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As I have discussed in A Dialogue on Religion, Dogma, Imagination, and Conceptualization and Do Deities Defecate? (among other essays), what people conceptualize as “god” may well be as legitimate an object of conceptualization as “infinity,” “eternity,” and “love.” It may well be as legitimate an object of conceptualization as “consciousness,” which, indeed, it is closely related to.

As humans, we know that we subjectively experience the existence of human “consciousness.” We have minds, which, by and large, are the expression of the functioning of our physical brains, in interaction with one another and our environment. We normally conceptualize this consciousness to be an individual-level phenomenon, each of us having our own, the connection among them being tendrils of communication among separate nodes of consciousness.

But this individual-level conceptualization becomes suspect on closer examination. We think in languages, using concepts, drawing on stories and narratives and sciences and philosophies that we did not individually invent. We wield metaphors and analogies and a wealth of material that preceded our own individual consciousness, with only a very slight individuation of that cognitive material on the margins identifying our own consciousness as unique, as differentiated from the collective consciousness from which it was born and in which it is embedded. (See, for instance, The Fractal Geometry of Social Change, for a vivid description of this collective consciousness.)

So human consciousness, in a sense, is not so much individual as collective, a shared process in which our individual participation provides the robustness and creativity, but in which our collective participation defines the scope and substance. But it is still strictly “human,” right?

Few who have ever had a beloved pet would be in complete agreement with that assessment. Our family dog Buttercup is clearly somewhat “conscious,” aware of our love for her and of hers for us, communicating her desire to play, to go out, to be petted, with ease and determination. She is excited at the prospect of walking to school with my daughter, where she knows she will get to run in the park on the way, and receive affection from the other children upon arrival. She has both human and dog friends that she recognizes and greets and communicates with on a rudimentary level. She clearly possesses some degree of what humans call “consciousness.”

To explore that “lesser degree” of consciousness so clearly evident in large mammals, it’s useful to switch from the cultural (consciousness as a function of language and symbolic communication) to the biological (consciousness as an expression of genetic codes). The human mind, as an artifact of the human brain –which is an anatomical product of an evolutionary process of genetic reproduction, mutation, and competition for reproductive success– is clearly not absolutely unique. Like the individual in a society on the cognitive level, the human mind is the individuation of a biological and genetic theme. We see similarities to it among other large mammals, and even among very different animals, in some ways: when an insect scurries away from danger, the scurrying LOOKS a whole lot like fear, even if it isn’t. But maybe the resemblance isn’t completely irrelevant after all.

What distinguishes humans from all other creatures on Earth (with the possible exception of some large sea mammals) is cognitively complex symbolic communication (i.e., “language,” though the qualifier “cognitively complex” is necessary, due to the complex languages of many other creatures, such as bees, whose intricate dances indicate where the nectar is to be found). And, indeed, it is that cognitively complex language which has created the echo of genetic evolution particular to the anthrosphere: Human History (and the cultural/political/economic/cognitive evolution that defines it).

But that cognitively complex language is the product of a very slight genetic variation. We are genetically barely distinguishable from other large apes, more closely related to Chimpanzees than Chimpanzees are to Gorillas or Orangutans. So while language gives our biologically-based consciousness a particularly robust expression, it does not remove it in essence very far from our nearest biological relatives. They, too, have a nearly equal quantity of the individual-level stuff of consciousness, but merely lack the complex tendrils of communication that launch that consciousness into the societal level of development and expression.

What we see by looking at consciousness both through the lens of a cultural and human historical context, and the lens of a genetic and natural historical context, is that it is neither a particularly individual level phenomenon, nor an exclusively human phenomenon. It is, rather, something that is “out there” in the fabric of nature, finding different degrees and forms of expression in different contexts.

Neither is it any coincidence that these two lenses are both “evolutionary” lenses, one the lens of biological/genetic evolution and its products, and the other cultural/memetic evolution and its products. “Consciousness” as we know it, both in terms of the expression of the functioning of the human brain (a product of biological evolution), and in terms of the expression of the cognitive material accumulated and refined through communication among human brains (a product of cultural evolution), is an expression of evolutionary processes.

What is the exact nature of the connection between “evolution” and “consciousness”? Here’s one surprising suggestion: Both can be defined as the purposeful refinement of behavior and form in response to experience. Evolution is a process driven by the lathe of trial and error, in which the forms and behaviors (those genes in general) of living organisms are refined over time in response to relative reproductive success, preserving those that are most reproductively successful. Human consciousness is a process driven by the lathe of human experience and communication, in which those forms and behaviors (those cognitions in general) that are most copied by others are the ones that are preserved.

