Afterlife Research and the Shamanic Turn
Michael Grosso, Ph.D.
Journal of Near-Death Studies, 20(1), Fall 2001
© 2001 Human Sciences Press, Inc.
Guest Editorial
ABSTRACT: In Western culture, approaches to the afterlife have
mutated
throughout history, from shamanism and mythology to philosophy,
spiritualism,
and psychical research. For conceptual reasons, however,
survival research
seems to many to be languishing, despite some remarkable recent
advances. I urge a return to a more experience-based approach,
modeled after
features of the near-death experience, for its practical
benefits; I intend that
approach to complement other forms of research, not displace
them.
Finally, I underscore the unique status of survival research as
a scientific
pursuit.
KEY WORDS: afterlife; shamanism; philosophy. |
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The Twisty Road of Research |
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Immortality is an ancient problem in philosophy. Philosophers
since
the days of Plato and Descartes used a priori arguments to
deduce the
soul’s immortality, but beginning in the 19th century with
philosopher
Henry Sidgwick and classical scholar Frederic Myers, the
immortality
project changed in two ways. First, intuition and speculation
were laid
aside, and research became empirical; one looked at ghosts,
apparitions,
and mediumship for evidence of an afterlife. Secondly, one now
spoke
more modestly of survival instead of immortality. In tune with a
more fallibilist modern outlook, people have lost faith in the power
of pure
reason to solve the riddles of the universe.
At most we hope that certain types of evidence will incline us
to believe that some people in someway survive death. It has
taken almost
the whole of human intellectual history to shift from a
mythological
and speculative approach to one that is data-based and experience centered.
On the other hand, the shamanic roots of Greek philosophy
were themselves experience-centered (Cornford, 1965, see
especially
pp. 62–106). The shaman, in traditional societies, is a master
of altered
states of consciousness, an empirical explorer of alternate
realities. The
shamanic origins of Greek philosophy may be seen in Plato’s
definition
of philosophy as the “care of the soul” and the “practice of
death,” as
well as in his definition of the philosopher as a “spectator of
all time
and existence.”
I believe it is time for another shift in the approach to the
problem
of “immortality,” and I recommend a return to a shamanic model
of research. However, to distinguish this suggestion from
reactionary
naivete, let me speak of a postmodern shamanic model. As the
approach
of the early psychical researchers did not displace the earlier
traditions
but built upon their insights, so would the shamanic turn (or
return)
that I propose rest on existing empirical findings. Owing to the
uniquely
existential challenge of the afterlife question, I believe that
the inquirer
needs to participate more intimately in the research; the whole
person
must get involved, the emotional and intuitive side as well as
the rational.
This is a research question like no other; it touches on the
most
dramatic issues a human being can confront: one’s ultimate
nature,
range of hope, possible experience, and spiritual destiny. |
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The Superpsi Impasse |
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Let us begin with three points about the evidence for life after
death.
First of all, such evidence exists—a fact that needs to be
underscored.
I say this because a few writers seem to think that it makes no
sense
to talk about evidence for life after death. The majority of
researchers,
however, have operated on the assumption that there are types of
reported
incidents that plausibly, and without self-contradiction, may
best be explained by assuming that someone has survived death:
for
example, apparitions that reveal information unknown to any
living
person; memories, imaged and behavioral, that children have of
other
people’s lives; or certain statements that issue from mediums
about
deceased people. Narratives of this sort exist in significant
numbers;
there is room to disagree about them, but postmortem survival is
often
at least an intelligible interpretation.
The second point about the evidence is its epistemic
indigestibility.
Thanks to scientific materialism, the dominant metaphysical
conceit of
the age, anything supporting the reality of minds as
substances—which
survival would clearly imply—tends to be ignored, if not
repressed, by
the watchdogs of mainstream culture.
