Jacob Boehme and the Spiritual Roots of Psychodynamic Psychotherapy: Dreams, Ecstasy, and Wisdom

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Glenn J. McCullough

A Thesis submitted to the Faculty of Knox College and the Graduate Centre for Theological Studies of the Toronto School of Theology. In partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Theology awarded by the University of St. Michael’s College.

Jacob Boehme and the Spiritual Roots of Psychodynamic Psychotherapy: Dreams, Wisdom, and Ecstasy

Glenn J. McCullough

Doctor of Philosophy in Theology

University of St. Michael’s College

2019 Abstract

The roots of psychodynamic psychotherapy have been traced back to 19th century

European Romanticism, most notably in Henri Ellenberger’s standard-setting The Discovery of the Unconscious (1970). The current scholarly consensus enhances Ellenberger’s account by assembling various psychodynamic concepts piecemeal from various 19th century romantic artists, philosophers, and medical scientists. My thesis is that the roots of psychodynamic theory actually lie much further back, in the 17th century Lutheran spiritual theology or

“theosophy” of Jacob Boehme.

I argue that Boehme offers a fairly complete psychodynamic framework, emerging virtually in toto, which anticipates Freud and Jung and allows key psychodynamic concepts to be recontextualized within western religion and theology: (1) the psychodynamic unconscious can be contextualized within Boehme’s trinitarian psychology; (2) the psychodynamic theory of dreams as revealers of a hidden inner world can be contextualized within Boehme’s imaginal realm of Einbildung or Imagination; and (3) the psychodynamic stages of Freudian psychosexual development and Jungian individuation can be contextualized within Boehme’s developmental archetypes of Wisdom or Sophia, which follow his exegesis of the seven days of the biblical creation account (the Hexameron). Dreams forge a crucial historical link here, in

that Boehme was a key catalyst for the 17th century renaissance of dream interpretation, just as Freud and Jung were for the 20th century. In both cases dreams were implicated in profound cultural changes. Boehme’s mythical and figural mode of expression itself mirrors the language of dreams, or what Freud called “primary process” and Jung called “fantasy thinking.”

In order to situate Boehme I begin with a chapter on Augustine, the architect of western theology, who not only offered the most sustained patristic theory of dreams, but whose related formulations of both theological psychology and the imaginal realm of visio spiritualis set the standard for subsequent western discussions. I argue that this Augustinian theo- psychological “framework” was inhabited and modified by Boehme in ways that move in the direction of psychodynamic theory. The indebtedness of psychodynamic theory to western religion has broad implications for both spiritual/pastoral counsellors and general psychotherapists, and it might also affect how we understand modernity itself.

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Acknowledgments

Thank you to the scholars and therapists whose teaching, writing, and personal support have shaped this project: Joseph Schner, Pam McCarroll, Arthur Boers, Marsha Hewitt, Ephraim

Radner, Peter Erb, Dorothy and Robert Gardner, Harold Bloom, Jeffrey Kripal, Cyril O’Regan,

John Dourley, Ann Ulanov, and Margaret Barker. Your graceful offerings of time and your kind responses to my questions have meant more than you know. And to those who first mentored my interest in this area many years ago: Travis Kroeker, Ellen Charry, James Loder, Deborah

Hunsinger, and Dwight Sweezy, your influence has shaped me in ways that I am still realizing, with gratitude.

A special thanks is due to Michael Stoeber, who helped guide this project from the beginning, and surrounded it with his calm affirming presence: your unique gifts of patience, support, and insight were remarkably sensitive in creating a space where my own vision could develop freely—a rare experience for a doctoral student! To the community at Sanctuary

Toronto: thank you for opening my eyes to the many spirits that both trouble and transform the waters of life. To my children, Cole and Ashlyn, who were born in the midst of these pages, and who often visited my desk with their own forms of inspiration: thank you for your urgent needs, your bright eyes, and your playful hearts, which all came trailing clouds of glory. And of course, to Rachel, my sine qua non, who married me just as this dream was born, and whose own dissertation was written alongside it: what were we thinking Rach! We need a vacation! I love you.

I gratefully acknowledge financial support from the Knox College Bursary Committee,

The Toronto School of Theology Scholarship Committee, the Ontario Graduate Scholarship

fund, and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Thank you for supporting a dreamer. And to Perry Hall and the staff at Robarts library: thank you for your invaluable assistance to this project.

Contents

List of Abbreviations ...... ix List of Illustrations ...... xi Epigraph ...... xii Hymn to Wisdom ...... xiii Introduction: The Borderland of Dreams ...... 1

0.1 Theorists, Themes, and Thesis Statement ...... 1

0.2 Review of Literature ...... 11

0.3 Methodology and Primary Texts...... 19

0.4 Chapter Summary ...... 22 Chapter 1: Augustine and the Framework of Theological Psychology ...... 25

1.1 Augustine as Psychotherapist ...... 27

1.2 Map of the Soul: Trinitarian Psychology ...... 30 1.2.1 Will/Love: The Force of Desire ...... 35 1.2.2. Memory: The Infinite Inner World ...... 40 1.2.3 Understanding: The Range of Perception ...... 43

1.3 Dream Theory: Jacob’s Ladder to Heaven ...... 46 1.3.1 Everyday Ecstasy ...... 46 1.3.2 Threefold Vision and the Imaginal Realm ...... 50 1.3.3 Discernment and Demonic Deception ...... 53 1.3.4 Dreams and Paradise ...... 58

1.4 Dream Interpretation: Wisdom and Archetypes ...... 64 1.4.1 Wisdom Created and Uncreated ...... 66 1.4.2 Wisdom and the Soul ...... 68 1.4.3 Wisdom and Creation ...... 71

1.5 Conclusion: Therapeutic Implications ...... 74 Chapter 2: Jacob Boehme and the Imaginal Rebirth of Theological Psychology ...... 77

2.1 Imaginal Rebirth...... 81

2.2 Boehme’s Imaginal Realm in Historical Context ...... 83

2.3 Boehme as Magus ...... 86

2.4 Boehme as Mystic ...... 95

2.5 Boehme as Lutheran Integrationist ...... 108 Chapter 3: Boehme as Psychotherapist ...... 116

3.1 Method: Psychology and Theology ...... 116

3.2 Ontology: Three Levels ...... 120

3.3 Approach: Psycho-Mythical Theology ...... 132 Chapter 4: Boehme’s Map of the Soul: The Birth of the Unconscious Mind ...... 141

4.1 The Soul-Body Nexus in the Micro- and Macrocosm ...... 145

4.2 Abyss: The Eternal Dark Fire of Inner Desire ...... 148

4.3 Wisdom: The Eternal Holy Light of Inner Understanding (“Verstand”) ...... 155

4.4 Knowledge: The Temporal Realm of Outer Reason (“Vernunft”) ...... 161

4.5 Interactions and Transformations: The Twofold and Threefold Soul ...... 164 Chapter 5: Boehme’s Theory of Dreams: Building the Body of Light ...... 172

5.1 Ecstasy, Magia, and Dream Deception ...... 175

5.2 Becoming Joseph: Dreaming the New Human ...... 183

5.3 Dreaming From Darkness to Light ...... 196

5.4 The Great Code of Dream Interpretation ...... 201 Chapter 6: Boehme’s Theory of Dream Interpretation: Seven Steps to Heaven ...... 205

6.1 Day One: Darkness, Light, and Primordial Life-Energy ...... 211

6.2 Day Two: Time, Eternity, and the Oceanic Feeling ...... 217

6.3 Day Three: Dry Land, Vegetation, and the Terra Firma of “I-ness” ...... 224 6.4 Day Four: Heavenly Bodies, Astral Reason, the Hidden Dark Mind, and the Transforming Centre...... 231

6.5 Day Five: Elemental Creatures, Expanding Awareness, and the Harmonious Soul .... 240

6.6 Day Six: The Microcosm, or Humanity in Full ...... 245

6.7 Day Seven: Sabbath, Shalom, and Silence ...... 247 Conclusion: The Rebirth of Dreams ...... 249

7.1 Freud’s Map of the Soul: Raising Hell ...... 249

7.2 Jung’s Map of the Soul: Collision of Opposites...... 255

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7.3 Freud’s Theory of Dreams: Word and Image ...... 261

7.4 Jung’s Theory of Dreams: Opening the Inner World ...... 267

7.5 Freud’s Dream Hermeneutic and the Psycho-Sexual Stages of Development ...... 272

7.6 Jung’s Dream Hermeneutic and Individuation ...... 280

7.7 The Question of Direct or Indirect Influence ...... 283

7.8 Implications ...... 287

7.9 Conclusion ...... 294 Bibliography ...... 298

Primary Sources ...... 298

Secondary Sources ...... 305

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List of Abbreviations

Augustine PL Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina. Ed. J.P. Migne. TLMG The Literal Meaning of Genesis GRM On Genesis: A Refutation of the Manichees Exp. of Ps. Expositions of the Psalms Hom. on 1 John Homilies on the First Epistle of John

Boehme Many English translations follow the chapter and section numbering of the German facsimile edition (SS). But when they differ, citations include the date and numbering of the English edition after the facsimile edition.

SS Jacob Böhme Sämtliche Schriften. 11 vols. Ed. Will-Erich Peuckert and August Faust. Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, 1955-1961. Aurora Morgen Röthe im Aufgang (1612, SS 1). English: Aurora (2013). Three Principles Beschreibung der Drey Principien Göttliches Wesens (1619, SS 2). English: The Three Principles of the Divine Essence (1764). Threefold Life Vom Dreyfachen Leben des Menschen (1620, SS 3). English: The Threefold Life of Man (1764). Forty Questions Viertzig Fragen von der Seelen (1620, SS 3). English: The Forty Questions of the Soul (1764). Incarnation Von der Menschwerdung Jesu Christi (1620, SS 4). English: On the Incarnation of Jesus Christ (1764). Six Theosophic Pts Von sechs Theosophischen Puncten (1620, SS 4). English: Six Theosophic Points (1958). Six Mystical Pts Kurtze Erklärung Sechs Mystischer Puncte (1620, SS 4) English: Six Mystical Points (1958). Way to Christ Der Weg zu Christo (1624, SS 4) English: The Way to Christ (1978). Signature De Signatura Rerum (1622, SS 6). English: The Signature of All Things (1781). Election of Grace Von der Gnaden-Wahl (1623, SS 6). English: Of the Election of Grace (1781). MM Mysterium Magnum (1623, SS 7 & 8). English: Mysterium Magnum (1965).

Letters Theosophische Send-Briefe (1618-1624, SS 9). English: The Epistles of Jacob Boehme (1886).

Freud SE The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. 24 vols. Trans. J. Strachey et al. London: Vintage, 2001.

Jung CW The Collected Works of C.G. Jung, 2nd Ed. 20 vols. Trans. R.F.C. Hull. Bollingen Series XX. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967-1990.

Other DWB Deutsches Wörterbuch. 14 vols. Von Jacob Grimm und Wilhelm Grimm. Fortgesetzt und bearbeitet von Moriz Heyne, Rudolf Hildebrand, Karl Weigand et al. Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1854-1960.

OED Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 20 vols. Ed. John Simpson and Edmund Weiner. Oxford: Oxford University and Clarendon Press, 1989.

List of Illustrations

Figures

1 Icon of Divine Sophia……………………………………………………………………………………………………xiv

2 Boehme’s Three-Level Ontology…………………………………………………………………………………123

3 Boehme’s Map of Everything………………………………………………………………………………………140

4 Boehme’s Map of the Fallen Soul…………………………………………………………………...…………..150

5 Marriage of Sun and Moon from the Rosarium Philosophorum……………………...……….…..179

Tables

1 The Seven Days of Creation: Development and Transformation………………………….…….…210

Epigraph

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

– Jesus Christ, Matthew 13:45-46

One pearl was suspended inside the belly of the fish and it gave illumination to Jonah, like this sun which shines with all its might at noon; and it showed to Jonah all that was in the sea and in the depths.

– Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer

O earthly human! If only you still had it!... If only you knew what lay here, how you would seek after it!... O precious pearl! How sweet you are in the new birth! How fair and surpassing excellent is your lustre!

– Jacob Boehme, Mysterium Magnum (1624)

Somewhere along the line I knew there’d be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the line the pearl would be handed to me.

– Jack Kerouac, On the Road (1955)

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Hymn to Wisdom

I learned both what is secret and what is manifest, for Wisdom, the fashioner of all things, taught me… For Wisdom is more mobile than any motion; because of her pureness she pervades and penetrates all things.

For she is a breath of the power of God, and a pure emanation of the glory of the Almighty; therefore nothing defiled gains entrance into her. For she is a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God, and an image of his goodness.

Although she is but one, she can do all things, and while remaining in herself, she renews all things; in every generation she passes into holy souls and makes them friends of God, and prophets; for God loves nothing so much as the person who lives with Wisdom.

She is more beautiful than the sun, and excels every constellation of the stars. Compared with the light she is found to be superior, for it is succeeded by the night, but against Wisdom evil does not prevail. She reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other, and she orders all things well.

I loved her and sought her from my youth; I desired to take her for my bride, and became enamored of her beauty. She glorifies her noble birth by living with God, and the Lord of all loves her. For she is an initiate in the knowledge of God, and an associate in his works.

- Wisdom 7:21-22,24-30; 8:1-4

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Figure 1. Icon of Divine Sophia by Eileen McGuckin. Used with permission.

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Introduction: The Borderland of Dreams

They said to one another, “Here comes this dreamer. Come now, let us kill him...” - Joseph’s brothers, Genesis 37:19-20

Even though you intended to do evil to me, God intended it for good. - Joseph, Genesis 50:201

0.1 THEORISTS, THEMES, AND THESIS STATEMENT My dissertation is a survey of psychological and oneiric themes in four theorists:

Augustine of Hippo, Jacob Boehme, Sigmund Freud, and C.G. Jung. For each theorist I look at three themes: (1) a general overview of psychological theory or “map of the soul,” beginning with Augustine under the rubric of “Trinitarian Psychology”; (2) a general discussion of “dream theory”; and (3) a specific discussion of “dream interpretation” as this relates to a theory of psycho-spiritual development, beginning with Augustine under the rubric of “Wisdom and

Archetypes.” Boehme is the primary focus of the dissertation, and my discussion of Freud and

Jung is interspersed throughout, with a comprehensive summary provided in the conclusion.

For readers with little knowledge of Freud and Jung, it might help to read this concluding summary first.

My research for the dissertation began with a general overview of the western2 history of dreams and their interpretation. I soon discovered that arguably the two most prolific pre-

1 Biblical quotations are from the NRSV, unless otherwise noted. This translation of Gen 50:20 is mine. 2 I have avoided capitalizing “western” to emphasize that the distinction between east and west, as an historiographical concept, has often been full of projections and misconceptions (e.g. Said 1978). This distinction, particularly in theology, is based mainly on linguistic grounds (Greek vs. Latin). Augustine, for example, read very little Greek.

modern3 dream theorists were Augustine of Hippo and Jacob Boehme. Augustine offered the most sustained and comprehensive patristic theory of dreams,4 which became the touchstone for medieval discussions of the topic. And importantly Augustine’s dream theory was systematically integrated with his entire theological edifice, which basically defined orthodoxy for the Christian west—like a loom on which the many tapestries of medieval and early-modern thought were woven. Boehme, I soon realized, was the catalyst for a great florescence of corporate and communal dream interpretation that began in the 17th century, and later appeared in a more secular and individualistic mode in 19th century European Romanticism.5

Taken together, Boehme’s influence on these two movements represents arguably the greatest resurgence of interest in dream experience in western history. Freud and Jung were clearly the two most prolific modern dream theorists, in that both saw dreams as the key “data set” with which to understand the psyche holistically, and both founded their respective psychotherapeutic theories, different as they were, on a theory of dreams. Dreams were thus

3 Periodization of history is, of course, simplistic and misleading, but I will use the generally accepted rubrics as a shorthand. This project generally supports the view that what we variously call “modern,” “Enlightenment,” or “secular” thought is neither as novel or as self-sustaining as it has supposed. One thing that the so-called “postmodern” turn has demonstrated is that the rational foundations of modernity are not as stable as they first appeared. We seem to be left with a choice, then, either to abandon those foundations or to look further back, and more broadly, at the western discourses that gave rise to modernity, which is what my project proposes to do in relation to modern psychology. It is not yet clear whether “postmodern” discourse merely reveals the cul-de-sac of modernity or offers a way out. I suspect the former, but hopefully this project will be helpful to adherents of both positions. 4 In the ancient world, great figures like Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, and Lucretius all offered theories of dreams and their interpretation. In the late-antique world, besides Augustine, the other influential dream theorists were mainly Neoplatonic in orientation, including Synesius of Cyrene, and especially Macrobius and Calcidius. See Dulaey (1973); Kruger (1992); Erny (2006); and Koet (2012). 5 For Boehme’s influence on 17th century dreamers see Jones (1959); Hessayon (2005, 2014); Hessayon and Apetrei (2014); and Gerona (2004). For his influence on Romantic dreamers and related currents see Binswanger (1928); Lersch (1923); Béguin (1939); and Ripa (1988); see also Tony James (1995); Dieterle and Engel (2003); and L. Martin (2018).

the obvious initial link between these four theorists, and here I was surprised to find some deep points of continuity that suggested a kind of “tradition,” although one that changed significantly as it passed through the crucible of modern science.

The migration of dream theory from theology to science began to fascinate me, because it seemed so obviously to be a movement from a “more” to a “less” theoretically. The broad vistas of Augustine’s and Boehme’s theological dream theories were basically truncated and shorn of their religious and “superstitious” elements as they passed into modern scientific psychology. The horizons of meaning narrowed, and this narrowing had intriguing psychological and theological implications. But more importantly, I also began to realize that many of the original theological foundations of dream theory survived the migration, and simply became more hidden. They passed into modernity like the buried foundations of an ancient building on which a new modern structure is built. Of course, this modern structure often proclaimed its purely empirical basis, its scientific credentials, and its self-supporting status. Modern psychotherapy claimed to have made a decisive break with pre-modern “mysticism” and

“superstition.” But at times, to my ears anyway, it seemed to protest too much. I began to wonder if the occasionally shrill tone of Freud’s atheism, for example,6 or of Jung’s repeated

6 Freud’s basically Feuerbachian understanding of religion is multifaceted, nuanced, and frequently misunderstood (see Hewitt 2014). But in his less charitable moments he was simply dismissive of the religion of the “common man,” with typical Enlightenment disdain: “The whole thing [i.e. religion] is so patently infantile, so foreign to reality, that to anyone with a friendly attitude to humanity it is painful to think that the majority of mortals will never be able to rise above this view of life. It is still more humiliating to discover how large a number of people living to-day, who cannot but see that this religion is not tenable, nevertheless try to defend it piece by piece in a series of pitiful rearguard actions” (1930, SE21:74).

claims to a “purely empirical method,”7 might point to secret insecurities about the hidden sources of their fledgling science.

For example, the basic ancient idea of the therapeutic value of dreams seemed to pass into modernity unscathed.8 This was the heuristic hypothesis that Freud and Jung eventually demonstrated empirically in various ways. But the basic faith in this hypothesis was there from the beginning as a hidden foundation; the empirical validations came later. I also noticed that the widespread pre-modern theological motif of “demonic dream deception” seemed to lie hidden behind Freud’s idea of “dream distortion,” in which the mysterious agency of a “dream censor” conceals the sexual underbelly of the dream. Because of this censor, the sexual demon appeared to Freud just as he did to medieval monks, “transformed into an angel of light” (2 Cor

11:14). Freud was actually aware that his landmark Traumdeutung, though clothed in the language of positivistic science, had a theological prehistory. In one case he described the book to his friend Wilhelm Fliess as a kind of Dantean katabasis: “It is an intellectual hell, layer upon layer of it, with everything fitfully gleaming and pulsating; and the outline of Lucifer-Amor coming into sight at the darkest centre” (July 10, 1900; in 1954, 323). The perceptive reader might also have noted this theme in the book’s famous epigraph, taken from Virgil: “Flectere si

7 E.g. “I am an empiricist, not a philosopher” (1954b, CW9i:75). Many Jungians today would dispute this claim. 8 This view goes back to Greco-Roman Antiquity. At more than two hundred sites throughout the ancient world, pilgrims with various maladies would make offerings to the healing god Asclepius and then retire to incubation chambers awaiting dreams that would either cure directly or provide a curative prescription. Similarly, the magicians of antiquity would assist their clients in supplicating various gods to grant dream revelations, while physicians in the Hippocratic tradition like Rufus and Galen published treatises on the diagnostic use of dreams. According to this latter view, the soul “surveyed one’s bodily functions during sleep and brought about dreams that indicated, by a scrutiny of their content, bodily health” (Holowchak 2002, 127).

nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo,” which loosely translates as “if I cannot bend heaven, I will raise hell.” In moving hell and its demons within the bounds of modern science, Freud was also locating them within the bounds of the human soul, a move that was started three centuries earlier by Boehme.

Likewise, dreams were a key locus for the “anomalous” phenomena of modern parapsychology, and both Freud and Jung cautiously admitted that they had observed such phenomena in their clinical work too often to ignore it. Thus Jung eventually theorized the concept of “synchronicity” in conversation with physicist Wolfgang Pauli, to explain the strange coincidences that seemed to connect his patients’ inner subjective dreams to the outer objective world (1951b; 1952). And Freud eventually admitted his belief in telepathy, or

“thought transference,” which seemed to be a product of the deep emotional rapport of the clinical transference relationship.9 Today the theory of quantum entanglement, which Einstein initially referred to pejoratively as “spooky action at a distance,” has become an accepted theory in physics, and thus many of these anomalous phenomena are beginning to look less spooky, to physicists anyway. In this respect, the “superstitious” aspects of the dream that science initially dismissed and defined itself against are now finding explanations within

9 See Hewitt (2014) for a discussion of Freud’s interest in telepathy, and how this relates to his explicit positivism. Freud claimed to have observed telepathy several times, and he called it the “rational core” of occultism. Early on Freud advised his disciple Ferenczi not to publish the results of a successful telepathy experiment, for it would be “throwing a bomb into the psychoanalytic house, that would be certain to explode.” Yet Freud later published an account of the evidence for his own belief in telepathy, just before reaffirming a positivist scientific worldview, in the New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-analysis (1933, SE22:31-56). Jung was explicit about his belief in this phenomenon in his published work (e.g. 1948a, CW8:261-2) and even more explicit in his lectures and letters (e.g. 1936-1940, 1-31; 1973, 1:117), and he assumes that it has a scientific explanation that will eventually be discovered. See Main (1997) for a good summary. Dream telepathy is still a live area of scientific research. For a survey of the literature see Ullman and Krippner (1989), and Krippner and Fracasso (2011).

accepted scientific theories.10 Freud and Jung were among the first to bring these phenomena under the scientific purview.

Arguably the most important aspect of the migration of dreams into modernity was that it greatly expanded the precincts of the individual psyche, even as the medieval realms of heaven and hell were evacuated. The objective simply became subjective through a kind of scientific slight-of-hand, as heaven and hell passed virtually wholesale into psychotherapy, and particularly into the asylum, where visions of such realms were increasingly warehoused (e.g.

Foucault 1965). But owing to the inherent strangeness of the dream world—its peculiar mix of subjectivity and objectivity—it never quite fit within either framework. Medieval spirits were never purely “objective,” because the demons were always credited with a prescient knowledge of the soul’s weak spots, and the angels always knew exactly where to apply the healing salve. These objective entities always appeared with a deeply subjective awareness of the soul they touched—via ontological participation—and thus pre-modern theorists always struggled to distinguish between dreams that emerged from outside agents, and those that reflected the soul itself. Likewise, in modernity, when the realm of dreams was assigned its purely “subjective” status, psychologists continued to marvel at the fact that certain

“autonomous” dream characters showed more intelligence and awareness than the dreamer to whom they appeared. And the dream anomalies that continued to flummox the scientific

10 For meta-analyses of extant experiments in parapsychological or “psi” phenomena, including telepathy, see Dean Radin, Entangled Minds: Extrasensory Experiences in a Quantum Reality (2006). These meta- analyses lend strong statistical validity to the existence of such phenomena and raise questions about their marginalization by mainstream science. For a rich analysis of such phenomena in relation to theories of religion, see Jeffrey Kripal, Authors of the Impossible: The Paranormal and the Sacred (2010).

worldview, like Jung’s “synchronicity” and Freud’s “thought transference,” suggested that dreams transgressed the bounds of the subjective psyche. If one of modernity’s borders was the strict subject-object divide necessary for scientific inquiry, dreams introduced a phenomenological and hermeneutical interpenetration of subject and object.11

Much of what I have mentioned above is beyond the scope of this dissertation, and it will not be the focus of the discussion below, but I hope it gives some idea of where my research began. This “tradition” of dream theory is the broad context for the resonances between Augustine, Boehme, Freud, and Jung that we will see below. And this “tradition” might even reveal some secrets about both the birth of modernity, and the cure for its current malaise. The unique qualities of the dream world—its therapeutic value, its strange prescience, its hidden deceptions, its subject-object ambiguity, etc.—seem to have produced certain continuities in dream theory from ancient through to modern times. And these unique qualities explain why dreams, like Joseph in the biblical story, had to be killed (or at least concealed) as

“superstitious” by early-modern science. After all, the dream world violates all the conditions necessary for scientific investigation: uniform time, space, and causality. But just as Joseph was thrown into the pit, only to rise again as ruler of Egypt, so the dream world was later vindicated within the heart of the scientific worldview by Freud. The same dream world might yet help us understand not only the religious currents that gave rise to modernity, but also the fraught relationship between religious and scientific knowledge that continues to define our age. Could it be that dreams needed to be killed to make room for modern science? If so, then the

11 And thus dreams eventually played a role in the hermeneutical turn and the so-called “postmodern.” For example, Foucault’s method was inspired by Ludwig Binswanger’s Heideggerian approach to dreams and their interpretation (Foucault [1954] 1984).

resurrection of dreams might yet bring some kind of rapprochement between religious and scientific knowing.

Given that Boehme’s influence on psychodynamic psychotherapy12 is the main theme of this dissertation, why did I include the much earlier work of Augustine? For two reasons: First, as a theological thinker Boehme is working within a framework that was largely established by

Augustine. Without this framework it would be too easy to selectively appropriate certain aspects of Boehme that find continuity in Freud or Jung, and thus to read modern psychology back into Boehme. By providing an initial chapter on Augustine I can establish a robust theological matrix—one that defined the medieval and early-modern west—and then situate

Boehme in relation to it, before bringing this framework and Boehme’s modifications of it into dialogue with modernity. In short, Augustine provides enough “ballast” to allow theological concepts to speak on their own terms, while also providing a “counterweight” to Freud and

Jung, whose concepts are more congenial to contemporary minds.

