Wisdom is not optional.

Introduction

People know where to go to find information. But when we ask a more profound question—where do you go for wisdom?—the answer is less forthcoming. For most of us, in fact, our response is simple: I don’t know. People grab from here and there in an autodidactic and often fragmentary fashion which carries a tremendous capacity to exacerbate self-deception. The need for wisdom—to live with creative connection in a deep and enlivening way—is too strong to be left behind. Wisdom is the antidote to the self-deception, division, and disconnection that we are currently faced with in our world. So, the question remains, how do we proceed?

Rationalism and Its Discontents

In the scientific realm, our understanding of the human condition is hampered by a misrepresentation of epistemic limitations as ontological theory. It has slowly become evident to me that every great philosophy to date is essentially the personal confession of its creator, a form of involuntary and unconscious autobiography. Furthermore, the moral (or immoral) intent behind each philosophy has been the true seed from which the entire system has always developed. Material external events hold limited explanatory power in these matters, while introspection, intuition, subjective experience, and religious revelation are downplayed, if not discretely ignored altogether.

 Whoever reflects on the core impulses of human nature, with the intent of understanding how they may have acted as guiding spirits (or as demons and tricksters), will discover that each has engaged in philosophy at some point. Moreover, each spirit would eagerly claim itself as the ultimate lifebearer of existence, seeking to establish its domain over all the others. They all raise a loud and virtuous outcry when the problem of truthfulness is even hinted at in the remotest manner. This prominent materialistic viewpoint, epitomized by phrases such as ‘we're just a bunch of neurons firing in sequence’, has emerged as the default stance for the scientifically educated. This raises an important question, “How are synthetic judgments a-priori possible?” Which leads to another question, “Why are belief in such judgments necessary?”—in effect, it is time we should understand that such judgements spoken by our mouth are false judgments. In fact, synthetic judgements spoken a priori should not “be possible” at all; we have no right to them; in our mouths they are nothing but false statements.

By way of definition, materialism in this context adheres strictly to the tangible, subscribing solely to the principles of mechanical processes and their relevant determinants. They dismiss anything beyond the realm of empirical evidence as esoteric or irrelevant. It is a perspective seemingly irreconcilable with the worldview of New Age spiritualists, who instead regard the material world as a flawed and deceptive illusion that must be transcended. They seek spiritual enlightenment through cryptic solipsism, all too often distancing themselves from mainstream religious or scientific frameworks. The division between these materialist and gnostic worldviews points to a broader existential crisis: a lack of unity in how people understand meaning in the modern age.

Put simply, then, the 21st century sees society entrenched in what John Vervaeke has aptly termed 'The Meaning Crisis'—a profound societal dilemma characterized by a lack of adequate adaptations for expressing and informing our worldview. As John Lennon put it, with "no heaven above" and "no hell below," many are left with nothing except the ‘self.’ It is perhaps unsurprising, therefore, that this Meaning Crisis is characterized in practice by a surge in depression, anxiety, despair, and suicide across the Western world. It is a shift intricately linked to crises within both the natural environment and political system, crises which, in turn, are embedded in a profound cultural and historical plight. Absent of any dominant worldview, people find themselves confused, skeptical, and uncertain about the future, leaving isolation, anxiety, and nihilism to emerge as pervasive issues in contemporary Western society.

How the Brain has Shaped our World

In these times especially, truth is a pressing question for all of us; it is no longer sufficient for the topic to be left in the hands of academic philosophers alone. This is true in part because our beliefs about truth not only help define the world around us, but indeed make us who we are. No single overarching theory of truth can encompass everything we would wish of it, and hence it is inevitable that ‘truth’ is never objectively understood, but this does not invalidate such attempts. We can at least point to what is unlikely to be the case, and in doing so indicate a more reasonable path to pursue. And if our aim is to freshly redefine reality through the lens of cognitive science, we must begin with the nature of truth, for each brain hemisphere is likely to have a different approach to truth itself, as they do to everything else.

