Carl Jung liked to use the word "religious" to describe experiences and practices that included the numinous, that is, anything spiritually elevated, especially when accompanied by a sense of supernatural presence. (Although the Jungians and their derivatives can be seriously waffle-witted, old C.G. himself wasn't all daffy all the time; in fact, a lot of what he says is pleasantly sensible.) I think all of us, village atheists and God-botherers, have had religious experiences, sometimes exalted, sometimes pitiful and craving.
I'll go first. On the evening of that September 11, my wife and I sat down to dinner feeling - well, you remember how you felt. We didn't have much appetite, but we poured a glass of wine; we needed it. It's our custom to drink a toast with the first glass. Most times, we toast frivolously, or laughingly, or heartily; our toasts are for fun. That night, we lifted our glasses and then sat there still and wordless. I was searching for something to say. At first I wanted to drink to the dead; but the dead are safely out of our reach; we can envy them, but we can't do them good or harm; the dead no longer exist. The words came at last: "To the living," I said, and we drank down our wine and tears.
Later, I described this experience to a knowledgeable man, a former protestant minister and a working psychologist. I had thought about that moment, recognizing it as religious, and with some effort I was able to say to him, "I found that I wanted to pray, but I had nothing to pray to." I told him what I had said. "Yes," he assured me, "that was a good prayer."
Well, that was one of my religious experiences, and I'm not ashamed of it; I don't have to go back and reject it as unreasoning. The impulse to religion is an attempt to fill a need, in this case a need for comfort. Pretty often, we want someone bigger than we are to tell us that everything's going to be all right. If that was all that went on inside the temples and churches and mosques, I wouldn't be concerned at all; let religion ramble right along, with or without gods and devils.
But since the situation is otherwise, maybe we should examine our own seemingly religious natures, to gain some intuitive understanding of what drives the believers.
I'll go first. On the evening of that September 11, my wife and I sat down to dinner feeling - well, you remember how you felt. We didn't have much appetite, but we poured a glass of wine; we needed it. It's our custom to drink a toast with the first glass. Most times, we toast frivolously, or laughingly, or heartily; our toasts are for fun. That night, we lifted our glasses and then sat there still and wordless. I was searching for something to say. At first I wanted to drink to the dead; but the dead are safely out of our reach; we can envy them, but we can't do them good or harm; the dead no longer exist. The words came at last: "To the living," I said, and we drank down our wine and tears.
Later, I described this experience to a knowledgeable man, a former protestant minister and a working psychologist. I had thought about that moment, recognizing it as religious, and with some effort I was able to say to him, "I found that I wanted to pray, but I had nothing to pray to." I told him what I had said. "Yes," he assured me, "that was a good prayer."
Well, that was one of my religious experiences, and I'm not ashamed of it; I don't have to go back and reject it as unreasoning. The impulse to religion is an attempt to fill a need, in this case a need for comfort. Pretty often, we want someone bigger than we are to tell us that everything's going to be all right. If that was all that went on inside the temples and churches and mosques, I wouldn't be concerned at all; let religion ramble right along, with or without gods and devils.
But since the situation is otherwise, maybe we should examine our own seemingly religious natures, to gain some intuitive understanding of what drives the believers.
)