Posts

The Dark Goddess: A Post-Jungian Interpretation

In an interview with Ross Downing, PhD candidate Áine Warren discusses her research into the ‘Dark Goddess’ at the University of Edinburgh. Drawn into this community of Dark Goddess adherents through her previous research into altars dedicated to the Celtic goddess The Morrigan, Warren examines similarities and differences among Dark Goddesses from various faith traditions including the Eastern Kali Ma, the Celtic Morrigan, and the Norse goddess Hel.

Focused on the female experience, discourse surrounding Dark Goddesses are as varied and complex as the myriad of goddesses that this sector of Goddess Spirituality entails. Warren accurately notes that, in this context, Dark, as a descriptor, refers to the nature of the goddess in question rather than a direct reference to skin colour. For example, the Black Madonna is often, and incorrectly, referred to as a Dark Goddess because of her dark skin, but that is not the nature in question here. In this context, Dark is indicative of what psychologist Carl Jung refers to as the ‘Shadow.’[i]

As Warren states, the Dark Goddess represents ‘part of nature relegated from society and religious practices.’ She is ‘not to be approached; not to be encouraged, and not to be approached within the self’, yet, for an adherent, working with the Dark Goddess is a vital part of any wholistic understanding of self and nature.  Mirroring my own ethnographic research within the Western Goddess Movement, Warren found that the Dark Goddess worshiped in the West bears striking similarities to Eastern Dark Goddesses despite historical and cultural differences.

However, while Warren has found a consensus on the nature of the Dark Goddess amongst the texts and YouTube communities that she is examining, not all adherents within contemporary Goddess Spirituality view the Dark Goddess in the same way.  In fact, the Dark, or Shadow aspect of Goddess, is a point of heated debate within the Goddess community amongst adherents, feminist theologians, and thealogians. Some Goddess Feminists, such as Carol P. Christ, refute the Dark Goddess as a projection of patriarchy.[ii] Christ favours the opinion that these ‘dark’ and often hostile characteristics applied to Dark Goddesses are a product of the patriarchal lens, which transmutes the goddess into a female hammer for male dominance. This is especially true with goddesses, such as Kali Ma and The Morrigan, who are intricately connected to the art of battle and warfare. Christ, understanding warfare as a patriarchal construct posits that this is an unnatural drive for feminine deities while others embrace the Dark Goddess as part of a greater whole Divine Being.[iii]

It is somewhat problematic to have a dialogue about the Dark Goddess without acknowledging the significant influence of the psychodynamics of Carl Gustav Jung. When asked about the connection between the Dark Goddess and Jung, Warren states that no one has ‘drawn that line’ between Jung and these practices. This is where one must wonder if it was a moment of Jungian synchronicity that Warren’s podcast made its way into my email inbox because my doctoral research directly connects Jung to the birth of the contemporary Western Goddess Movement. (For my conversation with Karen Tate on the topic, click here.) In fact, this isn’t just a ‘therapeutic’ element in Goddess Spirituality as Warren claims; Jung and his student M. Esther Harding who originally brought these ideas to American in the early 1900s have given birth to a psychodynamic Goddess-centred faith tradition. Over the years, Jung’s original ideas about Goddess, whom he often refers to as the Anima or the Anima Mundi (the World Soul), have been transformed by feminist theories beginning with Harding in 1935[iv]  and further revised by Naomi Goldenberg in 1976[v] through to Susan Rowland’s in-depth 2002 study Jung: A Feminist Revision and beyond into contemporary academic research such as my 2016 doctoral study[vi]  of Jung’s influence on the Western Goddess Movement, which traces the roots of a Western post-Jungian Goddess religion back to Jung and Harding through the analysis of an emerging thealogy (goddess-centred) found in contemporary women’s spiritual memoirs. The goddess who was once merely an archetypal theory for Jung (divine immanence in theological terms) has crossed the bridge from the psyche into the real world as various forms of the Goddess are understood as existing beyond the psyche in the natural world (transcendent in theological terms) and are actively worshiped as transcendent beings of divinity.

For Jung, the Dark Goddess is the epitome of one’s ‘Shadow’, and Jung’s concept of the ‘Shadow’ has theological implications. In Aion, Jung writes:

The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognising the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance.[vii]

Jung’s model of psychological holism which he deems a path of Individuation[viii] begins with the crucial step of confronting one’s shadow and offers a distinctly feminine alternative to the patriarchal theological construct of sin and evil as disparate parts of ourselves that must be repressed and ignored; instead, Jung offers a system whereby one must integrate one’s shadow.  Not only does Jung ask individuals to stare into the face of their own evil, he asks individuals to embrace this part of themselves as a natural element, which is in direct opposition to the Christian doctrine of evil as the construct of Satan which must, at all costs to the ‘salvation’ of the individual, be avoided.

