why not, I need to briefly point out that an integration is of course desirable, but in the individual, at the level of being. As human beings we successfully integrate all kinds of experience into a life, while keeping apart our various ventures and explorations as the structures of life itself dictate. As an extreme example we don’t attempt to integrate nutrition and elimination, in fact we have learned that by their very careful separation we avoid disease. Yet our day involves both – we integrate the two at the level of being, or at the level of experience. Participating in sport and going to the theatre have not so far found a systematic integration – we integrate them at the level of being, or of experience. As a multiplicity of individuals we call the integration of disparate fields of endeavour ‘culture’ – that rich mix in which each individual is free to specialise yet be part of the cultural whole.

So why do I argue against the integration of the fields of science and religion to create a single monolithic endeavour? Because of the radically difference epistemologies involved. Let us return to Wallace’s proposition that Buddhist science investigates consciousness. So far so good, as long as we have a flexible understanding of what a ‘science’ might be. But he goes on to make claims for the Buddha that subtly imposes a Western scientific template on material that does not bear it well, at least not on a closer examination. Alan says ‘Just as Galileo did not invent the telescope but refined it as a tool for observation of the planets, Gautama did not invent meditative concentration (samadhi) but was the first to use extremely refined, focused, magnified awareness as a tool for investigating the nature of consciousness’. Alan then goes on to claim that the Buddhists have progressed in this investigation since the time of the Buddha to accumulate a ‘science of consciousness’ in some way analogous to the accumulated science of the West, but dealing with consciousness rather than matter. I believe that this quite misrepresents the Buddha and most Buddhist thinking. The Buddha actively investigated consciousness up to the point of his enlightenment. He then stopped the investigation, because it was no longer necessary. He had become an ‘awakened’ one, a buddha, using the word in its generic sense meaning an awakened, enlightened, self-realised or liberated individual. For the next fifty years he taught enlightenment, not through doctrine or even through a set practice, but through personal encounter. If there remained any enquiry left in him it was the perennial one for enlightened individuals, how the hell do I teach this? 

The development of Buddhism since the Buddha happened on several levels. Firstly, for each enlightened teacher within the tradition, the question ‘how the hell do I teach this?’ prompted new solutions, sometimes a refinement of the Buddha’s teachings, but just as often in complete contradiction, for example the Tantric Buddhism of Saraha. Secondly, Buddhism had to develop characteristics quite foreign to the Buddhas’s own instincts, in order for it to gain popular appeal as a religion of state, for example the introduction of ‘puja’ or worship. In fact the emperor Ashoka insisted that Buddhism as the religion of his empire should tolerate and absorb indigenous religions, leading to a diversity of Buddhist doctrines and practices that is quite staggering in comparison to the orthodoxy and central control of Christianity. Thirdly, Buddhism underwent two major revolutions or ‘turning of the wheel’ as it is put, giving three distinct traditions: Therevada, Mahayana, and Vajryana. Hence to claim anything for ‘Buddhism’ is fraught, because of the breadth of religious thinking that it encompasses. But to claim something for the Buddha himself is less open to controversy because of the textual sources that document his life and sayings – the Pali canon. It is from my reading of the Pali canon that I disagree with Alan on many counts, in particular that the Buddha investigated consciousness in any way that resembles ‘science’.

A short digression is needed here to illuminate this discussion further. In examining the spiritual life in its various forms across continents and eras, I have found that a useful distinction is to be made between the social, the occult and the transcendent. The social includes all the outward forms of the spiritual life, including the group activities of worship and ritual, as well as the moral dimension of our interrelation.  The occult relates to the ‘other world’ of disembodied beings, from which we come at birth and return to at death, and with which individuals with clairvoyant abilities have contact during their lives (geniuses of this faculty include Rudolf Steiner in the West and Paramahansa Yogananda in the East). The transcendent relates to enlightenment. We can say that the social dimension of the spiritual is all that is visible and external, while the occult is hidden and immaterial. The transcendent is neither visible nor invisible, it is paradoxical. In particular it is neither easy nor difficult, which is why teaching it presents so many obstacles. If enlightenment were easy then many more would enter into it. If enlightenment were difficult, say like rocket science, then thousands more would enter it than actually do, because human beings are capable of extraordinarily difficult things. When the Buddha became enlightened he hesitated to teach precisely because of this problem.

