Problems of Metaphysics

Cosmological-Theological Problem

Pantheism and the Soul of the World

We now return to the question previously posed: does not all striving and desire, as it manifests before us in countless forms of reality, ultimately coalesce into the unity of a single being and a singular will? Does not the unity of the physical world, in its universal interaction, correspond to the unity of inner life, in which all individual lives and aspirations are contained within self-movement and self-realization? An affirmative answer to this question is provided by the worldview of idealistic pantheism. I shall summarize its essential features in a few formulations.

1. Reality is a singular being; individual entities do not possess absolute independence; they derive their existence and essence from the One, in whose most real and perfect nature they form more or less autonomous members. Using Spinoza's formulation: reality is a single substance; things are modifications posited within it.
2. The essence of the One reveals itself to us— to the extent that it is revealed at all—in both aspects of reality: in nature and in history. In Spinoza's terms: substance develops, understood by us under two attributes, namely, the attribute of extension and the attribute of thought. This position is later modified by epistemological reflection to suggest that the spiritual world is itself the true being, while the physical world is merely its manifestation and representation in our sensory experience.
3. Universal interaction in the physical world is a manifestation of an inner, aesthetic-teleological necessity, through which the One unfolds the content of its essence within a multitude of mutually coherent modifications, forming a cosmos of concrete ideas (monads, entelechies). This inner necessity is simultaneously absolute freedom or self-realization. For Spinoza: substance is causa sui or causa libera; it reveals its essence due to an internal (logically mathematical) necessity.

Is this viewpoint justified? After all that has been previously articulated, one cannot expect me to now substantiate it with arguments that compel rationality. Here, we can only demonstrate that anyone who attentively and openly observes the indications of things and readily surrenders to the impressions of reality arrives at precisely such ultimate thoughts.

I will recall the starting points outlined in earlier sections of the discourse: the unity of the physical world in universal interaction and universal lawfulness; the spontaneity in the harmony of all parts—there is no necessity in nature. Furthermore, the independence of reality as a whole from external authority; its movement can only be construed as a spontaneous movement from within; there exists no force outside reality that could impart such movement through a push. I remind you of the dual nature in which reality presents itself most clearly to us, namely in our own essence—as body and soul—and of the resulting assumption that corporeality everywhere indicates an accompanying inner dimension. Finally, I recall the “telos” that emerges before us in that small segment of reality for which we possess somewhat more than mere astronomical knowledge. We would not do any violence to the facts if, alongside speculative philosophy—which, however, merely follows the path of general perception—we were to construct them in this manner: the development of the earth strives toward life; life toward consciousness; consciousness toward spirit; and spiritual-historical life is the focal point of terrestrial existence; therefore, if it is permissible to derive the part from the whole, the highest spiritual life serves as the focal point of being in general.

However, if someone were to object that, as far as we can see, spiritual life on earth is not a goal or a constant good; that one might rather view it as a fleeting, soon-to-vanish occurrence, since the cessation of life and spirit is an inevitable consequence of cosmic conditions—this would not disconcert us. If this is so, we would say: the color and life of a plant are also transient, while its substance is permanent; this does not prevent us from seeing life and flowering as its goal. Similarly, the earth may one day fade and perish, and yet life—spiritual life—was the aim of its development. Indeed, if it does come to an end, it is not thereby lost; reality is not obliterated by transitioning into the past; the past remains, on the contrary, an eternal component of reality, whose existence is not confined to a single moment of the present. Moreover, what do we know of the fates that still await the earth and the Solar System? Perhaps they will be drawn into greater spheres and summoned to a grander future than our cosmic physicists can imagine. Since there is no primal state for reality, but only a final point for our inquiry, the same must be true for the end state; the limits of our ingenuity do not coincide with the limits of reality. Let a mayfly, as the sun sets and night descends upon it, think: now all is over; the light extinguishes forever, and the whole world sinks into darkness and stupor. A person, who has observed the setting and rising of the sun countless times, should have learned to believe that the infinite harbors means and possibilities for many things that he cannot see.