What post-Jungian Goddess Spirituality offers adherents, and especially women, is an alternate way to both describe and experience the ineffable. More importantly, Jung’s path to Goddess offers adherents a space where their own personal experiences are accepted without question or doubt. Validity is removed as an obstacle to belief. Jung writes:

…there is no question of belief, but of experienceReligious experience is absolute.  It is indisputable.  You can only say that you have never had such an experience, and your opponent will say: “Sorry, I have.” And there your discussion will come to an end.[ix] (emphasis added)

Jung’s theories and models offer an empowering and authentic internal source of power in Goddess. The Dark Goddess is either understood as one side of a multi-faceted Great Goddess (Magna Mater) or as individual goddesses in a pantheon of hundreds.[x] She is a force of death and destruction, and truly encountering a Dark Goddess comes with a steep price. Working with the Dark Goddess often brings the individual to a point of psychological deconstruction. Christine Downing eloquently speaks of her own interaction with the Dark Goddess Persephone in her 1981 memoir The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine. Downing relates how facing fear, weakness, and helplessness brought a significant shift in her psyche. Persephone’s lesson (and the lesson of all Dark Goddesses) was that without weakness and fear one cannot truly know strength and courage. She teaches us that we are capable of both great love and compassion as well as great evil and terrible power. The Dark Goddess shows us our frailties, our weaknesses, and our strengths. She will destroy existing paradigms and provide the path to rebuilding one’s self anew – whole and complete as individuals – empowered. This is the true influence of the Dark Goddess.


  • [i] See Jung, Carl G. (1976) The Portable Jung. Hull RFC (Trans), Campbell J (ed). New York: Penguin Books, The Viking Portable Library, p145-147.
  • [ii] See Christ, Carol P. (1997) Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality. New York: Routledge; and (2003) She Who Changes: Re-Imagining the Divine in the World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
  • [iii] See Woodman, Marion and Dickson, Elinor. (1996) Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness. Boston: Shambhala Publications. Downing, Christine. (2007 [1981]) The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine. Lincoln, NE: Authors Choice Press. Wehr, Demaris S. (1987) Jung & Feminism. Boston: Beacon Press. Bolen, Jean Shinoda. (1984) Goddesses in Everywoman: Powerful Archetypes in Women’s Lives. New York: One Spirit.
  • [iv] See Harding, M. Esther. (1971) Woman’s Mysteries: Ancient and Modern. Introduction by CG Jung. Boston: Shambhala Publications.
  • [v] Goldenberg, Naomi R. (1976) A Feminist Critique of Jung. In: Signs 2.2, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 443–449.
  • [vi] ‘Iolana, Patricia. (2016) Jung and Goddess: The Significance of Jungian and post-Jungian Theory to the Development of the Western Goddess Movement. Doctoral thesis, University of Glasgow. Publication forthcoming. See Also: (2018) ‘Jung’s Legacy: The Western Goddess Movement’. In: MacKian, S., Pile, S., and Bartonlini, N. (eds). (2018) Spaces of Spirituality. London: Routledge, 245-259.
  • [vii] Jung, Carl G. (1976) The Portable Jung. Hull RFC (Trans), Campbell J (ed). New York: Penguin Books, The Viking Portable Library, p144.
  • [viii] Jung, Carl G. (1968) The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Second Edition. Hull RFC (Trans) Read Sir H, Fordham M, Adler G and McGuire W (eds) Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, Bollingen Series XX, p275.
  • [ix] Jung Carl G. (1938) Psychology and Religion. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, p113.
  • [x] See Perera, Sylvia Brinton. (1981) Descent to the Goddess: A Way of Initiation for Women. Toronto: Inner City Books and Farrar, Janet and Farrar, Stewart. (1987) The Witches’ Goddess: The Feminine Principle of Divinity. Custer, WA: Phoenix Publishing.

A Multidisciplinary Approach to the Scientific Study of Religious Phenomena

In the recent podcast  interview, Dr Dorothea Ortmann discusses the theories behind her 2002 book Science of Religion in Peru. Ortmann speaks about using social sciences (such as anthropology and history) to investigate religious phenomena. Distancing herself from theological beliefs, Ortmann speaks about the importance of investigators in this field acknowledging their own religious affiliation (or lack thereof) as an integral component of the scientific study of religious phenomenon, and I couldn’t agree more. Theological research is often replete with the inherent religious bias of the investigator, and readers deserve to know which bias is being included to filter out much of the theological assumptions.

Ortmann goes on to discuss how investigators are using religious phenomena scientifically, citing religion as an object of investigation, and observing only the phenomena itself. She asserts that findings from these multidisciplinary investigations must be scientific and not theological.  The main reason being that theology cannot be proved or unproved, but social science investigation can analyse the religious phenomenon unbiasedly, e.g. without the spin of theological beliefs included in the analysis.

