It would be dishonest of me to claim that I fully understood this book. To add to Gadamer’s “we cannot understand without wanting to understand”, we also cannot understand without having the requisite background conducive to understanding. And indeed, I found myself lacking said background.
The nature and existence of “psychic facts” notwithstanding, the book is dense with nomenclature—“pneuma”, “pleroma”, “anumen”, “individuation”, “anima/animus”, etc. If one is not already situated within the Jungian tradition of psychoanalysis (and psychoanalysis by and large for that matter), this will be a difficult book. Background reading is almost necessary. Failing to do so, however, can only be blamed on the reader. After all, “Answer to Job” is located within the latter chronological sphere of the Jungian library. It is to be expected, then, that Jung would assume familiarity with his writings at this stage.
Nevertheless, Jung’s book is still a strong catalyst for thought. His writing is lucid and sophisticated. It is clear that it is a work of genius, brimming with substantial contributions to theology, philosophy, and psychology. And indeed, the challenge posed by reading this book has been less of a Sisyphean struggle, but a motivation for further inquiry.
At the forefront of my mind has been the idea that religion, spirituality, and the idea of ‘God’ belong to the realm of the unconscious. This is the question I will briefly reflect on here. At the outset, we should be clear to distinguish the individual unconscious and the collective unconscious. Both are tackled by Jung, but I shall focus on the latter, which I understand as that aspect of the unconscious which is innate and inherited by all humans (in contrast to the eccentricities of an individual’s unconscious).
In the preface, Jung aptly notes that debates between theists and atheists have become stale. Though the book was published in 1952, the sentiment, I believe, is just as real today. One seldom finds theists convinced by atheist arguments, and atheists (despite their opposition) are often just as unmoving in their dogmas. Indeed, debates often devolve into lexical disagreements—what one understands by “exist”, “believe”, etc. Atheists often objurgate theists for being ungrounded mystics, while theists judge atheists to be close-minded. Jung diagnoses their disagreement as a failure to distinguish “physical” from “psychic” facts. Perhaps this is true, though I am still unclear on the nature of psychic facts. In my eyes, the deep disagreement between the two parties stems from the priority one gives to science.
The typical atheist is a scientist, in the sense that they view science as privileged (and perhaps uniquely privileged) for answering ontological (and epistemological) questions. In other words, it is science (and only science) that tells us what exists. Of course, this substantial thesis cannot itself be substantiated by science, but that is an issue to bracket for now. The thrust of the position is that the ‘scientific method’ tells us, broadly, what exists. Thus, given that scientifically we cannot substantiate God’s existence, we should not believe in Him. Or, at the very least, we should withhold assent as to whether or not He exists.
By contrast, the apologist, with some degree of sophistication, is likely to answer that it is ill-conceived to suggest that God’s existence can be substantiated by science. It is said that “God is not a scientific hypothesis”. Why believe in God then? Paths diverge. Kierkegaard would take belief in God to be a “leap of faith”—something that is not meant to be rational or even subject to evidence. More common is the belief that God’s existence stems from a “deep feeling”. A feeling that is individually experienced, unique to the individual, though still ‘overwhelmingly true’. William James’ in “The Varieties of Religious Experience” details such a position. Nonetheless, whatever the theists’ persuasion may be, it is easy to see how the two parties can talk past each other. The atheist demands evidence conducive to scientific scrutiny, whereas the theist denies that such evidence is possible.
Jung’s way of breathing new life into the debate is to reconceive how we view religious statements as a whole. Here is a brief rundown. The broad idea is that the subject matter of religion is not physical facts about the mind-independent world. Rather, religious statements are concerned with psychological phenomena—specifically, the realm of the unconscious. These so-called “psychic facts” detail the inner workings of our mental architecture. When discussing ‘God’, for instance, our concern is not with an agential ‘omni-man’ seated in the heavens above. Instead, reference and talk of ‘God’ concerns the mechanisms that underpin our minds—something observable, but otherwise difficult to investigate empirically. Jung seems to conceive of these “psychic facts” as being products of evolution. Though, existing in the realm of the unconscious, he also takes them to be “transcendental” to investigation by conscious minds.
