If the Gospels Were a Myth…So What?

How Dualism, Stories, and Feelings May Be the Key to Spiritual Development
“No man hath seen God at any time.” — John 1:18
“God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.” — John 4:24
A good friend recently sent me a piece by Richard Carrier, who is evidently an advocate of the idea that Jesus was not a historical figure but rather merely a figment of the fevered imaginations of the time. This is apparently a fringe view among scholars, who generally accept that there was some person named Jesus that the figure in the New Testament Gospels is based on, even if we don’t know much about his life. I won’t comment much more on the subject except to wonder why, if you, an educated Greek author, were trying to invent a cool new religion, you would choose as your main protagonist a street preacher from Galilee who needed to be retconned into the Messiah prophecy of a smaller, neighboring culture. And then have him die, to boot.
Regardless, I don’t think we’ll have hard evidence either for or against the Jesus-is-real-or-not contest. For many Christians, no doubt, such a consideration would be a stumblingbock to faith. For some atheists, I guess, it would also make for a great “gotcha” moment, and absolve them of having to take religious claims seriously. Or would it?
The value of the Gospels, or any religious revelation, I argue, is less in its historicity and more about its power as a story to affect the soul.
The Physical and The Spiritual
I recently watched an interview with Richard Dawkins in which he touched upon some of the points he made in The God Delusion. Some have objected to the so-called “New Atheists” for the stridency of their tone, but I would argue that believers of all stripes owe them a debt of gratitude. First, this movement, if movement it be, arose in response to real-world atrocities and abuse undertaken in the name of organized religion, and any who care about the physical state of their brothers and sisters ought to recognize the value in that. Second, in their targeting of pseudoscience and the anti-scientific mindset they have helped to draw a bright line under what is to be expected when it comes to physical laws and phenomena.
But there are limitations to the reductionist-materialist point of view, especially when it comes to the contents of consciousness. In physical reductionist terms, there’s nothing to account for consciousness. Indeed, at the most fundamental level, we and everything else are merely the entanglement of quantum particles. At best, consciousness is an epiphenomenon arising from the “higher” levels of emergent physical processes dictated by physical laws. Otherwise it’s an illusion, a trick of the light, as it were, as argued by philosophers like Dan Dennett; a far cry from the apparent “ground” of existence, the grand stage on which the cosmos unfolds, the interface whereby we even begin to navigate the universe.
Science has established extensive correlations between brain and body phenomena and consciousness; brain damage can alter or extinguish it. But the question remains: Is there any amount of evidence that can perfectly describe and satisfy our subjective experience of consciousness itself? Science is always gaining new insights, so that day may come. But for right now, I would argue that correlation is useful, but just not enough. It does not speak to what it is like to experience consciousness, or describe qualia and consciousness’s related concepts and models — myths among those.
Philosopher and cognitive scientist Donald Hoffman, from an alternate monist point of view, argues that the limited scope of human perceptions suggests instead that all things can be reduced to consciousness, with the physical strata of time and space emerging from the interactions of consciousnesses. While provocative, this speculation feels less than satisfying, given the extraordinary accuracy with which modern science describes the physical realm.
Although we can show correlations between certain physical states and the presence of consciousness, we still cannot show how they result in consciousness. And while we can attest to our own conscious experience, and can infer from this the existence of other consciousnesses (caveat for our solipsist friends), we cannot do experiments to prove that it exists, let alone that it is the ground of existence, as it feels to some.
The classical problem, stretching back to Ancient Greece and beyond, of the apparent distinction between the material and mental persists. Instead of trying to insist on one monist interpretation or other (physical reductionism or reduction to consciousness), we ought to consider a provisional, categorical dualism that distinguishes between physical and non-physical things.