As one who has studied contemporary Western religious phenomena from a multidisciplinary approach, I agree wholeheartedly with Ortmann’s assertion that ‘studying religion means studying it across a culture’. She speaks about studying the function of religion and its impact on society, community, and traditions within a culture. This multidisciplinary data can then be observed and proved scientifically which is something that theology cannot do.  Theology is based on faith; science is based on observable (and thus predicable) facts. And while the relationship between science and theology has been tenuous at best, the time is long overdue for theology and religious studies scholars to accept that scientific study of religious phenomena and religious beliefs can offer a fruitful and bountiful area for theological discourse and rumination.

Ortmann also discusses how some fields of social science, such as psychology, also play an important role in the assessment of religious phenomena, but not necessarily from an unbiased perspective.  She states that ‘observations can be made through psychology or pastoral behaviours from theology, but this investigation will be difficult to innovate.’ As a post-Jungian Depth Thealogian, I agree with Ortmann.  While my own research was multidisciplinary including literature, thealogy, Jungian and post-Jungian psychology, phenomenology, sociology, archaeology, anthropology, and religious history, introducing many of these academic disciplines into my thealogical study was not a welcome interpretation in a theology and religious studies centre.  I often heard two divergent and contradictory arguments in the department: 1) that I would be better examining religious phenomena and beliefs from an anthropological perspective and 2) that only through theology can one assess religious phenomenon and beliefs. This short-sighted approach by scholars from generations past is stunting rather than encouraging multidisciplinary investigations in theology and religious studies.

Ortmann also applies this scientific approach to study changes in religious affiliation, which in the case of Peru (also observable in the United States), includes the exponential growth of the (Jungian) Pentecostal Church.  Assessing this area of behaviour scientifically rather than theologically or thealogically is crucial. Analysing religious affiliation, phenomenon, and experience from a social science approach can reveal far more than a narrow theological or thealogical analysis. Theologians and thealogians appear uninterested in examining religion as an ‘object of interest’ perhaps believing that this perspective denigrates the underlying theological beliefs of the phenomenon being investigated. When, in truth, social science and theology can offer much more when combined into a multidisciplinary approach. Religious behaviours, actions, beliefs, and their impact on society and culture can all be observed and proven (or disproven) through the social sciences.  These observations can provide contemporary religious scholars with a plethora of viable data to either prove or disprove religious theories or enquiries.

For example, I conducted a recent study on contemporary Pagan religious experience. I could posit all the theories I could imagine, but without sound data from the social sciences, including census data from both the US and the UK on religious affiliation, PEW data on the shifting Christian identity in the US, and social science surveys of contemporary Pagans, I could not prove that religious identity in the US and UK are changing. The addition of social science data into my doctoral dissertation was certainly a contentious point in my theology and religious studies department.  Some colleagues were in favour of my including scientific data to support my theories and claims, while others were quite incensed that I would introduce social science data into a thealogical enquiry.  In the end, I was asked to strike all this data from my dissertation. I could not agree with this short-sighted fear of combining viable social science data with thealogy, and refused to remove the workable data completely (now banishing my data to a footnote instead of a chapter proving my theories). The field of theology and religious studies can no longer exist in a vacuum avoiding every other academic discipline based on ungrounded fears.  I’ve found that social science data and religious enquiry can form a highly beneficial relationship especially when enquiring about religious affiliation, praxis, and phenomena.  The future of theology, thealogy, and religious studies must be multidisciplinary and must include social science data if we are going to move beyond ‘belief’ to real analysis and assessment of contemporary religious phenomenon.

More popular than Jesus? Jung, Freud, and Religion

In Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, the protagonist’s German psychiatrist is revealed to be a Buchenwald Nazi doctor in hiding. His revealing statement in his own defence hinges on his choice of psychiatric method. “But didn’t I try to atone? If I’d been a real Nazi I’d have chosen Jung, nicht wahr? But I chose Freud instead, the Jew.”

The divide between Freud and Jung (recently dramatized in the mediocre David Cronenberg film A Dangerous Method) is one of our own modern myths, like the divide between Plato and Aristotle in the ancient world. This is particularly true when it comes to their view of religion. I was vaguely conscious, while studying theology, of a sense among my teachers that Jung was acceptable in a way that Freud wasn’t (I remember one of my supervisors cryptically advising me to embrace my shadow self after I’d come to him with the usual postgraduate woes). Jung was sympathetic to religion. Jung didn’t think religion was neurosis. Jung was on our side.[1]

Segal mentions that Jung’s father was a pastor. He doesn’t touch on Freud’s Jewishness, perhaps because Freud himself rejected Judaism along with all other religions. But the differences between their backgrounds is important, perhaps not so much for how it affected their work but how it affected perceptions of their work. As the opening quote from Pynchon suggests, the Nazis could appreciate Jung and his collective unconscious, his initial understanding of Hitler’s rise as the resurgence of the Wotan archetype in the German unconscious. Freud, to the Nazis, would always be the self-loathing Jew with his conception of a universe full of souls as sick and parasitic and pornographic as his own.[2] I saw this split, sans the anti-Semitic undertones, among my lecturers in Dublin and Oxford. Freud was understood as the one who’d seen religion as a sickness, Jung was the one who’d seen it as something deep and beautiful and true in a way.