Today, I am consistently reminded of Lieutenant Kizhe, a story by the Soviet writer Yuri Tynyanov. Published in 1927, the tale concerns an error of transcription in an official list of the Imperial army, whereby the word poruchiki (lieutenants) is mistakenly conflated with a subsequent syllable zhe, seeming to refer to a certain poruchik, Kizhe. The resultant ‘Lieutenant Kizhe’ never existed. Despite this apparent drawback, Lieutenant Kizhe plays a starring role in subsequent military reports, rising through the ranks and earning renown for his dependability. Kizhe marries, fathers a child, is decorated for his bravery, and finally finds himself promoted by the Tsar to the rank of General. Mysteriously, when the Tsar demands to meet this human paragon, he cannot be located. Disparagingly, the Tsar, mutters, ‘Sic transit gloria mundi’, and accords him a state funeral. Meanwhile, a certain Lieutenant Sinyukhaev, erroneously declared deceased years prior, struggles fruitlessly to assert that, contrary to the received opinion, he is very much alive. By the end of Tynyanov’s story, Sinyukhaev is a vagabond roaming the vast highways of Russia, relying on the charity of strangers. 

In a modern society which, I fear, leaves us in thrall to the left hemisphere's way of thinking, this problem, that a piece of paper has become more important than the reality that it refers to, is endemic. The dominant culture has largely lost the understanding that the material world is not merely a collection of resources, but something that deeply infuses every aspect of value, including the spiritual; and which permeates all probable aspects of the unconscious. Furthermore, our societal attempt to distance ourselves from religion has inadvertently led to its resurgence in a retrograde, violent fashion, demarcating it as potentially our final mythological motif.

It is important to note that Romanticism was, in itself, a reaffirmation of the importance of the transcendental, emphasizing not so much religion, but rather a sense of the holy. Yet, in the West, religion declined in force throughout the twentieth century, withering away under the advances of capitalism. In early twentieth-century Russia, when Stalinists replaced Moscow’s Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan with a public urinal, the left hemisphere (never subtle when it comes to metaphoric thinking) pissed on religion in the same way it had pissed on art when Marcel Duchamp exhibited his notorious urinal. The persistence of this left-hemisphere metaphor of urine and feces in modern art would be remarkable, if only one did not know that the left hemisphere lacks metaphorical subtlety and is highly conventional.

The Schism of Consciousness

No matter how hard they try, brain scientists and cognitive psychologists will never find a copy of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in the brain – or copies of words, pictures, grammatical rules or any other kinds of environmental stimuli. The human brain isn’t really empty, of course. But it does not contain most of the things people think it does – not even simple things such as ‘memories’. Our shoddy thinking about the brain has deep historical roots, but the invention of computers in the 1940s got us especially confused. For more than half a century now, psychologists, linguists, neuroscientists and other experts on human behaviour have been asserting that the human brain works like a computer.

To see how vacuous this metaphor is, consider the brains of babies. Thanks to evolution, human neonates, like all other mammals, enter the world ready to engage with it. A baby’s vision is blurry but focuses on faces, quickly identifying its mother. It prefers voices over other sounds and can distinguish basic speech patterns. We are undoubtedly wired for social connections. A healthy newborn also has more than a dozen reflexes—automatic responses vital for survival. It turns its head when something brushes its cheek, sucks whatever enters its mouth, holds its breath underwater, and grasps objects so strongly that they are nearly capable of supporting their own weight. Even with the most recent advances in artificial intelligence, robots and other advanced computer systems have nowhere near the cognitive flexibility that is innately associated with babies from birth. 