Second, Boehme is notoriously difficult both to read and to categorize, and Augustine allows us to situate him in relation to mainstream western theology. Boehme was labelled a heretic almost immediately after his first work appeared, and most theologians today continue to see him as a marginal, though strangely influential figure.13 But judgments of heterodoxy can

12 The terms “psychodynamic psychotherapy,” “depth psychology,” and sometimes “psychoanalysis” are used to corral various theorists who acknowledge an unconscious mind. “Psychoanalysis” is also used to distinguish Freud’s approach from Jung’s “analytical” or “archetypal” psychology. On Jung’s preferred term for his work, “complex psychology,” and on the mistaken “Freudocentric” reading of Jung, see Shamdasani (2003). I use “psychodynamic” to include Freud and Jung, while not obviating their differences. 13 Paul Tillich might be the best-known Boehme supporter in modern theology, even if his appropriation of Boehmian concepts tends to be somewhat superficial. Something of a Boehmian renaissance is

be made as much for socio-political as for doctrinal reasons. And because serious scholarship on Boehme is still in its early stages in the English-speaking world, the nature of his heterodoxy is still contested. While I will not take a definitive stand on this issue, I will suggest that

Boehme’s heterodoxy has been somewhat exaggerated, both in the past and the present, and particularly in regard to his later works. My sense is that Boehme’s marginal theological status has more to do with his florid and bewildering style than with the actual doctrinal content of his thought. Because Augustine was basically the architect of western orthodoxy, he offers a kind of “plumb line” to help situate Boehme in relation to accepted readings of creed and canon. We can thus get a better sense of just how marginal or mainstream Boehme’s ideas actually are, and by extension we can get some sense of how marginal or mainstream the ideas of Freud and

Jung are in relation to western theological orthodoxy, even though they had no desire to conform to this standard.14 In short, I am not merely arguing that Freud and Jung are indebted to a somewhat obscure Lutheran mystic, but that they are indebted to a mainstream theological tradition—an Augustinian framework—within which Boehme himself operated, although somewhat uniquely.

emerging today now that English-speaking theologians are reading the work of the Russian Orthodox Sergei Bulgakov. Behind Bulgakov stand Vladimir Soloviev, Pavel Florensky, and Schelling, who are all deeply indebted to Boehme. See John Milbank (2009) and Michael Martin (2015). 14 Jung intentionally positioned his work in relation to the Christian tradition (e.g. 1951a), but Freud generally distanced himself from religion. Let me say at the outset that I am not attempting to coopt Freud for Christianity. The Boehmian psychological trinity that later influenced both Freud and Jung was indebted to both Jewish Kabbalah and to Christian theology. Among other Kabbalistic motifs, the “trinity” of the supernal sephirot—Keter, Chokmah, and Binah—is clearly evident in Boehme’s work (see Wolfson 2018). And this helps explain why David Bakan could write a book like Sigmund Freud and the Jewish Mystical Tradition ([1958] 1975) even though Freud, the famously “godless Jew,” maintained a resolute atheism.

My own interest in dreams first emerged in psychotherapy, and it prompted me to become a psychotherapist myself. My intention all along in this research was to provide a more fulsome historical and religious context to help contemporary counsellors and therapists understand the traditions they inhabit and the work they do. My hope is that the discussion below will bear fruit in therapeutic practice, and particularly in the therapeutic use of dreams.

But unfortunately, given space constraints, I have not been able to say much about these practical implications. Hopefully I can expand on them in future work. I will say that, throughout my research, I was continually surprised by the fact that the therapeutic instincts of the pre- modern dream theologians, including Augustine and Boehme, were very good. And in this respect Freud and Jung were not so much innovators as inheritors of a lineage of dream therapy.

Before moving on, let me summarize my thesis more specifically: key aspects of the seminal modern psychotherapeutic theories of Freud and Jung can be contextualized historically and theologically within the thought of Jacob Boehme, including (1) the concept of an unconscious mind, (2) a therapeutic and revelatory approach to dreams and their interpretation, and (3) the respective stages of Freudian psycho-sexual development and Jungian individuation, which are both structured by archetypal dream symbols. For each of these three aspects,

Boehme’s thought forms the wider boundary, so to speak, in which the respective theories of both Freud and Jung can be situated. And Boehme himself is indebted to a framework of both theological psychology and dream theory that stretches back to Augustine. Further, although I cannot fully demonstrate this statement within the bounds of this dissertation, I believe that

the confluence of these three aspects justifies crediting Boehme, more than any other single historical figure, as the originator of psychodynamic psychotherapy.

0.2 REVIEW OF LITERATURE Scholarship on the use of dreams in spiritual direction, spiritual/pastoral counselling, and spiritually-oriented psychotherapy15 is fairly limited. In the fields of spiritual direction and spiritual/pastoral counselling, the pioneering writers on this topic were John Sanford (1968,

1978) and Morton Kelsey (1974, 1978)16 who were Anglican priests, Jungian therapists, and good friends. Both realized that Jungian theory has significant resonance with traditional

Christian theology, but given the state of scholarship at the time they offered little critical discussion of why this might be the case. As a result, their work tends to subsume theological concepts within psychological categories. Subsequent spiritual directors and spiritual/pastoral counsellors, working within the Judeo-Christian tradition, have followed their trajectory,17 while others take an inter-faith approach to dream-work,18 which has been aided by historians and

15 These three fields are not mutually exclusive and their boundaries are highly contested. Historically, spiritual direction was largely a Roman Catholic practice while pastoral counselling was largely Protestant. Today Protestants are practicing spiritual direction, while pastoral counselling now includes inter-faith “spiritual counselling,” and many such counsellors are becoming credentialed psychotherapists. Likewise, in the general field of psychotherapy, spiritual and religious concepts are increasingly being integrated into various therapeutic approaches. 16 Kelsey rightly pointed to his and Sanford’s pioneering role: “Except for a work by the Spanish Jesuit Pedro Meseguer, The Secret of Dreams, published in 1960, and a book published in 1966 in German by a friend, the Reverend John A. Sanford, I have found no serious religious study of the subject since David Simpson’s Discourse on Dreams and Night-Visions in 1791” (1974, 25). 17 Proceeding chronologically, Ronald Barnes, S.J. (1984) offers a short paper on whether dreams are a “help” or a “distraction” in spiritual direction. Savary, Berne, and Williams (1984) use Sanford and Kelsey to elaborate thirty-five “dreamwork techniques.” Russ Parker (1985, 1988), an evangelical Anglican, takes Sanford and Kelsey in a more charismatic direction and provides helpful case studies. 18 Proceeding chronologically, Jeremy Taylor (1983, 1992, 1998), a Jungian and Unitarian Universalist Minister, offers a very accessible approach emphasizing pan-spiritual themes. Kelly Bulkeley, who is not

anthropologists of various religious and spiritual traditions.19 In the general field of psychotherapy, it is mainly Jungians who continue to use dreams in clinical work,20 and they occasionally bring dream material into conversation with traditional religion and spirituality, although these discussions likewise tend to subsume theology within psychological categories, often as an a priori methodological assumption.21 In general, from the perspective of this dissertation, all of these discussions could benefit from a critical awareness of how dreams and their interpretation migrated from a theological to a scientific register, and an awareness of the extent to which dream-work in psychodynamic psychotherapy is indebted to a theological matrix.

himself a spiritual counsellor but whose work seems applicable to this field, takes a more sophisticated interdisciplinary approach centred in the history of religions school and uses Gadamer’s hermeneutics to interpret religious meaning in dreams based on “root metaphors” (1994, 1995, 1999, 2000b). He also offers some practical guidelines for pastoral counsellors working with dreams (2000a), traces a brief but helpful comparative history of dreaming in the world’s religions (2008), and offers a theory of dreaming and the origins of religion, in conversation with contemporary cognitive science, and using data from the impressive sleep and dreams database (2016). Bulkeley (2001), and Bulkeley, Adams, and Davis (2009) have edited interesting collections of multi-faith essays on dreaming. And Adams, Koet, and Koning take an inter-faith approach in Dreams and Spirituality: A Handbook for Ministry, Spiritual Direction, and Counselling (2015). 19 For example, in First Nations spirituality (Eggan 1966; Hallowell 1966; Brown and Brightman 1988; Irwin 2001), in Judaism (Flannery-Dailey 2004; Harris 1994; Wolfson 2011), in Islam (Amanullah 2009; Corbin 1966; Fahd 1966; Hermansen 2001; Mittermaier 2011, 2015; Yamani 2009), in Hinduism (O’Flaherty 1984), and in Buddhism (Young 2001). 20 Those Freudians who still use dreams therapeutically tend not to engage religious themes in any depth. See Lansky (1992) for a good summary. 21 Jung’s protégé, Marie Louise von Franz, made his approach to dream interpretation accessible in several excellent books, many of which engage religion and theology explicitly (e.g. 1966, 1968, 1979, 1980, 1998). James Hillman relates dream symbolism to religious views of the underworld (1979). Jungian psychiatrist James Hall summarizes Jungian dreamwork methods (1983) and notes in The Unconscious Christian (1993) that many of his ostensibly “secular” patients have deeply Christian motifs in their dreams. Robin van Löben Sels (2003), a Jungian therapist, offers a fascinating comparison between the striking dreams of one of her clients and the visions of the 13th century Beguine Hadewijch of Brabant. Bonelle Lewis Strickling, a Jungian therapist and spiritual director, combines Jungian theory with the existentialist philosophy of Karl Jaspers, and offers helpful case studies in Dreaming about the Divine (2007).

In terms of scholarship on the historical roots of psychodynamic psychotherapy, the standard-setting work is Ellenberger’s magisterial The Discovery of the Unconscious: The History and Evolution of Dynamic Psychiatry (1970), which locates both Freud and Jung firmly in 19th century German Romanticism, and particularly in Schelling’s Naturphilosophie. Ellenberger claims that “there is hardly a single concept of Freud or Jung that had not been anticipated by the philosophy of nature and Romantic medicine” (1970, 205).22 He also notes a fundamental change in the conception of the unconscious in Romanticism: it “no longer meant St.

Augustine’s forgotten memories or Leibniz’s ‘unclear perceptions,’ but was the very fundament of the human being as rooted in the invisible life of the universe and therefore the true bond linking man with nature.” He further notes that “there is hardly a Romantic philosopher or poet who did not express his ideas on dreams” (1970, 204). But strangely, Ellenberger makes almost no mention of Boehme, except to note that “German romantic philosophy in the first two- thirds of the nineteenth century culminated in 1869 in Eduard von Hartmann’s famous

Philosophy of the Unconscious,” in which “the will of Boehme, Schelling, and Schopenhauer finally took the much more appropriate name of unconscious” (1970, 209-210). Boehme’s

22 Ellenberger also credits this idea to Leibbrand, who noted that “Jung’s teachings in the field of psychology are not intelligible if they are not connected with Schelling” (1954). Jung himself seemed somewhat aware of this lineage: “There had been talk of the unconscious long before Freud. It was Leibniz who first introduced the idea into philosophy; Kant and Schelling expressed opinions about it, and Carus elaborated it into a system, on whose foundations Eduard von Hartmann built his portentous Philosophy of the Unconscious” (1934b, 102; See also 1940a, 152). Similarly, in his lectures on the history of psychology at the Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule, Zürich, Jung credits Schelling with the insight that the unconscious is the absolute foundation of consciousness, and that this “primeval foundation is not differentiated, but universal” (1934a, 1, 15). Curiously, Freud seems unaware of this lineage in The Ego and the Id: “To most people who have been educated in philosophy the idea of anything psychical which is not also conscious is so inconceivable that it seems to them absurd and refutable simply by logic” (1923b, SE19:13).

anticipations of psychodynamic psychotherapy extend far beyond his concept of the will, as we will see below.23

More recently several scholars have expanded Ellenberger’s account by looking at anticipations of psychodynamic theory in the broader European Romantic milieu: Günter

Gödde (1999) in relation to Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, Jon Mills (2002) in relation to Hegel,

Stephan Atzert (2005) in relation to Schopenhauer, and Paul Bishop (2008; 2009) in relation to

Goethe and Schiller. Joel Faflak’s Romantic Psychoanalysis makes the less cautious claim that

“Romanticism, particularly British Romantic poetry, invents psychoanalysis” (2008, 1). Jung in

Contexts, edited by Paul Bishop (1999), has essays on Jung’s relationship to Thomas Mann,

Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Henri Bergson among others. Romantic Psyche and

Psychoanalysis, edited by Faflak, has essays on anticipations of psychodynamic theory in

Schelling, G.H. von Schubert, Mary Shelley, Wordsworth, and Blanchot. And Thinking the

Unconscious: Nineteenth-Century German Thought, edited by Angus Nicholls and Martin

Liebscher (2010), begins with Goethe and the Sturm und Drang, and moves through Schelling,

Schopenhauer, C.G. Carus, Eduard von Hartmann, Gustav Fechner, and Nietzsche. Finally, and specifically on Romantic theories of the dream, we have Albert Béguin’s wonderful L’Ame romantique et le rêve (1939), and Yannick Ripa’s very helpful Histoire du rêve (1988). Taken together, all of these works give the impression of a bricolage of psychodynamic theory

23 At times Ellenberger betrays a cursory understanding of Boehme’s work, and a tendency to read him through later philosophers like Schelling and Schopenhauer. This is especially evident in his essay “The Unconscious before Freud” (1957, 4, 6, 8, 14). Other more cursory histories of the unconscious include L.L. Whyte’s The Unconscious Before Freud (1978), which briefly mentions Boehme, and Frank Tallis’ Hidden Minds (2002), which makes no mention of him.

emerging from the piecemeal contributions of various Romantic writers. And yet the question arises as to how so many of them arrived independently at certain virtually identical concepts, raising the possibility of a common historical source. Boehme’s name is rarely mentioned.24 In general, while the above scholars tend to see psychodynamic psychotherapy as a product of

20th century science and the broad 19th century Romantic milieu, I argue that it is also (and probably most fundamentally) a product of 17th century theology.

Matt Ffytche (2012) and S.J. McGrath (2012) follow Ellenberger in identifying Schelling as the central figure in the genealogy of the unconscious. Ffytche’s The Foundation of the

Unconscious: Schelling, Freud and the Birth of the Modern Psyche traces a crisis in late 18th century ideas of the self, typified by the philosophy of Fichte, and argues that Schelling’s response to this crisis gave birth to the psychodynamic unconscious.25 McGrath, in his very helpful The Dark Ground of Spirit: Schelling and the Unconscious, traces a lineage of thought from Schelling to Freud and Jung via the “Schelling school of Romantic psychiatry”—a group of mid 19th century physicians who combined Schelling’s Naturphilosophie with medical psychiatry: G.H. von Schubert, K.F. Burdach, Ignaz Troxler, and C.G. Carus, who in particular was a decisive influence on Jung.26 McGrath also notes Schelling’s influence on Gustav Fechner, who was revered by Freud, and on Victor Cousin, who influenced Pierre Janet (2012, 17, 23, 120;

24 Béguin’s L’Ame romantique et le rêve (1939), which briefly references Boehme eleven times, is the exception. 25 Importantly, Ffytche is not trying to describe a “tradition” or lineage of thought. He is attempting to show how the concept of the unconscious gained prominence in an effort to theorize individual independence (2012, 9). 26 In one interview Jung claimed that his view of the unconscious was influenced more by Carus than Freud (in Shamdasani 2003, 164)

2014a, 37; 2014b, 24). While Ffytche’s and McGrath’s work far surpasses mine in philosophical sophistication, my own view is that Boehme’s anticipations of psychodynamic theory are actually more striking than the anticipations they identify in Schelling.

Both McGrath and Ffytche make mention of Boehme, Ffytche only in a passing reference that lumps him together with Eckhart and Tauler under the rubric of “German religious mysticism,” in which Ffytche says Schelling found a “corroboration of his own theory of unconsciousness” (2012, 150). But McGrath looks in some depth at Boehme as a singular influence, asserting that “Boehme’s alchemico-theosophical psychology, modified and given metaphysical grounding by Schelling, is the origin of the psychodynamic notion of the unconscious” (2012, 1-2). More specifically, McGrath notes a strong structural similarity: “The middle Schelling’s model of divine personality, which the human personality mirrors, repeats in all essentials Boehme’s triadic pattern of the self revelation of God” (2012, 15). He further notes that in Schelling’s early work the unconscious is basically impersonal and inert. But after immersing himself in Boehme in 1806, Schelling adopts Boehme’s “volitional unconscious, the unconscious of drives (as distinct from the epistemological unconscious, the Kantian unconscious of ‘dark representations’)… the biggest lesson he learns from Boehme concerns the dynamic structure of the personality” (2012, 12).27

27 McGrath also provides insight into why Boehme has been neglected in genealogies of the unconscious, despite the fact that his influence on Schelling is well established (Benz 1983; Brown 1977; Mayer 1999). In philosophy departments, the “claim for a theosophical influence on Schelling has become unpopular in the last four decades,” because “it has become a reason to dismiss him as an irrationalist, a mystic, and his philosophy, Schwärmerei.” Further, Boehme is often considered “too obscure to explain Schelling” (2012, 47-48). Indeed McGrath’s work is very helpful in reclaiming a reading of Boehme that is neither irrational nor obscure.

McGrath provides a helpful summary of Boehme’s thought, which concludes with a paragraph that aims to “abstract the psychodynamics from Boehme’s theogony” (2012, 48-71).

He continues this latter discussion in an important essay on “Böhme’s Theology of Evil and its

Relevance for Psychoanalysis” (2016), which contains the most exacting exposition to date of the topic I am exploring. In this essay, while McGrath notes that a historical genealogy exists between Boehme, Freud, and Jung, he focusses instead on structural resonances in their respective theories, just as I will below. And while McGrath’s reading of Boehme, Freud, and

Jung differs from my own in certain respects, which I note below, these differences are generally complementary rather than contradictory, in that they support a thesis that is strikingly similar to my own:

Böhme’s greatest influence on the contemporary age manifests itself through the dissemination of psychoanalytical notions of the self, which one way or another, via a labyrinth of transformations, lead back to his speculative theology. And yet Böhme’s influence on depth psychology and psychoanalysis has scarcely been explored. The Böhmian thread shows that psychoanalysis is only on the surface a secular and agnostic practice; its roots are buried deep in Christian self-experience. Böhme is not the only theological root of psychoanalysis: we must also include the early Christian experience of interiority, medieval mysticism, the rite of exorcism, the medieval practices of confession and Seelsorge. Nevertheless Böhme is the most important root, for only in Böhme’s theogony does psychoanalysis find the metaphysical terms necessary to accurately formulate the psychological structures which show themselves in psychoanalytical practice. Böhme’s notion of unconscious drive (Trieb) as the root of consciousness, his principle of polarity, and his understanding of the necessity of a sublimation of otherwise self-destructive narcissism are concretized and enacted in psychoanalytical experience (2016, 2).

My own view is that most of the non-Boehmian theological influences on psychoanalysis mentioned above (“interiority,” “mysticism,” “exorcism,” and “confession”) actually coalesce in

Boehme’s thought in remarkable ways, and we will trace these motifs below in broad strokes, beginning with Augustine. In general McGrath’s reading of Boehme is oriented toward

Boehme’s influence on Schelling and Franz von Baader (2012, 54, 55, 71-74, 78n24, 78n26). And my own work supplements McGrath’s account by looking in more detail at Boehme’s map of the soul, and by highlighting Boehme’s theory of dreams and their symbolic interpretation in terms of the seven archetypal qualities of Wisdom, which structure various stages of psycho- spiritual development.28 But in general McGrath succeeds, more than any writer I know of, in recognizing and reclaiming Boehme’s importance for the history of psychology, and my research parallels his work in certain respects.29

I have only discovered four other writers who treat Boehme in relation to psychodynamic theory in any depth. The first is Kielholz, whose Jakob Böhme; Ein pathographischer Beitrag zur Psychologie der Mystik appeared in a series edited by Freud himself. He argues that Boehme’s work represents a pathological “sexualization of the whole cosmos” (1919, 45; in Weeks 1991, 211). Unfortunately I was not able to get a hold of this book to evaluate his reading of Boehme. Gordon Pruett’s essay “Will and Freedom: Psychoanalytic themes in the work of Jacob Boehme,” (1976) seems to be the first writing in English on the topic. And while it does connect Freud’s Id to Boehme’s Ungrund in insightful ways, much of the essay is marred by a superficial reading of Boehme’s psychology and a selective reading of his corpus. Suzanne Kirschner has a chapter on Boehme in The Religious and Romantic Origins of

Psychoanalysis (1996, 130-148), a social historical genealogy that traces post-Freudian object

28 McGrath mentions Schelling’s “sketch of a psychology of dreams” in The Ages of the World ([1813] 1997, 159), which was influenced by G.H. von Schubert’s Ansichten von der Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaften (1808) (McGrath 2012, 112, 119n44). Schubert himself also published an influential book on Die Symbolik des Traumes (1814) which bears the influence of Louis Claude de Saint-Martin and Boehme. 29 McGrath’s essay on “Schellingian Psychotherapy” (2014) is also helpful. He argues that Schelling’s metaphysics could structure a metapsychology of non-pathological productive dissociation.

relational views of human development back to the ancient amalgam of both “Judeo-Christian biblical theology” and the “Neoplatonic mysticism” of Plotinus. Interestingly, she makes little mention of Augustine. Her chapter on Boehme identifies him as a key turning point in this lineage, and while in general her thesis supports the view that Boehme is a very important precursor to psychoanalysis, her reading of Boehme is very general, and depends heavily on secondary sources.30 In terms of the psychodynamic view of development, which is her central topic, she does not mention any of the continuities between Boehme, Freud, and Jung that we will see below. And finally John Dourley’s Paul Tillich, Carl Jung, and the Recovery of Religion

(2008) contains a chapter on Boehme with some excellent insights about the therapeutic use of

Boehme’s work, but it also tends to distort Boehme by assimilating him to the categories of

Jung and Tillich.31

0.3 METHODOLOGY AND PRIMARY TEXTS My methods are mainly textual and historical, although I should say at the outset that, while I am building on the work of a number of excellent historians, this is not an historian’s dissertation. I do not trace the direct genealogical transmission of ideas. Such a lineage has already been traced quite well, mainly from Schelling to Freud, with some exploration of

Boehme’s influence on Schelling. Instead I explore Boehme on his own terms, looking at structural and conceptual patterns of continuity and discontinuity with Freud and Jung. In so doing I give due consideration to the meaning of these structures and concepts within their

30 Kirshner depends heavily on Walsh (1983). I agree with Gentzke that Walsh presents an “idiosyncratic reading of Boehme through the lens of Erich Voegelin and Hegel,” and that Walsh’s “distortions of Boehme’s thought” are “due to a seemingly selective reading of his works” (2016, 18-19). 31 McGrath’s provides a good critique of Dourley’s reading of Boehme (2012, 56, 60, 77n23).

own respective historical contexts and theoretical frameworks. The primary texts I focus on are as follows: Augustine’s Confessions, The Trinity, and The Literal Meaning of Genesis; Boehme’s

Mysterium Magnum, and Clavis; Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams; and Jung’s The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious and Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self.

Additional primary texts are listed in the bibliography.

Instead of adopting a specific theoretical framework to structure my research, as mentioned above, my intent is to explore continuities between two very different theoretical frameworks: Augustine’s and Boehme’s frameworks are broadly “theological,” in that they are mainly indebted to the Bible and theological tradition in conversation with human experience.

Here Biblical revelation and personal revelatory experiences are granted priority over other sources of knowledge and experience. Freud’s and Jung’s respective frameworks are broadly

“scientific” in that they are indebted to the psychological theories of the day in conversation with their own empirical observations. Their frameworks are also broadly “philosophical” in that psychology had only recently migrated from the purview of philosophy to that of natural science. The extent to which the scientific method can ever be purely empirical is one of the main questions posed by my research, inasmuch as science tends to find its starting points and heuristic hypotheses in existing narratives and personal experiences.

Chapter 1 outlines an Augustinian “framework” of theological psychology, in the sense that Augustine set the terms for a good deal of the discussion of this topic in the west. In this sense, I could have used the now popular Foucauldian term “discourse” to describe this framework and its influence. But I hesitated because the framework is not only or even primarily composed of words and language. The referents of the language used to describe this

framework include pictorial images, spatial regions, and autonomous entities, which become discernable in theoretical structures. Each of the three themes I explore in Chapter 1 exhibits a kind of skeletal structure: (1) the soul has a trinitarian structure, in harmony with the Father,

Son, and Spirit of scripture, creed, and tradition; (2) human epistemic experience or “vision” has a tripartite structure, encompassing (i) objects of the material world, (ii) images of the imagination and the dream world, and (iii) imageless ideas of the intellect, ideas that have referents in the mind or Wisdom of God; and (3) human development is structured by a figural reading of the seven eternal days of creation, representing seven archetypes of Wisdom. As we will see, much of this Augustinian framework survived the migration from theology to science in a truncated form. But whether identifying these “structures” commits me to some form of methodological “structuralism” is another question.32

In terms of my own research method, I have simply attempted to notice the extent to which a particular author’s corpus is capacious and synthetically fertile both within and beyond its historical context. For example, the fact that the Augustinian “framework” was capacious

32 Foucault is likely the most enduring of the French post-structuralists, and I respect his work, which I see as a straightforward application of Nietzsche to historiography. But his almost hegemonic status in the humanities begs some comment. The post-structuralists were partly responding to the “structuralism” of Claude Lévi-Strauss’s “mythemes.” My own view is that the wide global and historical dispersion of certain common myth and folklore motifs goes well beyond any common linguistic origin. There must be something more going on here than language. The contemporary reaction against Levi-Strauss in anthropology, and against figures like Mircea Eliade in religious studies, does not obviate the existence of these widespread myth and folklore motifs. But this does not necessarily commit me to some form of “structuralism.” I admire, for example, Northrop Frye’s approach (e.g. 1982; 1990) to these common motifs in literature, which is not a “structuralism” in the French post-structuralist sense. The structures I mention in this paragraph, especially as they are appropriated by Boehme, include a fundamental dialectic of presence and absence, which could be situated in relation to the presences and absences of Foucault’s modified historicism. But on this point Foucault himself is heavily indebted to Boehme, via Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, and thus it would seem anachronistic to impose a Foucauldian frame on Boehme’s work. In order to see ideas in the fullness of their original historical context, it does not help to frame them in terms of later, more narrow, and derivative methodological perspectives.

enough to include such a vast swath of ancient, medieval, and pre-modern thought is quite breathtaking. There were also, of course, enforced boundaries and constraints (religious, political, institutional, bodily, etc.) that encouraged the endurance and dispersion of

Augustine’s work. But my sense is that the synthetic possibilities of a corpus—its ability to incorporate other voices from the past, present, and future, without undue constraint—tends to be the salient factor in this endurance and dispersion. Boehme’s work is also synthetically fertile in this sense, which likely accounts for his fairly large intellectual footprint, in spite of his early marginalization by church authorities. I do not know if this “method” of comparing the synthetic possibilities of a corpus has a name, but it is nothing new. The human mind has always sought to reconcile conflicting ideas by looking for a higher synthesis.

0.4 CHAPTER SUMMARY

I have already outlined the Augustinian framework I explore in Chapter 1. Chapters 2-6 discuss how Boehme inhabits, modifies, and in some ways reanimates this framework. Chapter

2 looks at the imaginal realm—the realm of dreams and imagination that Augustine described as a “mesocosm” of visio spiritualis—and how Boehme’s reanimation of this realm allowed various historical streams of magic and mysticism to converge synthetically. Chapter 3 offers a general introduction to Boehme’s work as a whole, including an overview of his method, ontology, and general approach, all of which help to situate him as a theological

“psychotherapist.” Chapters 4-6 look more specifically at Boehme’s anticipations of psychodynamic psychotherapy. Chapter 4 explores Boehme’s “map of the soul,” noting how his modifications of Augustine’s soul-trinity bring him into closer alignment with the eventual theories of Freud and Jung. Here we see Boehme’s nascent concept of an unconscious mind,

which he describes in terms of inner eternal dark and light worlds that participate in the realms of hell and heaven respectively. We will also see his concept of an “I-ness” (Ichheit) or ego that mediates between these inner eternal worlds and the outer temporal world. In Boehme’s understanding of the soul’s development, this “I-ness” is initially fixated on the outer temporal world, but it can discover the inner eternal dark world through a process of confession, and ultimately then discover the inner eternal light world through a process of sublation and transformation. This rebirth (Wiedergeburt) allows the whole of temporal reality to be lit by the light of eternity, as the soul clothes itself in the lineaments of a spiritual body.