Segal suggests, with slightly cynical humour, that people like to be told that they’re deeper and more complex than they realized.  People certainly prefer being told that their faith is deep and beautiful and sort of true than it is a neurosis that has something to do with wanting to kill their father and sleep with their mother.

Segal argues persuasively against the idea that Jung could ever have been considered a disciple of Freud. This is a pity, since in many ways the relationship between Freud and Jung has fascinating resonances with my own study of discipleship in the ancient world. My thesis is on Peter and Judas in the Gospels and I am particularly interested in the way that these characters relate to Jesus as disciples.[3] One of my findings is that the ancient world regards true discipleship as adhering unquestioningly to what one’s teacher has taught. The student who develops into an independent critical thinker and questions or rejects his master’s teachings is a traitor just as Judas was a traitor.[4] If Jung was not Freud’s disciple, he can at least be considered the older man’s protégé and, as Segal says, one-time heir apparent. The interview addresses the psychic anguish his break with Freud caused Jung, and Freud’s own deep sense of betrayal is a well-known part of the myth.[5]

But Segal touches on something rather interesting when he comments that Freud’s inner circle of brilliant acolytes all outgrew and turned against him, one after another, while Jung’s mediocre followers remained devoted to his methods even after his death. Is there an implied criticism of Jung there, that he didn’t dare surround himself with people who could challenge him intellectually, as he had challenged Freud? But the ancient Greek archetype[6] of the good disciple was exactly this type of dull, unimaginative person. The primary qualities of a good disciple were his or her devotion to a master and the ability to completely absorb the master’s teachings. Damis, whose memoirs are the source for Philostratus’ third century Life of Apollonius of Tyana, proudly tells us that his task is to preserve even the crumbs that fell from his master’s table.

Finally, I was struck by Segal’s description of how Jung thought religion would fade away –its explanatory role replaced by science, and its role in connecting people to the collective unconscious replaced by Jungian psychiatry. I connected it to Frazer’s similarly misplaced confidence that human belief has moved from magic to religion and is now finally moving to science.[7] Unlike many intellectuals of his day, including Freud, Jung wasn’t troubled by the irrationality of religion but evidently he did share a general belief (in some cases, a hope) that its day was over. And his confidence that he himself would at least partially replace it echoes John Lennon: “Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I needn’t argue about that; I’m right and I’ll be proved right. We’re more popular than Jesus now.”

 


[1] Interestingly, my experience in the world of literary criticism is of much more sympathy towards Freud. Just as Segal is not a Jungian, not many literary critics are committed Freudians, but they can still appreciate the power and elegance of his ideas.

[2] It must be said that Freud did not help matters with Moses and Monotheism, his deeply strange book of 1937, which claimed that the Jews had treacherously murdered Moses. Freud was aware of the dangers of making such a claim at a time when anti-Semitism was reaching ever-new heights (and had already driven him from Austria) and did wrestle with the question of whether or not to publish it.

[3] One can see the importance of this theme in the title of Hans-Josef Klauck’s 1987 book Judas, ein Jünger des Herrn (Judas: a disciple of the master).

[4] Origen, in Contra Celsum 2:12, makes the comparison explicit. I sometimes wonder what my supervisors make of this particular line of inquiry.

[5] The same Jung-loving tutors mentioned above took pleasure in repeating the (apocryphal?) story of how Freud fainted the first time Jung disagreed with him. Primarily, I think, because it makes Freud sound rather foolish.

[6] In the Northrop Frye sense, not the Jungian sense.

[7] Northrop Frye posits a movement in Western written language from the metaphorical (Homer) to the metonymic (Plato and continuous prose) to the descriptive (Francis Bacon and Locke). In Biblical scholarship, Morton Smith, Marcus Borg, and J.D. Crossan have written on Jesus as a magician or ‘spirit person’ set against the religion of the Temple.

Carl Jung

Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961) was a Swiss psychiatrist. Initially a collaborator with Sigmund Freud, the two later split and Jung went on to found the Analytical Psychology school of psychotherapy. His approach focussed on what he called the process of individuation, in which the conscious and unconscious impulses in an individual are brought into harmony. He coined many concepts with a currency beyond psychiatry, including archetype, the collective unconscious, complex and synchronicity.

segal

Following a spell of “creative madness” in 1913, he increasingly applied his theories to more diverse subjects – myths, alchemy, gnosticism, even UFOs. In this entertaining interview, Robert Segal tells David about Jung’s impact on theories of religion. Why was Jung so fascinated by religious ideas, and why do his ideas remain so influential today? Did he mean them in the way they have been subsequently appropriated?

You can also download this interview, and subscribe to receive our weekly podcast, on iTunes. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to rate us. And remember, you can use our Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com links to support us at no additional cost when buying your Christmas presents etc.

This is the first episode on a series on early 20th century theorists of religion. Following episodes feature interviews with Paul-Francois Tremlett on Levi-Strauss and Ivan Strenski on Durkheim.