In summarizing all these reflections into a final thought, can we not now assert that what we observe on a small scale in our own lives—what we, as we believe, also recognize in the life of the earth—pertains to reality in general? It has its goal and essence in the All-Life, in the infinite and eternal spiritual life, the fullness of which infinitely surpasses all our concepts, yet from whose essence we nevertheless receive some reflection in the essence of our own spirit.

I believe we can assert this; we can also add that no perspective allows us to construct reality more simply and clearly. First and foremost, it is only from this viewpoint that the fact—central to the entire endeavor of philosophy—becomes accessible to the construction of reality: the fact of life. Only within this framework does the soul-spiritual life acquire an appropriate environment; its inception and existence within the collective reality become comprehensible only from this perspective. Conversely, from the viewpoint of atomic materialism, spiritual life appears as a strange anomaly within reality; it cannot be eliminated—its reality is indisputable—but it complicates the theory; if it did not exist, then the explanation of the world would proceed so smoothly; yet there remains an inconvenient residue, and many are so candid that they, like Dubois-Raymond, acknowledge: soul, consciousness, spirit constitute an "absolute mystery of the universe" within their worldview. From our perspective, however, the spirit can feel at home within reality; it can sense itself as flesh of its flesh and bone of its bone. I do not believe there could be a more potent argument against the satisfaction of any worldview than the assertion that it must declare the existence of spirit to be something utterly mysterious. On the other hand, I would not know of a more compelling evidence for the human spirit in favor of the truth of any worldview than the fact that it can feel at home within reality.

That this perspective possesses persuasive power like no other is evidenced by the remarkable unanimity with which human thought (if we set aside certain philosophizing physicists) has found in it the ultimate expression for the whole of things. Both in the East and the West, in ancient times as well as in the modern age, the thoughts of the freest and deepest thinkers converge toward this goal. In idealistic pantheism, the contemplation of the world has found repose among the great cultural peoples of the East. In a related stream of thought, the Greek spirit found its formula for the world in Platonic-Aristotelian philosophy: reality is a singular essence, the absolute unity of all that is spiritual and good. To this perspective, it can almost be said, the medieval thought is drawn—even against its will; and finally, modern thought invariably returns to it—wherever it unfolds in the most liberated and audacious manner. Bruno and Spinoza arrive at it from the latest cosmological and natural scientific ideas, while the speculative philosophy of the Germans emerges from a new understanding of historical life: reality is a singular spiritual life, the visible part of which is represented for us by the development of the spiritual life and, most profoundly, by the development of human and historical life on earth.

In an age dominated by speculative philosophy, which posits that reality has embraced and comprehended itself as Spirit, one perceives in this view an absolute truth, and there is no doubt that it is destined to become a universal truth. It has been dubbed the secret religion of the educated, grounded in the belief that it will gradually permeate those realms that, for now, can grasp truth only in the form of representation. However, things have transpired otherwise. In our time, while philosophical contemplation may still be discussed among the educated classes (the majority manages without it), it would be more apt to seek it within the direction inclined towards the natural sciences, materialism, or dressed in the attire of skeptical epistemology. The physical perspective on things has supplanted the poetically speculative contemplation. For our naturalists, the notion of an inner life of reality has become nearly entirely alien. The idea of a world soul, of a universal Spirit, of a mundus intelligibilis, appears to them, much like the conception of anthropomorphic deities, a childish fantasy; they have no need for this hypothesis, for they can explain the world in terms of atoms and physical forces, except perhaps for the small residue—phenomena of consciousness in the brains of living beings. Science, they assert, has entered maturity; it no longer indulges in the childish games of such fantastical speculations; those who still harbor a penchant for them may seek them among the backward philosophers. Moreover, the public opinion of the educated classes, intimidated by the certainty with which the natural sciences present themselves, is ashamed to revert to ideas that lack the stamp of natural science.