Chapter 5 looks specifically at Boehme’s theory of dreams, discussed in the Mysterium

Magnum in terms of a brilliant exegesis of the biblical story of Joseph. Similar to Augustine’s view of dreams as a form of everyday ecstasy (ekstasis), Boehme sees them as a form of magia, where the soul is active while the body sleeps. And this magia, which has access to the macrocosmic World Soul, also has access to the eternal imaginal realm where the dark world is transformed into light and the soul is reborn. Likewise, Boehme’s view of demonic dream deception in many ways rediscovers and reanimates Augustine’s original view. In his general discussion of dream theory, Boehme encourages the reader to “become Joseph,” who is “the clearest figure of the New Man regenerated out of the earthly Old Adam.” And this developmental journey involves the seven archetypes of Wisdom, which structure both the soul and its stages of transformation from darkness to light. Chapter 6 engages the details of this developmental and transformational process by looking at Boehme’s exegesis of the seven biblical days of creation, which form the original exegetical context for Wisdom’s seven qualities. Here I show how Boehme’s psycho-spiritual stages of development form the wider

boundary in which to situate both Freud’s psycho-sexual stages and Jung’s stages of individuation. Finally, the concluding chapter summarizes the theories of Freud and Jung in light of the Boehmian resonances noted throughout the dissertation, and closes with a brief discussion of the implications of this research.

Chapter 1: Augustine and the Framework of Theological Psychology

This chapter explores Augustine’s thought in relation to our three themes: (1) his map of the soul, (2) his theory of dreams, and (3) his hermeneutic of dream interpretation. Because these themes are all central to Augustine’s mature thought, our journey simply walks through key passages of his later works: Confessions, The Trinity, and The Literal Meaning of Genesis

(hereafter TLMG).1 As a whole the chapter offers an overview of Augustine’s theological psychology—his account of the soul’s journey into God—particularly in relation to dreams.2 I am calling the chapter a “framework” of theological psychology because Augustine’s thought became paradigmatic for the west, throughout the middle ages and into the early modern period.3 Boehme’s thought, as we will see shortly, is heavily indebted to this Augustinian framework, in (1) its trinitarian view of the soul; (2) its positioning of dreams in a middle realm between God and material creation, and between mind and body; and (3) its biblical archetypes of dream interpretation, found especially in the creation account of Genesis 1 (the Hexameron).

Unfortunately I do not have the space to say much about the socio-historical context of

Augustine’s “framework,” although I am indebted to scholars who have done this work very

1 City of God is the notable absence here. The writing of these four works overlaps in time: Confessions (397-401), The Trinity (399-426), TLMG (401-415), City of God (413-427). Together they cover theology in relation to the soul (Confessions, The Trinity), creation (TLMG), and human society (City of God). 2 Augustine’s “theological psychology” covers much the same ground as his “theological epistemology” (Gioia 2008; Nash 2003; Schumacher 2011) and his “mystical theology” (Butler 1923; Cayré 1954; McGinn 1991; Bonner 1994; Kenney 2005). The definition of “mysticism” is a thorny issue, but I am happy with McGinn’s attempt to keep “mysticism” and “mystical theology” together, and to keep mysticism embedded in religion as a “way of life,” rather than merely an episodic “experience” (1991, xi-xx). 3 See Steven Kruger’s excellent Dreaming in the Middle Ages (1992) for an account of Augustine’s extensive medieval influence.

well.4 Nor am I offering a psycho-history of Augustine himself, which has also been covered quite thoroughly.5 Nor will I say much in the way of critique via Marxist, feminist, post-colonial, or critical social theory.6 All of this has been done, and done well, by others. What I am doing amounts to a general sketch of Augustine’s thought on our three themes, which will provide a framework in which to situate later chapters.

Because I am stressing the breadth and broad contours of Augustine’s thought, I will also not be engaging much of the minutia, and the many intractable debates of Augustine scholarship. While Augustine is a systematic thinker, his terminology is not always consistent and his thought developed throughout his lifetime, leaving much fodder for scholarly threshing.

Also, like many great thinkers, he often considers many sides of an issue and lends credence to more than one position. A good debate among Augustine scholars often enough indicates a fissure where two or more streams of thought emerged in the west, and in my understanding of the Augustinian “framework,” all such streams are important. The point is not to iron out the contradictions in Augustine, but to notice how one oevre can branch into very different historical fields of discourse, and why, for example, both Protestants and Catholics claimed

Augustine as their authority in the Reformation debates. The expansiveness and charity of

4 Peter Brown is the great authority here (1967; 1982; 1988). 5 For example, Augustine’s relationship with his mother Monica has animated many Freudian reflections about the “oceanic feeling” of “primary narcissism”—the original psychic bond with the mother. See the lit review in Parsons (2013, 9). These psycho-histories, while very interesting, often involve anachronism: the reason we can so easily psychoanalyse Augustine is likely because his work formed the matrix of psychotherapy, as we will see in what follows. Interestingly, Erikson’s Young Man Luther (1958) inaugurated the psycho-history genre by subsuming theology within psychology. We might even see this as an (unconscious) attempt on the part of psychotherapy to deny and move beyond its theological roots. 6 E.g. Brown (1988; 2012; 2015), Pagels (1988), Miles (1979; 1989; 2008; 2012), Gilligan and Richards (2009, 102-118), and Stark (2007).

Augustine’s thought—his ability to accommodate many views, even those of his opponents, often within a higher synthesis—is likely what made him so compelling for future generations.

The Augustinian “framework” we will explore is a kind of loom on which many different medieval and early modern tapestries were eventually woven. But, again, we do not have space to actually trace this vast intellectual legacy, only the matrix from which it emerged. My reading of Augustine here is slightly tilted toward the stream that Boehme will inhabit, and I will point out where that is the case.7

1.1 AUGUSTINE AS PSYCHOTHERAPIST I hope this framework will also reveal Augustine as a “psychotherapist” in the general sense of the Greek roots of the word. Several scholars have noted that Augustine’s primary interest is “soul-healing,” and that his central questions are therapeutically oriented.8 His first question—how do we find happiness?—is existential and universal in that he believes human beings are “asking” it at every moment.9 We could even speak here of a “happiness principle,”

7 My approach to Augustine is also somewhat Protestant compared to, for example, the great Etienne Gilson, who I suspect tilts Augustine toward Thomas, particularly by imposing discrete realms of nature and (supernatural) grace (e.g. 1960, 77-96). Cayré (1954) also makes this mistake, which muddles his otherwise brilliant exposition, as McGinn notes (1991, 231). My sense is that, for Augustine, nature and grace interpenetrate, and I suppose this aligns me with Henri de Lubac, and certain strands of the patristic “ressourcement” or (so-called) “nouvelle théologie” (see e.g. Milbank 2005), including Hans Urs von Balthasar, as I will note later. It also aligns me somewhat with Karl Barth. 8 E.g. McGinn (1991, 244-245), Charry (1997; 2006), Miles (2008; 2012), Parsons (2013). 9 E.g. The Trinity 13.2.7; 13.6.25; Confessions 10.21.31. See Gilson on the influence of Cicero’s Hortensius, which taught Augustine to identify happiness with the love of Wisdom (1960, 3). Similarly, O’Connell: “If there is one constant running through all of Augustine’s thinking, it is his preoccupation with the question of happiness… But the answer is equally uniform: what makes man happy is the possession of God, a possession achieved by way of vision” (1968, 205, quoted in McGinn 1991, 232). Scholars debate whether Augustine’s “eudaimonism” is continuous or discontinuous with its Greek and Latin precursors (e.g. Wolterstorff 2012).

something like Freud’s “pleasure principle,” as a human constant. Augustine’s answer, that God is the source and goal of true happiness, sounds much too easy to modern ears. But the nuances of the soul’s relationship with God are infinitely complex, because they lead us into the stormy vicissitudes of desire,10 where Augustine’s questions proliferate: What is desire? Where does it come from and where does it end? Why do so many of our desires prove counterfeit, and remain unfulfilled? How does desire deceive, and how do we deceive ourselves in desire?

Why do we desire what destroys us? How do we work with our desire, and how do we surrender it? What is divine desire, and how does God desire us? How does God’s Spirit break, blow, and burn our desire? Desire fascinated Augustine,11 and it will appropriately launch our discussion below. In later chapters we will find that desire, in the guise of “libido,” also stands at the root of modern psychotherapeutic theory.

But as a psychotherapist Augustine does not really offer a “technique,”12 and this separates him from the majority of therapeutic schools proliferating at the moment. For

Augustine, therapeia is in many ways simply theōria:13 a vision of a (somewhat hidden) reality, its structure, the human place within it, and human thought and behaviour in relation to it. This

10 I am using “desire” here as shorthand for Augustinian “will/love,” defined below. 11 McGinn: “few mystics spoke more often about desire” (1991, 259). 12 However, many have tried to find a therapeutic process in Augustine’s thought, and a fair bit of the mystical literature of the west simply represents this attempt. Probably the best known is that of purgation, illumination, and union. See Bonner (1994, 121-123) and Parsons (2013, 105). 13 Greek theōria, which is central to Eastern Orthodox spirituality, translates as contemplatio in Latin, a word that is crucial for Augustine especially in its connection to visio. Reading Augustine as a psychotherapist in many ways reveals his proximity to Eastern Orthodoxy. See Tataryn, who notes that Augustine’s influence in Orthodoxy helped pave the way for Boehme’s influence on Florensky and Bulgakov (2000, 45-154).

contemplative theory and vision of reality is itself healing for the soul. In this sense Augustine is indebted to Greek philosophical therapeia,14 and even Freud and Jung are likely more in line with this ancient approach than the more technique-oriented psychotherapeutic schools of today.15

But reading Augustine as a “psychotherapist” is still by no means natural today; he is usually positioned mainly as a systematic theologian. The intractable debates that continue to define Augustine scholarship represent attempts to find logically consistent systems in his thought, often when they were never intended in the first place.16 And the result is usually that both sides in the debate lose the psychological nuance of Augustine’s original formulations.

Scholastics of both the Protestant and Catholic variety have tended to iron out Augustine’s irrationality in their search for logical coherence.17 In general, my view is that Augustine’s formulations are not always logically coherent because they emerged mainly from his own

14 E.g. Miles: “the Confessions is primarily therapy in the Platonic sense of a methodical conversion from ‘misidentification of reality,’ to recognition of the reality, the patterns of behaviour, that has been implicit but unidentified within one’s most intimate and pressing experience… (2008, 110). See also Kolbet (2010; 2013). On Platonic therapeia see Cushman (1958). 15 Unfortunately, in the contemporary era of psychotherapeutic “schools” (Ellenberger 1970, 418), every new technique quickly gets a new “brand name.” Freud and Jung both had a wide enough theoretical base to give birth to several different techniques and schools among their followers. The fact that “technique,” in the modern sense, often constricts vision and therefore truth, is something that was stressed by Heidegger, Gadamer, and their heirs in hermeneutics. I have argued that Heidegger’s insight here—his attempt to recover truth as a poiēsis or unveiling—is very Augustinian (McCullough 2002). 16 Helpfully, McGinn calls many of these debates “dialogues of the deaf,” interested more in polemics than higher synthesis (1991, 230). 17 For a good historical description of this tendency, in relation to moral thought, see Rist’s Augustine Deformed: Love, Sin, and Freedom in the Western Moral Tradition. Rist particularly notes the distorting effect of the separation of will from love, contrary to Augustine’s original formulation (2014, 228-248).

psychological experiences.18 Augustine was attuned to the strange logic of the soul, which rarely fits within the formal logic of a syllogism. And for Augustine the strange logic of the soul has everything to do with the strange logic of God.

1.2 MAP OF THE SOUL: TRINITARIAN PSYCHOLOGY This section explores Augustine’s theory of the soul, which is described most extensively in the second half of The Trinity (books 8-15), where he outlines the key soul-trinity of (1) will/love, (2) memory, and (3) understanding, corresponding to the (1) Holy Spirit, (2) Father, and (3) Son, respectively. Augustine’s personal experience of this soul-trinity also informs the whole project of the Confessions.19 In later chapters we will see how Boehme, Freud, and Jung move within the parameters established by Augustine. To anticipate the basic argument,

Augustine’s concept of “will/love” is the nascent “libido” of modern psychotherapy, “memory” is the nascent “unconscious mind,” and “understanding” is the nascent field of

“consciousness.”20 Augustine’s psychology is paradigmatic not only in his definition of these discrete terms, but in their trinitarian function and interaction. These three are both distinct and inseparable; they appear together in any movement of the soul, and yet they can always be isolated conceptually. The complex dynamics of “will/love” are the driving force, so to speak,

18 See Conybeare, who notes in The Irrational Augustine that the “idiosyncrasy of Augustine’s arguments” has everything to do with their basis in human experience (2006, 139-192). 19 Augustine first outlines his soul-trinity concept in the Confessions 13.11.12. 20 Let me hasten to add that in stating this argument baldly, I also want to avoid the impression that I am “reading Freud back into Augustine.” While such a charge is almost inevitable, I have tried to engage Augustine on his own terms by simply exegeting key passages of his work in relation to his thought as a whole, and in relation to his socio-historical context. This approach, it seems to me, is the only way to guard against anachronism.

that searches the hidden caverns of “memory” and brings certain elements to light in the conscious field of “understanding.”

Trinitarian psychology basically began with Augustine. Before him, the “image of God” in which humans were created was usually ascribed solely to the Son, Jesus Christ.21 As the primordial human, Christ was both the model for the first Adam, and was himself the “second” or “last” Adam.22 With Augustine a new and potent idea enters Christian discourse: we are made in the image not just of the Son, but of the whole Trinity. We are trinitarian beings, and most especially in our psychological functioning.23 It would be hard to overstate the influence of this imago Trinitatis concept on later western thinkers.24

21 Sullivan notes the few exceptions to this rule (1963, 194). He also notes that the “third member of the Augustinian trinity, love or will, finds no counterpart in any of the trinities proposed by preceding Fathers” (1963, 195). See also Hill (1991, 55-56). 22 1 Cor 14:45-48. Christ is described as the image of God in Col 1:15, and Augustine also follows this tradition (e.g. The Trinity 7.5). 23 For Augustine, Trinitarian analogies are present in all created being, but the imago is something more: it reveals the deep paradox and mystery that each element is within the whole, and the whole is also within each element. More technically, Hill describes the marks of Augustine’s Trinity, derived from Scripture in books 1-7 of The Trinity, as “co-extensive,” “co-equal,” and “consubstantial” (1991, 53). Augustine also emphasized the inherent relationality of the Trinity, as a way of moving beyond the Greek- Latin linguistic impasse of one “substance” (Gr. ousia; L. substantia) in three “persons” (Gr. hypostasis; L. personae). For Augustine, the names Father and Son, imply a mutual relation, and that mutual relation is the Spirit. 24 McGinn calls it “second to none” (1991, 243) and Sullivan traces its influence through the middle ages and beyond. While Eastern theologians almost never follow Augustine’s trinitarian psychology, western theologians almost always do (Sullivan 1963, 190-195, 204-307). Remarkably, Sullivan could also say in 1963, that “few theologians have other than a passing acquaintance with the doctrine of St. Augustine as found in the De Trinitate” (1963, 204). Sullivan and others (e.g. Hill 1991, 25) note that in the west a notable distortion crept into Lombard’s Sentences, which describes the three elements of the soul as “faculties” (Lombard ca. 1158, I, dist. iii, c. 2), thus distorting Augustine’s emphasis on the phenomenological experience of the soul and the unbounded and interpenetrating (perichoretic) nature of its three elements. Thomas, depending on Lombard, partly corrected and partly perpetuated his mistake (Sullivan 1963, 216-272). Reacting against Thomist scholasticism, a more Augustinian (and less Lombardian) view was recovered by the Rhineland or “speculative” mystics: Eckhart, Tauler, Suso, and Ruysbroek. For example, Tauler notes: “St. Thomas said that the perfection of the image consists in its

In The Trinity Augustine offers his most coherent account of the human soul, not so much in terms of its nature, which was much discussed by ancient writers, but in terms of its function.25 For Augustine, the soul is always in motion, and it is through the soul’s phenomenological experiences that we can understand it. The careful structuring of The Trinity also reveals Augustine’s theological method. In the first half (books 1-7) he explores the biblical revelation of the Trinity, which is approached through faith, while the second half (books 8-15) moves from faith to experiential understanding within the individual soul. It describes how we can experience the Trinity through our own soul-functioning, if only in ephemeral flashes on this side of eternity.

The second half of The Trinity reveals that Augustine’s psychology is also his mysticism.

In book 8, the transition between the two halves, he announces that he will now explore the

Trinity “in a more inward manner” (modo interiore), i.e. within the soul. This inward movement quickly turns upward, as he elaborates several soul-trinities that reconfigure themselves, kaleidoscopically, as the soul is drawn heavenward in the love of God. This dual movement, inward and upward—what McGinn calls moments of “enstasy” leading to moments of

being active, in the use of the faculties. However, other theologians give it as their opinion—and here we have something incomparably more sublime—that the image of the Trinity lies in the most intimate regions of the soul, in its most secret and intimate depths, where God is present essentially, actually, and substantially” (Tauler ca. 1350, 141; see Sullivan 1963, 288-295). This stream of Rhineland mysticism was an important influence on Boehme. 25 “In this respect,” says Hill, “his approach has more in common with that of moderns like Freud and Jung than with the theories and speculations of ancient philosophers” (1991, 258-259).

“ecstasy”26—is connected to Augustine’s own mystical experiences at Milan and Ostia:27 “The

God within is the God above” (Exp. of Ps. 130.12). We will return to the theme of ecstasy when we discuss dreams below. Augustine brings the reader with him on his quest, inviting our souls to mirror God’s beauty and wholeness. The soul ascends in response to grace descending, and as it ascends the soul-trinity increasingly functions in the image of its Source. On such a journey all of our perceptions change; as Proust said, “the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes but in having new eyes” (1923, 55).

Augustine uses three main words to describe the soul or psyche: (1) “anima” denotes an animating life principle and a sensual awareness, which humans have in common with animals—a more creaturely and earthly “soul,” as the English translators have it; (2) “animus” denotes a more specifically human awareness or “consciousness”; and (3) “mens” (“mind’) denotes the higher aspects of both former terms.28 It is in the mens that the imago Trinitatis appears most fully, but contrary to many misreadings (e.g. Meyer 1954), for Augustine the mind is not merely rational. All of its movements involve both an affective and a cognitive quality. We must love in order to know, and know in order to love—an aporia that Augustine never tires of repeating (e.g. The Trinity 8.6; 9.3; 10.1-5; 13.7). These three terms for the soul also alert us to the fact that the soul (as anima) extends below, or beyond human awareness (animus), which is itself a broader category than the affective cognition of the mind (mens). Augustine’s soul thus

26 This pattern also appears among the neo-Platonists, especially Plotinus, although Augustine makes certain modifications of it. See McGinn for a good summary of scholarship on this question (1991, 232- 235). 27 The vision at Milan in 386 is described in Confessions 7.10.16-7.11.17; 7.17.23; and 7.20.26. The vision at Ostia is described in Confessions 9.10.23-26. 28 This discussion is indebted to Edmund Hill (1991, 259-260).

appears like a field of concentric circles, expanding outward from affective cognition to broader awareness, and beyond into the realm of the sensual life force, a model that will find resonance in Freud and Jung.

There is also a vertical dimension: just as the soul extends downward and outward, from mens into the animal realm, so the soul extends upward and outward, from mens into the eternal realm of God. This “shape” of the soul is mirrored in the narrative shape of Augustine’s figurative reading of the Fall, where in Adam and Eve the soul is drawn down into the realm of the serpent, who represents material and sensual bodily perception.29 But in Christ the soul is also drawn upward, from material objects into the realm of eternal Wisdom, in which all materiality continually participates. Wisdom is the realm of the eternal archetypes through which the universe was created, and in which history and the soul move and develop, as we will see in part three of this chapter.

To trace the argument of The Trinity briefly, book 8 begins by noting that God is both

Truth and Goodness, which means that God is the axiomatic context for all of the soul’s knowing and loving.30 This ontological, cognitive, and affective link between the soul and God is the foundation on which Augustine will build his various soul-trinities. But for Augustine the affective has a certain priority over the cognitive, as we see in his first trinitarian analogy at the end of book 8. Here Augustine outlines a trinity of (1) lover, (2) beloved, and (3) the love that

29 For Augustine, the serpent represents “the fivefold power of sensation in the body” as opposed to the senses of the mind. The ancients noticed that the spinal cord, or peripheral nervous system, resembles a serpent as it winds its way down from brain to body, as Hippolytus mentions in relation to certain gnostic groups (Jung 1951a, CW9ii:233). 30 As Hill says, “truth is that in terms of which we know and understand whatever we do know and understand, and goodness is that in terms of which we desire, approve, and love whatever we do desire, approve, and love” (1991, 24).

joins them as “a kind of life coupling or trying to couple together two things,” corresponding to

(1) Father, (2) Son, and (3) Spirit respectively (8.5.14). Love is in some sense higher than knowledge as we embark on this inward journey; as Augustine says in one of his homilies, God

“rode far above the fullness of knowledge to show that no one could approach him save by love” (Exp. of Ps. 17.11). In short, this initial trinity of love is not just a precursor to the others; it is the foundational context for them. Love is the medium of all the soul’s movements (The

Trinity 8.13).31

Augustine then proceeds in books 9 and 10 to outline his key soul-trinity of will/love, memory, and understanding, which he traces through various configurations for the remainder of the book, noting how it functions with outward material objects and with inward images

(book 11), with ideas (book 12), with knowledge or scientia (book 13), and with Wisdom or sapientia (book 14). In this section we will concentrate on defining the three elements of this soul-trinity, and in section three of this chapter we will discuss the distinction between scientia and sapientia.

1.2.1 WILL/LOVE: THE FORCE OF DESIRE The centrality of love in Augustine’s psychology is probably best expressed in one of his homilies:

Each person is such as his love is. Do you love the earth? You will be earth. Do you love God? What shall I say? Will you be a god? I dare not say this on my own. Let us hear Scripture: “I have said, ‘You are gods and sons of the Most High, all of you’” [Ps 82:6] (Hom. on 1 John 2.14.5).32

31 Elsewhere Augustine says that love is the soul’s “foot” (Exp. of Ps. 9.15), and the “path” by which the soul ascends or descends (Exp. of Ps. 85.6). 32 Theōsis or deification is an important, and neglected theme in Augustine’s thought (see Bonner 1986; Meconi 2013), and it raises serious questions for Lossky’s (1963) attempt to separate Eastern theōsis from

In The Trinity Augustine uses the terms “will” (voluntas) and “love” (amor) to describe a single element of the soul-trinity, corresponding to the Holy Spirit. There is thus an intentional ambiguity as to whether this element implies voluntary (conscious) or involuntary

(unconscious) action.33 The English “desire” could be used to cover both terms, but I have kept

“will/love” to remain consistent with Augustine scholarship.34 For Augustine, while the will

(voluntas) maintains a capacity for free choice, love (amor) acts like a “weight” on the will (e.g.

Confessions 13.9.10), and the “weight” of our love can thus make it difficult, if not impossible, for the will to follow through on its free choices.35

Love becomes a weight on the will simply because our souls become fastened to the objects of our love. For Augustine, as the quote above suggests, we literally become what we love, analogous to the way that the Father and Son interpenetrate and partake of each other’s being in the bond of the Holy Spirit. Love binds us to our loves. Augustine’s distinction between will and love thus captures the distinction between what we choose and what we actually do in the world we are bound to, but the two ideas are continuous. Love (amor) is the broader or

western rationalistic justification theories. Augustine follows the basic affirmation of Irenaeus and Athanasius that “God became human in order that humanity might become divine.” 33 This ambiguity, of course, became a flashpoint of the Reformation: Protestants championed the “bondage of the will,” Tridentine Catholics maintained the freedom of the will, and both claimed Augustine as their authority. One could argue, with Rist (2014, 136-171), that both sides of this debate separated will from love, and thus deformed Augustine’s original formulation and its psychological, experiential basis. 34 “Desire” has two advantages: it can be both voluntary and involuntary, and it has a more active connotation than “love.” Augustinian “love” is always a desire for something; like Freud’s “libido” it involves an “object cathexis.” The slash dividing “will/love” could be likened to that of a fraction with a numerator and denominator: for Augustine, will is like a split-off fraction of love. 35 Thus St. Paul can say, “I can will what is right, but I cannot do it” (Rom 7:18).

superordinate term, since (unconscious) love often moves the (conscious) will, and can even overrule its choices. And yet, for Augustine, will/love as a singular force drives all the soul’s actions: all its cognition and affect, and all its bodily activities, whether we choose them or not

(e.g. Exp. on Ps. 31.2.5; see also Gilson 1960, 135).