Individuals like the Buddha or Christ are claimed by history to be teachers of any of these three elements. The social dimension of the Buddha or Christ has the most adherents, often against the evidence. The Buddha was not interested in reforming the Indian caste system as many liberal Westerners would like to believe, nor was Jesus the head of a liberation movement against Roman tyranny. Indeed the quiet evolution of Jesus’ statement ‘the kingdom of heaven is within you’ (King James version) to ‘the kingdom of heaven is among you’ (Revised English version) shows how a statement that can be taken as a teaching of transcendence can be read as one of social significance. And a smaller group has always claimed individuals like the Buddha or Christ as preachers of the occult, so esoteric Buddhism and esoteric Christian doctrines abound, but generally out of the popular view.

Bearing these distinctions in mind, we can suggest why Alan might conclude that the Buddha used ‘extremely refined, focused, magnified awareness as a tool for investigating the nature of consciousness.’ It is because the Buddha, by chance, also had a clairvoyant (occult) gift, one that appears to have emerged around the time of his enlightenment, but nevertheless a gift given to thousands if not millions of unenlightened individuals, and which has nothing to do with enlightenment per se. All the occultists over the centuries who wished to claim the Buddha for their own have made much of the statements in the Pali canon regarding the ‘divine eye’. A scholar of Buddhism (which I am not) can be forgiven for thinking that the occult dimension in the Buddha’s teaching was the main show, just as it is easy to think that the social dimension in the Buddha’s teaching was the main show. It takes a scholar of enlightenment (which I do claim to be) to suggest that these are both side-shows – enlightenment was the Buddha’s only real concern. Reading the Buddha as a teacher of enlightenment first and all other things second, we also have to object to Alan’s suggestion the Buddha was the ‘first to use samadhi to investigate consciousness’. There were many teachers of enlightenment before the Buddha, and they were of course termed ‘buddhas’ as the Pali canon makes clear in a story about a Brahmin who hears that a buddha (who we now term ‘the Buddha’) was nearby and goes to investigate. And there have been many buddhas since, probably dozens alive today, maybe hundreds. Buddhism of course will only recognise teachers within its own tradition, and has anyway corrupted the term ‘buddha’ from a generic description of an enlightened one, to a description of mythological Buddhas each one of which represent aspects of enlightenment. (Even the Microsoft spell-checker insists that to use ‘buddha’ or ‘buddhas’ – without the capital ‘b’ – is not merely a grammatical error but a spelling mistake.)

Epistemology in Science and Religion

Let us return to the question of epistemology, that is the kind of knowledge that the Buddha was engaged with. It is true that he calls his monks ‘enquirers’ from time to time, but over and over again we find that the knowledge that they acquire is final. He describes those who enter into enlightenment as those ‘with taints destroyed, who have lived the holy life, done what had to be done, laid down the burden, reached the true goal, destroyed the fetters of being, and are completely liberated through final knowledge’. [MN 22:42] (Such descriptions or variations upon them are so widespread in the Pali canon that I found this particular one by opening the Middle Length Verses at random.) Scientific knowledge is quite different from the ‘final knowledge’ that the Buddha refers to, firstly because once the scientific community knows it, it does not have to be rediscovered, whereas the final knowledge of enlightenment has to be rediscovered every single time for each aspirant. Secondly, scientific knowledge can never be ‘final,’ it is cumulative. Thirdly, scientific knowledge is communicable through reason and training. Yes, there is both reason and training in all teachings of enlightenment, but there is something beyond reason, something that can only be approached within the terms of the spiritual life.

Occult knowledge is different however, and this is why I believe so many have been tempted to apply the scientific paradigm to the spiritual. In the final stages of enlightenment, the Buddha used his concentrative powers to ascertain various things, namely his own previous lives, and the ‘divine eye’ to inquire into circumstances of death and rebirth for other sentient beings. He referred to these two forms of discovery as the first and second ‘true knowledge’ that he attained. The third true knowledge was of his own enlightenment, put simply as follows: ‘Birth is destroyed, the holy life has been lived, what had to be done has been done, there is no more coming to any state of being.’ [MN 4:32] Elsewhere he describes enlightenment as the ‘cessation of I-making tendencies,’ and generally uses negative terms, that is he describes enlightenment as the ending or cessation of obstacles or taints, rather than in positive terms such as bliss (though he also advises his monks not to be afraid of bliss either). Cessation is the root meaning of the word ‘nirvana’, which is quite wrongly assumed to mean bliss or heaven in current usage. It is clear from the Pali canon that the Buddha did not undertake any sustained occult enquiry however, beyond that associated with the coming into enlightenment.