In fact, biologists routinely use the language and mathematics of economics to describe evolutionary and ecological phenomena. They refer to “strategies,” and employ the microeconomic tool of analysis known as “game theory” to analyze the evolution of competing biological strategies. Biologists are quick to emphasize that this is a metaphor, that there was no conscious intent behind the evolution of competing reproductive strategies, that they just “resemble” intentional human strategic action, that they just resemble “consciousness.”

But might this not be a bit anthrocentric of us? I am not disputing the recognition that biological evolution is not the intentional product of a centralized mind in the same way that human strategic behavior is (though, as I indicated above, even human strategic behavior, when involving any organization of human beings, has a decentralized element to it as well). But I am bringing into question the sharp conceptual differentiation between a process that we recognize as consciousness because we subjectively experience it, and the process that produced it that appears to be remarkably similar in form.

Might it not make more sense to conceptualize human consciousness, which is the product of evolutionary processes that envelope it and preceded it, as similar to those processes, rather than conceptualizing those preceding and enveloping processes as being similar to human consciousness? If it were not for the fact that we are human beings, subjectively aware of our own consciousness, wouldn’t it be more rational to give priority to the biological and historical progenitor of our consciousness than to its by-product (i.e., human consciousness)?

This conceptual journey began with the human individual, and panned out to identify consciousness as a function of the human collective, and then panned out futher to identify consciousness as a function of the evolutionary ecology of the planet Earth. Can we continue panning out, to see these all as nested levels of a coherent aspect of nature, that is woven into the fabric of the cosmos, and that finds different kinds of expression at different levels of manifestation?

Fritjov Capra, UC-Berkeley Physicist and author of The Tao of Physics, wrote more recently in The Web of Life, that a biological paradigm was replacing a physical one as the fundamental paradigm of Nature. The reason for this, posits Capra, is that the emerging science of complex dynamical systems (best known as “Chaos Theory”) is discovering that the kinds of processes most commonly associated with organic processes, with life, are far more widespread, far more fundamental, far more woven into the fabric of Nature, than we had previously realized. The universe and its subsystems are, in many ways, more like a vast living thing with living things nested within it, than like a dead mechanical device comprised of nested levels of mechanical components.

Even physics itself, moving toward String Theory, a mathematical model of “The Cosmic Symphony,” seems to be increasingly compatible with this view.

If it is more an organic than mechanical universe; if human consciousness can be recognized as a direct “echo” of preceding and enveloping natural processes; and if we step back in yet another way and recognize that the mere existence of human consciousness demonstrates that Nature is somehow inherently capable of producing such a phenomenon, that matter and energy can be arranged in such a way as to become “conscious,” and if we contemplate the mind-bogglingly subtle and complex coherence of the universe and its myriad subsystems, is it such a leap to conceptualize the universe itself as a conscious entity, the fabric of Nature being, in a sense, “consciousness”?

Isn’t it that primal wisdom, that neolithic recognition, that has found expression in the form of God and gods? The error is not in the conceptualization, in the use of the metaphor and the exploration of reality that it facilitates, but rather in our conceptualization of conceptualization itself. We can’t seem to make the move from recognizing that what we hold in our minds and what those thoughts refer to are never identical, that we are always reducing, simplifying reality into forms we can grasp and work with, that reality itself is always more subtle and complex than our conceptualizations of it.

We seem to have fallen into two distinct patterns of error: The religious one, in which the world and universe is conceptualized as intentionally ruled by an anthropomorphic God that thinks and acts suspiciously similar to how a human being thinks and acts; and the atheistic one, in which the world and universe is conceptualized as a dead machine in which random chance produced the otherwise unremarkable isolated phenomenon of human consciousness.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the ancient civilization that was most remarkable for the florescence of rational thought and subtle and insightful natural philosophies was also most remarkable for the incomparably robust and rich mythology that it produced. The ancient Greeks demonstrated that when we are most prolific and innovative in the generation of the products of the human imagination, we are most prolific and innovative in the generation of the products of human reason as well. The two are more intimately related than we sometimes realize.

So, while I believe that literary gods serve us better than literal ones, I also believe that investing in the processes of consciousness serves us better than entrenching ourselves in its ephemeral products (see, e.g., Scholarship v. Ideology, Ideology v. Methodology and An Argument for Reason and Humility). The error is not that our literal gods need to be replaced with an equally off-the-mark recognition of their literal absence, but rather that we need to refine our entire relationship to reality, understanding that our conceptualizations are just that: Conceptualizations. Our own consciousness best articulates with the consciousness of which we are a part when it does so most flexibly, most humbly, and most imaginatively. The gods beckon us to know them better by knowing less and contemplating more.