Note, I’m not saying that there must be a substantial difference between the physical and non-physical, or that we will never arrive at a point where we can conclusively say that existence is fundamentally material or mental, or some other category yet to be discovered (indeed, I would expect the mental to be emergent phenomena from underlying physical events, though the precise nature of matter seems open to debate, at the quantum level). I’m also not arguing, as some more scientifically-minded folks might suspect, that science ought to be beholden to ancient theoretical constructions of the world, as in an Aristotelian regime. Instead I’m saying that, for now, and for purposes of philosophical exploration, we accept the seemingly dualistic nature of things.
This brings us back to myths, religion, and talking about the non-physical plane — namely, the things of the spirit.
The Argument from Feeling
Myths, stories, and the concepts and languages we use to communicate them — all of these, though they have physical components, fall into the non-physical category of existence. We can label it mental, but as it regards human consciousness (henceforth I will equate it with the term “soul,” and all its religious-laden connotations), I prefer to call this category “the spiritual realm.”
Science itself is a good story, and, by way of added value, it tracks largely with what we observe in the physical world. But religions, especially those subjected to evolutionary selection pressures over long periods of time, are often good stories that track pretty well with certain portions of the landscape of the human soul.
Whatever terms we use, it is useful to make a distinction between the hierarchies and ritual elements of organized religion — one way that religious “memes” are promulgated but inclined to the inevitable abuse that accompany any human power dynamics — and the spiritual impulses of individuals, as made by the philosopher William James.
But although these all-too-human organizations likely account for much of religiosity — the social stigma facing unbelievers, not to mention physical violence, in some cases, are an effective stick — there are almost certainly other aspects to religion. Human mortality is likely a motivator, in those cases of religions that promise an afterlife, or otherwise an understanding of the causes of suffering, humankind’s place in the universe, our obligations to the ancestors, or some other larger-than-oneself meaning.
These reasons, however, are incomplete. As James C. Wathey argues in his excellent book, The Illusion of God’s Presence, another reason for religiosity may in some cases be mystical experiences, or direct, subjective sensations of the presence of deity. Wathey makes a compelling case that these sensations can be explained by entirely natural phenomena, arising from humans’ evolutionary need for a protective parent figure during the early stages of our lives.
In The Strange Order of Things, the philosopher Antonio Damasio makes the case that feelings can be traced back to how a given factor may influence an organism’s metabolism and homeostasis — namely, will it harm one or allow one to survive and thrive. Both Wathey and Damasio’s arguments land squarely in the materialist camp. From an evolutionary point of view, we can ask, then: what fitness payoff must the spiritual impulse have conferred for it to have survived over the eons such that it persists even to this day?
There’s some sense that even materialist circles recognize the “mystic void” left by a reductionist view of the world that omits the spiritual impulse. Sam Harris, also associated with the New Atheist movement, has advanced a course of meditation in the tradition of certain Buddhist paths, albeit ably modernized and shorn of much of its wooly mythology and esoteric doctrines, in the name of pragmatism. Harris and others point to psychotropic drugs as another means of accessing supermundane states that would seem to transcend our “ordinary” everyday existence.
I speculate that one reason for the apparently universal belief in unseen forces that impact human lives is that human beings have had direct sensations of the presence of these forces. The formal structures that arise from these initial feelings — the myths, rituals, and religions — are codified means of returning to that first taste, that feeling of the nearness of the divine.
Note that I’m not arguing that just because we wish something were true that it must be so; even the most magical-thinking among us assume the cosmos operates mostly according to universal laws, even if only that they may be miraculously violated. Instead I suggest there are sincerely felt, subjective physiological underpinnings to the sense that there are supermundane forces at work, and that the various myths are ways human beings use to try to communicate this to others. These mystical experiences are the kernel of truth at the heart of religion.
By Jove
One of the applause lines in Dawkins’s work, and I paraphrase: “You don’t believe in Zeus, do you? Well, I’m just asking you to believe in one less god.” This doesn’t do much for those of us who accept the existence of a supermundane force called Zeus, of course.
The issue goes back to the mystical experience problem raised above. For those who have experienced such events, and who contextualize them in the realm of religion, reasoned arguments against the existence of God fall on deaf ears. For these folks, feeling is believing.