But the occult, the supernatural and the miraculous are bound up with the spiritual life as it developed in ancient times, and as the real life of a man like the Buddha passes into mythology. It is instructive therefore to contemplate the Buddha’s quiet attempt to focus the minds of his followers away from such matters to the practice of awareness, which Alan so rightly places as central to Buddhism. In a lovely passage the Buddha comes across Ananda and other monks in discussion and politely inquires as to the topic. Ananda then details all the supernatural qualities of the Buddha’s birth, ending each account with an expression of how wonderful and marvellous they were. The Buddha listens patiently and politely (in my own mind I see a faint amusement in his eyes), and then gently turns them in the right direction: “That being so, Ananda, remember this too as a wonderful and marvellous quality of the Tathagata [the Buddha’s own term for himself]: Here, Ananda, for the Tathagata feelings are known as they arise, as they are present, as they disappear; perceptions are known as they arise, as they are present, as they disappear; thoughts are known as they arise, as they are present, as they disappear. [MN 123:22]

I would estimate that 99.9% of Buddhists reading the entire verse would remember only the enumeration of the miraculous qualities of the Buddha’s birth, overlooking the atomic power of the quiet words at the end. Certainly the bikkhus Nanamoli and Bodhi, the translators of this verse, fall into this category. This is also a good point to mention the status of the Pali canon in Buddhism – it is considered to be the text closest to the actual life and words of the Buddha, though acknowledged to have been written down only centuries after his death. This picture is muddied however by the attitudes of the later Buddhist epochs, as listed earlier. The Mahayana and the Vajryana traditions (the latter of which Alan is trained with, as I understand) have ‘overwritten’ this source with their own life and teachings of the Buddha, in which many new concepts are introduced, or old ones overturned. Alan’s article centres on ‘emptiness’, a concept developed by the spiritual geniuses of the Mahayana, but a metaphor unused by the Buddha, as we know him from the Pali canon. My own reading of the canon is not from a Buddhist perspective, as I mentioned earlier, but from the perspective of enlightenment. Hence I can ignore the mythologised account of the Buddha’s birth and focus on his quiet and gentle reminder that the heart of the spiritual practice he taught was awareness. Two and a half millennia later ‘choiceless awareness’ was the simple and only teaching of another great buddha, Jiddu Krishnamurti. In fact my methodology in studying enlightenment has been to construct a template starting from the most recent and well-documented enlightened ones, working backward and progressively stripping out the accumulated mythologising surrounding the earlier ones. From this approach the Pali canon yields a convincing portrait of an enlightened flesh-and-blood man – the later Buddhist scriptures simply do not. Just to complete this brief account of my methods, I will list some of the enlightened ones so far included in my study: Hermes Trismegistus, Heraclitus, the Buddha, Lao Tsu, Socrates, Krishna, Patanjali, Jesus (as revealed in the Gospel of St Thomas), Plotinus, Eckhart, Rumi, Kabir, Spinoza, Ramakrishna, Walt Whitman, Ramana Maharshi, Krishnamurti, Douglas Harding, Rajneesh (Osho), Andrew Cohen, Dave Oshana, Eckhart Tolle and Tony Parsons.

Let us return to the central issue again: epistemology. A delightful illustration of the incongruency of the epistemological magisteria of religion and science lies in the conversations between David Bohm and Jiddu Krishnamurti. On the surface of these dialogues we have a genuine meeting of equals, sharing ideas, as well as the human bonds of friendship and warmth. Read from the perspective of enlightenment, we see another picture however, a master-disciple relationship (though well disguised it is true). Bohm comes to Krishnamurti with a knowledge-base in science, not a single item of which is actually of any interest to Krishnamurti. Krishnamurti on the other hand, forged on the eternal anvil of ‘how the hell do I teach this?’ which has shaped every enlightened teacher listed above, plays a cat and mouse game that is joyous to watch. He is armed only with the visceral wisdom of a fencing master (sorry to mix the metaphors!). Bohm, as the mouse here, represents every aspirant ever caught in the still gaze of the enlightened teacher, fascinated, yet gripped by the fear of losing the precious sense of identity, painfully constructed or clawed out of the chaotic flux of life. A lifetime’s work threatened by a magnetic emptiness. As Whitman (the great neglected buddha of America) puts it:

I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, 
I am not what you supposed, but far different. 
Who is he that would become my follower? 
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? 
The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, 
You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard, 
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, 
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd. [‘Whoever You Are Holding Me Now In Hand’, Leaves of Grass]

The encounter between Bohm and Krishnamurti is exactly of this nature, as the encounter with all enlightened ones is. On the surface a gentlemanly exchange, underneath a struggle with all the ‘knowledge’ of the novice under threat, the ‘whole past theory of your life’ to be abandoned, and ‘conformity to the lives around you’ likewise. The encounters in the Pali canon are the same, and the same again for those who tangled with Socrates. 