The third point brings us to the crux of the shamanic turn. The
evidence
for survival that researchers have been collecting and analyzing
for well over a hundred years has led to a seeming impasse,
thanks
to certain curious problems of interpretation. Consider an often
cited
example: A man obtained information from a series of dreams of
his father
about a lost will. No living person knew of the whereabouts of
this
document. The case was probated, and the authenticity of the
father’s
last will was confirmed (Richmond, 1938, pp. 28–31). This story
admits
of two interpretations: the intelligence that located the will
came from a
dead man, or the living son discovered the will by means of his
clairvoyance.
The young manwas of course also motivated to find the will,
which
benefited him. Unfortunately, it is hard to interpret such
cases; it always
seems possible to see the evidence in a way that suits one’s
bias toward
belief or disbelief in survival. It often depends on the slant
one takes.
As the early researchers encountered the peculiar difficulties
of their
task, they looked for cases more difficult to account for by the
paranormal
or psi abilities of the living. Meanwhile, skeptics continued to
refine
the case for covert psi abilities of the living to account for
the data. Consider
a few examples: In the early days of mediumship, a sitter
anxious
to communicate with a deceased loved one sent a proxy to the
medium.
This would rule out the medium fishing for information from the
mind
of the proxy sitter, who knew nothing of the deceased target
person.
But it soon became evident that the paranormal outreach of great
mental
mediums like Eleanora Piper or Gladys Osborne Leonard was quite
extensive, and investigators realized that mediums might obtain
the
necessary information from sources located anywhere.
Such presumed abilities are called superpsi because they exceed
anything
known in experimental parapsychology. The appeal of superpsi
lies in its relative simplicity; it involves only an extension
of known
abilities of living people. By contrast, assuming life after
death implies
a radical extension of what is known to be empirically possible.
To sum up a long story, it turns out that the chief rival to the
survival
hypothesis is equally momentous: people possess uncanny
paranormal
abilities, through which they may obtain information from
distant and
multiple sources and produce the appearance of convincing
phantasms
of the living or the dead. Superpsi thus became the focal point
of the
afterlife enigma.
However, certain types of evidence have been singled out that
seem
to strain this hypothesis, including book tests, collectively
perceived apparitions,
drop-in communicators, cross-correspondence material, and
other phenomena. All these suggest autonomous agency. For
example,
in cases of so-called “drop-in communicators,” an intelligence
that identifies
itself as an unknown deceased person “drops in” on a medium’s
home circle and conveys its identity (later verified) and other
correct
facts about its personal history through the medium. This
strains the
superpsi explanation, which is tied to the concept of
motivation. For,
if the personality who drops in is unknown to any of the sitters
or
to the medium, where is the motivation to manifest coming from?
It
seems reasonable to suppose the intelligence is coming from
outside
the circle rather than from anyone within it. Suppose, moreover,
as
Alan Gauld (1982) has pointed out, that the information
confirming
the medium’s statements comes from several sources: different
physical
records, minds of different living people. The absence of motivation
(from medium or sitters) and the complexity of the sources weigh
against the medium being the intelligence behind the “drop-in.”
It seems
simpler to assume that the source was the dead person.
But arguments keep appearing that fend off puzzlers like drop-in
communicators. Take the complexity-of-source problem just
alluded to.
Stephen Braude (1988, pp. 177–195) has reminded us that studies
show
psi operates independently of task complexity. According to
Helmut
Schmidt (1974), psi is a goal-oriented process. Just as the
physical complexity
of a psi task with a random event generator is no obstacle to
success, neither should the complexity of sources be an obstacle
to mediumistic
scanning for needed data.
David Griffin (1997) offered an even simpler rejoinder to the
dropin
challenge. He suggested that a medium could obtain all the
needed
information about the personality who seemed to be dropping in
by
retrocognizing the mind of the dead person when he or she was
alive.
Experimental evidence for retrocognition is hard to come by;
however,
if we accept precognition (which Griffin does not, by the way),
why not
entertain the possibility of retrocognition?