While will/love is a singular element, for Augustine it energizes two different dispositions, which are determined by two different objects: “love-of-self” and “love-of-God.”36

Love-of-God, however, always includes both love-of-neighbour, and a love-of-self that is more authentic than the former term.37 To keep this in view I will sometimes use the (rather unfortunate) formulation “love-of-God/other/self” for the latter term. “Love-of-self” involves a shrinking awareness and diminishing engagement with the world, like a centrifugal spiral tending toward death. “Love of God/other/self” involves expanding perception and increasing engagement, like a centripetal spiral toward greater life. In short, will/love as a singular force always finds itself centred around one of two poles: The first pole is a result of the fact that our perceptions are located in a particular body, and thus we are born with the impression that the universe quite literally revolves around us, and exists to serve us. The second pole appears when we realize that there is a Creator who called this universe into being, and who holds it in existence at each moment through a continual outpouring of love. When we realize this, not just conceptually but existentially, like the universe we become centred in love-of-God. The

36 E.g. City of God 14.28; TLMG 11.15.20; and in a more psychological mode, The Trinity 9.13. By “love-of- God” I intend both the subjective and objective genitive, since for Augustine God’s love toward us (grace) always elicits a loving response (works). 37 Thus for Augustine, paradoxically, love-of-self actually becomes self-hatred, while love-of-God contains a genuine love-of-self (The Trinity 14.18). See also O’Donovan (1980, 83-111). Love-of-God includes both aspects of Jesus’ distillation of the law in the two “great commandments” (The Trinity 14.18).

transition from the first pole to the second is not easy, and it feels quite literally like a death— the death of our self as centre of the universe. But what feels like death turns out in fact to be rebirth, characterized primarily by the expansion of our capacity to receive and give love. We realize that our finite love is a drop in a vast ocean—a universe pulsating with Creator love— and we naturally add our small voice to the throng. This expansion of love is also an expansion of vision, which reveals eternal being shining through all finite beings in poetic superabundance.38

Importantly, each of these two dispositions, by itself, makes use of the full range of affect and cognition. In regard to (1) affect, all human emotions are present in each respective disposition. Thus no emotion is intrinsically bad.39 Augustine is often misread as differentiating between good forms of love, like charity (caritas) and delight (dilectio), and bad forms of love, like concupiscence (concupiscentia) and cupidity (cupiditas). According to this misreading, it seems we must supress our bad loves and express our good ones.40 But on a closer reading we find that even caritas and dilectio can become disfigured in love-of-self, and even cupiditas and

38 The motif of poiēsis—of divine creation as revelation—appears in Augustine’s repeated references to Romans 1:20, which are often connected to Wisdom. E.g. God’s “invisible things are descried by being understood through the things that have been made from the creation of the world… This is why the book of Wisdom rebukes those ‘who from the good things that are seen were unable to know him who is, and did not recognize the craftsman by looking at his works’ [Wis 13:1]” (The Trinity 15.3). Rom 1:20 is the keynote in all three accounts of the vision at Milan (Confessions 7.10.16; 7.17.23; 7.20.26). See also The Trinity 2.25; 4.21; 6.12; 13.24; 15.1; 15.3; and Confessions 10.6.8; 10.6.10; 13.21.31. 39 See, for example, Augustine’s stance against Stoic apathy (City of God 14.8-9). 40 This mistake is easily made because Augustine sometimes uses concupiscentia and cupiditas as a kind of shorthand for love-of-self, and caritas and dilectio as shorthand for love-of-God/other/self.

concupiscentia can find fulfillment in love-of-God.41 Concupiscentia is a good example, since it is so dominant in the Confessions as a seemingly negative form of love, and it is likely responsible for Augustine’s reputation as the father of sexual repression.42 Outside the Confessions,

Augustine speaks of the fulfillment of concupiscentia within the disposition of love-of-

God/other/self: “there is a concupiscence of the spirit against the flesh, and a concupiscence of

Wisdom” (On Marriage and Concupisence 2.23).43

In regard to (2) cognition, the soul functioning in love-of-self grasps objects, including concepts, only inasmuch as they serve the self and return the self’s love.44 But finite objects

41 Augustine’s view is based on the usage of these words in his Latin Bible. On caritas see Sermons 349.1- 3. On dilectio see City of God 14.7 and Hom. on 1 John 8.4.5. On cupiditas see City of God 14.7. See also Gilson (1960, 311-312), Bonner (1962), and Nisula (2012). 42 In one sense the caricature is correct, in that the misreading of Augustine on this point has had a large historical influence. First we should note that concupiscentia is not strictly sexual. It is a broader term like “desire,” and in its negative form it refers to a compulsive anxiety, usually in regard to money, sex, and power: a “habitual grasping at every object… in the fear that something would be missed” (Miles 2008, 97-97). Comparisons can be made here with Freudian libido, since Augustine first notes concupiscentia in the infant at the breast (Confessions 1.7.11), and he also notes the revelation of God in the infant-breast complex (Confessions 1.7.7), in a way that resonates with Freud’s “oceanic feeling” of primordial unity. 43 Augustine is alluding here to two bible verses, both of which use concupiscentia in the Latin: Gal 3:17 says that “what the spirit desires (concupiscit) is opposed to the flesh,” and Wisdom 6:21 says that “the desire (concupiscentia) for Wisdom brings one to the everlasting kingdom.” Later in the same work, Augustine responds to a Pelagian critic: “I never said ‘there would be no concupiscence [if man had not first sinned],’ because there is a concupiscence of the spirit, which craves Wisdom. My words were, ‘there would be no shameful concupiscence” (On Marriage and Concupiscence 2.52). McGinn notes that, in Augustine’s later works (after 396 CE) he avoids using “the erotic language of the love between man and woman to describe the encounters between God and the soul” (1991, 260; see also Brown 1988, 419). This might be an overgeneralization. It is true that Augustine avoids reading the Song of Songs in terms of eroticism for Christ, which was a frequent motif in his forebears (e.g. “Holy Virginity” [401 CE]). But he does not avoid eroticism for Wisdom, even in his later works (On Marriage and Concupiscence [419-421 CE]; Exp. of Ps. 32.2.7, 33.2.6, 35.5 [396-410 CE]; Sermons 32 [403 CE], 33 [405-411 CE], 35 [before 411 CE]. These dates represent a scholarly consensus, compiled by Fitzgerald (1999, il). It is also worth noting that Brown’s influential “two Augustines” theory, which posits that Augustine lost a good deal of his Platonism after 396, was repudiated somewhat by Brown himself in the 2000 edition of his great biography, although it had already deeply influenced scholars (Harrison 2006, 4-18). 44 This intellectual disposition resonates with what the Frankfurt school calls “instrumental reason.”

never fully satisfy the soul’s infinite desire for infinite love, and in this cycle of unrequited love and disappointment the soul fractures. Things fall apart. Cognition becomes a constant desire for more objects, while reality appears increasingly lifeless, fragmented, and meaningless.45

Manipulation of knowledge replaces contemplation of Wisdom. By contrast, the soul only begins to reflect its trinitarian image when it is “pulled together” by an influx of divine love. It then finds an eternal source and goal capable of satisfying its eternal desire. As Blake said,

“More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul; less than All cannot satisfy Man” (There is No

Natural Religion 1988, 2). Within each disposition, the soul can consider both finite and infinite objects. But in love-of-self even infinite objects, like beauty, become limited, and grasped in terms of service to the self. In love-of-God/other/self, even finite objects speak poetically as more than mere objects, in praise and revelation of their Creator. We will meet these two dispositions again, in various mutations, in Boehme, Freud, and Jung.

1.2.2. MEMORY: THE INFINITE INNER WORLD For Augustine, memoria means much more than the English “memory.” It is a hidden inner world that connects us to the eternal.46 Book 10 of the Confessions is devoted to memoria, and it quickly draws us into the depths: “Lord, to your eyes, the abyss of human consciousness is naked. What could be hidden within me, even if I were unwilling to confess it to you? I would be hiding you from myself, not myself from you”

45 William Cavanaugh, among others, has noted Augustine’s prophetic foresight in regard to contemporary “consumer capitalism” (2008, 7-14, 48-58). 46 Cary argues, somewhat controversially, that this “inner space” or “inner world” of memory basically originated with Augustine (2000, 125-145). See Bourke (1992, 142-165) and Hochschild (2012, 137-224), for more balanced readings. For an excellent discussion of Augustine’s memoria in relation to Freud’s unconscious see Parsons (2013).

(10.2.2). Memoria is the soul’s great mystery, the “abyss” corresponding to the Father of the Trinity. Just as the Father remains invisible as the Son, through the Spirit, “makes him known” (John 1:18, 6:46), so memory remains invisible, even as parts of it emerge into conscious “understanding” through “will/love.” We see what arises from memory, but we do not see memory itself. Another mystery of memory, as the quote above notes, is that parts of it remain inaccessible. We hide ourselves from ourselves, until such time as we are able to face our hidden memories and “confess” them (e.g.

Confessions 10.5.7; 10.8.15). Even more mysterious is that, in hiding memories from ourselves, we are actually hiding ourselves from God. For Augustine, our concealed memories are like children hiding to avoid the rebuke of a stern parent. But when the face of God appears in grace rather than judgment, our memories emerge. Only then do we realize that God was somehow most present in these hidden and revealed memories.

In short, it is no exaggeration to say that for Augustine we find God in the deep caverns of memoria (e.g. Confessions 10.25.36). And the Confessions can be seen as western literature’s most exalted game of psycho-theological hide and seek. Augustine searches his hidden memories, only to find that God was hiding there and seeking him all along (e.g. Confessions

10.40.65). The whole work is based on an unqualified trust in the therapeutic value of being found—being seen in full—by both God and the reader. In recollecting his life, Augustine also finds that his memories are not static. As they emerge they are reframed and transformed—lit

by a purer light—in communion with the realm of Wisdom and archetypes.47 Thus book 10 of the Confessions is devoted to memoria, as a meta-reflection on the whole project of the previous nine books.48

Augustine speaks of the “the vast hall of memory” (10.8.14), and the “fields and vast palaces of memory” (10.8.12). Memory is “as it were, the stomach of the mind” (10.14.21).

These finite metaphors give way to the infinite: “It is a vast and infinite profundity” (10.8.15), “a power of profound and infinite multiplicity” (10.17.26). Because “will/love,” which brings memories to the surface, involves both conscious (voluntas) and unconscious (amor) aspects, memories can appear with or without our choosing (e.g. 10.8.12). Stylistically, the Confessions seems especially open to involuntary memories. They seem to appear as Augustine is writing, and he allows them into the work trusting that they arise from the “will/love” of the Spirit.

Memory is also deeply connected to the ontology of human being. It is who we are: memory “is mind, this is I myself. What then am I, my God? What is my nature? (10.17.26).49 And because memory is an infinite aspect of the soul, our exploration of ourselves in relation to God is potentially endless: “I never reach the end. So great is the power of memory” (10.17.26). This is because memoria includes not only past experiences, but also the eternal archetypes of

47 For example, why does Augustine dwell so long on his memory of stealing pears from a neighbour’s tree with a “gang of naughty adolescents”? This “wickedness” seems paltry to modern ears. The point is that there was no pleasure in the pears, only in the theft itself: “I loved my fall, not the object for which I had fallen but my fall itself.” And thus the memory is illumined by the archetypal story of Genesis 2 (Confessions 2.4.9). 48 Parsons puts it nicely when he calls the Confessions a “search for God in the fields of memory” (2013, 7). 49 The equation memory = mind (mens) = human being is also mentioned in Confessions 13.11.12 and The Trinity 9.1.

creation. And while Augustine is not always clear on how these archetypes get into our memory, he is clear that they are there before we recognized them, “as if in most secret caverns” (10.10.17; also The Trinity 12.24-25). We will explore these archetypes in section three.

1.2.3 UNDERSTANDING: THE RANGE OF PERCEPTION In The Trinity Augustine uses the terms “knowledge” (notitia) and “understanding”

(intelligentia) to describe the third element of the soul-trinity, corresponding to the Son. But both words run the risk of an overly intellectual connotation. What they should convey is anything that presents itself to our awareness: the whole vast range of emotional and cognitive perception. While the English “perception” is likely more accurate, I have used “understanding” to remain consistent with Augustine scholarship. Like the Son, this element is the most visible of the three, and its presence always involves the other two elements: whatever appears in our understanding reveals its connection to memory, and it appears in and with the affective force of will/love. Augustine sometimes describes understanding as a “thought” or “inner word” (e.g.

The Trinity 14.9) which can be further incarnated in actual speech. This word is born from memory in will/love, analogous to how the Word is begotten by the Father in the Spirit (e.g.

The Trinity 11.12). As noted above, this appearance can be either voluntary (conscious) or involuntary (unconscious), which corresponds to the fact that the will/love of the Spirit can proceed either from the Father or the Son, i.e. either from the (unconscious) memory, or from the (conscious) understanding.50

50 This is a kind of “double procession” of will/love. When will/love proceeds from understanding, our conscious mind produces the will/love that searches for the desired memory; when will/love proceeds from memory itself, a thought emerges spontaneously (unconsciously) with its own affective force. See The Trinity 11.12.

In The Trinity Augustine notes four types of objects that enter our understanding, and these four types of objects take us, again, on an inward and upward journey through the soul to

God. As we move through each type our soul-trinity functions in greater harmony with and resemblance to the divine. (1) The first type is outer material objects that we see directly. Here it might seem that there is no participation from memory, and yet memory must be involved for us to know any object as an object, and to choose it from the array of our perceptual field.

(2) The second type is inner spiritual/imaginative51 objects: either images of outer objects, or imaginative creations that exist only in the soul. Importantly, this second soul-trinity of inner objects is “consubstantial” in trinitarian terms, whereas the first soul-trinity of outer objects is not.52 Together these first two types of objects form what Augustine calls the trinity of the

“outer human,” discussed in book 11. He then moves to the “inner human” in books 12-14, which is also a move from the conscious “soul” (animus) to the higher regions of “mind” (mens).

In the inner human we meet the final two types of objects that enter our understanding: knowledge (scientia) and Wisdom (sapientia). Both participate in “non-bodily and everlasting reasons (rationes)… above the human mind” (12.2), but knowledge uses these archetypes to

51 Augustine uses the term “spiritus” to indicate the image-making capacity of the soul, often translated as “imagination,” and it is important to note its connection to figural or “spiritual” readings of the Bible. Augustine’s concept of spiritus is influenced by the Greek concept of pneuma. See Verbeke (1945, 501- 508), Taylor (1948-1949, 211-218), and Couliano (1987, 1-11). 52 See p. 31 note 23 above. An outer object is not the same substance as its (spiritual) image produced in the mind. This makes the soul-trinity of an outer object especially vulnerable to corruption in the disposition of love-of-self: “in the love of temporal and material things… it is not enough for greed to know and love money unless it also has it, or to know and love eating or copulating unless it also does them, or to know and love honours and political power unless they are also forthcoming” (The Trinity 9.14).

actively order and administer outward objects, whereas Wisdom contemplates the archetypes in a passive and receptive mode of cognition.53

It is important to note that within this hierarchical structure of object types, each new level includes the ones below it, and ultimately Wisdom includes them all. It is thus not a divided hierarchy, but an inclusive one, and I will be referring to it as Augustine’s “integral vision.” Wisdom allows knowledge to function harmoniously, by allowing it to participate in archetypes like goodness, truth, and beauty. Harmonious knowledge in turn orders all images in the imagination, which in turn include all objects perceived in the material realm.54 When the soul functions in harmony with its divine source, perception involves all levels of this integral vision, and the material world presents itself as wedded to and infused with the eternal—lit by the light of Wisdom. The archetypes shine through the corporeal creation, and God’s “invisible things are understood through the things that have been made” (Rom 1:20).55 In the following section we will meet Augustine’s integral vision again, this time in relation to dreams.

53 I will capitalize “Wisdom,” even in regard to human cognition, to emphasize its participation in divine Wisdom. 54 For Augustine, corporeal objects are perceived by being instantaneously “translated” into (spiritual) images (TLMG 12.16.33). 55 As noted above, this verse is a favourite of Augustine’s. The integral vision it implies is made clear in the vision at Milan, where Augustine says that the incorporeal light of Wisdom “transcended my mind, not in the way that oil floats on water, nor as heaven is above earth” (Confessions 7.10.16). The integral poiēsis of Rom 1:20 is also very much the perspective of the Gospel of John, the voice of the eagle, in that, while the other Gospels offer an account of the transfiguration, John is a transfiguration from beginning to end. Augustine distinguishes scientia and sapientia through an exegesis of John’s prologue (The Trinity 13.1-5). On the centrality of John in Augustine’s theology see Carleton (1960) and Houghton (2008).

1.3 DREAM THEORY: JACOB’S LADDER TO HEAVEN This section explores Augustine’s theory of dreams, which is described primarily in book

12 of The Literal Meaning of Genesis.56 Augustine offers the most sustained and coherent patristic account of dreams,57 and this account had a vast influence on western thought, throughout the medieval period58 and, as we will see, into the early modern period of Boehme.

Augustine classifies dreams as a form of ecstasy, where the soul “stands out” (ek-stasis) from the body.59 In comparison to waking life, Augustine sees dreams as both a higher form of thought (epistemologically) and a higher form of reality (ontologically). Dreams are subject to both the deception of demons and the illumination of angels, and they can only be interpreted correctly when viewed in light of the archetypes of Wisdom.

1.3.1 EVERYDAY ECSTASY Tertullian (ca. 160-220), the father of Latin theology, is also the first extant Christian thinker to offer a sustained theory of dreams,60 and his ideas seem to have influenced

Augustine. For Tertullian, dreams “can be compared to the actual grace of God, as being honest, holy, prophetic, inspired, instructive, inviting to virtue,” and further “the greater part of

56 McGinn notes that Augustine’s influence in the west flows especially from key passages of his vast oevre, including TLMG book 12 (1991, 254). On the diffusion of medieval manuscripts of TLMG, and the influence of books 12 on medieval theologians up to the 14th and 15th centuries, see Kruger (1991, 60-61). According to Dulaey, Augustine also mentions dreams in 27 other works (1973, 9). 57 To situate Augustine among other ancient and patristic dream theories see Dulaey (1973, 15-68) and Erny (2006, 131-180). 58 For an overview of this vast medieval influence see Kruger (1992, 57-82), and Keskiaho (2015, 137-214). 59 Importantly, this differs from modern definitions of ecstasy and mysticism, which tend to exclude dreams (e.g. Underhill 1910, 358-379) 60 In De Anima 42-49. See Dulaey (1973, 55-56), Erny (2006, 134-137), and De Brabander (2012, 57-76). Tertullian may have edited the remarkable dream accounts of Perpetua, who was martyred in his own city, Carthage, ca. 203 CE.

humanity get their knowledge of God from dreams” (De Anima 47). Yet he also balances this very positive revelatory view with a strong fear of demonic dream deception, as we will see in a moment. Augustine sees dreams as an everyday form of ecstasy, a view that likely derives from

Tertullian, who described dreams as a natural product of the conjunction between a mortal body and an eternal soul. The body needs sleep, but the soul remains “perpetually active… disdaining a repose which is not natural to it.” The active soul is thus actually liberated as the body sleeps, and dreams are the natural result. Tertullian defines this as “ecstasy, in which the sensuous soul stands out of itself,” and he claims biblical warrant for his view from Genesis

2:21:

Thus in the very beginning sleep was inaugurated by ecstasy: “And God sent an ecstasy61 upon Adam, and he slept”… from that very circumstance it still happens ordinarily… that sleep is combined with ecstasy. Indeed, with what real feeling, and anxiety, and suffering do we experience joy, and sorrow, and alarm in our dreams! (De Anima 45).

Notice here that, for Tertullian, dream ecstasy involves both a “standing-out” of the soul from the body, and a heightened state of affect.

In book 12 of TLMG Augustine also situates dreams within a discussion of ecstasy, and specifically St. Paul’s experience of being “caught up to the third heaven… into Paradise” (2 Cor

12:2-4).62 Because the first eleven books of TLMG “continued to the point where the first man was driven from Paradise,” book 12 completes the narrative arc by exploring one of the clearest biblical accounts of re-entry into Paradise. Augustine begins by noting Paul’s repeated assertion that he was unsure whether his ecstasy took place “in the body” or “out of the body.” And for

61 The LXX reads “ekstasis” here. 62 For an excellent discussion of the neglect of this passage in modern discussions of Paul’s mysticism, see Shantz, Paul in Ecstasy (2009, 20-66).

Augustine this same ambivalence is present in dreams, where our liminal dream bodies seem both real and yet different from our corporeal bodies.63 Thus begins a strategy of using dreams to understand all forms of ecstasy, which guides Augustine’s exposition in book 12.

Without naming him, Augustine alludes to Tertullian’s definition of dream ecstasy: “my soul… in some mysterious way was awake while I slept” (12.2.3).64 Later Augustine provides a broader definition of ecstasy, which extends beyond dreams: “when the attention of the mind is completely carried off and turned away from the senses of the body” (12.12.25).65 He notes that there are many different kinds of ecstasy: It can happen when one is asleep or awake. It can be caused naturally or by a special divine revelation. It can result from the infusion of images by angels and demons. It can occur either in a healthy state, as when a healthy body sleeps, or as a result of sickness, as in the case of fever or “madness.” And it can be caused

63 Specifically, Augustine recalls one of his own dream experiences, where he became aware that he was dreaming (a “lucid dream,” to use the term coined by LaBerge 1985) and then began “testing” a friend in the dream to see if he was real. This attempt was itself paradoxical: “whenever I made an effort to persuade him that he was not real, I was partly inclined to believe that he was” (12.2.3). This experience of “testing” the environment of a lucid dream, and finding nothing counterfeit, is quite common (e.g. Hervey de Saint-Denys 1867, 56ff.; Bosnak 1997, 6-10). 64 See also 12.20.42. Like Tertullian, Augustine grounds his concept of dream ecstasy in Genesis 2:21: “the ecstasy in which Adam was caught up when God cast him into a sleep was given to him so that his mind in that state might participate with the host of angels and, entering into the sanctuary of God, understand what was finally to come” (TLMG 9.19.36). The “sanctuary” his mind enters in this passage is an allusion to Wisdom (e.g. Prov 9:1; Sir 24:10). For Augustine, this first dream ecstasy took place during the separation of the sexes, and prophetically revealed the “great mystery” of the eventual reunion of the sexes, as figured by Christ and the church. We will see this motif again in Boehme. 65 Augustine’s later definition of ecstasy also includes Tertullian’s sleep-death analogy: “the soul is quite removed from the body… but less than in death” (12.26.53). McGinn notes that the influence of TLMG book 12 on the west “has been primarily due to its careful description of the state of ecstasy” (1991, 254). On Augustine’s understanding of ecstasy see Butler (1923, 60-61), and Maréchal (1930, 89-109, 191-214). Strangely these discussions do not recognize the importance of dreams for Augustine’s understanding of ecstasy.

either by the body or the soul (12.12.25 - 12.23.49). But while there are many exotic forms of ecstasy, Augustine notes that “all these phenomena” are “similar to dreams” (12.18.39). He thus chooses dreams as the usual case through which to understand the more unusual.66 And, like Tertullian, he situates dreams as an everyday form of ecstasy.

Having established this foothold in dreams, Augustine then offers a basic survey of the topic:

Dreams are sometimes false and sometimes true, sometimes troubled and sometimes calm; and true dreams are sometimes quite similar to future events or even clear forecasts, while at other times they are predictions given with dark meanings and, as it were, in figurative expressions. And the same is to be said of all these visions” (12.18.39).

To summarize, while all ecstasies can be understood through the “less remarkable… daily occurrences” of dreams (12.18.40), not all dreams, and thus not all ecstasies, are purveyors of divine truth. In widening the category of ecstasy to include everyday dreams, Augustine brings the issue of discernment and interpretation to the forefront, which we will explore in a moment. But some dreams, and thus some ecstasies, do reveal truth. And in this case they cover much the same ground as our last chapter on trinitarian psychology, drawing us inward

66 Augustine notes the merits of this method, disagreeing with those who “like to gaze in wonder at what is strange and seek the causes of the unusual, while they generally do not care to know about daily occurrences of this sort [i.e. dreams]” (12.18.39). He later grounds this method in Acts 2:17: “For Scripture clearly says, I will pour out My Spirit upon all flesh, and the young men shall see visions, and the old men shall dream dreams, thus attributing both to the work of God” (12.21.44). Here and elsewhere he implies that both dreams and visions are a result of divine (“supernatural”) grace, although other passages seem to contradict this, likely because the realms of nature and grace are not always separate or discrete in Augustine.

and upward into communion with the archetypes of divine Wisdom, which grant prophetic insight into God, the soul, and the cosmos.67

1.3.2 THREEFOLD VISION AND THE IMAGINAL REALM In attempting to understand the character of Paul’s ecstasy, Augustine elaborates his very influential theory of threefold vision: (1) corporeal, (2) spiritual, and (3) intellectual

(12.6.15ff.). Corporeal vision (visio corporealis) involves both bodily eyes and bodily objects. It is the vision we use every day to see the material world all around us. Spiritual vision (visio spiritualis), which is most obvious in dreaming, involves both the spirit/imagination68 of the soul and spiritual objects. It is the vision that allows us to remember material objects when they are absent, and to create new fantasy objects through the creative imagination.69 Finally, intellectual vision (visio intellectualis) involves both the intellect and intellectual objects or eternal ideas. Augustine illustrates all three with a simple example: “when we read, You shall love your neighbor as yourself, the letters are seen corporeally, the neighbour is thought of spiritually, and love is beheld intellectually” (12.11.22). The three together are what I am calling

Augustine’s “integral vision.”

67 Augustine’s own experiences of God at Milan and Ostia were both “ecstatic” according to his own definition of the word. For a discussion of ecstasy in relation to these experiences see Henry ([1938] 1981, 14-40, 82), Courcelle (1950, 157-167; 1963, 17-88), O’Donnell (1992, 124), Bonner (1994, 129-135), and Kenney (2005, 1-14). While excellent, these discussions do not recognize the importance of dreams for Augustine’s understanding of ecstasy. 68 See p. 44 note 51 above. 69 Augustine explicitly notes this creative function of the spirit/imagination in dreams (Letters 7.6; 9.5), which is a departure from Aristotle and Cicero, who believed dreams were composed only of past memories (Dulaey 1975, 102-103). This creative capacity of imagination will become very important for Boehme.

It is important to note the correspondence here between the capacity for vision and the objects of vision. Each distinct way of perceiving is tuned to a distinct realm of perception, and thus Augustine’s epistemology is tuned to his ontology.70 Just as there is a material world that our eyes perceive, so there is a spiritual world that our spirit/imagination perceives, populated by spiritual entities, like angels and demons, and other spiritual objects that are incorporeal but nonetheless real.71 This means that every night in our dreams we literally inhabit a different world. Further, and importantly, for Augustine the dream world is always higher than the waking world.72 Dream objects are ontologically “more real” than waking objects, and the vision we use to perceive them is likewise superior epistemologically, although it is still subject to deception. In what follows I will be designating this dream world, following Henri Corbin, as the “imaginal” realm,73 the loss of which could easily be counted as one of the chief marks of modernity. Although, as we will see, Freud and Jung both managed to reanimate this realm by giving dreams pride of place in their respective psychologies, and by treating dream objects as once again real, albeit in a qualified psychological sense.

Augustine is quite clear about the graded ascent of these three worlds: “there is, of course, a hierarchy in these visions… For spiritual vision is more excellent than corporeal, and intellectual vision more excellent than spiritual” (12.24.51). The hierarchy is based on the fact

70 Boehme will follow this pattern, in his correspondence between the “microcosm” and “macrocosm.” 71 E.g. “these objects do exist, and the joy and vexation produced by a spiritual substance are real. For even in sleep there is a vast difference between being in joyful and in sad circumstances in our dreams” (12.32.61). 72 E.g. “every spirit is unquestionably superior to every body” (12.16.32). 73 See Corbin (1969, 179-195, 216-220; 1972). For a history of the term “imaginal,” see Kripal (2016, 120- 123).

that corporeal vision depends on spiritual vision, but not the reverse. That is, corporeal vision through the eyes can only be perceived by the incorporeal soul if it is first “translated” by the spirit/imagination into images (12.16.32-33).74 Likewise spiritual vision depends on intellectual vision “if a judgement is to be made upon its contents” (12.24.51). Intellectual vision allows us to understand and interpret the images of the spirit/imagination.

Thus while the objects of the dream world fall under spiritual vision, the meaning of these objects, and thus the meaning and interpretation of dreams, falls under intellectual vision. Augustine illustrates this point by citing one of the great biblical dream interpreters:

Joseph, who understood the meaning of the seven ears of corn and the seven kine, was more a prophet than Pharaoh, who saw them in a dream; for Pharaoh saw only a form impressed upon his spirit, whereas Joseph understood through a light given to his mind… In the one there was the production of the images of things; in the other, the interpretation of the images produced (12.9.20).

This implies three levels of prophecy, which Augustine illustrates by citing the other great biblical dream interpreter:

Less a prophet, therefore, is [1] he who, by means of the images of corporeal objects, sees in spirit only the signs of the things signified, and a greater prophet is [2] he who is granted only an understanding of the images. But the greatest prophet is [3] he who is endowed with both gifts, namely, that of seeing in the spirit the symbolic likenesses of corporeal objects and that of understanding them with the vital power of the mind. Such a one was Daniel (12.9.20).