I am far from seeking to impose these thoughts upon those disinclined towards them through arguments; such an enterprise I deem hopeless or rather entirely impossible. Those who wish to remain steadfast in an astronomically physical perspective cannot be forcibly extracted from this position. They might say: this is what we know; as for the rest, we know nothing; phenomena of consciousness are isolated events in living beings; whether they bear broader cosmic significance, we cannot know; yet I do not wish to embark on metaphysical hypotheses. In this position, they are invulnerable. Conversely, they become vulnerable only when they proceed further and assert: what we do not know does not exist; that which astronomy and physics can teach us encompasses all that can be said about the world.

To such negative dogmatism, it may be most prudent to oppose questions; in this domain, the questioner always holds the advantage over the assertor, as Hume has noted, and before him, Socrates was already aware of this. So, is it not true, we might ask, that you know what the world is, that you understand it as a vast congregation of atoms, and that in this conception, there is no mention of soul or spirit, except perhaps for a few brains, randomly produced by the earth, or possibly by some other celestial bodies? Yet, upon what does this knowledge of yours rest? On the fact that you have never seen anything like a world soul or anything similar? But have you seen the soul of an animal or a human being? And yet, you believe in its existence. Why? Is it because you observe the brain and nerves here? Excellent; therefore, you would believe in a world soul if only you were shown the brain and nerves of the world? Then the world, if it were to possess a brain, would probably also need to have eyes, ears, legs, wings, or fins, a spine, a heart, and a stomach? Thus, if all these were to be shown to you, if the world had the appearance of some immeasurably large bird or whale, or elephant, if it, like other animals, chewed and digested, would you not then think: here there must be a soul?

Well, that would be an astonishingly strange entity. Perhaps even a biologist could be convinced that a world soul, if it indeed exists, operates quite well without embodying itself in such a form. Certainly, an animal requires all of this: it needs legs to stand upon and walk; a stomach and teeth to process food; eyes to seek out prey; a central nervous system to adapt its movements to the external world. But the One needs none of this—neither legs to stand upon and walk, nor adaptations for metabolic exchange, nor eyes, nor ears, as it possesses nothing external to itself to see and hear; thus, it would also require neither a brain nor nerves. Or, despite this, would it need to acquire all this apparatus merely to make it plausible for the 19th-century naturalist, standing at the height of Pyrrhonism, that reality does not cease where the Laplacean intellect concludes?

Or must it, to make the supposition of a singular internal life acceptable even to this Pyrrhonian spirit, at least take on the semblance, if not of a colossal animal, then at least of one large interconnected body, perhaps resembling a sphere? Would he find this conception less strange if the world were continuous rather than presenting itself as a system of bodies scattered across immeasurable space? Does the apparent lack of unity here impede this conception? But by what means does an animal body possess unity? Through the continuity of all its parts? Evidently not; rather, it is through the functional unity of all parts. Do the molecules comprising an animal's brain touch one another? They may be separated by gaps exceeding their diameters by any magnitude. If, on the other hand, atoms are represented as non-extended points of force application, then these gaps are infinitely vast in comparison to their diameters. Consequently, a lack of immediate adjacency cannot serve as a hindrance to unity; whether the parts are separated by one millionth of a millimeter or by millions of miles is irrelevant, as long as they constitute a unity of movement. And yet, as far as we know, the celestial bodies indeed form such a unity in the strictest sense. Or is this movement too simple and uniform? Or can only such complex systems of motion, like those of animal bodies, be considered animated and ensouled?