Psi, like all mental functions, is motivated. We cannot invoke
superpsi
automatically, as some might be tempted to do, to explain away
evidence; we have to show the presence of a motivated agent. So
where
is the motivation at a seance with a drop-in communicator? No
particular
motive of anyone present at the seance seems plausible. But I
think it possible to invoke a general motive, as it were, a
disposition,
an automatic tendency to generate images and associations
suggestive
of survival or immortality.
Several kinds of data suggest we may be so disposed to
manufacture
simulations of immortality. Anita Muhl (1930), in her study of
automatic
writing, found that graphic automatisms regularly involve
narratives
of spirits, elves, fairies, and daemons. That is, once the
writer enters
the “automatic zone,” fantastic otherworldly narratives
spontaneously
show up. Mythology, of course, which partly originates from this
automatic
zone, is rife with images of otherworlds. Again, in our dreams,
we
regularly produce hallucinations of recognizable, deceased
people. In
addition, phenomena of dissociation and multiple personality
involve
the creation of new and sometimes distinctly different and even
more
complex personalities.
Sometimes these automatic simulations of survival and
otherworldliness
appear in mediumship. Consider two well known cases: In one,
an investigator asks a medium to contact a certain Bessie Beals,
said to
have passed over. Before long, a personality starts to come
through who
calls herself Bessie Beals. The problem is that the investigator
was testing
the medium; there was no Bessie Beals. Nevertheless, in response
to suggestive prompting, the medium automatically impersonated a
nonexistent spirit (Murphy, 1945, pp. 75–76).
The next example further complicates the story. Add to the
“automatic
zone” a sizeable portion of paranormal capacity, and you get the
highly
misleading performance of the medium Blanche Cooper, who
conveyed
accurate information to S. G. Soal about an old friend of his,
Gordon
Davis, whom Soal mistakenly thought had died in the
First World War.
As a result of the medium’s performance, Soal was led to believe
his
old school chum had survived death. The one hitch was that Davis
was alive and well. The medium had picked up accurate
information
about a distant person she had never met, and unconsciously
created
the illusion that a dead man was communicating with the living
(Soal,
1926). In this case, the imposture was exposed. One wonders how
many
seemingly authentic cases of survival are paranormal impostures.
One argument against superpsi is that it is not based on
laboratory
findings. On the other had, why believe that the limits of psi
are
defined by the findings of experimental parapsychology? Most
experimental
set-ups are not very exciting or meaningful, and the effects
they
generate are typically marginal. The big effects arise in
emotionally
charged and meaningful contexts. If we add to the equation
“miracles”
and siddhis of mystics and shamans, as well as materialization,
levitation, teleportation, and sundry auditory and photic
effects of mediums
like Eusapia Palladino and D. D. Home, we can begin to see what
a huge repertoire of potential abilities for simulating survival
may be available.
In the end, only a case-by-case analysis can give reliable
answers.
As things stand, some have concluded in favor of survival; but
not all
who have studied the data have been convinced. One is always
free to
play up or play down particular facts or slants on facts, and
thus favor
one interpretation or the other. True, the crucial experiment
will come
eventually for us all; but in the meantime, given our hopes and
fears, it
is hard to be sure whether we have been swept along by personal
bias.
And of course, bias can work against the afterlife hypothesis as
well as
for it (Grosso, 1992, pp. 81–93). |
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Beyond the Superpsi Antinomy |
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For researchers like J.B. Rhine, superpsi lands us in a kind of
Kantianantinomy: For every attempt to interpret a piece of evidence in
support
of survival, it always seems possible, if one is ingenious and
persistent
enough, to devise a counterargument. Let us suppose we are at
such an
impasse or “antinomy.” What is the next move?
We come now to my proposal of taking the shamanic turn. In
effect,
this means the return to the experiential, phenomenological, and
pragmatic
roots of belief in otherworlds, spiritual beings, and
afterlives. The
general idea behind the mutation of survival research I am
urging is
this: We might advance our understanding if we succeeded in
gaining an
inside perspective on what postmortem states might be like or
feel like.
We owe it to our selves to be more adventurous in these
explorations.