Notice here that, contrary to what we would expect from the graded “hierarchy in these visions,” the greatest prophet is not the one who sees only with the visio intellectualis. The greatest prophet sees, so to speak, with both eyes—both spiritually and intellectually.75 For

74 For the influence of this view of the soul, which extends well into the Renaissance, see Couliano (1987, 1-11, 38-48). 75 This metaphor is drawn from William Blake, who calls it “double vision” in a letter to Thomas Butts, November 22, 1802 (1988, 721). See Northrop Frye’s book of the same name (1991, 22-39).

Augustine, the integration of these two forms of vision produces something greater than either form on its own. And while he is only integrating the two higher forms of vision, nonetheless the principle involved is what I am calling Augustine’s “integral vision.” We will return to it in relation to all three forms of vision when we look at dreams and Paradise in a moment.

1.3.3 DISCERNMENT AND DEMONIC DECEPTION Augustine’s discussion of dream discernment is mainly intended to mitigate the fear of demonic deception—a fear that was likely prevalent among Christians of the time, and which seemed to increase steadily throughout the middle ages as it was emphasized by authorities. As mentioned, Tertullian is the first extant theologian to offer a sustained theory of dreams, and paradoxically he takes both a very positive view of the revelatory potential of dreams, saying that “all” dreams “emanate from God,” while also suggesting that the majority of dreams are demonically inspired with the intent to deceive: “We declare, then, that dreams are inflicted on us mainly by demons, although they sometimes turn out true and favourable to us” (De Anima

47).

Augustine begins his discussion of discernment on a note very similar to Tertullian. He admits that

even those possessed by a devil occasionally speak the truth… The discernment of these experiences is certainly a most difficult task when the evil spirit acts in a seemingly peaceful manner… sometimes even speaking the truth and disclosing useful knowledge of the future. In this case he transforms himself, according to Scripture, as if into an angel of light [2 Cor 11:14] (12.13.28).

For Augustine, such deceptive spirits are difficult to detect, and can only be recognized by someone with the divine gift of “discernment of spirits” (discretio spirituum) [1 Cor 12:10]

(12.13.28).

But as his discussion continues, Augustine quickly changes course with a crucial caveat, derived from his theory of threefold vision: Through corporeal vision and spiritual vision, “good spirits instruct men and evil spirits deceive them. But there is no deception in intellectual vision” (12.14.29). Here we need to remember that when Augustine speaks of intellectual vision, he is also speaking of intellectual objects. And while counterfeit objects may exist in the spiritual world, like demons who appear as angels of light, no such counterfeits exist in the intellectual world. We can be deceived by material objects and images, which can appear as something they are not. “But the intellect is employed to seek out the meaning that these things have or the useful lessons that they teach; and either it finds its object and enjoys the fruit of its search, or it fails to find it and continues to reflect” (12.14.29).

In short, for Augustine, dream interpretation cannot be deceptive because the truth or falsity of an interpretation is, or soon becomes, self-evident. For example, if a dream is interpreted as a prediction of the future, it will become self-evident whether the prediction comes true. If a dream is interpreted to describe the state of the dreamers’ soul, it will become self-evident either by finding immediate recognition (either in the dreamer or in someone who knows her) or by failing to do so. Augustine’s point is that it causes no harm to ponder and test these interpretations, and in fact there is a great potential benefit from such reflections: the intellect might just discern the “useful lessons” taught by the dream and enjoy “the fruit of its search.” If it fails, the intellect can simply continue its reflection without fear of deception.

Augustine’s theory of dream discernment thus reduces to a simple principle: dreams that have “no special meaning” are “the imagining of the soul itself”; if they have “some special

meaning… it follows of necessity that the revelation must come only from some spirit”

(12.12.26). In regard to this special meaning Augustine distinguishes three cases:

[1] to allow a person to see only images that have a meaning, while he is unaware of the fact that they do mean something; and at other times [2] to allow him to perceive that such images have some meaning, while he is left in ignorance of what they mean; and at still other times [3] to allow the human soul through some sort of fuller revelation to see these images with the spirit and understand their meaning with the mind (12.22.48).

While we can be aware or unaware of a dream’s “special meaning,” we cannot be deceived either by this awareness or unawareness, since the truth or falsity of whatever “special meaning” we may posit will become self-evident.

In short, for Augustine, we should have no fear of demonic deception when it comes to meaning and interpretation, “in which even erroneous thinking may take place without harm to the soul” (12.14.30). Here he gives the example of a man “who is secretly evil,” like a demon who masquerades as an angel of light. It does no harm to believe that the man is good,

“provided no error is made in the true realities, that is to say, in Goodness itself” (12.14.30). We may be deceived by the person, but we cannot be deceived by Goodness. Thus, “when the Devil deceives us with corporeal visions, no harm is done by the fact that he has played tricks with our eyes, so long as we do not deviate from the true faith or lose the integrity of intelligence, by which God instructs those who are obedient to Him” (12.14.30). The same is true of spiritual visions.

The idea that the truth of visio intellectualis is self-evident and self-attesting sounds strange to modern ears. But Augustine’s basically Platonic understanding of this realm of

“transparent truth,” where “vision is darkened by no cloud of false opinion,” is based on the idea that the experience of divine love is self-evident and self-attesting:76

there the virtues of the soul are not tedious and burdensome. For then there is no restraining of lust by the effort of temperance, no bearing of adversity by fortitude, no punishing of wicked deeds by justice, no avoiding of evil by prudence. The one virtue and the whole of virtue there is to love what you see, and the supreme happiness is to possess what you love. For there beatitude is imbibed at its source, whence some few drops are sprinkled upon this life of ours… In such a vision God speaks face to face… and here we are speaking not of the face of the body but of that of the mind (12.26.54).

Dreams, as visio spiritualis, bring us closer to this source of love and beatitude, and dream interpretation, when guided by this source, need not fear deception.

Augustine further mitigates the fear of demonic deception by affirming that we are not culpable for “carnal intercourse” in dreams. Presumably, demonic temptation often took the form of sexual dreams among the ascetics of Augustine’s day. The attempt to keep young monks from temptation likely explains why, for example, the Cappadocian fathers were so negative toward dreams despite the fact that Alexandrian theologians before them, including

Athanasius, had been much more positive (Kelsey 1991, 105-108, 122-127). Augustine tries to recover this positive tradition by affirming that sexual dreams are not sinful.77 He also refrains from attributing nightmares to demons, which was a common view among his theological forbears.78

76 This resembles one of William James’ four marks of mystical experiences: the “Noetic quality” of mystical states offers “insight into depths of truth unplumbed by the discursive intellect… and as a rule they carry with them a curious sense of authority for aftertime” (1902, 329). 77 He reasons by analogy: sex “is spoken of without sin by a man wide awake, who doubtless thinks about it in order to speak of it” (12.15.31). 78 Augustine is also reticent to attribute nightmares to God (as in Job 7:14); he generally sees them as indicative of human suffering (City of God 22.22.23; see Dulaey 1973, 132-135).

Importantly, while Augustine’s discussion of discernment does much to mitigate the fear of demonic deception, this particular aspect of the Augustinian “framework” did not find widespread acceptance. It did not become paradigmatic. Instead, down through the ages, the fear of demonic deception had a fairly chilling effect on Christian dream interpretation. As

Kelsey notes, this effect was compounded by Augustine’s contemporary Jerome (347-420 CE), who introduced a “direct mistranslation” of Leviticus 19:26 and Deuteronomy 18:10 into the

Latin Vulgate: “Jerome turned the law: ‘You shall not practice augury or witchcraft [i.e. soothsaying]’ into the prohibition: ‘You shall not practice augury nor observe dreams’” (1991,

139). Kelsey also notes that with Gregory the Great (ca. 540-604 CE), “for the first time in the writings of the church fathers, the warning passages of Leviticus 19 (in Jerome’s Vulgate translation), Ecclesiastes 5, and Ecclesiastes 34 were emphasized again and again” (1991, 141).

Gregory concludes his key discussion of dreams by noting that “one ought to be very reluctant to put one’s faith in them, since it is hard to tell from what source they come… the master of deceit… is clever enough to foretell many things that are true in order finally to capture the soul by but one falsehood” (Dialogues 4.50). While Augustine and Gregory were the great medieval authorities,79 Gregory’s fear of demonic deception seems to have won the day, especially in monastic communities.

If demonic dreams can assume a guise of truth, and if truth itself is not self-evident or self-attesting, it follows logically that all dreams should be suspect. The risk of deception outweighs the promise of revelation. As a result, down through the middle ages, the fear of

79 See Kruger for a wonderful summary of manuscript evidence of Augustine’s and Gregory’s medieval diffusion (1992, 59-62).

demonic deception often poisoned the well against all attempts at dream interpretation. And interestingly, historians note several cases where prophetic dreams that were critical of ecclesiastical and political authorities, the truth of which was (or became) self-evident, were easily dismissed as demonic trickery by the powers that be.80 From the time of Tertullian right through the middle ages and into the modern period, the fear of demonic deception effectively marginalized dream interpretation in the Christian west, and Augustine’s positive view begins to look like something of an anomaly, at least until the great florescence of the 17th century, toward which our story is winding.

1.3.4 DREAMS AND PARADISE Augustine’s theory of threefold vision seems to imply that the ecstasy of imageless intellectual vision is the highest form of perception possible in this life. Indeed, most of his medieval interpreters have read him this way, which explains why, for example, the popular

Carmelite mysticism of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross says nothing positive about dreams, urging us to move beyond images as quickly as possible into the pure experience of

God in interior prayer.81 Here I will argue that dreams have a more important place in

80 E.g. Dutton describes the case of a wandering monk whose dreams were critical of, and disturbing to, both Charlemagne and Pope Hadrian. At about this time Charlemagne outlawed popular dream interpretation in his most influential capitulary (1994, 36-40). Richard Kagan describes the remarkably prophetic dreams of Lucretia de León in 16th century Spain, some 400 of which were preserved via her trial by the Inquisition. These dreams predict, almost a year before it occurred, the very unexpected defeat of the Spanish Armada by England in 1588. They also condemn Philip II as the source of “a corrupt church, oppressive taxes, lack of justice for the poor, and a weak national defense… Lucrecia even presages the deaths of the king and his heir apparent, the infant Philip, the extinction of the Spanish branch of the House of Habsburg, and the accession of a new monarchy that would reconquer the lands lost to the Muslims and ultimately recapture Jerusalem.” She was 21 when Philip had her arrested by the Inquisition in 1590 (Kagan 1990, 2-9). 81 I will justify this claim shortly.

Augustine than many of his interpreters, including Teresa and John, have realized. This more positive view of dreams relates to what I have been calling Augustine’s “integral vision.”

Augustine’s topic in book 12, the final book of his great Genesis commentary, is Paradise and how we might recover it. And at the beginning of the book he seems to locate Paul’s experience of Paradise in the realm of spiritual vision, along with a host of other imagistic biblical experiences, not least of which is the final Revelation to John (12.2.5). But later he seems to change his mind, suggesting that Paul’s experience of both the third heaven and

Paradise are experiences of imageless intellectual vision (12.27.55-12.28.56).82 To complicate things further, he then suggests that there might be up to ten heavens, and that Paradise and/or intellectual vision might exist beyond the third heaven (12.34.65). The discussion then shifts again when Augustine considers Paradise in terms of the region we enter at death,83 and here he reverts to his original opinion that Paradise is a realm of spiritual vision (12.32.60).84

Thus throughout the discussion Paradise maintains an ambivalent position between spiritual and intellectual vision. Here we again see Augustine’s penchant for “integral” rather than

“either/or” thinking, similar to the way that Daniel was identified as the “greatest prophet” because he saw both spiritually and intellectually (12.9.20).

Earlier in TLMG, when Augustine began his discussion of Paradise in relation to the

Garden of Eden, he differentiated three approaches. Some view the biblical Eden literally or

82 Here he also suggests that intellectual vision is the “face to face” vision of God, granted only to Moses (Exod 33) and possibly to Paul (2 Cor 12:2-4), and justified by Num 12:6-8 (12.27.55). 83 As “when Christ said to the robber, This day you shall be with me in Paradise [Luke 23:43]” (12.34.66). 84 Interestingly, Augustine’s evidence for this is what we call today “near death experiences,” which he assumes all of his readers at the time were naturally aware of, given their frequency (12.32.60).

“corporeally,” and some view it figuratively or “spiritually.”85 The third approach reads the account in both senses, and Augustine admits that “the third interpretation appeals to me”

(8.1.1). This would mean that the original Eden was a literal garden, but also that this same garden still exists on a spiritual plane, in the imaginal realm of visio spiritualis. This also means that, for example, the Tree of Life at the centre of Eden was a literal tree infused with figurative

“spiritual” meanings—meanings that are still powerful because this Tree still exists in the imaginal realm, and its meanings can still be discerned through visio intellectualis: “Thus

Wisdom, namely, Christ Himself, is the Tree of Life in the spiritual paradise to which He sent the thief from the cross.86 But a Tree of Life which would signify Wisdom was also created in the earthly paradise” (8.5.9). This example again highlights Augustine’s preference for “integral” rather than “either/or” thinking about vision and Paradise. It also highlights the deep connection between figurative or “spiritual” hermeneutics, and imaginative or “spiritual” vision: the objects of spiritual vision are naturally pregnant with multiple figural or “spiritual” meanings, meanings that can only be discerned through intellectual vision.

This brings us to the end of book 12, where Augustine completes his discussion of

Paradise, this time with reference to the doctrine of the resurrection of the body, in a way that combines both of the above discussions. The question is, “why must the spirits of the departed be reunited with their bodies in the resurrection, if they can be admitted to the supreme beatitude without their bodies?” (12.35.68). Augustine’s answer is that the soul “has a natural appetite for… the body,” and for this reason, even in a state of ecstasy, “it is somehow hindered

85 Origen, for example, viewed it as only spiritual. 86 Christ on the cross was a common type of the Tree of Life, following Deut 21:23 and Gal 3:13.

from going on with all its force to the highest heaven, so long as it is not joined with the body”

(12.35.68). In other words, the fact that we must “stand out” of our body to experience spiritual and intellectual vision is not ultimately a sign of health or order for Augustine. And the ultimate vision of Paradise involves the integration of all three kinds of vision: “all things occupying their proper place, the corporeal, the spiritual, and the intellectual, in untainted nature and perfect beatitude” (12.36.69).87 This integral vision raises some serious questions for those who see intellectual vision, isolated from corporeal and spiritual vision, as the only

Augustinian goal. Augustine suggests that Paul’s ecstatic Paradise involved a “double vision,” both spiritual and intellectual, just as Daniel’s prophetic gift of dream interpretation involved a

“double vision,” both spiritual and intellectual. And the final eschatological vision of the resurrection—the final Paradise, like the original Paradise—is a fully integral vision: corporeal, spiritual, and intellectual. This suggests that the interpretation of dreams, which combines spiritual and intellectual vision, is an important practice. And the attempt to situate these interpretations in relation to everyday waking life and corporeal history is also a worthy goal.

Let me conclude with a look at the structure of TLMG, to highlight the importance of dreams and spiritual vision within Augustine’s whole theoretical architecture. Augustine is known for the architectonic symmetry of his great works,88 and TLMG is no exception. Books 1-

87 Augustine says that Paul’s ecstasy “was wanting in one point the full and perfect knowledge of things… he did not know whether he was in the body or out of the body. But this knowledge will not be wanting to us when we shall be reunited to our bodies at the resurrection of the dead” (12.36.69). Here again Augustine is alluding to the liminal dream body, and Paul’s liminal body in ecstasy, with which he began the discussion in book 12: “it was impossible to discern clearly whether it was corporeal or spiritual” (12.1.2). We will soon see a similar liminality in Boehme’s concept of the spiritual body. 88 See, for example, Edmund Hill’s diagrams of the complex chiastic symmetry of The Trinity (1991, 27, 258-265).

10 are divided into two equal parts. Books 1-5 deal with the first creation account (Genesis 1) and particularly with the duality of creation: incorporeal creation in eternity and corporeal creation in time. Books 6-10 deal with the second creation account (Genesis 2) and particularly with the duality of the human being: the incorporeal eternal soul and the corporeal temporal body. Book 11 then deals with the Fall and expulsion from Paradise, and book 12 deals with redemption and the recovery of Paradise. The symmetry of the work becomes apparent in these final two books, where fall and redemption involve both creation and the human soul- body: the fall of the soul means that its perception is truncated such that it can no longer see the eternal archetypes of creation. Outside Eden, the spiritual and intellectual no longer shine through the corporeal, and creation no longer speaks poetically of its connection to the eternal.

The soul loses its integral vision and becomes trapped in a world of dead matter-in-motion, where objects exist only to serve individual wants and wills.

In book 12 the recovery of Paradise is about recovering integral vision, which is why dreams figure so prominently in the book—representing that imaginal “mesocosm”89 that ultimately connects the eternal to the temporal in both creation (the macrocosm) and the human soul-body (the microcosm). Our natural, nightly form of ecstasy and spiritual vision offers us a world like the original Eden, where every object is pregnant with symbolic and figurative “spiritual” meanings. Dreams can then be interpreted though intellectual vision using the eternal archetypes, and especially the archetypes of creation in Genesis 1, which we will explore in a moment. Dreams and their interpretation teach us to see the eternal archetypal realm shining through spiritual objects, and this symbolic and figurative way of seeing can then

89 This is Antoine Faivre’s helpful term (2000, xxiii).

be applied to the waking corporeal world. In short, dreams and their interpretation teach us how to see with integral vision, revealing the true purpose of creation in its eternal significance.

Like Jacob’s famous dream ladder (Gen 28:10-19), with its ascending and descending angels, the imaginal realm is an intermediary between time and eternity—a place of downward

“condensation” and upward “sublimation”—where eternal archetypes illuminate the space- time materiality of everyday life, and where everyday bodies become sublime.

In short, when Augustine is read in the way I am advocating here, the purpose of his project is not to encourage us to escape into an imageless intellectual vision. The ultimate spiritual goal is harmonious integration of threefold vision, so that the dream world we experience every night, rightly interpreted, can be extended into waking life, and so that the

Creator can shine through all of creation. Augustine’s integral vision, in my reading, is much closer to that of a William Blake, who speaks not of escaping bodies but of glorifying them, and for whom the opening of the imagination is a corollary of the doctrines of incarnation and atonement: “O Human Imagination! O Divine Body I have crucified!” (Jerusalem 24.23).90 Again,

I am not saying that this is the only reading of Augustine, but that two different readings are both possible and justifiable. One reading gives us the imageless ecstasies of Teresa of Avila and

John of the Cross; the other reading gives us Boehme and Blake.91

90 See also Blake’s Vision of the Last Judgment 69-70: “All Things are comprehended in their Eternal Forms in the Divine body of the Saviour the True Vine of Eternity.” 91 Scholars continue to debate whether Augustine’s vision at Ostia was one of pure intellectual vision, or whether it also involved spiritual vision. McGinn sides with the latter view: “There can be no question that Augustine is describing an experience that is open to symbolization in visual form, as is shown by the mention of luce corporea at the beginning of the first version” (1991, 235).

1.4 DREAM INTERPRETATION: WISDOM AND ARCHETYPES This final section explores Augustine’s theory of Wisdom, which is the realm of the eternal archetypes that structure both the created world and the human soul. The order of the soul mirrors the order of creation because they are both grounded in Wisdom, and Boehme will later use the Renaissance terms “microcosm” and “macrocosm” to express the same idea.

Augustine bequeathed his theory of Wisdom to the medieval and early modern world,92 and as such it forms the third aspect of my Augustinian “framework,” although it is deeply connected to the other two aspects: We have already seen that Wisdom is the summit of Augustine’s trinitarian psychology, and that the archetypes of Wisdom are present in the secret caverns of memoria. Similarly, Augustine locates Paul’s vision of Paradise entirely within the realm of

Wisdom.93 Visio intellectualis participates in the archetypes of Wisdom, and these archetypes structure the lower two forms of vision for the illumined mind. Because the meaning and interpretation of dreams falls within visio intellectualis, these archetypes also offer a blueprint for interpreting dream symbols, and this latter Augustinian concept influenced western thought right up to the time of Freud and Jung, as we will see.

92 See Rice (1958, 1-29) for a discussion of how Augustine reshaped the classical view of Wisdom, how his view framed the entire medieval discussion, and how it was reborn in a new form in Renaissance Platonism. 93 For example, Augustine says of Paul’s vision that “it is impossible to suppose that anything was accustomed in these revelations to be made known to him but what appertained to Wisdom” (On the Grace of Christ and on Original Sin 1.12).

The centrality of Wisdom in Augustine’s thought94 is a corollary of his high view of the biblical Wisdom literature,95 and it was also shaped by his own experience at Ostia with his mother Monica:

our minds were lifted up by an ardent affection towards eternal being itself… There life is the Wisdom by which all creatures came into being, both things which were and which will be… And while we talked and panted after her [i.e. Wisdom], we touched her slightly with the whole beat of the heart” (Confessions 9.10.23-24).96

The erotic nature of the quest for Wisdom was evident even in Augustine’s early work, as we see in this passage from the Soliloquies:

Let us ask about what kind of lover of Wisdom you are: you long to see her and to hold her naked in a perfectly pure gaze and to embrace her with nothing in between, in a way that she allows to only a select few lovers. But if you burned with love for a beautiful woman, would she not be right to withhold herself from you if she found that you loved another? So how can Wisdom, the purest of beauties, reveal herself to you, until you are ablaze for her alone? (Soliloquies 1.13.22).

In his later work, as noted above, Augustine continued to speak positively of “a concupiscence of the spirit, which craves Wisdom” (On Marriage and Concupiscence 2.23).

I have been using the term “archetypes” for what Augustine variously calls reasons

(rationes), ideas (ideae), forms (formae), species (species), or rules (regulae).97 These

94 On this see especially Cayré (1943; 1954, 104-219), and Jerphagnon (2006). 95 Certain key verses, particularly from Proverbs, the Wisdom of Solomon, and Sirach (Ecclesiasticus), are a constant refrain in his writing, and he insisted on the inclusion of the latter two books in the canon of Scripture (On the Predestination of the Saints 27; City of God 17.20). 96 This translation is a modification of Chadwick (1991, 171). 97 For Augustine’s discussion of these Latin words in relation to their Greek precursors, see Eighty-three Different Questions 46.1-2. This is an earlier work (388-396 CE), but Augustine’s definition of rationes here seems to hold for his entire corpus: “if these reasons of all things to be created or [already] created are contained in the Divine Mind, and if there can be in the Divine Mind nothing except what is eternal and unchangeable, and if these original and principal reasons are what Plato terms ideas, then not only are they ideas but they are themselves true because they are eternal and because they remain ever the same

archetypes seem to be either innate in the soul from birth, or continually infused into its eternal nature,98 and Augustine specifically notes their mysterious presence in memory.99 Like

Plato, Augustine includes among the archetypes the numbers and geometrical forms of mathematics (e.g. Confessions 10.12.19; The Trinity 12.23), and ideas like justice, love, goodness, truth, and beauty (e.g. Answer to Faustus, a Manichaean 20.7; TLMG 12.24.50). But unlike Plato, Augustine’s archetypes also include the eternal “days” of creation, described in

Genesis 1, which were created simultaneously in eternal Wisdom.

1.4.1 WISDOM CREATED AND UNCREATED Augustine uses the term “Wisdom” to describe what are, strictly speaking, two different entities: (1) the eternal uncreated Wisdom of God, Jesus Christ (1 Cor 1:24), and (2) the eternal created Wisdom of God, the “first of God’s works” (Prov 8:22), “created before all things” (Sir

1:4) who is a kind of mirror of uncreated Wisdom. This created Wisdom is a feminine being, the

Sophia of the biblical Wisdom literature, who is eternal in the sense that she was created before time, although she is not co-eternal with the uncreated Son. This distinction is clear in the Confessions book 12, where Augustine differentiates between a Wisdom “which is

and unchangeable. It is by participation in these that whatever is exists in whatever manner it does exist” (46.2). 98 Scholars debate this and Augustine gives evidence of holding both views. See Gilson (1960, 77-96) and Schumacher (2011, 7-18). 99 E.g. Confessions 10.10.17; The Trinity 12.24-25. In the latter passage, while Augustine believes he is dissenting from Platonic anamnesis, his view remains very Platonic, in that the archetypes are already in the soul before we recognize them. That is, Augustine dissents from Plato’s idea of transmigration or reincarnation, but he also mistakenly sees it as the basis for Plato’s theory of anamnesis. For Plato, what we are remembering is the eternal archetypal world, not previous earthly existences (Phaedo 72e; Phaedrus 249c-250), and thus Platonic anamnesis is based on the soul’s pre-existence in eternity, not necessarily its pre-existence in other earthly bodies. Augustine agrees that human souls exist in eternity before entering the body, and he considers a variety of options as to how this might happen (TLMG 7.22.32-7.28.43, 10.1.1-10.24-40), remaining undecided to the end (Revisions 1.1.3).

altogether coeternal and equal with you, its Father” (12.15.20), and also a Wisdom “which is created, an intellectual nature which is light from contemplation of the light.” The word contemplatio is significant here, as we will see. Let me quote Augustine’s description of this eternal created feminine Wisdom at length for the sake of clarity:

So there is a Wisdom created before all things, which is a created thing, the rational and intellectual mind of your pure city, our ‘mother which is above and is free’ (Gal 5:6) and is ‘eternal in the heavens’ (2 Cor 5:1). In this text ‘heavens’ can only be ‘the heavens of heavens’ which praise you (Ps 148:4); this is also the Lord’s ‘heaven of heaven’ (Ps 113: 16). We do not find there was time before her, because she precedes the creation of time; yet she is created first of all things [Sir 1:4]. However, prior to her is the eternity of the Creator himself. On being created by him, she took her beginning—not a beginning in time, since time did not yet exist, but on belonging to her own special condition… We do not find time either before her or even in her, because she is capable of continually seeing your face and of never being deflected from it. This has the consequence that she never undergoes variation or change. Nevertheless in principle mutability is inherent in her. That is why she would grow dark and cold if she were not lit and warmed by you as a perpetual noonday sun (Isa 58:10) because she cleaves to you with a great love. O House full of light and beauty! [Prov 9:1] ‘I have loved your beauty and the place of the habitation of the glory of my Lord’ (Ps 25:7-9), who built you and owns you. During my wandering may my longing be for you! I ask him who made you that he will also make me his property in you, since he also made me… Is not the House of God [Prov 9:1], though not coeternal with God, nevertheless in her own way ‘eternal in the heavens’ (2 Cor 5:1) where you look in vain for the successiveness of time because it is not to be found there?” (12.15.20-22).