Fechner responds to this (in Ideen zu einer Schöpfungsgeschichte, p. 106): "However complex our brains may be, and however strongly we may be inclined to associate the loftiness of spiritual properties with this complexity, the world is nevertheless infinitely more complex, as it comprises the complexity of all complexities contained within it, including our very brain; why, therefore, should we not associate even higher spiritual properties with this highest complexity? The structure of the heavens seems simple only if one pays attention solely to large masses and neglects the detailed interworking and connections among them. The celestial bodies are not crude, homogeneous blocks, and the relationships of light and gravity permeate them in the most diverse and complex ways. And the fact that much in the world is simultaneously uniformly grouped, interconnected, and dismembered does not contradict the thought that this multiplicity spiritually embraces itself accordingly—but rather aligns with it."

Indeed, what prevents us from perceiving any planet as a ganglionic cell of a cosmic mind? Is it merely its size? Yet, why should the cosmic mind not consist of larger cells than those found in the brains of animals? Or does its composition not permit this? However, it contains the same elements: carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, iron, phosphorus, along with many others; and throughout these elements, interactions occur in myriad ways, much as they might within a ganglion. And who knows how profound and clear this analogy might appear if we could simply enlarge the ganglion sufficiently to comprehend its structure and observe the myriad forms of motion within it. Negeli, in the previously mentioned treatise on the limits of natural scientific knowledge, which starkly reveals the limitations of our understanding in relation to the infinite—both the infinitely large and the infinitely small—articulates a view: “Just as divisibility does not cease, so by analogy with what we find in the entirety of our experience, we must concede that the assembly of individually separated parts continues downwards towards infinity. Similarly, we are compelled to assume an infinite aggregation upward into larger and larger individual groups. The cosmic bodies are molecules, combining into groups of lower and higher orders, and our entire system of fixed stars is but a group of molecules within an infinitely greater whole, which we must envision as a single organism, and once more merely as a part of an even greater whole.”

A physicist might argue that these are mere fantasies. Yet, they do not claim to be anything more; nevertheless, fantasies have their own rights and purposes—even if here they serve merely to remind reason of its boundaries. In times when science leans heavily towards a complacent finality, such reminders are not excessive. Scientific inquiry should proceed along its path without concern for fantasies. However, it must not assert that nothing exists in the world beyond what our physiologists and cosmologists know. There may exist thousands of things in the heavens and on the earth that the common wisdom of our time can scarcely imagine, just as it could not in the days of Hamlet—perhaps even less so now. It assumes that dreams have been almost entirely eradicated: apart from a small remnant of chance superstitions, only the enlightened now believe in physics, atoms, and a few cosmic enigmas, without any further thoughts on such matters.

Natural science could find a valuable lesson in its own history. What wonders have been uncovered in the last two or three centuries through the microscope on earth and the telescope in the heavens! If a medieval physicist were told what our textbooks reveal about the Milky Way and cosmic evolution, about the structure of the eye and the movement of light, he would find nothing in it but the fantasies of an excessively strained imagination. If we were to acquire similar aids for understanding the inner world, or were given the ability to read souls, would we not make astonishing discoveries? Is it only the physical world that reveals ever-new wonders to us? Or if our eyes were opened to perceive the inner world, would it not unveil before us an even more astonishing richness of content, subtlety of analysis, and grandeur of connection?

Of course, we do not possess such insight; we strive to discern the mental significance of bodies and corporeal forms, laboriously analyzing them under the guidance of analogy; only in the human realm do we manage this to a certain extent; the world below humanity casts at least a glimmer, while the realm above humanity remains entirely beyond our grasp; our knowledge does not extend beyond what we experience: to understand God would mean to be God. Yet, it seems unreasonable to assert that there is nothing there simply because our gaze cannot penetrate it. Dogmatic denial is as reckless as positive dogmatism. To stand in reverence before the infinite and the incomprehensible, the source and goal of all life and existence—that is fitting for humankind.

Rückert, this discerning and profound interpreter of nature and life, expresses this pious sense of respect for the great mystery of being in the following verses:

A curtain hangs before the sanctuary,
Embroidered with colorful images
Of animals and plants, star and flower,
That depict God’s greatness.

Devotion kneels to worship
Before these rich folds,
A ray of light behind the tapestry
Clarifies the forms.