Podcasts

The Dark Goddess: A Post-Jungian Interpretation

In an interview with Ross Downing, PhD candidate Áine Warren discusses her research into the ‘Dark Goddess’ at the University of Edinburgh. Drawn into this community of Dark Goddess adherents through her previous research into altars dedicated to the Celtic goddess The Morrigan, Warren examines similarities and differences among Dark Goddesses from various faith traditions including the Eastern Kali Ma, the Celtic Morrigan, and the Norse goddess Hel.

Focused on the female experience, discourse surrounding Dark Goddesses are as varied and complex as the myriad of goddesses that this sector of Goddess Spirituality entails. Warren accurately notes that, in this context, Dark, as a descriptor, refers to the nature of the goddess in question rather than a direct reference to skin colour. For example, the Black Madonna is often, and incorrectly, referred to as a Dark Goddess because of her dark skin, but that is not the nature in question here. In this context, Dark is indicative of what psychologist Carl Jung refers to as the ‘Shadow.’[i]

As Warren states, the Dark Goddess represents ‘part of nature relegated from society and religious practices.’ She is ‘not to be approached; not to be encouraged, and not to be approached within the self’, yet, for an adherent, working with the Dark Goddess is a vital part of any wholistic understanding of self and nature.  Mirroring my own ethnographic research within the Western Goddess Movement, Warren found that the Dark Goddess worshiped in the West bears striking similarities to Eastern Dark Goddesses despite historical and cultural differences.

However, while Warren has found a consensus on the nature of the Dark Goddess amongst the texts and YouTube communities that she is examining, not all adherents within contemporary Goddess Spirituality view the Dark Goddess in the same way.  In fact, the Dark, or Shadow aspect of Goddess, is a point of heated debate within the Goddess community amongst adherents, feminist theologians, and thealogians. Some Goddess Feminists, such as Carol P. Christ, refute the Dark Goddess as a projection of patriarchy.[ii] Christ favours the opinion that these ‘dark’ and often hostile characteristics applied to Dark Goddesses are a product of the patriarchal lens, which transmutes the goddess into a female hammer for male dominance. This is especially true with goddesses, such as Kali Ma and The Morrigan, who are intricately connected to the art of battle and warfare. Christ, understanding warfare as a patriarchal construct posits that this is an unnatural drive for feminine deities while others embrace the Dark Goddess as part of a greater whole Divine Being.[iii]

It is somewhat problematic to have a dialogue about the Dark Goddess without acknowledging the significant influence of the psychodynamics of Carl Gustav Jung. When asked about the connection between the Dark Goddess and Jung, Warren states that no one has ‘drawn that line’ between Jung and these practices. This is where one must wonder if it was a moment of Jungian synchronicity that Warren’s podcast made its way into my email inbox because my doctoral research directly connects Jung to the birth of the contemporary Western Goddess Movement. (For my conversation with Karen Tate on the topic, click here.) In fact, this isn’t just a ‘therapeutic’ element in Goddess Spirituality as Warren claims; Jung and his student M. Esther Harding who originally brought these ideas to American in the early 1900s have given birth to a psychodynamic Goddess-centred faith tradition. Over the years, Jung’s original ideas about Goddess, whom he often refers to as the Anima or the Anima Mundi (the World Soul), have been transformed by feminist theories beginning with Harding in 1935[iv]  and further revised by Naomi Goldenberg in 1976[v] through to Susan Rowland’s in-depth 2002 study Jung: A Feminist Revision and beyond into contemporary academic research such as my 2016 doctoral study[vi]  of Jung’s influence on the Western Goddess Movement, which traces the roots of a Western post-Jungian Goddess religion back to Jung and Harding through the analysis of an emerging thealogy (goddess-centred) found in contemporary women’s spiritual memoirs. The goddess who was once merely an archetypal theory for Jung (divine immanence in theological terms) has crossed the bridge from the psyche into the real world as various forms of the Goddess are understood as existing beyond the psyche in the natural world (transcendent in theological terms) and are actively worshiped as transcendent beings of divinity.

For Jung, the Dark Goddess is the epitome of one’s ‘Shadow’, and Jung’s concept of the ‘Shadow’ has theological implications. In Aion, Jung writes:

The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognising the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance.[vii]

Jung’s model of psychological holism which he deems a path of Individuation[viii] begins with the crucial step of confronting one’s shadow and offers a distinctly feminine alternative to the patriarchal theological construct of sin and evil as disparate parts of ourselves that must be repressed and ignored; instead, Jung offers a system whereby one must integrate one’s shadow.  Not only does Jung ask individuals to stare into the face of their own evil, he asks individuals to embrace this part of themselves as a natural element, which is in direct opposition to the Christian doctrine of evil as the construct of Satan which must, at all costs to the ‘salvation’ of the individual, be avoided.