By and large, these religious statements take the form of symbols and myths that detail “archetypes”—recurring patterns of personality engrained within our collective psyche. For instance, consider the biblical story of Cain and Abel: The first murder and fratricide in the “divine drama”, provoked by the jealousy of Cain toward his brother, Abel. Jung’s idea seems to be that the personalities of Cain and Abel are manifest (to varying degrees) within our collective psyche. Such that, some individuals are manifestly ‘Cain-types’ by exhibiting fraternal jealousy to a degree of moral apprehension. Of course, the story has further complexities that supply further insight into the nature of these archetypes. Perhaps the consequences of Abel’s murder supply some insight into the nature of familial or brotherly relations. Indeed, it appears to be the job of the theologian and psychoanalyst to investigate these stories to understand the relevance and importance of these psychic facts, much like the scientist's job is to understand physical facts.
But why symbols and myths? The inspiration appears broadly Wittgensteinian: Language is a fundamentally limited medium. Specifically, language is limited in its expressibility of matters concerning the “transcendental”. That is, matters beyond empirical investigation. The best we can do when talking about a domain to which our conscious minds have limited access (the unconscious) are symbols and myths that don’t appear to directly speak about the world. Moreover, myths and symbols are multiply realisable through token instances—the character of Cain can be multiply instantiated in many individuals.
How, then, does all this bear on the debate between theists and atheists? Take the locus of the debate—the question “Does God exist?” We have already detailed how the two opposing parties quickly reach a stalemate when faced with this question. The Jungian, by contrast, won’t be concerned with an investigation into the postulated physical fact regarding the existence of some entity—leave that to the domain of science. What matters to the Jungian is whether the character of God supplies some insight into the psychic facts underpinning the human unconscious. In some sense, then, the Jungian yields both to the atheist and theist: Science helps settle matters of ontology when concerned with the physical, but there is a realm outside of science, the unconscious, that cannot be investigated using empirical means. Whether this precipitates a mysticism is an interesting question…
From this, we can take the Jungian theist as adopting a positive stance in the debate: ‘God’, and the Bible as a whole, supply substantive insight into psychic facts concerning the human unconscious. By contrast, the atheist we may define via negativa: ‘God’, and the Bible, hold no substantive insights into the human psyche. Or, perhaps in the extreme, there are no psychic facts to be discovered simpliciter.
The suggestion is sure to be controversial. For one, many Christians are unlikely to forgo a belief in an agential God. Worse, modern Christians take themselves as minimally committed to the existence of Jesus and his resurrection as a physical fact—something the Jungian isn’t (necessarily) committed to. Atheists, too, are likely to demur that Jung’s suggestion shifts the goalposts: “We don’t care to discuss psychic facts, our contention is against the typical Christian who believes in an agential God as a physical fact”.
Not much can be said against these characters. The debate concerning the physical fact of God’s existence is deeply entrenched in our social lives and is sure to persist. It would be an Archimedean task to dissolve a debate that has endured through times immemorial. And, to be sure, we are likely to unearth kernels of truth in our investigation.
We may, however, also liken our position to that of a decorated teacher presented with new research on education methods. Their response is expected: “My methods have worked for years, why should I change my approach now?”
The impetus of Jung’s suggestion is akin to how the new education research relates to the decorated teacher. Sure, the traditional methods have been fruitful for some time. But now we are presented with new avenues. There are more interesting and fruitful questions to ask. Of course, whether one asks said questions is a matter of how frustrated one is with the contemporary debate. We must ask ourselves: Is there more to be gained by investigating Jung’s questions instead? To my eyes, the Jungian shift is welcome.
3/5
G.K.