In the natural sciences of biology, and the applied areas of cognitive neuroscience, the inclination to view the body as a collection of separate parts—or diseases as a series of disconnected issues—poses limitations on the efficacy of much Western medicine. Such a tendency drives people to seek alternative treatments, which might in other ways be less powerful to help. It is significant that the ‘normal’ scientific view of the body is similar to that found in schizophrenia,  a mental disorder characterized by deficiencies in the right hemisphere. That is, those afflicted with schizophrenia routinely see themselves as machines—often robots, computers, or cameras—and sometimes declare that parts of them have been replaced by metal or electronic components. Surgeons have a saying that is, I have come to suspect, only half-facetious: ‘The operation was a success, but the patient died’. The interpretation may be this: at least there was an operation. Nowadays, the operation is scarcely required, as long as the box is ticked. That way success is assured because: ‘That's what it says on this sheet of paper’.

The persistence of this computer metaphor—such as it is, has had negative consequences not only in the realm of medicine but also in our broader understanding of consciousness and human connection. This perspective prompts a deeper consideration of consciousness and its origins. When we speak of consciousness, what are we talking about? Taken literally, the meaning of the word is deconstructed as ‘knowing with.’ As such, it is in essence not a ‘thing’, but a betweenness. Consider the bow and the harp—both are fundamentally strings under tension, balanced and efficient not despite but because of the strings being pulled in opposite directions. The taut string, with its ends pulled in opposite directions—embodies vital strength or virtue, representing a dynamic equilibrium. This ability to hold movement within stasis, reconciling opposites, is encapsulated in Heraclitus’ prominent statement that “all things flow.”

The Divided Brain

 There is an ancient story of unknown origin that tells of a wise spiritual master who was the ruler of a small but prosperous domain, and who was known for his selfless devotion to his people. As his people flourished and grew in number, the bounds of this small domain spread; and with it the need to trust implicitly the emissaries he sent to ensure the safety of its ever more distant parts. It was not just that it was impossible for him personally to order all that needed to be dealt with: as he wisely saw, he needed to keep his distance from, and remain ignorant of, such concerns. And so he nurtured and trained carefully his emissaries, in order that they could be trusted. Eventually, however, his cleverest and most ambitious vizier, the one he most trusted to do his work, began to see himself as the master, and used his position to advance his own wealth and influence. He saw his master’s temperance and forbearance as weakness, not wisdom, and on his missions on the master’s behalf, adopted his mantle as his own – the emissary became contemptuous of his master. And so it came about that the master was usurped, the people were duped, the domain became a tyranny; and eventually it collapsed in ruins.

The meaning of this story I believe, in fact, helps us understand something taking place inside ourselves, inside our very brains, and has played out in the cultural history of the West, particularly over the last 500 years or so. Why I believe so forms the subject of this essay. I hold that, like the master and his ambassador in the story, though the cerebral hemispheres should co-operate, they have for some time been in a state of conflict. The subsequent battles between them are recorded in the history of philosophy, and played out in the seismic shifts that characterize the history of Western culture. At present the domain – our civilization – finds itself in the hands of the vizier, who, however gifted, is effectively an ambitious regional bureaucrat with his own interests at heart. Meanwhile the Master, the one whose wisdom gave the people peace and security, is led away in chains. The Master is betrayed by his emissary.

The Coincidentia Oppositorum

If we define consciousness as “the coming together of opposites to create a sustained unity”, then reason itself can be understood as necessarily having its opposite origin in unconsciousness. I regard the best argument for the breakdown of reason to be sleep. While we are asleep, our mind produces “hallucinations” or dreams which oftentimes contrast with what we experience in our conscious state of reality. So ultimate reason itself, torn apart from its unconscious origins would produce something eerily similar to that which we diagnose as schizophrenia. The right hemisphere, responsible for contextual and relational thinking, is hence crucial for grounding us in a coherent sense of self and the world. Without this balance, reason becomes fragmented, resulting in symptoms like delusions and hallucinations.