But we have dwelt too long on the transcendent core of the spiritual life, a plateau that is both exquisite and terrifying – the central paradox. I would suggest that the spiritual life that emanates from this core, with its more recognisable and verdant slopes, is in one way or another crucial to every Network member, but does not necessarily call us to the ultimate divinity at its heart. I have attempted to demonstrate that the epistemology of the transcendent is entirely apart from the epistemology of science, but that still leaves the occult and social dimensions of the spiritual life (as defined earlier). A ‘science’ of the occult has a long history, and Rudolf Steiner, one of its greatest modern practitioners, always used the term ‘science’ to describe his work. Is there really an overlapping epistemology here? I am less clear of the answer to this question, other than to raise the problem that has so dogged Susan Blackmore for example: have we any reliable verification? Steiner was convinced that his disciples would develop his clairvoyant skills and so confirm his ‘knowledge’, but his followers are mute in this regard. Yes, there are remarkable similarities between his accounts of the disembodied life, of the ethereal beings, with those say of Paramahansa Yogananda, an approximate contemporary in India, with whom there could have been no interchange of ideas. But the ultimate epistemological problem here is: how to reconcile a science of matter with a ‘science’ of the immaterial? The jury is out on this one.

Finally, what about an epistemology of what I call the ‘social’ dimension of the spiritual life? Well, another name for this is simply ethics. Not the humanist ethics of the Enlightenment or Marxism, but the ethical teachings of the religious traditions. Does this domain of enquiry overlap with that of material science? No, how could it?

In this analysis so far, for the social, occult and transcendent components of the spiritual life, we have to say ‘no’, ‘very remote chance’ and ‘no’, respectively, to the prospect of a common epistemology with science. Where then, does that leave us? Gould in proposing his non-overlapping magisteria suggests a situation of mutual respect and interest, but his analysis is more a defence of the purity of science than an attack on scientific imperialism. His analysis of the spiritul life is not fine grained enough to go much further, but I shall attempt a more detailed picture of what NOMA means if we really push it, and I will do so using the mind-brain problem as the arena.

The Mind-Brain Problem: What Problem?

Quite simply, if we really accept the principle of NOMA, then the mind-brain problem disappears. The argument goes like this. For a problem to exist, and for it to bear fruit as a research question, it must be a well-framed problem, and for a problem to be well-framed, almost by definition, it must be epistemologically coherent. If we adhere to the principles of NOMA, then we ask, in what epistemological domain do we find the brain? Answer: science, or to be more precise physical science. Physical, objective, reductionist, material, impersonal science. And in what epistemological domain do we find mind (or consciousness)? Answer: in the realm of spirit, in the subjective, inner, internal, personal. Alan is quite right to say that Buddhism explores consciousness (I have objected only to the way this is portrayed), as do all the genuine spiritual disciplines of enquiry. (Understood correctly the devotional path is just as much a discipline of inquiry into consciousness, though this might be a leap too far for my audience right now.) In the epistemology of science there is no mind (or consciousness), and it will never be found. In the epistemology of the spirit there is no brain, and it will never be found. Yes, we may find the neural correlates of the contents of consciousness (though never consciousness itself, and yes, we can imagine the brain in our subjective, inner, contemplative exploration of consciousness.) But concentration is only the beginning of meditation, the nursery slope as it were. Enlightenment means a silence of the mind uncluttered with imaginative content. An enlightened individual can be shown the physical matter of the brain, can learn the neurophysiology of the brain, but it is like a stone falling into water making no ripples. The memories can be recalled, in so far as all memories of visual experiences (looking at the cranial tissue), and intellectual experiences (the science of neurones) are retained intact. We know of course, that all memories – like fine clothes and expensive ironware that are prone respectively to moth and rust – degrade over time. The enlightened one is no exception, but, given average recall, or possibly above average recall, has available to them the knowledge of ‘brain’. But it lies within an episteme that is of no use in the daily work of the enlightened one – teaching enlightenment.