So far, survival research has been trace-oriented. One studies
“traces,”
indications that some other person has survived death: a trace
could be
an apparition that seems to originate from an excarnate
personality; a
mediumistic deliverance that points to minds that have survived
death;
or memories, physical marks, or behaviors that imply
reincarnation of
a previous personality. This is empirical research based on
inferences.
The investigator tries to authenticate a story and then
determines if
survival is the best explanation. This inferential procedure,
made up
of many interlocking steps, is based on sources that are
objective and
publicly observable.
There is, however, a kind of survival-related evidence that
works
differently. In the near-death experience, the source of
evidence is
subjective and immediate; the experiencer claims to know there
is a life
after death. This type of evidence involves “knowing” as direct
awareness,
unmediated revelation, and nonlinear intuition. No deductions
from reports, no critically-filtered observations, but
rocket-fast entry
into the dead zone. “Proof” arises by means of a dramatic
alteration
of one’s state of mind. Near-death experiencers, like shamans,
seem to
themselves to enter another world, another mode of
consciousness.
Of course, to the outside observer, the claims of the near-death experiencer
need carry little weight. At most, certain features of the
experience
such as reports of verifiable out-of-body experiences (OBEs)
suggest survival (Cook, Greyson, and Stevenson, 1998, pp.
377–405).
Nevertheless, near-death experiences (NDEs) do provide a model,
a
paradigm for a more direct exploration of possible other worlds.
In line
with the terminology of Joel Schumacher’s 1990 movie, let us
call this
the Flatliner paradigm; in this movie, medical students, unhappy
about
the failure of religion and philosophy to solve the great
mysteries, decided
to use their scientific expertise to induce temporary death, and
to
peek at what may lie on the “other side.” Needless to say, I am
not recommending
such reckless experimentation. By the Flatliner paradigm
I mean something already familiar to traditional spiritual
practice.
In fact, individual experimenters (perhaps explorers is the
better
word) could try to replicate three components of the NDE. The
first
is the out-of-body experience. Enough hints in the literature
suggest
ways in which we might learn to induce the out-of-body
experience in
ourselves; in fact, there are all sorts of techniques available
for triggering
them (Rogo, 1983). The more we managed to induce OBEs in
ourselves, the more we might learn about the limits of
consciousness,
whether we are geniuses at self-deception or immortal spirits
caged
in mortal bodies. It would be interesting to observe the effects
of frequent
OBEs on our belief systems and lifestyles, whether, for example,
it would reduce death anxiety and free up our psychic energies
for the
business of living.
The second often reported NDE component we could try to
replicate
is seeing apparitions of loved ones. Raymond Moody (1992) has
resurrected
an ancient mirror-gazing technique he calls a psychomanteum,
whose purpose is to stimulate apparitions of deceased loved
ones, a
procedure, as used by Moody, meant primarily to assist bereaved
patients.
Moody’s work calls attention to the therapeutic side of survival
research, which is an important aspect of the shamanic turn.
There is another aspect of the NDE that could be the basis of a
new form of experimentation: the light experience. One of the
most
powerful and widely reported aspects of the near-death
experience is
the encounter with an overwhelming presence of light that seems
to
emanate pure love and that results in the utter conviction of
the reality
of the other world. A superb example of this may be found in
Joseph
McMoneagle’s Mind Trek (1993, pp. 27–34). Based on my own
experience
of encountering the light in a dream (Grosso, 1997), and the
study
of an extensive literature, I am convinced it is possible to
induce transcendent
light experiences.
First, as researcher and pediatrician Melvin Morse (1992) has
stressed, experiencing the light is the most deeply
transformative aspect
of the NDE; it reduces the fear of death and produces confidence
and conviction of the reality of another world. No amount of
critical
examination of externally derived data could produce such an
impact.
Second, the near-death light is part of a universal pattern of
human
experience, an archetypal constellation of psychic constants,
found everywhere
in shamanic, mystical, esthetic, and inspired states of being
(see, for example, Eliade, 1965, pp. 19–77).