Importantly, the right hemisphere is what characterizes sustained attention over time, and it is notably more holistic and attentive to context when contrasted with the left. While the left hemisphere is more detailed and rational, it lacks holistic understanding. In other words, it is good at manipulating things but cannot derive any value from them. So, while it appears that consciousness is entirely rational and self-sufficient—aligning with the proposals of 19th-century enlightenment philosophers—further reflection suggests that reason may not only have an opposite in the unconscious; it might also be seen as emerging from it. Reason, in this sense, would best be conceptualized as a tool developed by the conscious mind to make sense of the raw, unfiltered material of the unconscious. A process thus emerges: the unconscious provides the content (emotions, impulses, archetypes), and reason organizes this content into coherent thoughts and actions. It is a perspective that follows the view of Carl Jung, who famously emphasized that the integration of opposites is central to resolving both inner and societal conflict.

In Jung’s view, the process of consciousness itself arises from the effort to coalesce the opposites towards achieving sustained unity. The fundamental opposites in man, Jung proposed, are those of spirit—termed “higher aspirations”—and nature or instinct (which he relates to physical being). He attributes their conflicts to the inherent structure of the psyche, similar to Aristotle's view, who identified two opposing forces: reason (logos) and emotion (pathos), with the latter linked to pathos because they are primarily passive, instinctual states which can only partially be regarded as conscious. Hence the tension between instinct and spirit is present from the very beginning of our civilization, and has been so since the dawn of Eden. The movement in the psyche between instinct and spirit is compared by Jung to the variations within the color spectrum, from infra-red to ultra-violet. 

“At one moment [consciousness] finds itself in the vicinity of instinct, and falls under its influence; at another, it slides along to the other end where spirit predominates and even assimilates the instinctual process most opposed to it.”

Jung locates the purely instinctual at the infra-red end of the spectrum, and the “true” spirit (which Jung associates with the godhead) alongside the ultraviolet. He points out that although blue would seem a more appropriate color, ultra-violet is in fact a better representation of the spirit predominating the psyche, given that its makeup—a fusion of red and blue—indicates “true” spirit as an integration of pure spirit, blue, with the red of instinctually. He adds that the integration of the instinctual never occurs at the level of instinct, the red end itself, “but only through the integration of the image which signifies and at the same time evokes the instinct.” This means that our unconscious instincts can only be truly understood and connected with by integrating a symbolic image that both represents and actively triggers its associated feelings and thoughts within us; essentially, we experience our instincts as symbolic undercurrents, known as archetypes, which emerge from what Jung termed the collective unconscious. 

Archetypes and Symbols in Western Civilization

 Jung’s collective unconscious is a repository of symbols and archetypes that culturally connect us to the source of being itself. In ancient Greece, the concept of a symbol originally denoted a "gathering" of meaning, evolving later to signify "something which stands for something else." This act of symbolic "gathering" lies at the heart of human endeavors spanning language, mathematics, and art. Symbols play a pivotal role in situating us within the fabric of time and space, providing direction and forging identity.

The rational structures of Western civilization are grounded in a more profound, mythical foundation that provides meaning and coherence to its worldview. Namely, the so-called Judeo-Christian narrative serves as the cultural "dream" that shapes the collective unconscious of Western society—the axis upon which collective reason has accumulated over centuries gone by. It is worth noting, too, that this is not unique to Western culture; myths and religious stories function as guiding frameworks in many societies, providing purpose and direction in a manner reminiscent of how dreams serve the individual.  

 Without a grasp of symbolic understanding, then, we are bereft of the capacity to distance ourselves from the world or to reflect upon it. In such a state, we lack both a meaningful connection to the past and a sense of direction towards the future. In essence, we are reduced to merely instinctive beings. Consider, for instance, the ubiquitous portrayal of zombies, which can be understood as symbols of widespread nihilism. Similarly, the character of the Joker in Batman films serves as a potent emblem of the troubled adolescent who descends into solipsism and desires to inflict evil upon the world.