What post-Jungian Goddess Spirituality offers adherents, and especially women, is an alternate way to both describe and experience the ineffable. More importantly, Jung’s path to Goddess offers adherents a space where their own personal experiences are accepted without question or doubt. Validity is removed as an obstacle to belief. Jung writes:

…there is no question of belief, but of experienceReligious experience is absolute.  It is indisputable.  You can only say that you have never had such an experience, and your opponent will say: “Sorry, I have.” And there your discussion will come to an end.[ix] (emphasis added)

Jung’s theories and models offer an empowering and authentic internal source of power in Goddess. The Dark Goddess is either understood as one side of a multi-faceted Great Goddess (Magna Mater) or as individual goddesses in a pantheon of hundreds.[x] She is a force of death and destruction, and truly encountering a Dark Goddess comes with a steep price. Working with the Dark Goddess often brings the individual to a point of psychological deconstruction. Christine Downing eloquently speaks of her own interaction with the Dark Goddess Persephone in her 1981 memoir The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine. Downing relates how facing fear, weakness, and helplessness brought a significant shift in her psyche. Persephone’s lesson (and the lesson of all Dark Goddesses) was that without weakness and fear one cannot truly know strength and courage. She teaches us that we are capable of both great love and compassion as well as great evil and terrible power. The Dark Goddess shows us our frailties, our weaknesses, and our strengths. She will destroy existing paradigms and provide the path to rebuilding one’s self anew – whole and complete as individuals – empowered. This is the true influence of the Dark Goddess.


  • [i] See Jung, Carl G. (1976) The Portable Jung. Hull RFC (Trans), Campbell J (ed). New York: Penguin Books, The Viking Portable Library, p145-147.
  • [ii] See Christ, Carol P. (1997) Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality. New York: Routledge; and (2003) She Who Changes: Re-Imagining the Divine in the World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
  • [iii] See Woodman, Marion and Dickson, Elinor. (1996) Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness. Boston: Shambhala Publications. Downing, Christine. (2007 [1981]) The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine. Lincoln, NE: Authors Choice Press. Wehr, Demaris S. (1987) Jung & Feminism. Boston: Beacon Press. Bolen, Jean Shinoda. (1984) Goddesses in Everywoman: Powerful Archetypes in Women’s Lives. New York: One Spirit.
  • [iv] See Harding, M. Esther. (1971) Woman’s Mysteries: Ancient and Modern. Introduction by CG Jung. Boston: Shambhala Publications.
  • [v] Goldenberg, Naomi R. (1976) A Feminist Critique of Jung. In: Signs 2.2, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 443–449.
  • [vi] ‘Iolana, Patricia. (2016) Jung and Goddess: The Significance of Jungian and post-Jungian Theory to the Development of the Western Goddess Movement. Doctoral thesis, University of Glasgow. Publication forthcoming. See Also: (2018) ‘Jung’s Legacy: The Western Goddess Movement’. In: MacKian, S., Pile, S., and Bartonlini, N. (eds). (2018) Spaces of Spirituality. London: Routledge, 245-259.
  • [vii] Jung, Carl G. (1976) The Portable Jung. Hull RFC (Trans), Campbell J (ed). New York: Penguin Books, The Viking Portable Library, p144.
  • [viii] Jung, Carl G. (1968) The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Second Edition. Hull RFC (Trans) Read Sir H, Fordham M, Adler G and McGuire W (eds) Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, Bollingen Series XX, p275.
  • [ix] Jung Carl G. (1938) Psychology and Religion. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, p113.
  • [x] See Perera, Sylvia Brinton. (1981) Descent to the Goddess: A Way of Initiation for Women. Toronto: Inner City Books and Farrar, Janet and Farrar, Stewart. (1987) The Witches’ Goddess: The Feminine Principle of Divinity. Custer, WA: Phoenix Publishing.

A Multidisciplinary Approach to the Scientific Study of Religious Phenomena

In the recent podcast  interview, Dr Dorothea Ortmann discusses the theories behind her 2002 book Science of Religion in Peru. Ortmann speaks about using social sciences (such as anthropology and history) to investigate religious phenomena. Distancing herself from theological beliefs, Ortmann speaks about the importance of investigators in this field acknowledging their own religious affiliation (or lack thereof) as an integral component of the scientific study of religious phenomenon, and I couldn’t agree more. Theological research is often replete with the inherent religious bias of the investigator, and readers deserve to know which bias is being included to filter out much of the theological assumptions.

Ortmann goes on to discuss how investigators are using religious phenomena scientifically, citing religion as an object of investigation, and observing only the phenomena itself. She asserts that findings from these multidisciplinary investigations must be scientific and not theological.  The main reason being that theology cannot be proved or unproved, but social science investigation can analyse the religious phenomenon unbiasedly, e.g. without the spin of theological beliefs included in the analysis.