Notably here, Augustine not only personifies created Wisdom as female, but addresses her and venerates her directly. He goes on in this passage to identify her with

Jerusalem my home land, Jerusalem my mother (Gal 4:26), and above it yourself, ruler, illuminator, father, tutor, husband… the one supreme and true Good. I shall not turn away until in that peace of this dearest mother, where are the firstfruits of my spirit (Rom 8:23) and the source of my certainties, you gather all that I am from my dispersed and distorted state to reshape and strengthen me forever (12.15.23).100

100 This and the previous translation are a modification of Chadwick (1991, 255-257).

This created feminine aspect of Wisdom has often been neglected by Augustine scholarship,101 and I have quoted at length here both to substantiate this neglected aspect, and to illustrate the great throng of biblical symbols that surround feminine Wisdom, many of which will reappear in Boehme. Most strikingly she is the ‘mother’ whose ‘husband’ is God, and the ‘mind’ in which the eternal archetypal creation of Genesis 1 takes place.102

1.4.2 WISDOM AND THE SOUL In our earlier discussion of trinitarian psychology we briefly mentioned Augustine’s key distinction between knowledge (scientia) and Wisdom (sapientia), which he defines in The

Trinity book 12 as two different functions of the human mind (mens) as it participates in “non- bodily and everlasting reasons (rationes)… above the human mind” (12.2). This distinction has been seen as the linchpin of Augustine’s theological system (e.g. Madec 1975, 78), and it profoundly influenced the medieval and early modern world.103 Basically, Wisdom and knowledge are two different ways of thinking. Wisdom is a higher, inward, receptive, and contemplative form of cognition, whereas knowledge is a lower, outward, active, and administrative form of cognition. Both participate in the archetypes, but Wisdom does so in passive contemplation, whereas knowledge puts the archetypes to work, so to speak, in administering temporal affairs (12.17). For example, eternal ideas like “measure, number, and

101 For an example of this tendency, in an article that set the scholarly standard for discussing Augustinian Wisdom, see Cayré (1943). For a recent retrieval of the role of eternal created feminine Wisdom in Augustine, including her role in the vision at Ostia, see Kenny (2005, 110-128). 102 Chadwick notes that for Augustine this “heaven of heaven is, like the world-soul in Porphyry (Sententiae 30), created but eternally contemplating the divine” (1991, 250n9). See also Bourke (1984, 78-90). The world-soul reappears in Boehme, via the influence of Renaissance Platonism. 103 E.g., it formed the basis for the scholastic distinction between ratio superior and ratio inferior in Thomas (e.g. Summa Theologica Vol. 4, Q. 79, Art. 9).

weight”104 are used by scientia to order and administer temporal objects. But these same mathematical ideas can be contemplated by Wisdom, for example, when the soul is ravished by the “sheer arithmetic of a beautiful piece of music,” where they appear as a revelation of beauty (12.23).105 Augustine further defines Wisdom as “worship of God,” and knowledge as the practice of virtue: “anything we do sagaciously, courageously, moderately, and justly… avoiding evil and seeking good” (12.22).106 Most notably, the two are united in Jesus Christ, “in whom are hidden all the treasures of Wisdom and knowledge” (Col 2:1; The Trinity 13.6.24).

Augustine’s reading of Genesis 2 in The Trinity books 12-14, interprets the fall and separation of the sexes figurally, as a truncation of human conscious awareness that is repeated anew in every human soul.107 We fall from Wisdom into knowledge. Originally, our eternal soul contemplated only Wisdom, represented by the primordial androgynous Adam.

But as our soul enters the temporal-material realm, part of it is “led off from that rational substance… and deputed to the task of dealing with and controlling these lower matters”

(12.1.3). Knowledge emerges out of Wisdom just as Eve emerged from the side of Adam.108 As

104 Augustine frequently mentions this triad, taken from Wisdom 11:20 (e.g. On Genesis: A Refutation of the Manichees 1.16.21; The Trinity 3.16, 11.18; TLMG 4.3-6). 105 Pythagoras and Plato considered music to be a mathematical science: a collection of tones, or vibrational frequencies, ordered in metrical time. Its beauty was thought to emerge from these eternal mathematical ideas. 106 He uses Job 28:28 as the basis of this distinction: “Behold piety is wisdom, while to abstain from evil things is knowledge” (12.4.22). 107 One might call this an existential aspect of Augustine’s doctrine of original sin. 108 Augustine’s misogyny is evident here. I will not address it directly except to say that he is somewhat aware of it, and he attempts to mitigate it by distinguishing himself from the more misogynistic theologians of the time: He rejects the idea that “man stands for the mind and the woman for the senses of the body”(12.20); he insists that both women and men are equally the image of God (12.10-21),

long as they remain united, there is no problem; as Adam and Eve were “two in one flesh,”

Wisdom and knowledge can be “two in one mind” (12.3): “a kind of rational couple of contemplation and action in the mind of everyman, with functions distributed into two several channels and yet the mind’s unity preserved in each” (12.19). The fall happens as the serpent, representing the “senses of the body” (12.20), tempts knowledge to view creation “as one’s very own private good and not as a public and common good which is what the unchangeable good is” (12.17).109 Knowledge, rather than “enjoy the whole universe of creation… strives to grab something more than the whole and to govern it by its own laws… so by being greedy for more it gets less.” Desire for the whole is “thrust back into anxiety over a part” (12.14). The result, in other words, is fallen concupiscence—desire gone wrong. As knowledge falls it is “shut off from the reasoning of Wisdom” (12.17), and if Wisdom consents, as Adam consented to Eve, it too falls into mere knowledge. Truncated human consciousness becomes devoted to exploiting the world for its own gain and amassing private property and possessions. The loss of perfect union between Wisdom and knowledge is the loss of Paradise, and the loss of direct awareness of both eternity and immortality.

For Augustine the remedy is Jesus Christ, conceived as the perfect union of Wisdom and knowledge (Col 2:1), who repairs the enmity between Adam and Eve and allows re-entry into

Paradise. Here Christ represents the expansion of human conscious awareness back to its original form. Knowledge is the temporal content of faith in Christ—his incarnation, life, death,

contradicting the most plain-sense reading of Paul in 1 Cor 11:4-10; and he insists that both have the capacity to contemplate Wisdom, through the “common nature” in their minds (12.13). 109 Here and elsewhere, Augustine seems to espouse some form of Christian socialism.

and resurrection: “all these things that the Word made flesh did and suffered for us in time and space belong… to knowledge and not to Wisdom” (13.24). Wisdom corresponds to the eternal aspect of Jesus Christ as Logos, which we glimpse in the prologue of John’s Gospel, of which

Augustine offers a brief exegesis (13.1-5). The knowledge of faith is the “conviction of things not seen” (Heb 11:1; The Trinity 13.3), and Wisdom is seeing God “face to face” (1 Cor 13:12;

The Trinity 14.6).

Notice again Augustine’s “integral vision.” The goal here is not to contemplate Wisdom in abstraction from knowledge, but to perfectly unite Wisdom and knowledge, and thus to marry contemplation with action.110 While both Wisdom and knowledge fall under visio intellectualis, knowledge “reaches down” to participate in the ordering of spiritual and corporeal vision, and when knowledge is united with Wisdom, all of this ordering is done in harmony with the archetypes of creation and the soul, and Wisdom becomes incarnate like the

Word incarnate (13.24). Thus Augustine ends his discussion of human Wisdom in The Trinity book 14, having reached the summit and the truest trinitarian image of God, with another panoramic survey of integral vision: In God “we live and move and are (Acts 17:27)… for from him and through him and in him are all things (Rom 11:36)” (14.16). “Whoever cleaves to the

Lord is one spirit (1 Cor 6:17)… So when [the mind] blissfully cleaves to [God’s] nature, it will see as unchangeable in it everything that it sees” (14.20).

1.4.3 WISDOM AND CREATION In the penultimate book of the Confessions, Augustine interprets the first sentence of the Bible to mean that God created two beings in eternity, before time: “heaven and earth.”

110 See Gilson (1960, 123) and Madec (1975, 78-81).

Here the primordial “heaven” means eternal created Wisdom who, if she mirrors God in unceasing contemplation, remains practically (but not theoretically) immutable. The primordial

“earth,” according to Augustine’s translation of the Bible, is “invisible and unorganized” with

“darkness upon the abyss”—so formless that it too is practically changeless in its chaotic state.

Thus it is a “being” with practically no ontological status. From the collision of these two eternal beings, like a coincidentia oppositorum, everything else comes into being (Confessions

12.12.15).111 We will meet these two primordial beings—Wisdom and the chaotic abyss of

Nothing—again in Boehme, although in a slightly different form.

For Augustine, the seven “days” of Genesis 1 are actually eternal archetypes that are created instantaneously and simultaneously in the “mind” or “sanctuary” of Wisdom, before time.112 These archetypes are then implanted into the formless “earth,” the temporal-material world, like invisible seeds containing in nuce their whole process of development.113 Because the “days” of creation are eternal archetypes, they can be read figurally to describe the developmental stages of both history and the human soul, among other things. The importance of these developmental patterns helps explain why Augustine made so many commentaries on

Genesis 1, and why the grand finale of the Confessions is a figural reading of its archetypes

111 In TLMG 1.9.15-17, Augustine interprets the first creative act, “Let there be light,” as the illumination of eternal created Wisdom, and the illumination of the angelic host within her. See also TLMG 1.17.32, 2.8.16, 8.20.39, 8.24.45, and 8.26.48-8.27.50. 112 Augustine justifies this view from Sirach 18:1: “He that lives forever created all things together” (TLMG 4.33.52). 113 That is, Augustine distinguishes between eternal rationes, created in Wisdom, and seminal or causal rationes which are implanted in matter (e.g. TLMG 4.33.51). On the latter see Taylor (1982, 252-254) and Gousmett (1988, 218-224).

(books 12 and 13). The most archetypal passage of the Bible is also the most fecund with spiritual meaning.114

Probably the best illustration of these archetypes comes from On Genesis: A Refutation of the Manichees, where Augustine notes that each “day” represents both an age of the world and a stage of human development. I will quote these figural readings at length, because we will see a similar approach in Boehme:

The very beginnings of the human race, you see, in which it began to enjoy this light, can be suitably compared to the first day, on which God made light. This age is to be counted as a sort of infancy of the total age of the world, which we ought to think of, in comparison with its vast extent, as one adult human being; every human being, after all, when first born and seeing the light of day, lives through the first stage of infancy. This age stretches from Adam up to Noah… A kind of evening of this day is made by the flood, because our infancy too is sort of blotted out by a flood of oblivion115 (GRM 1.23.35).

The second age runs from Noah to Abraham, corresponding to the “firmament” created on the second day, since the covenant with Noah re-affirmed that this firmament would maintain order in the cosmos. This is the stage of childhood, which we remember because our sense of self-identity and our memories are protected from the “oblivion” of the “waters below” and the

“waters above” (GRM 1.23.36). The third age runs from Abraham to David, corresponding to earth being separated from the waters on day three, just as Abraham was called out from the nations. This is the stage of adolescence, when we are “already capable of having children, just as Abraham was potentially the “father of many nations” (GRM 1.23.37). The fourth age runs from David to the Babylonian exile, corresponding to the creation of sun, moon, and stars. The

114 Similarly, the Jewish mystical tradition asserts that Genesis 1 and Ezekiel 1 (the Merkabah) are the most holy texts in the Bible, in this respect. 115 The analogy with Freud’s “infantile amnesia” is obvious here.

sun is the king, the moon is the people “complying with the royal authority like the synagogue itself, and the stars represent its leaders.” This is the stage when “youth reigns as a king” (GRM

1.23.38). The fifth age runs from the exile to the birth of Christ, corresponding to the creation of the sea creatures below and the birds of heaven above. Like these creatures, Israel in exile had an “unsettled and unstable residence” scattered “among the Gentile nations.” But Israel also blessed these nations and multiplied within them. The “great whales” were the leaders in

Israel “who were able to dominate the stormy waves of the world.” This is the stage of the

“older man” or “elder,” whose fruitfulness surrounds him (GRM 1.23.39).

The sixth age begins with Jesus Christ, corresponding to the creation of a new humanity.

The “age of the old man (Eph 4:22; Col 3:9) becomes evident” in that the “kingdom of the flesh has been thoroughly worn down.” In this context “the new man (Eph 4:24; Col 3:10) is born, who is already living according to the spirit” (GRM 1.23.40). Finally, the seventh age begins with the second coming: “those who were told, Be perfect, like your Father who is in heaven (Matt

5:48), will take their rest with Christ from all their works… after such works indeed a rest is to be hoped for on the seventh day which has no evening” (GRM 1.23.41). Augustine’ figurative reading thus reveals the strong connection between eternal archetypes and their temporal manifestation in both the world and the soul. We will soon see Boehme elaborate on this same motif.

1.5 CONCLUSION: THERAPEUTIC IMPLICATIONS Here I can only sketch the most general therapeutic implications in hopes that readers will take them further. More specific implications will emerge in later chapters as we see how

Augustine’s framework was inhabited and shaped by Boehme, Freud, and Jung. The most basic

implication is a corollary of the doctrine of the Trinity, and the consubstantiality of Father and

Son: If the goal of our soul is to mirror the Trinity, then our task in this life is to seek out all that is hidden within memory and make it fully available to conscious understanding. This is in fact the goal that Augustine pursues so beautifully in the Confessions. The archetypes are also hidden in memory, and here the word “anamnesis” and its Platonic connotation of remembering the eternal not only influenced Augustine, but through western medicine it became a crucial psychotherapeutic concept. Freud discovered that patients’ memories of what precipitated their illness often pointed to deeper hidden memories, often stretching back to childhood. Symptoms often appeared like curious echoes of these early memories, as if the symptoms themselves were either hiding the memories, or trying unsuccessfully to dig them up. And indeed Freud discovered that the disclosure of these memories to a sympathetic listener often had a remarkably healing effect. Freud noted that these deep memories often contained instinctive (and thus universal) patterns—patterns of desire—the most famous of which he called the “Oedipus complex.” Jung, in using the word “archetypes” for these universal patterns, was aware that he was inhabiting a tradition stretching back to Augustine and beyond. The big difference here would seem to be that, for Augustine, the most potent archetypes emerge from the spiritual images of Genesis 1, where the seven “days” figurally describe the structure of both the cosmos and the soul, revealing various ages and stages of development. But we will see in later chapters that Freud’s psychosexual stages and Jung’s stages of individuation can also be reconciled with the Genesis account.

For Augustine, archetypes appear not only “below,” as it were, in the hidden caverns of memory, but also “above” in the visio intellectualis of eternal Wisdom. And dreams, the nightly

ecstasies of a higher world, draw us closer to Wisdom. Their spiritual symbols are pregnant with archetypal meanings. And when interpreted correctly, according to these archetypes, dreams offer a perspective that can transcend time, spanning past, present, and future. It is thus not surprising that Freud later saw dreams as oblique revealers of a hidden past, while Jung saw them as proleptic revealers of future possibilities, and both agreed that dreams offered a higher, more objective perspective on the present situation in which the patient’s troubled ego found itself. This situation, as Augustine knew, could easily be fraught with the conflicts of dark demons, but it could also be blessed by the illumination of ministering angels. In short, like

Jacob’s dream ladder pitched between heaven and earth with angels ascending and descending, for Augustine dreams inhabit a middle realm—a conduit of communication— between time and eternity. They reveal how archetypes infuse space-time bodies and how bodies become poetically sublime. Dreams are the centrepiece of an integral vision, made possible through Jesus Christ, who called himself the living embodiment of Jacob’s dream ladder (John 2:52). As Word he is Wisdom, and as flesh he is knowledge, thus reopening the full spectrum of human consciousness and revealing Paradise.

Chapter 2: Jacob Boehme and the Imaginal Rebirth of Theological Psychology

Chapter 1 laid out the Augustinian “framework” of western theological psychology, and

Chapters 2-6 now look at how Boehme inhabits, modifies, and in many ways reanimates this framework.1 We will explore the same three themes we looked at in Augustine, this time in successive chapters: Boehme’s map of the soul (Chapter 4), followed by his theory of dreams

(Chapter 5), followed by his hermeneutic of dream interpretation, which enumerates various stages of psycho-spiritual development structured according to the archetypes of divine

Wisdom (Chapter 6). Because these themes are all central to Boehme’s mature thought, our journey simply walks through key passages of his later works, particularly the Mysterium

Magnum and the Clavis, which will be supplemented at times by his earlier works.2 But before

1 Translations of Boehme are my own unless noted, often made with the help of John Sparrow’s 17th century English translations, which were updated but not significantly altered in the four volume Richardson edition (1764-1781). Boehme’s works are cited according to the chapter and section number of Gichtel’s 1730 edition, Theosophia Revelata, published in facsimile as Jacob Böhme Sämtliche Schriften (1955-1961). Many English translations follow the chapter and section numbering of the German facsimile edition, but when they differ I have included the date and numbering of the English edition after the facsimile edition. 2 Mysterium Magnum (1622-24) is Boehme’s magnum opus—his longest, most mature, most exegetically explicit, and most comprehensive work. Weeks rightly notes that it “completes the cycle of great treatises” and “ties together in nearly 900 pages virtually everything that precedes it. In this sense, Mysterium Magnum encompasses the full Corpus of Boehme’s works… the author, at the zenith of his productive activity, is still engaged in studying and interpreting the first manifestation of his inspiration” (1991, 195-196). But as Peuckert notes, Mysterium is also Boehme’s “most unknown” work, and he wonders why “this work—his greatest in scope and most significant in content—found fewer friends than the others” (1958, 5-7, my translation). Strangely, many scholars also continue to read Boehme primarily through his early, more well-known, and more abstruse works, particularly the Aurora (1612). According to Boehme, the Aurora was written mainly for himself, and he lamented its public circulation, as well as its “knowledge” and “style” (Letters 12.12-13 [1621]/1886, 2.12-13; see also Letters 10.2ff. [1620]/1886, 3.2ff.). The fact that part three of the Mysterium represents Boehme’s most sustained and comprehensive discussion of dreams might also explain why Boehme’s dream theory has been overlooked.

we get to that, I want to provide a more general introduction to Boehme’s thought, which is notoriously difficult to wade into. The present chapter situates Boehme in relation to Augustine by surveying the historical (and historiographical) streams that converged in Boehme’s reanimation of the imaginal realm. This is followed in Chapter 3 by an introduction to Boehme’s method, ontology, and general approach, all of which help to situate him as a theological

“psychotherapist.”

As a whole these five chapters offer a portrait of Boehme’s theological psychology—his account of the soul’s transformation and rebirth (Wiedergeburt) in God—particularly in relation to dreams. And by situating Boehme in relation to the Augustinian framework we will see that, in almost every case, Boehme’s modifications of this framework represent a more phenomenological, dynamic, and embodied conception of the soul.3 That is, Boehme amplifies

Mysterium was published in 1624, the final year of Boehme’s life, alongside The Way to Christ, which is a collection of more accessible devotional tracts. The Mysterium was also intended to be published alongside the Clavis (Letters 57), which Boehme calls a “short summary” or “key to my writings,” (Clavis 6), but which was not actually published until 1647. Weeks notes that these works were part of a “calculated decision to step out of the shadows and reach out for a wider influence” (1991, 211-212). I see these three works as rather different from Boehme’s earlier works in several ways, one being that they are more orthodox, not so much because Boehme changed his previous views, but because he relates them to more traditional theological categories. In that same year (1624) Boehme was examined by the Lutheran theological inelligentsia at the court of Electoral Saxony in Dresden, which was at the time the “Rome” of Lutheranism. There, as Weeks says, “from all sides, Boehme heard repeated assurances that his works were read and loved” (1991, 213). This was certainly a different reception from the one he received in his home town of Görlitz, where charges of heresy were stirred up in 1613 by the Lutheran pastor Gregor Richter who got hold of a private copy of the Aurora. As Weeks rightly notes, “the conclusion of Boehme’s career is conducive neither to the Christian orthodox attempt to cast him as an outsider, nor to the heterodox attempt to reclaim him as the conscious founder of an alternative spiritual tradition. The history of Christianity or of Lutheranism is full of doctrines that are considered heretical and alien in one time or place but not in others. The posthumous vilification of Boehme’s memory in Görlitz was brought about by the incendiary polemics of Richter” (2006, 190). 3 We do not know if Boehme read Augustine directly, but my argument does not depend on any direct genealogy. Because Augustine basically defined the framework of theological psychology for the west, Boehme was still operating within the Augustinian paradigm, as we will see. Scholars have also noted a

Augustine’s attempt to capture the lived-experience of a soul in motion, a soul conceived as a congruence of forces in constant dynamic interplay, and a soul that is thoroughly wedded to the body. Boehme also amplifies the Augustinian idea that dreams are an important window into the soul. All of these modifications of the Augustinian framework bring Boehme into closer alignment with Freud and Jung, whom we will look at in the concluding chapter.

While in a moment we will trace in broad contours the historical streams that converged in Boehme, unfortunately, as was the case with Augustine, I do not have the space to say much about Boehme’s own socio-historical setting, although I am indebted to scholars who have done this work very well.4 Nor am I offering a psycho-history of Boehme himself.5 What I do hope to accomplish is more modest: First, quite generally, to reveal Boehme as a theological

“psychotherapist” broadly defined—a theologian who, like Augustine, is primarily concerned with soul-healing. And second, more specifically, I hope to reveal Boehme as the great wellspring of modern psychodynamic psychotherapy—the thinker who originated the field that was

more dynamic and interior reading of Augustine’s trinitarian psychology in the Rhineland mysticism of Eckhart, Tauler, and Suso, particularly in their association of the imago Trinitatis with the “ground” of the soul, which influenced Boehme (Sullivan 1963, 288-295; McGinn 2005, 146, 148, 233, 244-246, 254-262). Much has been written on Boehme’s sources but we have little direct evidence for them (see McGinn 2016, 203). 4 Especially Weeks (1991; 2013), who has made the most thorough attempt so far to historicize Boehme’s mysticism. 5 Kielholz has attempted a Freudian reading of Boehme’s work, characterizing it as a pathological “sexualization of the whole cosmos.” He also notes that Richter, the Lutheran pastor in Görlitz who led the extended campaign against Boehme, calls Boehme an “Oedipus” in one of his final and most vitriolic writings (1919, 45; in Weeks 1991, 211). From a Freudian perspective, the question is whether the oceanic feeling of “primary narcissism” reduces all mysticism to pathology. On this point, Jung was generally more affirming of mysticism and less psychologically reductionistic than Freud, as we will see. My view (again) is that Freudian critiques of Boehme are somewhat anachronistic, if they do not first note how Boehme’s thought gave rise to so many basic Freudian categories. Using Freudian categories, we could just as easily say that Freudian critiques of Boehme involve an (unconscious) desire to kill the Father, continuing Freud’s attempt to establish psychoanalysis as a pure science with no religious precursors.

later inhabited by Freud and Jung. On this front Boehme’s first great legacy is his concept of the hidden dark aspect of the soul, a concept that is specific enough to bear an uncanny resemblance to the “unconscious mind” of psychodynamic psychotherapy, and a concept that is also broad enough to encompass the debates about the unconscious that embroiled Freud and Jung. Boehme, I am arguing, defines the larger field within which these later debates took place. We will look at Boehme’s proto-unconscious, along with the rest of his map of the soul, in Chapter 4.

Related to this is Boehme’s second great legacy: his concept of a spontaneous, creative, revelatory, and therapeutic imagination that appears nightly in dreams, which we will first explore generally in Chapter 5. More specifically, the products of this imagination mark stages and transitions on a developmental and therapeutic path of spiritual rebirth (Wiedergeburt), which we will explore in Chapter 6. Some of the most striking similarities between Boehme,

Freud, and Jung will emerge as we compare the precise character of these stages and transitions on the developmental path. Here Boehme anticipates both Freud’s psychosexual stages and Jung’s journey of individuation. For Boehme, the journey of rebirth is structured by the seven archetypes of Wisdom, which he never tires of describing, almost always from a slightly new angle or facet.6 In brief, these seven qualities,7 as they manifest in the fallen world and the fallen soul, are (1) the abyss, (2) lust-desire, (3) anguish-anger, (4) fire-light, (5) love-

6 In possibly his most creative insight, Weeks describes how Boehme’s seven major works generally correlate with the seven qualities of Wisdom, noting that in each work the seven qualities are described from a different perspective (1991, 160, 165-75). This might imply that all of the seven qualities can appear on each of seven different levels—a motif also present in the kabbalah, where each sephira also contains the whole set of sephirot. 7 Boehme refers to the seven “qualities” (Qualitäten) of Wisdom also as “source-spirits” (Quellgeister), “forms” (Gestalten), or “properties” (Eigenschaften).

desire, (6) understanding (Verstand), and (7) body (corpus). But in their original goodness, and in their redeemed state, these seven qualities manifest according to the symbolism of the seven days of creation (the Hexameron), similar to what we saw in Augustine.

2.1 IMAGINAL REBIRTH We have already noted that this imaginal realm—the middle-tier of Augustine’s threefold schema—was viewed with increasing ambivalence throughout the medieval period.

In a moment we will see that mystical theologians of various stripes—the Victorines Hugh (ca.

1096-1141) and Richard (d. 1173), the Franciscan Bonaventure (1221-1274), right up to the early-modern Carmelites Teresa of Avila (1515-1582) and John of the Cross (1542-1591)—all tended to exclude dreams and visions from their definition of true mysticism,8 even as recorded accounts of these phenomena proliferated in the “flood of visionary narratives” that began in the 13th century (McGinn 1998, 25). With Boehme the imaginal realm is reborn, both theoretically and practically. And it is reborn precisely in the Augustinian form of an inclusive hierarchy of “integral vision”—as a “mesocosm” that mediates between eternal ideas and temporal bodies, in both the soul and the cosmos. For Boehme, Wisdom is this imaginal realm.

She is the “divine imagination” (Clavis 19) in which the human imagination can participate. And

8 Because they are Boehme’s contemporaries, I will quote Teresa and John on this point. Teresa defines mysticism as follows: “I used unexpectedly to experience a consciousness of the presence of God of such a kind that I could not possibly doubt that he was within me... This was in no sense a vision: I believe that it is called mystical theology” (Life of St. Teresa 1.10, quoted in McGinn 1991, xiii). John’s definition is similar: “The soul that will ascend to this perfect union with God, must be careful not to lean upon imaginary visions, forms, figures, and particular intelligible objects, for these things can never serve as proportionate or proximate means towards so great an end; yea, rather they are an obstacle in the way, and therefore to be guarded against and rejected” (Ascent of Mount Carmel 1. ii. cap. xvi, quoted in Underhill 1955, 281).

Boehme’s preferred name for her, the “Virgin Sophia,” has a distinct Marian overtone that points to her role as Mediatrix in both the micro- and macrocosm. In her, through the Spirit, the

Word becomes incarnate.9 In her the divine body takes shape. And we will soon see that the goal of Boehme’s theological psychotherapy is precisely this birth of God in the soul, which includes the creation of a divine or spiritual body.

By the time of Boehme, particularly in the Catholic church, the upper Augustinian realm of visio intellectualis was viewed as a discrete and separate realm of imageless ecstasy. And this was the proper goal of the mystic’s path—a goal that tended to reflect a soul freed of all earthly and bodily struggles, at least for the moment of its ecstasy. It could even reflect a soul that was simply dissociated from these struggles, and thus dissociated from itself, its own body, and the daily life around it.10 This dissociation is precisely the opposite of the integral vision that I foregrounded in Augustine, and that we will see amplified in Boehme. And I believe that this dynamic of dissociation vs. integration of mind and body has profound implications for how we understand not only spiritual experiences, but western culture as a whole in both the past and present, although I do not have the space to pursue these implications here. Suffice it to say that, when the Lutheran Reformation released some of the strictures on both biblical interpretation and spiritual experience, it is remarkable how the imaginal realm was so quickly and so thoroughly reanimated and rehabilitated, in both theology and practice, and not without

9 As the Nicene Creed puts it, “Et incarnates est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine.” 10 Carolyn Walker Bynum brilliantly questions this view of female mystics as escaping bodily life, although she nonetheless admits, “Does this mean that women wished to eschew physicality and become spirit?... there is certainly some evidence to support such an interpretation” (1987, 212). I will have more to say about her contribution shortly.

controversy.11 Connecting spirituality to the daily, bodily life of ordinary people was of course one of the central aims of the Reformation. Imaginal rebirth will thus be our guiding concept through the next five chapters, as we explore both how, in an historical sense, the imaginal was reborn in Boehme’s work, and how Boehme himself understands the imaginal as the primary locus of spiritual rebirth (Wiedergeburt)—as that place where divine ideas take flesh, and where bodies and bodily life become sublime.