Third, Chinese, Tibetan, and Sufi traditions describe techniques
for
inducing these mystic light encounters. They consist of related
practices
such as meditation, regulated breathing, visualization,
conscious
dreaming, diet, sensory isolation, and so forth, which can be
adapted
to researchers’ needs. The appeal of this type of experiment is
not just
that it may afford us a glimpse of what may be another world,
but that
it may serve as part of a deep process of self-transformation.
Let me conclude with these remarks. I recommend the shamanic
turn
not as a substitute for inferential research but as a
therapeutic, experiential
complement. After all, death is not just another scientific or
philosophical puzzle; it underlies the consciousness of our
whole existence.
On pragmatic grounds we need a working hypothesis for coping
with our mortality. As Carl Jung (1979, p. 213) put it, we
should do our
best to “form a conception of life after death, or to create
some image of
it.... Not to have done so is a vital loss.”
Subjective experiences, however stunning, will never prove
survival,
and we may never know for sure if there is a life after
death. On the other
hand, in the course of our subjective encroachments on the
presumptive
“next” world, the likelihood increases that we will encounter
new data
and gain new insights. In time, a new consensus on the afterlife
might
conceivably emerge and change our whole feeling about death.
From a
practical point of view, is that not what counts?
The kind of research I am lobbying for promises less to solve
than to
dissolve the discomfiting uncertainty we associate with death;
in the
end, we may arrive at a place where the question of personal
survival
just does not matter any more. There are experiences in which
the importance
of the “I” seems to thaw, melt, and fade away into a vaster
frame of reference. These experiences, often called
transpersonal, combined
with the best survival data, offer the raw materials for a 21st
century ars moriendi, an art of dying.
I began by talking about how the classical philosophers
approached
the afterlife. They did so using general abstract principles
(the soul is a
simple substance, therefore it cannot die), a method totally out
of tune
with our modern empirical approach. At the same time, therewas
an experiential
background to Greek philosophy, as Francis Cornford (1965)
explained. Behind the tradition of Plato, Aristotle, and
Plotinus was an
older tradition of shamanic thinkers like Empedocles,
Epimenides, and
other sages of the ancient school.
The ecstatic experience was at the root of Greek philosophy;
even
Greek skepticism was a form of consciousness alteration, an
attempt to
achieve a state of awareness beyond all conflicting positions,
ataraxia—
a kind of floating indifference. In the Phaedo, Plato defined
philosophy
as the practice, the rehearsal for death. According to Socrates,
only
when we shed our bodies will the truth be known.
There is a practical dimension to Plato’s writings that blends
with
survival research. The main point of this paper is to call
attention to
the need for a personal form of experimentation, something like
what
Hindus calls sadhana or spiritual practice. So, when Plato wrote
that
philosophy is the practice of death (melete thanatou), he was
saying that
we can practice for our death by practicing detachment from
material
existence. Now the curious thing about the near-death experience
is
that it forces one to experience this detachment, suddenly and
without
preparation. Think of it as a speed course in Plato’s
metaphysics.
There is one more point of contact between Plato’s concept of
philosophy
and the near-death experience: Both seem to agree on the final
test, the benchmark for passing the course. Like the celebrants
of the
Eleusinian Mysteries, near-death visionaries must see the light,
not
just figuratively but the ineffable blaze itself. Thus,
philosophy, in one
stroke, recaptures its ancient goal of enlightenment. With our
near death
data, the hidden meaning of Plato’s perennial metaphysics is
revealed. In a famous letter, Plato (1966) described the moment
of philosophical
enlightenment as an experience of a brilliant light. Near-death
epistemology, like Plato’s, admits the validity of intuition,
the value of
mystic illumination. At the same time, we keep the empirical
gains of
the scientific method, which was the hope of the founders of
psychical
research. We borrow back from philosophy its practical shamanic
dimensions,
its readiness to explore the full range of consciousness, and
not to be imposed upon by the prevailing views of reality and
rationality.
We reconnect with the shamanic origins of Western philosophy.
The circle from experience to theory and back to experience
would be
complete. |
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