As one who has studied contemporary Western religious phenomena from a multidisciplinary approach, I agree wholeheartedly with Ortmann’s assertion that ‘studying religion means studying it across a culture’. She speaks about studying the function of religion and its impact on society, community, and traditions within a culture. This multidisciplinary data can then be observed and proved scientifically which is something that theology cannot do.  Theology is based on faith; science is based on observable (and thus predicable) facts. And while the relationship between science and theology has been tenuous at best, the time is long overdue for theology and religious studies scholars to accept that scientific study of religious phenomena and religious beliefs can offer a fruitful and bountiful area for theological discourse and rumination.

Ortmann also discusses how some fields of social science, such as psychology, also play an important role in the assessment of religious phenomena, but not necessarily from an unbiased perspective.  She states that ‘observations can be made through psychology or pastoral behaviours from theology, but this investigation will be difficult to innovate.’ As a post-Jungian Depth Thealogian, I agree with Ortmann.  While my own research was multidisciplinary including literature, thealogy, Jungian and post-Jungian psychology, phenomenology, sociology, archaeology, anthropology, and religious history, introducing many of these academic disciplines into my thealogical study was not a welcome interpretation in a theology and religious studies centre.  I often heard two divergent and contradictory arguments in the department: 1) that I would be better examining religious phenomena and beliefs from an anthropological perspective and 2) that only through theology can one assess religious phenomenon and beliefs. This short-sighted approach by scholars from generations past is stunting rather than encouraging multidisciplinary investigations in theology and religious studies.

Ortmann also applies this scientific approach to study changes in religious affiliation, which in the case of Peru (also observable in the United States), includes the exponential growth of the (Jungian) Pentecostal Church.  Assessing this area of behaviour scientifically rather than theologically or thealogically is crucial. Analysing religious affiliation, phenomenon, and experience from a social science approach can reveal far more than a narrow theological or thealogical analysis. Theologians and thealogians appear uninterested in examining religion as an ‘object of interest’ perhaps believing that this perspective denigrates the underlying theological beliefs of the phenomenon being investigated. When, in truth, social science and theology can offer much more when combined into a multidisciplinary approach. Religious behaviours, actions, beliefs, and their impact on society and culture can all be observed and proven (or disproven) through the social sciences.  These observations can provide contemporary religious scholars with a plethora of viable data to either prove or disprove religious theories or enquiries.

For example, I conducted a recent study on contemporary Pagan religious experience. I could posit all the theories I could imagine, but without sound data from the social sciences, including census data from both the US and the UK on religious affiliation, PEW data on the shifting Christian identity in the US, and social science surveys of contemporary Pagans, I could not prove that religious identity in the US and UK are changing. The addition of social science data into my doctoral dissertation was certainly a contentious point in my theology and religious studies department.  Some colleagues were in favour of my including scientific data to support my theories and claims, while others were quite incensed that I would introduce social science data into a thealogical enquiry.  In the end, I was asked to strike all this data from my dissertation. I could not agree with this short-sighted fear of combining viable social science data with thealogy, and refused to remove the workable data completely (now banishing my data to a footnote instead of a chapter proving my theories). The field of theology and religious studies can no longer exist in a vacuum avoiding every other academic discipline based on ungrounded fears.  I’ve found that social science data and religious enquiry can form a highly beneficial relationship especially when enquiring about religious affiliation, praxis, and phenomena.  The future of theology, thealogy, and religious studies must be multidisciplinary and must include social science data if we are going to move beyond ‘belief’ to real analysis and assessment of contemporary religious phenomenon.

More popular than Jesus? Jung, Freud, and Religion

In Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, the protagonist’s German psychiatrist is revealed to be a Buchenwald Nazi doctor in hiding. His revealing statement in his own defence hinges on his choice of psychiatric method. “But didn’t I try to atone? If I’d been a real Nazi I’d have chosen Jung, nicht wahr? But I chose Freud instead, the Jew.”

The divide between Freud and Jung (recently dramatized in the mediocre David Cronenberg film A Dangerous Method) is one of our own modern myths, like the divide between Plato and Aristotle in the ancient world. This is particularly true when it comes to their view of religion. I was vaguely conscious, while studying theology, of a sense among my teachers that Jung was acceptable in a way that Freud wasn’t (I remember one of my supervisors cryptically advising me to embrace my shadow self after I’d come to him with the usual postgraduate woes). Jung was sympathetic to religion. Jung didn’t think religion was neurosis. Jung was on our side.[1]

Segal mentions that Jung’s father was a pastor. He doesn’t touch on Freud’s Jewishness, perhaps because Freud himself rejected Judaism along with all other religions. But the differences between their backgrounds is important, perhaps not so much for how it affected their work but how it affected perceptions of their work. As the opening quote from Pynchon suggests, the Nazis could appreciate Jung and his collective unconscious, his initial understanding of Hitler’s rise as the resurgence of the Wotan archetype in the German unconscious. Freud, to the Nazis, would always be the self-loathing Jew with his conception of a universe full of souls as sick and parasitic and pornographic as his own.[2] I saw this split, sans the anti-Semitic undertones, among my lecturers in Dublin and Oxford. Freud was understood as the one who’d seen religion as a sickness, Jung was the one who’d seen it as something deep and beautiful and true in a way.