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  • This argument was resoundingly rejected on an atheist fb page where I posted it. I’d like to share my response:

    Well, I knew that posting here would be similar to posting on, say, a fundamentalist christian site, because in both cases there is a doctrine to be defended rather than a reality to be explored. The essay addressed this fact, suggesting the more useful distinction isn’t between “atheism” and “religion,” but rather between dogmatic ideology (a focus on substantive beliefs held with a degree of conviction discordant with epistemological reality) and disciplined contemplation (a focus on procedures and methodologies for more effectively continually deepening understanding).

    The reason why the concept of “consciousness” seems to slip is because it is normally defined tautologically as that which we subjectively experience as human consciousness, or something virtually indistinguishable from it. By that definition, only a human being can ever be conscious, and the case is closed by the magic of how we define our terms. If we want to release the concept from that tether, and consider the possibility that the essence of this thing expressed through the human form has expression in other aspects of nature, that there is the same “self-similarity” so characteristic of so many embedded systems, we have to look for something that is common to human consciousness and other non-human, non-animal complex dynamical systemic phenomena. I made a case for what that common thread should be. If you’d like to give it a name other than “consciousness,” that’s fine with me, as long as the notion of self-similarity is preserved.

    My dad was a devout atheist, and for the first 18 years of my life I had no doubt that there was no other rational way of conceptualizing reality. But what I discovered in the course of my life and my experiences is that we all tend to overestimate the fidelity of our own conceptualizations of reality, and underestimate the actual subtlety of that reality. My point in this essay is, sure, you can replace one set of dogmatic and inflexible overly-reductionist beliefs about a reality more subtle and complex than our dogmatic and inflexible beliefs with just another dogmatic and inflexible overly-reductionist belief, or you can take it a step further, and let go of the dogmatic and inflexible overly reductionist beliefs altogether.

    You say that this wasn’t an argument for the existence of god at all. I say it is. Why do we disagree? Because of how we define our terms, and how we conceptualize the objects of those terms. You don’t think that a significant proportion of human discord is based on exactly that dynamic? Are you sure that everyone else has in their mind exactly the same thing as you when they say or hear the word “god”? How would you or could you know such a thing? More to the point, how could you not know that that is clearly not the case, that those who disagree with you do so in part because they are conceptualizing the world differently from you. Why deny the possibility that there is more than one way to conceptualize the same world.

    O por que no considerar la posibilidad que se puede decir la misma cosa en varios idiomas?

    Is it possible that religions are a little like languages, considering a truly sublime reality in a variety of ways? Is it possible that there is value in understanding a river not only in terms of the hydrological cycle and flow dynamics and erosion and sediment deposit, but also in terms of singing spirits dancing their way from mountain to sea? My contention, you’ll recall, is that it is the belief in a perfect match between our linguistic representations and a literal absolute truth that is the problem, not the various metaphorical languages we use to attempt to explore that elusive truth. We think in metaphors, in frames and narratives; it would behove us to embrace that fact, to recognize that our words are not the absolute truth, but rather stories we tell to give us a better feel for its contours and dynamics. Even mathematics and science is, in a sense, a set of stories we tell, metaphors that help us to understand the complex forms and dynamics of the world we live in.

    You can disagree. But I would suggest that it’s worth considering.

  • Another of my responses on the atheist fb page:

    To put it more briefly:

    You treat a conceptual question that is a function of choice of conceptualization as if it were an empirical question subject to confirmation or refutation.

    To expand on that a bit:

    I neither believe in nor disbelieve in the existence of god, because god’s existence is not an empirical question for which belief or disbelief has any real relevance. God is a concept, a particularly abstract concept frequently confused for a particularly concrete concept, and as a result the topic of much ridiculous debate. The point of my essay was to demonstrate a very rational and informed argument in favor of the validity of such a concept, though against the validity of overly reifying it (as is the custom among both those who dogmatically embrace one or another variation of it, and those who dogmatically reject most or all variations of it).

    Just as it is possible to conceptualize reality in any of a variety of spoken languages, it is also possible to conceptualize reality in any of a variety of such meta-languages. I am able to conceptualize the world in terms of the existence of god or gods or the Tao, and I am able to conceptualize the world in terms of the non-existence of god or gods or the Tao. The only dysfunction I see with either choice is the dysfunction of being dogmatically certain –believing one conceptualization or the other to somehow be “Absolute Truth”– instead of recognizing them for the conceptualizations that they are.

    Once that is understood, then I actually think that there is more value in retaining than in dismissing conceptualizations of god and gods and similar notions, because I think that there is a legitimate referent being reached for by those conceptualizations, albeit almost always very clumsily. The essay attempted to identify that referent.

    What would really serve humanity well at this point would be, rather than pretending that one more dogmatic non-empirical conceptual certainty is the solution to a world riddled with dogmatic non-empirical conceptual certainties, to recognize that competing conceptualizations aren’t mutually exclusive, and that they can contribute to the vibrancy and richness of our shared cognitive landscape.

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