 Archetypes surface to provide meaningful insights and cautions about society, informing the human condition and unveiling the anxieties, aspirations, and societal dynamics that underlie it. In the absence of religious rites and liturgical emphasis, popular forms of art, politics, and culture often assume the role traditionally held by religion. Marvel films and pop concerts, for example, nowadays serve as modernized substitutes for the communal engagement and impactful messages typically associated with sacred rituals and constructive narratives. Phenomena like the Star Wars trilogies hence fulfill their consumers’ deep-seated religious and liturgical longing, despite their inherent lack of divine significance. Similarly, works of fiction and fantasy may not strictly adhere to factual reality, yet still possess a hyperreal quality—essentially, a compressed version of reality—that operates through a comparable process. These fantastic narratives convey fervent truths and insights about the human experience, resonating with audiences on a symbolic level that transcends mere factual representations.

The prevalence of symbolism extends to the scientific realm, too. Indeed, the conventional pictorial depiction of an atom (like that found in a physics textbook) bears, in reality, little resemblance to an actual atom—it serves as a representation. The truth that emerges is a simple one: facts and objects possess no inherent meaning on their own. Rather, they derive significance through the narratives and symbols with which they are imbued. The reality is that symbolism permeates science, art, and spirituality alike. It can thus be said that the world is constructed from stories and symbols just as much as, if not more than, subatomic particles. In this light, the modern assault on symbolic systems reflects a deep misunderstanding of human consciousness.

The Rebirth of Wisdom

Since we know that increases in material well-being have little to no casual association with happiness, the condition of human flourishing—what Aristotle refers to as eudaimonia—must be seen as arising from somewhere else. In The Republic, Plato asserts that ultimate reality exists somewhere beyond the physical world, a notion captured most compellingly in his Theory of Forms. For Plato, the essence of something, its eidos, reflects its true purpose: a hammer’s eidos is its ability to drive nails. For humans, this essence emerges through the cultivation of virtue, which in turn culminates as wisdom.

The Stoics called this rationality, though today this is a term often misinterpreted as mere logical thought. Quite differently, the Stoic sense of rationality goes far beyond academic intelligence of any sort; it refers to living in accordance with nature and reason, aligning one's actions with a higher order of existence. This Stoic concept of Logos became central to Athenian thought before evolving further in Christian philosophy.

St. John expands on the idea of Logos in his Gospel when he writes, En arche en ho Logos (In the beginning was the Word). Here, Logos means much more than "word" in the literal sense we hold of it today. It denotes the underlying principle that makes reality comprehensible and knowable—a sensibility or order that transcends human understanding and hints at a supernatural intellect. The esteemed psychiatrist Iain McGilchrist refers to this as “semi-transparency.” The word, Logos itself, describes a pattern of relationship, and it is through this quality of ‘relationship with existence’ that one attains eudemonia.

Such discourse inevitably leads us to Christ, who embodies above all else the living myth of Western culture. His crucifixion is not only a religious event but a symbol that has endured for almost two millennia as the central image of Western civilization. As such, it provides the clearest insight into the inner spiritual dimensions of the Western psyche. The crucifixion, viewed from the ego’s perspective, symbolizes a state of suspension between opposites. This tension is embraced reluctantly, driven by the inner need for individuation—a process requiring a deeper understanding of consciousness and its integration with the human personality. 

When one carefully examines the Christian Gospels through the lens of analytical psychology, it becomes evident that Christianity’s core significance lies in the pursuit of individuation. In this context, Christ embodies a paradoxical duality as both God and man. Appearing in human form as Jesus, he shares the limitations and struggles of wider humanity, yet as Christ, he represents the eternal Logos: the divine anointed one. Through this duality, Christ symbolizes both the conscious ego and the spiritual dimensions of the unconscious. His life and death provide a roadmap for psychological development, representing a unification of the personal and the archetypal.

The Limits of Enlightenment Rationality

 The Enlightenment, with its emphasis on rationality and Kantian thought, has misconstrued the problem of truthfulness as a cold, pure, divinely indifferent wisdom. While Kant’s categorical imperative certainly offers a logical framework for moral action, it neglects the complexities of human experience and the very real potential for actors to operate in bad faith. Paul Tillich captures this tension in Theology of Culture, where he describes faith as "ultimate concern". Faith, in this sense, is the commitment to what a person considers to be the ground of their being, the ultimate source of meaning and value. Importantly, he relates this idea of faith to a form of existential courage. Courage, for Tillich, is the ability to affirm life despite the presence of suffering, death, and the awareness of our limitations. Courage doesn’t eliminate fear or anxiety but rather acknowledges it while choosing to live authentically. Yet, under the influence of Enlightenment thought, secular society has reframed faith as something mechanistic, a concept to be controlled rather than a force to be experienced.