Segal suggests, with slightly cynical humour, that people like to be told that they’re deeper and more complex than they realized.  People certainly prefer being told that their faith is deep and beautiful and sort of true than it is a neurosis that has something to do with wanting to kill their father and sleep with their mother.

Segal argues persuasively against the idea that Jung could ever have been considered a disciple of Freud. This is a pity, since in many ways the relationship between Freud and Jung has fascinating resonances with my own study of discipleship in the ancient world. My thesis is on Peter and Judas in the Gospels and I am particularly interested in the way that these characters relate to Jesus as disciples.[3] One of my findings is that the ancient world regards true discipleship as adhering unquestioningly to what one’s teacher has taught. The student who develops into an independent critical thinker and questions or rejects his master’s teachings is a traitor just as Judas was a traitor.[4] If Jung was not Freud’s disciple, he can at least be considered the older man’s protégé and, as Segal says, one-time heir apparent. The interview addresses the psychic anguish his break with Freud caused Jung, and Freud’s own deep sense of betrayal is a well-known part of the myth.[5]

But Segal touches on something rather interesting when he comments that Freud’s inner circle of brilliant acolytes all outgrew and turned against him, one after another, while Jung’s mediocre followers remained devoted to his methods even after his death. Is there an implied criticism of Jung there, that he didn’t dare surround himself with people who could challenge him intellectually, as he had challenged Freud? But the ancient Greek archetype[6] of the good disciple was exactly this type of dull, unimaginative person. The primary qualities of a good disciple were his or her devotion to a master and the ability to completely absorb the master’s teachings. Damis, whose memoirs are the source for Philostratus’ third century Life of Apollonius of Tyana, proudly tells us that his task is to preserve even the crumbs that fell from his master’s table.

Finally, I was struck by Segal’s description of how Jung thought religion would fade away –its explanatory role replaced by science, and its role in connecting people to the collective unconscious replaced by Jungian psychiatry. I connected it to Frazer’s similarly misplaced confidence that human belief has moved from magic to religion and is now finally moving to science.[7] Unlike many intellectuals of his day, including Freud, Jung wasn’t troubled by the irrationality of religion but evidently he did share a general belief (in some cases, a hope) that its day was over. And his confidence that he himself would at least partially replace it echoes John Lennon: “Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I needn’t argue about that; I’m right and I’ll be proved right. We’re more popular than Jesus now.”

 


[1] Interestingly, my experience in the world of literary criticism is of much more sympathy towards Freud. Just as Segal is not a Jungian, not many literary critics are committed Freudians, but they can still appreciate the power and elegance of his ideas.

[2] It must be said that Freud did not help matters with Moses and Monotheism, his deeply strange book of 1937, which claimed that the Jews had treacherously murdered Moses. Freud was aware of the dangers of making such a claim at a time when anti-Semitism was reaching ever-new heights (and had already driven him from Austria) and did wrestle with the question of whether or not to publish it.

[3] One can see the importance of this theme in the title of Hans-Josef Klauck’s 1987 book Judas, ein Jünger des Herrn (Judas: a disciple of the master).

[4] Origen, in Contra Celsum 2:12, makes the comparison explicit. I sometimes wonder what my supervisors make of this particular line of inquiry.

[5] The same Jung-loving tutors mentioned above took pleasure in repeating the (apocryphal?) story of how Freud fainted the first time Jung disagreed with him. Primarily, I think, because it makes Freud sound rather foolish.

[6] In the Northrop Frye sense, not the Jungian sense.

[7] Northrop Frye posits a movement in Western written language from the metaphorical (Homer) to the metonymic (Plato and continuous prose) to the descriptive (Francis Bacon and Locke). In Biblical scholarship, Morton Smith, Marcus Borg, and J.D. Crossan have written on Jesus as a magician or ‘spirit person’ set against the religion of the Temple.

Carl Jung

Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961) was a Swiss psychiatrist. Initially a collaborator with Sigmund Freud, the two later split and Jung went on to found the Analytical Psychology school of psychotherapy. His approach focussed on what he called the process of individuation, in which the conscious and unconscious impulses in an individual are brought into harmony. He coined many concepts with a currency beyond psychiatry, including archetype, the collective unconscious, complex and synchronicity.

segal

Following a spell of “creative madness” in 1913, he increasingly applied his theories to more diverse subjects – myths, alchemy, gnosticism, even UFOs. In this entertaining interview, Robert Segal tells David about Jung’s impact on theories of religion. Why was Jung so fascinated by religious ideas, and why do his ideas remain so influential today? Did he mean them in the way they have been subsequently appropriated?

You can also download this interview, and subscribe to receive our weekly podcast, on iTunes. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to rate us. And remember, you can use our Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com links to support us at no additional cost when buying your Christmas presents etc.

This is the first episode on a series on early 20th century theorists of religion. Following episodes feature interviews with Paul-Francois Tremlett on Levi-Strauss and Ivan Strenski on Durkheim.