I bow to the deepest hem
And kiss it only with trembling;
I cannot even in the boldest dream
Lift the curtain away.

As for the relation of the individual spirit to the Universal Spirit, we must attempt to conceptualize it according to the relationship that the individual spirit holds with its separate moments. Just as individual feelings, desires, and thoughts are included as parts within the greater connection of the whole, so too could the entirety of spiritual life be viewed as a part embedded within the encompassing connection of God’s life, possibly linked through a long chain of intermediary members. This would not diminish its autonomy—of course, only relative autonomy. Just as a single impulse or affect, a separate series of thoughts, or an individual group of ideas in our spiritual life possesses a certain autonomy while still belonging to the whole and acting in concert with it, so too would the entire spiritual life be included within a broader connection, enriched by greater content and autonomy. The division of the corporeal world would represent this relationship within the realm of phenomena: an organic cell is a relatively autonomous part of a body that, in turn, belongs to the whole of the earth, as a dependent yet simultaneously autonomous member, and together with the body of the earth, it is again integrated as a part within broader connections.

What we lack in immediate awareness of the integration of our mental life into a greater whole does not serve as evidence against the existence of that integration; the whole perceives the part, yet the part does not perceive the whole. If a brain cell possessed a unified internal life with consciousness, it too would not directly perceive the mental life of a human being or its relationship to it. Thus, we cannot intuitively grasp our relationship to higher orders of life. However, in abstract understanding, we are capable of seeing that our mental life is not absolutely autonomous but is encompassed by broader connections. We can somewhat comprehend its immediate surroundings, the historical life of our people. We also grasp the connection of our physical existence to the surrounding nature that bears and nourishes it. Yet we cannot wrap this nature in spirit and envision our mental life as encapsulated in a psychic connection, or, to use Kant’s expression, incorporate ourselves as noumena into the inner connection of noumena, placing ourselves as members within the mundus intelligibilis. Here, knowledge halts at a schematic construction.

As for the consideration that such an understanding would include the false, distorted, and evil within the Divine life, I would merely point out that no empirical construction of reality has yet managed to overcome this difficulty. I will return to this later, but for now, I note that we could borrow the scheme for construction from our own internal life: there are times when we are long haunted by some delusion, some false desire, until our mental life finally manages to seize it, expelling it, an ordeal that inevitably enriches our experience and strength. What would a thinker be if he had not traversed the errors of his time? There are even instances where a prolonged struggle occurs within us between opposing desires and urges, conflicting thoughts and feelings, leaving us unable to resolve the discord; indeed, the opposition between spirit and flesh is one of the most universal and profound experiences of humankind. Thus, we may contemplate that within the life of the Divine, there exist internal oppositions; only here, all oppositions and all disharmonies of reality are ultimately resolved into one great harmony, one that has, of course, never reached the ears of any mortal.

Finally, let us also observe that in the preservation of past memories, we possess a framework for the enduring belonging of the individual soul to the collective universal spirit.

Immortality, in the sense of eternity, is undoubtedly a necessary conception; it is inconceivable that any mental life could be absolutely annihilated. A phenomenon cannot become invalid simply because it passes into the past. If that were the case, if the past were rendered invalid in any sense, as invalid as that which has never existed, then it is evident that no reality could exist at all: it cannot exist in the present, as the latter is a non-extended point in time. How does my mental life exist, which pertains to the past? We say it exists in memory, and through this, it continues to participate in subsequent developments; thus, it also retains its connection to the present. Therefore, if a similar relationship existed between individual life and the universal spirit, we would have in the latter the persistent existence and action of individual life even after its completion through death. It would remain an undiminished element of divine life and consciousness. And nothing would hinder us from believing that it would maintain relative autonomy and a unity of consciousness within the whole. Such thoughts were elaborated in detail by Fechner in the second volume of Zend Avesta and in his Büchlein vom Leben nach dem Tode (3rd ed. 1887); I can only point this out here.