So if religion, then which religion should we accept as “correct”? I would argue: All of them.
But what about religions such as the Pastafarians, the devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster? This relatively new religion was designed by skeptics primarily as a caricature of other religions, although its adherents show a remarkable devotion to satire. Surely we cannot treat this idea with the same level of seriousness, a critic might say. I would argue, however, that if people continue and earnestly adhere to this path and ask something in a non-facetious way of this god, they should not be surprised if some entity answers (see argument about mystical experiences above).
It must be reiterated that although some religious adherents and scientists alike insist that religions only make truth claims about the physical world, this is not what is most significant about religious and mythological thinking. As humans, all we have are models of the world — abstractions with which we are to navigate life. Some of these models, specifically science, reliably track with observations and measurements. Others, like the various religions honed by natural selection pressures, track with subjective experiences related to the human soul.
I’m not saying we ought to accept religious claims about physical reality as being equivalent to those made by science. I’m saying we are limiting our conception of what the universe is, however, if we ignore religious claims about the variegated nature of personal human experience — and that these religious paths can have real-world physical consequences for individuals.
Thanks to the work of liberty-minded individuals both pious and secular, we have a unique opportunity: with most of us in the West no longer under the yoke of religious fanaticism, we are able to evaluate religious and spiritual claims on their own merits. And of course, diverse religious beliefs are going to have contradictory claims — they are not all in agreement with each other — and diverse effects on human well-being. If we accept that there is something to these forces unseen that interact with human nature, that there is indeed a spirit realm that we can feel even though it has no apparent physical qualities, then we can begin the process of determining what those spiritual paths have to offer.
What Does This Mean?
I have tried to argue that there effectively exists a non-physical, spiritual aspect to existence, and that mystical experiences are another testament to the existence of said realm as well as an avenue to access it. Taken together, what are the implications of said ideas for our everyday existence, and for the domains of both science and religion?
For the materialist, this implies that, although religious views cannot make the same claims about physical realities as can science, the spiritual impulse is real and rooted in biological realities. Additionally, the realm of ideas (in which we are trafficking right now, just by you reading this!) exists, though lacking physical qualities (beyond the mediums used to exchange these ideas). These ideas, which include discussions about the religious and spiritual aspects of life, exist at a resolution that warrants a different type of language than those used to describe the physical processes studied by science.
For the religious, first and most critically, that science and its findings are a valid enterprise that is worth understanding and appreciating. These findings about the physical world — classical and quantum physics, the theory of evolution, to name just a few — have enormous implications for how we comprehend human existence and the cosmos. Secondly, that other religious claims which may run counter to yours are expressions of that same deep-seated spiritual impulse found in all human beings. And finally, as related to the Gospels question above: the literal truth of your particular scriptures is not what is most significant about the spiritual path you trod. Whether strongly supported by historical evidence or not, the importance of a spiritual way’s ideas is how well they model the internal landscape of human emotions and the impact they have on a person’s behavior and life, both internal and external.
A degree of humility is warranted on all sides. This is not to say we should long for the “good ol’ days” of organized religion, which was rife with inhuman abuses and psychological cruelty on a grand scale. Instead it’s to suggest that certain time-tested religious and esoteric ideas, when examined seriously through a critical lens, may yield an unanticipated draught of spiritual wisdom.
The philosopher and theologian Diogenes Allen argued that the only way we can know about God is through the revelation of scripture; although Christian, his worldview was wide enough that he could examine the scriptures of other cultures with equanimity and see them as a part of that universal human desire to seek the eternal. I argue that both scriptures and those feelings of the nearness of divinity arise from the same source, and though they can be scrutinized as purely physical phenomena, they also deserve language that captures their devotional and philosophical aspects.
As one of the world’s many scriptures, the Gospels may be wholly the product of invention, as some suggest. In my view, that’s the least interesting aspect of them. For both adherents of religion and its discontents, the true value of a spiritual path is the mark it leaves on the soul.