Such mechanization provides a clear reflection of the left hemisphere’s tendency to fragment and manipulate the world. The result is a disconnection from the unconscious narratives that sustain Western culture, driven instead by utilitarian frameworks. When the outer world no longer aligns with our antiquated ideas, we face a worldview crisis. This disconnect cannot be restored through mere rationalism, as an approach of this sort overlooks our biological and spiritual needs. A Marxist state for example, seeks to shape humanity in its own image, forsaking our true eidos—the cultivation of virtue. 

Unlike knowledge, which is externally acquired, wisdom is cultivated through experience, self-reflection, ethical behavior, and spiritual practice. The religious person is accustomed to the thought of not being sole master in his own house. He believes that God, and not he himself, decides in the end. But how many of us would dare to let the will of God decide, and which of us would not feel embarrassed if he had to say how far the decision came from God himself? The religious person, so far as one can judge, stands directly under the influence of the reaction from the unconscious. As a rule, he calls this the operation of conscience. Here we must ask: have I any religious experience and immediate relation to God, and hence that certainty which will keep me, as an individual, from transgressing my deepest aspirations?

Conclusion

 To conclude this essay, I am reminded of the story in Genesis of Ishmael, Abraham’s illegitimate son. In this account, Ishmael and his mother, Hagar, were cast out into the desert following the birth of Isaac, one of Abraham’s most beloved children. After wandering the lonely desert, they ran out of water. Fearing that her son would die of thirst, Hagar left Ishmael under a tree and walked a distance away from him, so unbearable was the prospect of witnessing her child’s death. However, God heard Ishmael’s cries and sent an angel to lead Hagar to a nearby well, sparing the duo’s demise. This motif of spiritual abandonment, followed by cries in the wilderness and salvation from God, is famously echoed in the story of Moby Dick. Driven by vengeance after losing a leg, Captain Ahab pursues a white whale onto which he has pinned his woe. Yet, in the process, a shipwreck destroys both Ahab and the majority of his crew. The story alleges that Ishmael only survives due to his epistemic humility.

The two stories of Ishmael in both the Bible and Moby Dick reveal a profound pattern: a casting out into spiritual or social exile, where one is severed from the community, left adrift and alienated from both society and self. By rejecting the “tyranny” of the Judeo-Christian ethic—the axis of our cultural unconscious—we too have become like Ishmael, cast forth into a desert of meaninglessness. As the Israelites wandered through the wilderness, so too do we now wander, stripped of the myths that grounded us. In forsaking the ideals that once unified the right hemisphere’s holistic vision, we have unleashed a fractured and fragmented psyche, both individually and collectively. As Lee observes in East of Eden, the Hebrew word "timshel" from the story of Cain and Abel can be translated as "thou mayest," implying that the choice to rule over sin, to overcome our flaws, is ours to make.

In the Old Testament, the Israelites, plagued by serpents in the wilderness, were saved when Moses lifted up a bronze serpent on a pole at God's command. Those who gazed upon it were healed. This symbol of salvation prefigures Christ’s crucifixion, where he is lifted up as the ultimate source of healing not just for a single individual but for the entire civilization. Christ, like the serpent—became sin, so that we might be redeemed by God. And just as Moses’s serpent brought healing to those who looked upon it, so too does Christ’s sacrifice offer the antidote to our cultural disintegration. This psychic rupture, much like schizophrenia, has left us lost, searching for coherence in a world that no longer makes sense. The symptoms are clear: disconnection, delusion, and disintegration, not just of the mind—but of the true spirit of our culture.