The question, ‘how does brain give rise to mind?’ is not a well-framed problem when it is seen as a question in science. The question, ‘when does the brain give rise to mind?’ is well-framed however, when ‘mind’ here is understood to convey a behavioural quality of an organism. A friend who lay in a coma for six months was led to recovery by a scientific and medical paradigm that had some answers to this question, and is quite rightly seeking better ones. Science can tell us the material conditions under which mind can function. It cannot say anything useful about mind.

Another way to put this is by drawing on a parallel with the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, which states that we can know either the position or the momentum of the electron, but not both at the same time. In the same way, as an individual, I can do science, in which case I can know about ‘brain’, or I can do meditation, in which case I can know about ‘mind’. I cannot do both at the same time. I cannot participate in an enquiry about the relationship between brain and mind, because I cannot enquire into both within the same ‘laboratory’ framework. Yes, I can meditate, and James Austin can investigate my brain, or the other way round, but there is no single epistemological framework within which we can assimilate the results. To use another analogy: I can understand light as a wave or particle, and I can understand myself as mind or brain, each giving different types of knowledge. Douglas Harding, whose booklet ‘The Science of the First Person’ happens to have been reviewed in Network December 2001, sets out in it these epistemological differences. If we use his terminology and call conventional Western science ‘third person science’, and the inner investigations of consciousness ‘first person science’, we can wrap up this discussion with the following statement: 

There is no mind in third person science, and there is no brain in first person science. Therefore there is no single science that can answer the question: how does brain give rise to mind?

So far my picture of NOMA seems to be only negative, i.e. a demonstration of what we cannot do. But I believe the positive sides far outweigh the negative sides in this approach. This is based on my observation that the outpourings on religion by scientists in the last twenty years, perhaps heralded by the ‘Tao of Physics’, first published in 1976, represents a spiritual awakening. It also represents a transitional period in which the authority of science has paradoxically given scientists the boldness to speak about matters that were nothing to do with science, and had to be massaged to fit. My instincts tell me that the period of ‘massaging’ might be giving way to a new phase. I see this as a transition from a secular to a post-secular society, one in which the intellectual vigour that was reserved only for science can now openly engage with the spiritual. For three hundred years now the great minds of the West have shunned this area of human experience, leaving a rump of theologians in an impoverished intellectual ghetto. Result: the life of the spirit travels well below the cultural radar of the West. The mass exodus of spiritual intelligence in favour of science is painfully apparent in the life of Spinoza for example. His ‘Ethics’ represents an ellipsis of monumental proportions, a circumlocution designed to fool the Inquisition, resulting in a work that is misunderstood today as ‘philosophy’, a work of rationalism, a logical treatise. To the scholar of enlightenment it is a great religious work, lost to the West through the rise of scientism. 

Conclusions

This then is my clarion call to the Network, and beyond, to all the vigorous minds of the West: love science, love religion; apply to both. The arrested spiritual development of the West cries out for remedy, science has paved the way, but must not bring its very specific epistemological constructs to bear on the life of the spirit. And this does need arguing: that the spiritual life is precious, vital to us, to the survival of the species. Enlightenment may be at the epicentre of the spiritual life, seemingly remote to most, but the beneficent waves of influence that emanate from this centre bring peace, understanding and love, even in highly adumbrated conditions. A renewed interest in the spiritual (which has undoubtedly been given impetus from science) is to be encouraged, but it can no longer progress on the coat-tails of science. 

I am not asking the Network to take any of this on trust or to abandon the essential work it has done in pursuing the parallels between science and the spiritual, as epitomised in Wallaces’ article. Instead I am suggesting two quite focused endeavours. Firstly, that we have a real debate about epistemology, and secondly that we find a way of improving our spiritual scholarship. On the first issue, I have laid out above what I consider to be the essential epistemological incongruences between the two domains, and invite a discussion that would refine these differences. On the second issue I invite suggestions as to how we as a group can be more systematic and scholarly in our study of the spiritual. It is marvellous that writers like Frank Tipler, Dana Zohar and Alan Wallace (to name an arbitrary few) should study the spiritual treasures of the world at all, but we should be honest. Their readings are random and chosen to support a scientific paradigm.

Notes
MN is the abbreviation used in the Pali Canon for the ‘Majjhima Nikaya’ or Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha. The numbering indicates sutta (verse) / paragraph.

Dr King is Reader in Computer Art and Animation at London Guildhall University, and works across the domains of art, science and the spiritual. He is currently investigating issues of epistemology across all three areas. A previous Network essay won a Templeton award in a competition ‘expanding humanity’s vision of God’.