2.2 BOEHME’S IMAGINAL REALM IN HISTORICAL CONTEXT Several scholars have noted Boehme’s crucial role in the rebirth of the western imaginal, which is evident in two successive historical waves. First, beginning in the 17th century,

Boehme directly influenced a host of thinkers on the Continent12—many of them classed by historians as “pietists” or “esotericists” (or both).13 During the same century Boehme’s work spread to England where it influenced many circles, including many factions of the “dissenters”

11 The first flashpoint of controversy was probably the 1524-25 peasants’ revolt, supported by Thomas Müntzer, who was inspired by certain dreams and visions to champion basic agrarian rights for indentured farmers. The history of the influence of dreams on the birth of human rights and the concept of “the commons” is a fascinating one (see e.g. Hill 1972; Thompson 1963; 1993; Sobel 2000). Luther vilified Müntzer and encouraged the aristocracy to swiftly crush the rebellion, which resulted in some 1-300,000 poorly armed peasants being slaughtered. Luther’s concept of the Shwärmer (“dreamer” or “extremist”), which influenced German thought right up to Kant and beyond, “was shaped above all” by Müntzer (La Vopa 1997, 92). 12 For a good summary see Faivre (2000, 10-48). Boehme’s influence was felt far beyond his explicit disciples, who included, in Germany, Abraham von Franckenberg (1593-1652) and Johann Theodor von Tschech (1595-1649), who spread Boehme’s works throughout Europe, Johann Georg Gichtel (1638- 1710), Quirinus Kuhlmann (1651-1689), who took Boehme to Russia and was eventually burned at the stake in Moscow, Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), better known as the poet Angelus Silesius, Gottfried Arnold (1666-1714), and to some extent Gottfried Leibniz (1646-1716; see Edel 2018); in France, the “quietists” Antoinette Bourignon (1616-1680) and Pierre Poiret (1646-1719). On Boehme’s influence in the Netherlands see Heijting (1973). And on Boehme’s strong influence in Finland see Mansikka (2008). 13 Mansikka asks in the perceptive title of his paper, “Did the Pietists Become Esotericists When They Read the Works of Jacob Boehme?” (2008).

(not just the “Behmenists”) who fueled the ferment of the English Revolution (1640-1660).14 In the second wave Boehme became a central influence on 19th century Romanticism, both in

England and on the Continent.15 And it seems that wherever Boehme’s influence was felt it sparked a renewed interest in dreams and their interpretation.16 But while historians are beginning to reach some consensus on Boehme’s vast legacy, they have yet to find much agreement on how to locate him in terms of the streams of thought that preceded him.

14 Boehme’s most direct followers in England included his faithful translator, the barrister and linguist John Sparrow, who hoped that Boehme would bring peace to the Babel of religious discord of his day, and the “Philadelphians” John Pordage (1608-1681) and Jane Leade (1623-1704). The “Cambridge Platonists” Henry More (1614-1618), Peter Sterry (1613-1672), and Ralph Cudworth (1617-1688), were all appreciative of Boehme but ambivalent, especially about his more enthusiastic followers (Hedley 2018). Boehme’s influence can also be detected in John Milton (1608-1683; see Bailey 1914) and Isaac Newton (1642-1727; see Hobhouse 1937). Hessayon notes that during and after the English Revolution “engagement with Boehme’s teachings was… more extensive at this crucial moment in English history than has usually been recognized” (Hessayon 2014, 77). In the 18th century Boehme strongly influenced, in Germany, Friedrich Chistoph Oetinger (1702-1782), and, in Britain, William Law (1686-1761) and Dionysius Andreas Freher (1649-1728). 15 The “second golden age” of Boehme’s influence shaped the romantic movement including, in Germany, Franz von Baader (1765-1841), and F.W.J. Schelling (1775-1854), Friedrich von Hardenberg (1722-1801), better known as Novalis, Johann Wilhelm Ritter (1776-1810), Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert (1780-1860), Carl Gustav Carus (1789-1869), Carl August von Eschenmayer (1768-1852), Friedrich Schlegel (1772-1829), Gustav Theodor Fechner (1801-1887), and Johann Friedrich von Meyer (1772-1849); and, in England, William Blake (1757–1827), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834), and William Wordsworth (1770–1850) (see Hannak 2014; Jessen 2014). 16 For example, Boehme’s influence on the understanding of dreams in England during this period is evident in the many extant dream-visions of the “Philadelphian Society” of Jane Lead and John Pordage (see Apetrei 2010; 2014; Bowerbank 2004); in John Beale’s Treatise on the Art of Interpreting Dreams, which argues that Christians have a moral duty to observe their dreams (Scott 2013); in Phillip Goodwin’s Mystery of Dreames (1658), which is an anomaly among orthodox and conformist writings in its suggestion that angelic dream influences might occasionally predominate over demonic ones (Scott 2014, 152); and in Thomas Tryon’s Treatise of Dreams and Visions (1689). The uniqueness of Boehme-inspired dream theories is evident when we compare them, for example, to Richard Burton’s basically pathological view of dreams in his popular Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), or Henry More’s rationalist dream skepticism in Enthusiasmus Triumphatus (1656). And yet More also embraces certain aspects of Boehme’s thought. In terms of Boehme’s influence on Romanticism, Ellenberger rightly notes that “there is hardly a Romantic philosopher or poet who did not express his ideas on dreams” (1970, 204). On this romantic dream world that connected poets, philosophers, and scientists see especially Lersch (1923), Béguin (1939), and Ripa (1988).

Scholars have tended not only to locate but often to assimilate Boehme within one of three historical streams: (1) the stream of Renaissance Hermeticism and magic, particularly as this was distilled by Paracelsus and his followers; (2) the stream of Christian mysticism, particularly as this appears in the “Rhineland” or “speculative” mysticism of Eckhart, Tauler,

Suso, and the Theologia Deutsch; and (3) the stream of the Lutheran Reformation and its return to the biblical mythos as the foundation for theology. As we briefly wade into these three streams, the focus will be on locating Boehme in relation to Augustine’s concept of threefold vision and the mediating imaginal realm of visio spiritualis. It will soon become obvious that my preference tilts toward the third stream: I tend to read Boehme as first and foremost a

Lutheran who depended primarily on Luther’s Bible, while not neglecting the science of his day.

More importantly, I see this third stream not only as the most accurate, but as the most theoretically capacious in that it allows for a partial synthesis of the other two. The fact that

Boehme can be convincingly positioned in each of these streams points to the remarkable synthetic quality of his work—its ability to accommodate diverse perspectives. The fact that he does not fit neatly into any one pigeonhole also points to his remarkable originality—no idea enters Boehme’s thought unchanged. And the fact that scholars have not, to my knowledge, noted the distinctions we will explore below points to some fairly large lacunae in Boehme research,17 which have made him, as McGinn says, “a bone of contention for interpreters”

(2016, 172).

17 In her recent introduction to an issue of Aries devoted to Boehme, Lucinda Martin notes that he remains “woefully under-researched” and points to some institutional and historiographical reasons for this (2018).

2.3 BOEHME AS MAGUS The scholarship of Antoine Faivre and his colleagues locates Boehme in the historical stream of Renaissance Hermeticism. And Faivre in turn is indebted to the pioneering work of

Frances Yates, who first uncovered the surprising influence of Renaissance Hermetic magic, and mysterious groups like the Rosicrucians, on early modern thought (1964; 1972). In short, Yates brought the suspect area of “occultism”18 under the purview of serious historical scholarship.

And building on this, Faivre has almost single-handedly defined an historical field called

“western esotericism,” which now has an impressive body of work.19 Faivre calls Boehme the

“prince of western esotericism” (1994, 64). More specifically, within western esotericism Faivre identifies several currents, among the most important of which is “theosophy.”20 For Faivre,

Boehme’s Aurora is “the definitive birth of the theosophical current strictly speaking,” and

Boehme’s work as a whole represents “something like the nucleus of that which constitutes the classical theosophical corpus” (2000, 7).

18 The adjective “occult,” meaning “secret” or “hidden,” can be distinguished from the substantive “occultism,” a word that emerged in the 19th century Enlightenment context as a pejorative term, and which helped marginalize a good deal of the Renaissance thought described below, which had already been marginalized earlier by Rome (see Hanegraaff 2006, 884ff). Following the romantic attempt to reconcile religion and science, around 1850 these two fields were emphatically prised apart as scientific positivism rose to ascendency, and the romantic spirit seemed to descend into popular “spiritualism” and “occultism.” This split had much to do with the later split between Freud and Jung. Jung notes that Freud asked him to protect his sexual theory at all cost, “against the black tide of mud… of occultism,” but Jung found this approach too dogmatic (Jung 1963, 150). 19 See the excellent Dictionary of Gnosis and Western Esotericism edited by Wouter Hanegraaff, in collaboration with Faivre and others. See also Aries: Journal for the Study of Western Esotericism. For a good historical overview of the development of this field see Faivre (2000, xiii-xxxv). 20 Faivre admits that both “esotericism” and “theosophy” are contested terms, and in using them to structure his historiography he does an admirable job of defining them according to historical data, while also admitting that any such definitions will be historically selective (Faivre 2000, xiii-xxx, 3-9).

Faivre’s historical lineage of western esotericism emphasizes the Italian Renaissance, particularly Marsilio Ficino (1433-1499) and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463-1494). Ficino is the chief architect of a prisca theologia (“ancient theology”), which in Ficino’s words is “a single system… harmonious in every part, which traced its origins to Mercury [or Hermes] and reached full perfection with the divine Plato.”21 Ficino’s early dating of the Corpus

Hermeticum22 led him to see its supposed author, Hermes Trismegistus, as “the founder of theology,” and with him Zoroaster, Orpheus, Pythagoras, the Sibyls, and Plato, as the founders of a coherent philosophical-theological system, which was inherited by Moses, and which culminated in Jesus Christ.23 Into this remarkable amalgam Ficino’s student, Pico della

Mirandola, injected a Christianized version of Jewish kabbalah, which he likewise dated back to the time of Moses.24 Faivre emphasizes the theurgic or magical aspect of this prisca theologia, which flowed into German thought via the Christian Hebraist and kabbalist Johannes Reuchlin

(1455-1522), and was then give a kind of systematic coherence in the work of Cornelius Agrippa

21 This is from Ficino’s introduction to his translation of the Hermetic Pimander (1471). 22 Scholars today generally think that the diverse texts of the Corpus Hermeticum were compiled around the 2nd or 3rd century CE. 23 According to his definition of “western esotericism,” Faivre does not emphasize the fact that, as McGinn notes, for Ficino and Pico the prisca theologia finds “its providential fulfillment in the incarnation of the Word and the teaching of the New Testament as enriched and passed on by Christian theologians, notably Dionysius (whom Renaissance thinkers believed to be Paul’s most fervent disciple), Augustine of Hippo, and Thomas Aquinas” (2012, 251). Scholars debate whether Ficino saw Hermes Trismegistus primarily as a theologus or as a magus (see e.g. Copenhaver 1993, 162-165). 24 Scholars today generally agree with Scholem (1965) that the main kabbalistic text, the Zohar, was written by Moses de Léon in 13th century Spain, although the text itself claims to be the work of the 2nd century Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. Yet scholars also acknowledge other forms of Jewish mysticism, such as the Hekhalot and Merkabah literature, which go back much further. The recent work of biblical scholar Margaret Barker (2012) intriguingly postulates a form of Jewish mysticism dating back to the First Temple period that significantly involves Wisdom as a female figure—represented by the seven branched candelabra that, before Josiah’s reforms, was present in the holy of holies. The resonances between Barker’s reconstructed first temple mysticism and Boehme are wildly interesting.

von Nettesheim (1487-1535). This Hermetic-kabbalistic-theurgic stream was then wedded more deeply and speculatively to medicine and the healing arts by the enigmatic Swiss-German thinker Paracelsus (1493-1541). For Faivre, in Boehme’s work “above all, it should be emphasized, we find Paracelsism” (2000, 7).

For our purposes this is important because the ontology and epistemology of this historical stream are very close to Augustine’s tripartite schema. Ficino, Pico, Reuchlin, and

Agrippa all divide the cosmos quite clearly into three levels: 1) the terrestrial material world of the elements; (2) the astral world of stars, planets, and the anima mundi or World Soul, which is accessed through the creative imagination; and (3) the intellectual world of pure ideas and angelic hierarchies. Each world is structured by the influence of those above it, just as we saw with Augustine’s inclusive hierarchy of vision. In fact, Ficino may have been following Augustine when he made this tripartite schema central to his prisca theologia.25 But Ficino bends this system toward a very cautious and reserved kind of “natural magic” in the astral realm, in which the practitioner can guide the influence of the stars and planets imaginatively, by creating artistic “talismans” that channel beneficial astral influences into the material realm.

For example, Yates notes that Renaissance paintings of Venus can be seen as examples of

Ficino’s talismanic magic, thought to produce “healthful, rejuvenating, anti-Saturnian influences on the beholder” (1964, 77). The medical application of these beneficial astral influences became central for Paracelsus and his followers. For Paracelsus the “signatures” of the stars

25 Ficino outlines his tripartite schema in Libri de vita, book 3 (1489), where he also discusses Augustine’s “seminal reasons,” which he seems to locate in the World Soul of the second level. For an overview of the tripartite schema in these thinkers see Yates (1964, 62-144), Jones (1959, 134-139) and Hanegraaff (2006, 7, 364-6, 951, 992).

and planets are present in every aspect of material creation, and like Ficino he is primarily concerned with “drawing down” these astral influences for therapeutic purposes.26

But already in this brief description we begin to see sharp differences between Boehme and the Hermetic-magical stream. As we will see shortly, the astral and elemental worlds correspond to what Boehme calls the outer world, the outer soul (the Holy Spirit soul-element) and to outward human reason (Vernunft), which are not his primary concern. Boehme is aware of the magical correspondences that operate here, according to the vast interconnected web of the World Soul, and he sometimes mentions the natural magicians who make use of these astral forces, not doubting the efficacy of their procedures. These natural magicians included the scientists and physicians of Boehme’s day, and we know that there were more than a few admirers of Paracelsus in Görlitz, even within Boehme’s close circle.27 But Boehme is simply not interested in any kind of talismanic or imaginative manipuIation of these outer astral forces for personal gain. Rather, like Augustine, Boehme continually directs his readers inward and upward, away from the astral-elemental outer world, and toward the inner eternal dark and light worlds of the soul, where the focus is not on manipulating but on understanding (through

26 Like Ficino, Paracelsus is primarily concerned with the lower two levels of the tripartite schema, but in Paracelsus’ later magnum opus, the Astronomia Magna (1538), he also speaks of the third level of “religion,” which surpasses “astronomy,” and which is ruled not by the “light of nature,” but the “light of the Holy Ghost” (Hanegraaff 2006, 922-31). This later work was not always emphasized by Paracelsus’ followers, or by later historians. 27 Weeks describes the Paracelsians in Görlitz, including the mayor Bartolomäus Scultetus, who corresponded with Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler and “dominated the intellectual life of his city.” Weeks also notes that in 1570 a book printed in Görlitz denounced the “unheard-of blasphemies and lies which Paracelsus spewed out against God, His Word, and the laudable art of medicine” (1991, 27-31). Paracelsus’ many followers were a diverse group who did not always adhere closely to their master’s teachings (Hanegraaff 2006, 915-22).

Verstand) the seven qualities of Wisdom. In so doing Boehme continually moves his readers beyond any self-willed astral-elemental theurgy into the much more significant realm of divine grace and revelation. And this differentiates Boehme from Paracelsus and his followers, whose writings tend to reflect the self-willed bombast of the magus.28 Rather than manipulating the divine order for personal gain, Boehme wants to help the soul realize its rightful place within this order, through the releasement (Gelassenheit) of self-will into divine grace.29

While Ficino’s “natural magic” in the astral and elemental worlds was quite cautious,

Pico della Mirandola’s kabbalistic magic was far more ambitious, invoking the angels (and hopefully excluding the demons) of the intellectual world. At age 23, the determined Pico went to Rome with 900 theses or Conclusions in which he attempted to prove that kabbalah could reconcile all known philosophies and sects—pagan, Christian, Jewish, and Muslim.30 And his introduction to these theses became a classic Renaissance humanist manifesto: Oration on the

Dignity of Man (1487). Pico’s kabbalistic magic is meant to surpass his teacher’s astral- elemental magic, since Ficino unfortunately did not read Hebrew, which as Pico points out in thesis 22 is a prerequisite for any decent magical operation. But the young kabbalist was also less wary of ecclesiastical censure than his teacher, which landed him in jail briefly at the request of Pope Innocent VIII.

28 “Bombast” was quite literally Paracelsus’ middle name. And yet Paracelsus’ final work marks something of a change (see p. 89 note 26 above). Boehme distances himself from the Paracelsians quite early in his writings (e.g. Aurora 23.107-8). 29 Thus, contra Faivre’s tendency in the historiography of “western esotericism,” I agree with Weeks that “Boehme scholarship needs to look beyond the frequent tendency to segregate the author in an esoteric tradition” (2006, 191). 30 Fabrizio Lelli calls this “Pico’s attempt to create an all-comprehensive system of knowledge, intended to embrace and reconcile the most different rational and religious disciplines” (in Hanegraaff 2006, 950).

For our purposes, the important thing is this: Pico is clear that his angelic realm of

“pure” kabbalah corresponds to the intellectual part of the soul—Augustine’s visio intellectualis—and yet, for Pico, access to this realm is granted largely through the imagination.31 Here we begin to see the imaginative life of visio spiritualis creeping into the highest realm of visio intellectualis, likely through the influence of kabbalistic ideas. This trend will become more pronounced in Boehme. But again, notwithstanding this expansion of imaginative visio spiritualis into the highest realm, and the fact that Boehme shares both Pico’s ecumenical aspirations32 and his emphasis on angelic hierarchies,33 we do not find Pico’s magical ambitions in Boehme, ambitions that became even more pronounced in Agrippa’s

Occult Philosophy (1533).34 In short, where the Hermetic-kabbalistic-magical stream emphasizes the magus ascending, Boehme emphasizes grace descending. Where Pico’s and Agrippa’s ideal magus uses ceremonial operations to climb through the angelic hierarchies,35 Boehme’s ideal

31 See Pico (Conclusions 9.16-18, 9.26, 11.12). As Yates notes “The operations of pure Cabala are done in the intellectual part of the soul. This immediately marks them off from the operations of natural magic, which are done only with the natural spiritus.” And yet this kabbalistic magic “worked through the imagination, by conditioning the imagination through various ways of life and rituals towards receiving inwardly the divine forms of the natural gods” (1964, 99, 103). 32 Pico’s ecumenical aspirations were also passed on to Reuchlin, whose De verbo mirifico (1494) attempts to unite all known religious systems. 33 On this see Weeks (1991, 78-81). 34 Lelli speaks of a general scholarly consensus that sees “Pico’s speculation as an attempt to transcend physical limits to search for a superior spirituality by means of occult kabbalistic techniques…” (Hanegraaff 2006, 952). 35 In his later years Pico distanced himself from both astral divination and ceremonial invocation, and also donned the Dominican habit. More recent scholarship has emphasized his orthodoxy (Hanegraaff 2006, 943-4).

Christian remains earth-bound, humbly turns inward, and through introspection, confession, stillness, and the nightly imaginative world of dreaming, encounters the grace of Wisdom.

That said, it must be admitted that Boehme inherited a great deal from this Hermetic- magical stream, and particularly the central importance it confers to the imagination.36 In fact,

Boehme often uses the word “magia” as a kind of shorthand for the imaginal realm. For

Boehme, God creates the world through magia: Wisdom is the imagination of God (Clavis 19) and her seven qualities, described in the seven eternal days of Genesis 1, are not only archetypes but drives,37 meaning that through them everything in the cosmos not only comes into being, but continually subsists. For Boehme, divine “magia” thus emphasizes the fact that divine imagination continually “makes substance,” and “creates where nothing is” (Forty

Questions 13.5/1764, 13.9). The archetypal image-language of the seven qualities of Wisdom, and their web of interconnecting forces, continually influence and sustain all things. For

Boehme, the fabric of existence, both eternal and temporal, is imaginative, and the continuous divine creative drive within this symbolic imagination is magia.38

36 Wolfson says that “the aspect of Boehme’s incarnational theosophy that is most indebted to the kabbalah concerns the role he assigns to the imagination…” and for support Wolfson quotes Boehme’s Quaestiones Theosophicae: “For what the angels will and desire is by their imagination brought into shape and forms [das wird durch ihre Imaginirung in Bildung und Formen gebracht], which forms are pure ideas [eitel Ideen]” (2018, 29). Faivre also notes that Paracelsus was remarkable for the importance “he confers on the imagination, the queen of faculties, understood as essentially active and creative” (2000, xvi). Along with the influence of Paracelsus Faivre notes Heinrich Khunrath (1560-1605), whose Amphitheatrum Sapientiae Aeternae (1595 and 1609) “dedicated to Divine Wisdom, would almost certainly have caught Boehme’s attention.” Faivre says this work inaugurated a “theosophical iconography—a ‘theosophy of the image,’” which “had considerable influence on most of the esoteric currents in the 17th century” (2000, 7, 11, 13). 37 Early in the Aurora Boehme defines a quality (Qualität) as the “mobility, surging, or driving (Trieben) of a thing” (Aurora 1.3). The word Trieb (drive) later became very important for Freud. 38 See e.g. Forty Questions (1.118, 19.7, 30.19, 20-21, 82/1764, 1.177, 19.10, 30.22, 24-5, 95).

The human imagination is also magical, in that it too can create out of nothing, for better or worse. Most importantly, the human imagination can understand and participate in the workings of divine magia, and it is precisely this understanding (Verstand) that Boehme is trying to inspire in his readers. In regard to human imagination Boehme clearly distinguishes between good and evil magia.39 We will soon see that evil or false magia is a product of the

“two-fold” soul, where the self-will or “I-ness” (Ichheit) harnesses the evil qualities of the eternal dark world to manipulate the space-time world for its own benefit. That is, false magia basically corresponds to the self-willed magical manipulations of the Hermetic-magical stream described above. While Boehme admits that these manipulations have short-term benefits, they also tend to produce unintended negative consequences by destabilizing the natural order. Boehme’s good or true magia is not really magic at all according to the prevailing

Hermetic definition, since it does not involve the self-will of the magus. True magia describes the process of the soul’s rebirth in the seven qualities of divine Wisdom, whereby self-will surrenders (in Gelassenheit) to the divine will, and the “two-fold” soul becomes “three-fold” and trinitarian, transformed from darkness into light by divine grace. For Boehme the ultimate pattern for this divine magical path is the life of Christ, who not only reveals the path but provides the desire to pursue it and the power to complete it (e.g. Signature 7.28-81/1781,

7.26-75).40 The reborn soul can understand (through Verstand) divine magia, in the basic sense

39 False magic is discussed especially in Forty Questions, and Incarnation. It is summarized again in Mysterium Magnum (e.g. 11.1-26, 68.24). See Weeks (2013, 57). 40 The Christocentric and cruciform nature of Boehme’s theology has generally been underemphasized by his recent interpreters. Boehme’s “divine magical process” includes the whole life of Christ: “In the sweet name, Jesus Christ, the whole process is contained… the wise seeker should consider the whole process of Christ’s humanity, from his opening of the womb of his mother Mary, to his resurrection and ascension”

that it can see what God is doing in the world and participate in the divine will, just as the biblical prophets did (Forty Questions 38.2-3).

Thus while Boehme’s use of magia signals that he has inherited the Renaissance

Hermetic reanimation of the imaginal, he also resituates the ascending self-will of the magus within the greater boundary of descending divine grace. To conclude this section, let me simply note that for Faivre, “western esotericism” is defined in contrast to “mysticism.” The imaginal realm “makes the difference between what is mystical and what is esoteric… the mystic—in the very classical sense—aspires to a more or less complete suppression of images” (2000, xxiii).41 It would seem that, for Faivre, if Boehme is an “esotericist,” then he cannot be a “mystic,” which brings us to our next topic.

(Signature 7.28, 7.35/1781, 7.26, 7.32). Boehme’s Christology affirms both the Chalcedonian hypostatic union (Signature 7.45/1781, 7.40; Incarnation 1.9.11-12/1764, 1.9.21-23) and the doctrine of two wills (“dyothelitism”) from the sixth ecumenical council (Signature 7.63-65/1781, 7.58-60). While Boehme does not use the term, “prevenient grace” is implied throughout this process (Signature 7.44/1781, 7.39). All of the above are characteristic features of Lutheran theology. For Boehme, “the light of nature dwells in the light of grace” (MM 34.14), and thus while this “divine magical process” has alchemical analogies in the astral-elemental realm, it is superior to them. 41 Faivre makes this distinction in his section on “Imagination and mediations,” which is one of six “basic characteristics” by which he circumscribes the field of “western esotericism,” and he also notes it as a key aspect of “theosophy” (2000, xxi-xxv, 8). To be fair, Faivre concedes that “such a distinction is only a matter of methodological convenience. In practice, there is sometimes much esotericism among the mystics (let us think of Saint Hildegard), and one observes a pronounced mystical tendency in some esotericists (Louis-Claude de Saint-Martin, for example)” (xxiii). I will be emphasizing this ambiguity in what follows. Faivre also notes that the concept of imagination in Boehme’s “theosophical” successors has precursors in both the western esoteric tradition and the Christian mystical tradition: “This faculty may of course be compared with the human mens (noûs) according to the Corpus Hermeticum, and with the spark of the soul (Seelenfunken) found in Meister Eckhart” (2000, 33).

2.4 BOEHME AS MYSTIC Boehme’s work has also been situated within the Christian mystical tradition,42 but here the historiographical category tends to frame Boehme in a more inferior light: where the

Hermetic-magical stream casts Boehme as a fairly typical magus, or even a remarkable one, the

Christian mystical stream casts him as a fairly poor mystic, or at least a rather confused one.

And both of these characterizations have tended to marginalize Boehme in terms of mainstream historiography, whether by church or secular historians. My own view hopes to mitigate this marginalization on both fronts: I think Boehme generally subordinates the magical will of the Hermetic stream within a Lutheran (and Augustinian) doctrine of grace; and I see

Boehme’s mysticism as a reformist response to longstanding and deeply felt issues within the

Catholic mystical tradition itself, through a Lutheran return to Scriptural mythos. Boehme’s reformist response also reclaims an inclusive rather than a discrete view of Augustinian threefold vision, as we will see in a moment.

One of the most recent and impressive scholars to frame Boehme in relation to western

Christian mysticism is Bernard McGinn, who sees Boehme as “an outsider, brilliant and obscure, attractive and mystifying,” who “created his own reenvisioning of Christianity,” and whose views are “outliers to the main Christian tradition.” For McGinn, "it is legitimate to ask to what extent Boehme can be considered a Christian mystic," and thus he reluctantly creates a new category for Boehme, calling him a “theosophical or pansophical mystic” (2016, 148, 195-7).43

42 See e.g. Steiner (1911), Weeks (1993), O’Regan (2017). In this historical stream Boehme is often compared to the Rhineland mysticism of Eckhart, Tauler, Suso, and the Theologia Deutsche. 43 McGinn helpfully points out that his reading of Boehme was “much aided” by Weeks (1991), O’Regan (2002), and Walsh (1983) (2016, 205). The influence of the latter two scholars is particularly evident in McGinn’s view of Boehme as an “outsider.”

While I hesitate to offer any critique of McGinn’s magisterial oevre, the issues I will foreground below are taken from McGinn’s own account, so I hope they will not be overly controversial.

That is, I want to use McGinn’s own historiography to contend that Boehme’s approach has some fairly significant antecedents in the western mystical tradition itself, and thus that he is more of a reformist “insider” than an “outsider.”

In his multivolume history, McGinn generally follows the definition of mysticism given by prominent Christian mystics themselves, which tends to see the imaginal realm of dreams and visions as distinct from, and inferior to, the imageless ecstasy of visio intellectualis. As

McGinn says, “visions of the corporeal or imaginative types carefully delineated by Augustine, do not constitute the essence of mysticism.”44 He thus distinguishes between “visionaries” and

“mystics,” while allowing that some visionaries are also mystics.45 The ambivalence I want to foreground becomes apparent in what McGinn calls the new type of vision, “which began in the twelfth century and become predominant in the later middle ages.” While McGinn does not note this, from his description it seems that these new visions are moving closer to the more

44 In McGinn’s first volume, Augustine is the only figure who is given his own chapter as “The Founding Father,” and McGinn takes Augustine’s threefold schema of vision as paradigmatic for everything that follows, similar to my own approach here. 45 McGinn actually posits three categories: “visionaries, whose visions may or may not be mystical in content, depending on whether or not they involve direct contact with the divine,” “mystics… who recount experiences of the immediate presence of God,” and “mystical authors, who have not only had such experience, but have written and taught about the process of attaining and living out lives based on mystical experience of God’s presence” (1994, 326-7). Thus McGinn says that whether a vision is “mystical” should be taken on a case-by-case basis (1994, 325-7). But in order to evaluate a vision, we must first know what it means, and here I think the mystical authors McGinn foregrounds leave us very few resources. Even the extensive literature on “discernment of spirits” offers little help, as it tends to dismiss anything it cannot easily understand. What we need is precisely what Boehme’s work offers us: an interpretive guide to the symbols of dreams and visions.

mundane narratives of dreams, in that they tend to be “shorter,” more “repeatable,” and less

“otherworldly,” meaning that they do not typically involve journeys to heaven or hell. They also frequently involve “an encounter with a heavenly figure” (1994, 325-6)46 which is a longstanding dream motif stretching back to the ancient world.47 And of course many of these new visions took place in dreams.48

As an example of this new type, McGinn describes the visions of Rupert of Deutz (1077-

1129), which are “mostly dream visions in which he is lightly sleeping” (1994, 329). And here

McGinn notes a striking feature: The visions of Rupert

seem to be of the kind Augustine would have called visio spiritualis… but their overall intent… was to grant the monk something more like an Augustinian visio intellectualis of the inner truth of the Bible. Indeed, the abbot of Deutz is highly traditional in his insistence that it is in relation to the biblical text itself that what we call mystical experience is both possible and actually realized. In the prefatory letter to his Commentary on the Apocalypse (ca. 1121), he wrote to Archbishop Frederick of Cologne, “When we read or understand scripture aren’t we seeing God face-to-face? Truly, the vision of God which will be made perfect at some day is already begun here through scripture” (1994, 333).

I want to emphasize the continuity here between imagination and visio intellectualis, and the related continuity between biblical imagery and visio intellectualis, because I am suggesting that Boehme is quite similar to Rupert in this regard.

46 McGinn is following Dinzelbacher (1981) in his description of this new type of vision. 47 See Oppenheim’s form critical approach to dreams in the ancient near east (Sumeria, Akkad, Babylonia, Assyria, the Hittite Empire, and Egypt) where “message dreams” typically begin with the appearance of a divinity or divine messenger (1956). For the influence of Oppenheim’s typology see S. Butler (1998, 15- 18), Flannery-Dailey (2004, 7-10), Gnuse (1984, 1996), W. Harris (2009, 23-89), and Noegel (2001, 45-46). 48 Kruger also notes that the “twelfth century renaissance” rejuvenated interest in dreams through the writings of Macrobius and Calcidius, who both discuss dreams quite extensively (1992, 21-34, 63-66).

Boehme’s imagistic descriptions of Wisdom’s seven qualities likewise represent something like “visio intellectualis of the inner truth of the Bible.” And Boehme likewise found the imagery of the book of Revelation a particularly important aspect of this “inner truth.” The seven spirits before God’s throne in Revelation 1:4 represent for Boehme something like an anti-type to the seven days of creation in Genesis 1, and thus Wisdom’s seven pillars (Prov 9:1) stand like eternal revelatory “book-ends” to the entire biblical narrative, informing it throughout. Above we saw that for Augustine the seven days of Genesis 1 are among the eternal archetypes of Wisdom, and that while they are expressed in biblical images, they nonetheless exist in continuity with the highest realm of visio intellectualis. My contention here is that Boehme’s typically Lutheran recovery of both Augustine and scripture is building on visionary tendencies within Christian mysticism that stretch back at least to the 12th century.

McGinn notes another example of this new type of 12th century vision in Joachim of

Fiore (1135-1202), who describes an experience that occurred on Easter while he was struggling to write his Exposition on the Apocalypse:

Awakened from sleep about midnight, something happened to me as I was meditating on this book [i.e. Revelation]… suddenly something of the fullness of this book and of the entire harmony of the Old and New Testaments was perceived with clarity and understanding in my mind’s eye (in McGinn 1994, 338).

Commenting on this vision, McGinn again notes that

in form, this is an example of what Augustine would have called a visio intellectualis, an immediate and infallible reception of divine truth in the mind. The content of this vision, however, is distinctive of Joachim—the gift of intellectus spiritualis, the grasp of the presence of the Trinity in history revealed throughout the Bible, but nowhere more completely than in its final book, the Apocalypse” (1994, 338).

For Joachim, as McGinn notes, this intellectus spiritualis is the highest state of mystical awareness, corresponding to Paul’s third heaven, and capable of perceiving Biblical images in

terms of a complex symbology that reveals the divine order and harmony of both scripture and history (1994, 338-9).

Likewise McGinn notes Joachim’s vision on Pentecost, where “the shape of a ten- stringed psaltery appeared in my mind. The mystery of the Holy Trinity shone so brightly and clearly in it that I was at once impelled to cry out, ‘What God is as great as our God’ (Ps 76:14).”

McGinn comments, “we are dealing here with an imaginative visio spiritualis, but one which, contrary to Augustine’s teaching, seems to provide a form of direct contact with the innermost divine mystery of the Trinity” (1994, 338-9). As outlined above, I am not sure whether this experience is “contrary” to Augustine’s teaching, or simply a different reading of it.49 But we again see continuity between the imaginal realm and Augustinian visio intellectualis, in a way that posits certain biblical images as something like the deep structure of both the Bible and history. Boehme continues this trend.

The ambivalence I am foregrounding can be framed in terms of whether we see

Augustine’s threefold vision as an inclusive or as a discrete hierarchy. In an inclusive hierarchy, intellectual vision penetrates down into the two levels below it—it can structure and inform both spiritual and corporeal vision. When it informs spiritual vision, for example, a dream vision can be given along with its interpretation, or images can reveal the deep structure of the Bible and history. In short, images in the imaginal realm become icons50 that can facilitate a direct

49 This vision of God as a ten stringed instrument has intriguing resonances with the kabbalistic Tree of Life, which I will not pursue here. We have already seen with Pico that kabbalah generally did not hesitate to depict God in mythological-imagistic forms, and thus to extend imagination into the realm of Augustinian visio intellectualis. 50 The iconoclastic controversy and its resolution at the seventh ecumenical council, at Nicaea, are relevant here.

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encounter with the divine. McGinn tends to see such “double vision” as blurring the lines of

Augustine’s original hierarchy, and yet it accords with Augustine’s view of Daniel as one the

“greatest prophets,” because he saw both spiritually and intellectually. When intellectual vision informs both spiritual and corporeal vision, we get an experience of what McGinn calls

“theophanic nature mysticism,” where God’s presence shines through the whole natural order, revealing its harmonic structure centred in the divine Logos, in whom “all things hold together”

(Col 1:17). In such a vision, every object in the cosmos reveals itself, poetically and symbolically, as interconnected and pregnant with divine meaning.51 My contention, as mentioned above, is that Augustine himself may have advocated this integral vision as the true mystical goal, whereas later interpreters interpreted his tripartite schema as more discrete, and posited imageless ecstasy in an isolated realm of visio intellectualis as the true goal, or as McGinn calls it, “the essence of mysticism.”

Intriguingly, in yet another example of the new kind of vision emerging in the 12th century, McGinn notes Peter of Celle, who develops “an original treatment of how Augustine’s three kinds of visions relate to life hic, that is, on earth, and ibi, there in the eternal sabbath” of heaven. For Peter, on earth, Augustine’s three forms of vision are generally discrete and disconnected, while in heaven, in their eschatological fulfillment, Peter says that

both corporeal and spiritual vision will pour all their illumination into one of the eyes of intellectual contemplation so that whatever corporeal vision shall have gazed upon will be subject to intellectual vision’s direction and whatever spiritual vision remembers will not presumptuously expel anything from its bosom (in McGinn 1994, 346).

51 This theophanic view of the created order is quite Johannine. John is the only Gospel, for example, that does not contain an account of the transfiguration likely because, from first to last, John’s Gospel is a transfiguration, where mundane objects continually reveal divine glory.

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Again, we get more than a hint of integral vision here. And if this is an “original treatment” of

Augustine, it may also be an accurate one. While Peter consigns it to the next world, other late medieval mystics seem to speak of this integration in their own experience.

The ambivalence I am noting here also involves a certain divergence between mystical experience and mystical theology. While certain mystical experiences of the 12th century, like those above, depict an integral view of threefold vision, mystical theology tends to move in the opposite direction, promoting a discrete view. This divergence becomes apparent, maybe for the first time, in the scholastic mystical theology of Hugh of St. Victor (ca. 1090-1141), with its discrete stages of mystical ascent culminating in contemplation, which Hugh defines as “the illumination of the mind that draws the intellectual soul to the invisible things of God in a saving way” (McGinn 1994, 387).52 Notably, here contemplation is restricted to invisible things, whereas in Hugh’s contemporary, the great Bernard of Claivaux (1090-1153), contemplation was, as McGinn says, “a rich term used to express a continuum of the experience of God’s presence symbolized in visual form,” and here McGinn says Bernard is in keeping with his

“patristic sources” (1994, 211).53

52 McGinn also notes that Hugh’s writing may have had the unintentional effect of separating biblical imagery from true mysticism: “the ordering mentality of the scholastic method has here begun to introduce a concern for systematization of the forms of meditation that was to have both positive and negative results, especially on the relation between reading the biblical text and arriving at contemplation” (1994, 386). 53 McGinn also notes in Bernard a “mingling of the intellectual [visio intellectualis] with the imaginative [visio spiritualis]” that “accords well with the coherence of the book of experience and the book of scripture… unlike his contemporaries the Victorines, [Bernard] was not so much interested in detailing the kinds and stages of contemplation as he was in describing its personal dynamics through the comparison of the book of scripture and the book of experience” (1994, 210-11).

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This divergence between mystical experience and mystical theology is even more pronounced in the 13th century Franciscan movement. Bonaventure (1217-1274), who was called the “second founder of the order,” and who McGinn ranks with Bernard of Clairvaux as

“the two premier mystical teachers of the medieval west,” is fairly blunt about his view of visions: they are “more to be feared than desired” (in McGinn 1998, 74, 87, 111).54 But Francis himself (1181-1226) was apparently a “remarkable visionary,” who was goaded toward his vocation by “two dream manifestations prior to his conversion” and many dream visions thereafter, at least according to the hagiographic accounts.55 McGinn notes that, partly because of these hagiographies, Francis “came to be represented as the mystic par excellence.” And in

Francis’ own writings, like the famed “Canticle of Brother Sun,” we also see what McGinn calls

“a form of theophanic nature mysticism.” Yet McGinn, according to his own definition, is forced to conclude that “it is difficult to claim” that Francis’ writings “can, in general, be called mystical literature, despite the efforts of some to make them so” (1998, 51). Again, we see a growing divergence between the mystical experiences attributed to Francis and the mystical theology of the great Franciscan theologian Bonaventure, which can be interpreted as a divergence

54 This brief sentence of course cannot do any justice to the beauty and complexity of Bonaventure’s thought, which involves a more inclusive view of contemplation than that of Hugh of St. Victor. For example, The Mind’s Journey into God (1259) captures the Franciscan view of creation as a “theophany… a world of signs,” which is the first of six successive stages of contemplation. My point is simply that Bonaventure’s view of these six stages is still more discrete than integral, which means that the true goal and even the definition of “mysticism” is found in imageless ecstasy and rapture, as McGinn notes (1998, 102, 111-2). 55 Francis’ own writings, McGinn notes, “provide no accounts of his own visions… If Francis had visionary and ecstatic experiences, it is salutary to know that he did not think them worth writing about. This marks him as belonging to the older Christian tradition in which depth of spiritual teaching was more important than personal charisms or accounts of one’s own experience of God” (1998, 56).

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between an integral versus a discrete reading of Augustinian vision. This divergence continued and became more entrenched, particularly in the Catholic world, right up to the time of

Boehme.56

The hagiographies of Francis also emphasize what Ewert Cousins calls “the mysticism of the historical event,” defined as an intense imaginative recreation and reliving of the biblical events of Jesus’ life.57 And this is related to the hagiographic picture of Francis’ bodily manifestation of the stigmata. As McGinn says, “Francis remains the stigmatic” (1998, 58-60).58

Here we begin to see the crucial historical and bodily aspect of what McGinn calls “the new mysticism” of the 13th century, and its connection with the imaginal realm of visio spiritualis:

“the flood of visionary narratives, especially by and about women… signal a new form of mystical consciousness… more direct, more excessive, more bodily in nature than older forms”

(1998, 25). It would seem that as mystical theologians worked to confine and discipline “true” mysticism within the imageless ecstasy of visio intellectualis, mystical experiences increasingly

56 For the definition of “mysticism” given by Boehme’s contemporaries Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, see p. 81 note 8 above. 57 Cousins describes the imaginative process of this mysticism of the historical event: “one recalls a significant event in the past, enters into its drama and draws from it spiritual energy, eventually moving beyond the event to union with God” (1983, 166; quoted in McGinn 1998, 348). McGinn also notes that this “is not, however, mere recalling, but a transcending of present time to enter into real unity with a past event” (1998, 348). There are strong analogies here with the psychodynamic process of working with dreams. 58 McGinn notes that “the stigmata are not, in themselves, necessarily miraculous, because it is not possible to rule out a psychological origin (indeed, there have been modern cases in which the stigmata have appeared outside a specifically Christian context)” (1998, 60). If stigmata appear as the result of deep imaginative identification with the crucifixion, then the phenomenon could be called “magical” in the Hermetic sense described above, since the individual will and imagination are influencing the material realm. Today we would call this a psycho-somatic manifestation or “conversion disorder,” a term coined by Freud to describe psychological disorders that manifest in physical form, and in which the physical symptoms are usually symbolic of the psychological disorder. Of course, there are many such physical manifestations that do not indicate disorder or illness but rather extraordinary ability.

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transgressed this boundary in more excessive and unruly visionary and physical forms, especially among women. Let me quote McGinn one last time in this regard:

Many of the visions found in late medieval mystical texts, especially by women, tend to collapse the Augustinian hierarchy, not only by merging the spiritual and intellectual visions so that inner images become the immediate source of new insights into divine truths, but also in ways that meld all three modes of vision into direct forms of “total” conscious experience of God realized as much in and through the body as in a purely spiritual way (1998, 155)

Again, in my view this is not so much a “collapsing” of the Augustinian hierarchy, as an inclusive and integral reading of it. For example, in the case of stigmata, an imaginative symbol of visio spiritualis manifests in bodily form precisely because it symbolizes everything implied by the wounds of Christ—the whole rich context of polyvalent meaning—which both supersedes and includes the physical manifestation, but not the reverse.59 But in making this claim I am not saying that all manifestations of stigmata are healthy or salutary. Nor am I claiming that all instances of integral vision are salutary. What I am saying is that we cannot discern whether a particular bodily manifestation is healthy or salutary until we discern its meaning. And to do so we must involve both the symbolic realm of visio spiritualis and the interpretive realm of visio intellectualis.

I should say that I recognize the need for a clear definition of mysticism in a multivolume work like McGinn’s, simply to delimit the topic and to provide continuity over a vast swath of material. And I support McGinn’s desire not to separate mystical experience from mystical theology. But in contrast to the academic historian, for the experiencers themselves (and their spiritual directors), the most important question is not whether a particular imaginal or bodily

59 Again, Freud later rediscovered precisely the same phenomenon, where physical symptoms had no physical cause, but where the symbolic meaning of the symptoms indicated their psychological cause.

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experience fits within the boundaries of what is properly “mystical.” The most important question, I would suggest, is what the experience itself means, and thus what guidance it might offer the experiencer on the path of spiritual growth. This is especially true for the more bizarre experiences, which were by no means infrequent in the later middle ages. What do these bizarre visionary and bodily symbols mean? And here, we must admit, the great mystical theologians themselves offer very little help. The overwhelming tendency was to dismiss anything that could not be readily understood or that was not self-evidently salutary. And defining true “mysticism” as imageless ecstasy became one of the primary means for dismissing the vast multitude of symbolic images and bodily manifestations involved in the majority of these experiences.60 This is perhaps especially true in the burgeoning discussion of

“discernment of spirits” (discretio spirituum), which seemed to grow in direct proportion to the explosion of visionary and bodily experiences. Here even visions and manifestations that could be readily understood and that seemed self-evidently salutary were often consigned to the category of demonic trickery.61 In short, the symbolic interpretation of visions and bodily

60 Even the experience of the immediate presence of God in imageless ecstasy needs interpretation and discernment. For example, what if this experience is accompanied by self-inflicted suffering, even to the point of death, as in the cases of physical starvation (“holy anorexia”) we will see below? Such cases demonstrate that all three Augustinian levels—physical, imaginal, and intellectual—must be kept in view even when evaluating imageless ecstasies. 61 Caciola notes that “the later medieval context was marked by a quite successful campaign, on the part of the ecclesiastical intelligentsia, to teach the laity and lower clergy to watch out for demonic deceptions—particularly among women. Not surprisingly, laywomen who claimed visionary experiences were scrutinized harshly under the rubric of discernment, sometimes for years on end. Becoming the target of divisive debates about inspiration counts as one of the most predictable elements in the lives of laywomen visionaries in this period” (2003, 35). She also notes that “explicit treatises devoted to theories of discernment were few in the Middle Ages, and were produced at the very end of the period” (2003, 23-4). Sluhovsky, in describing some of the early modern Catholic theories of discernment (ca. 1500-1650), notes that women were scrutinized more harshly partly because the female imagination was thought to be stronger than the male, and the rational faculties were thought to be weaker (2007, 27, 145-46). To

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manifestations is precisely what is lacking in the late-medieval discussion, and this is precisely where the genius of Boehme enters the picture with a biblically based symbology—an interpretive key—based on an exploration of the imaginal realm guided by biblical imagery.

In fact, until recent decades even scholars of mysticism did not know what to make of these bizarre late medieval experiences. It was basically the work of Carolyn Walker Bynum that first gave us some interpretive purchase on them, in her pioneering book Holy Feast and Holy

Fast (1987). And with a view toward later chapters, it will be helpful to glance at her brilliant discussion of the role of food in late-medieval mystical experiences, and particularly its relation to psychodynamic theory. In her chapter “Was Women’s Fasting Anorexia Nervosa?” while noting that many psychological definitions of anorexia are “so narrow and culture-bound as to be quite inapplicable to women’s behaviour before the nineteenth century,” she also admits that much of the extended fasting done by medieval women fits the contemporary symptomatology.62 But more importantly she notes that, as psychodynamic theory points out, anorexia is an inescapably symbolic illness, in that it is determined in large part by the matrix of cultural symbols from which it emerges, especially the related symbols of “food” and “body”

(1987, 198). She concludes that we “cannot understand the voluntary starvation of any

take one of the most prolific examples of these early modern theories of discernment, Ignatius, who was quite open to employing the imagination in the Spiritual Exercises, nonetheless begins his rules of discernment with a fundamental opposition between good spirits who appeal to reason and conscience, and bad spirits who appeal to the imagination ([1548] 1914, 169). 62 She notes a long list of female mystics who “went through intense periods of inability to eat, often beginning in adolescence. They ate and vomited until they damaged their throats and digestive systems. Some of them (for example, Angela of Foligno and Catherine of Genoa) later ‘recovered,’ at least partly, from their fasting; some (for example, Elsbet Achler, Catherine of Siena, and Columba of Rieti) died. Like modern anorectics, many of these saints lost ‘normal’ body concept or perception” (1987, 203).

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particular woman unless we understand fully what food means to those among whom she lives.” And thus we must “take seriously the images and symbols in which guilt, responsibility, joy, and unhappiness manifest themselves” (1987, 206).63 The remainder of her book then develops a brilliant medieval cultural symbology of food as an aid to understanding the visions and bodily experiences of late-medieval female mystics.64

My point then is both that this symbolic understanding is precisely what women at the time (and their spiritual directors) would have needed to assess these experiences, and also that modern historians have only begun a serious exploration of this symbolic understanding in recent decades.65 This symbolic understanding is precisely the central focus of Boehme’s work.

He not only reanimates the imaginal realm, but he offers a biblically based and psychologically integrated understanding of its symbols—a way to unite the upper Augustinian realm of intellect with the lower bodily and physical realm. And in so doing Boehme is responding to a longstanding and deeply felt need within late medieval and early modern western religious life, and particularly those aspects of it deemed “mystical.” In this sense I see Boehme not only as

63 This quotation continues by noting the inadequacy of psychodynamic explanations, which “cut a portion of the behavior of medieval women off from its broader and richer context” (1987, 206). Here she is critiquing the tendency of early psychodynamic theory to see symbols as universal rather than culturally conditioned. Jung’s (and Binswanger’s) phenomenological approach first questioned this tendency. 64 For a contemporary cultural symbology of eating disorders, with wonderful therapeutic insights, see Marion Woodman’s Addiction to Perfection: The Still Unravished Bride (1982). 65 McGinn agrees: “It is only within the past decade or so that the extravagant corporeal manifestations of the medieval mystics, largely female, have been hailed as indications of a breakthrough beyond the more restrained, ‘intellectualized’ conceptions found in the earlier mystical tradition, rather than as indications of some form of personal imbalance, even hysteria” (1998, 25).

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an “insider” on the western Christian mystical tradition, attuned to its inner workings and challenges, but as himself a mystic and mystical theologian who was far ahead of his time.66

2.5 BOEHME AS LUTHERAN INTEGRATIONIST Other scholars have located Boehme firmly in the Lutheran tradition, and indeed this seems to be the emerging scholarly consensus.67 But here the tendency is to neglect the extent to which Boehme, as a Lutheran, incorporates the historical streams explored above, and actually resolves some of their inherent tensions.68 Historians have not always noticed the synthetic possibilities of Lutheranism, which are easily overshadowed by Luther’s renowned polemics and the factionalism of early Protestantism.69 I will mention just a few of these possibilities here as they relate to the discussion above.

66 After writing this chapter I noticed that one of Boehme’s wisest heirs, Gottfried Arnold, attempted to expand the definition of “mysticism” in a somewhat similar way in his 1703 Historie und beschreibung der Mystischen Theologie (see Erb 2005, 181-4). 67 E.g. McGinn (2016, 170), Weeks (1991, 35-48; 2013, 13-44). See also Erb (1978, 8-21), A. Miller (1970), and Bornkamm (1925). 68 McGinn, for example, notes that “Lutheranism was the major element in Boehme’s background, and Luther’s Bible was his essential book.” This seems to contribute to his view of Boehme as an “outsider” whose views are “outliers to the main Christian tradition” (2016, 170, 195, 197). On the other hand, Weeks situates Boehme as a Lutheran, while also noting that a “surprising number of the themes of German mysticism are reassembled and synthesized in his oevre: Hildegard’s epic struggle between the forces of good and evil…; Eckhart’s reflective knowledge which knows God in self-knowledge; Seuse’s chivalrous devotion to Lady Wisdom; Tauler’s use of parabolic symbols; the Christian Kabbalah and Hermetism of the Renaissance…; the Spiritualist’s defence of freedom and toleration…” (1993, 171-2). 69 On Calvin’s attempt to expand on the synthetic possibilities inherent in Lutheranism, see Barth (1922). Calvin begins the Institutes with the well-known aphorism that “wisdom, in so far as it ought to be deemed true and solid Wisdom, consists almost entirely of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves” (1536, 1). This is a thoroughly Augustinian principle with remarkably synthetic possibilities in Calvin’s thought and beyond. When read through a Chalcedonian view of Christ’s two natures as both fully (totus) human and fully (totus) divine, it allows for a principled synthesis of Renaissance Humanism and biblical revelation. On using the Chalcedonian formula to structure an interdisciplinary method, with significant discussion of psychotherapy, see van Deusen Hunsinger (1995). Boehme’s method (insofar as he has one) is in many ways similar, as we will see.

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The first is the integration of scripture and experience. While Lutheran theology downplays human experience in some respects, Luther’s own “Reformation discovery” of passive righteousness (iustitia passive) and justification by faith likely emerged from a seminal personal experience.70 And this fact likely influenced later Lutherans, including the many strands of German “spiritualism” and “pietism,” in their attempts to reconcile the book of scripture with the book of experience.71 Boehme’s own seminal illumination resembles Luther’s in certain respects, in that both were preceded by a deep existential theological conflict, although Luther’s famous Anfechtung (“affliction” or “temptation”) was focussed mainly on his own unrighteousness, whereas Boehme’s “melancholy” was focused more on the presence and persistence of evil in the world around him, and the distance of God.72

Boehme’s account of his seminal illumination73 is extraordinary in that it seems to include all three tiers of Augustinian vision. The first part of the experience indicates intellectual

70 Luther describes this experience and its relation to iustitia passiva in his 1545 Preface to his Latin Works (Luther’s Works 34:336-7). This experience might be the same as the “tower experience” mentioned in Table Talk (Luther’s Works 54:193), and likewise this “tower experience” might have involved a bowel movement, as suggested intriguingly by Erikson in Young Man Luther (1958, 204-6). Wengert notes that Luther’s “theology of the cross is strictly a matter of experience” (2002, 196). 71 As McGinn notes, this attempt stretches back at least to Bernard of Clairvaux whose “insistence on the role of experience, the necessity for his audience to read not only the scripture but also the ‘book of experience’ (liber experientiae), marks a new and important shift in the development of Christian mysticism” (1994, xiii). Boehme also invokes the metaphor of the book of experience (e.g. Letters 12.14/1886, 2.14). 72 On the philosophical sophistication of Boehme’s theodicy, see especially Michael Stoeber (1992, 143- 164). 73 Boehme claimed that this illumination informed all his subsequent work (e.g. Aurora 19.17). It appears to have taken place in 1600, the same year as the birth of his first child. His gives two accounts of the experience, first in the Aurora, and later in Letters (12.5-20/1886, 2.5-20), where he says “I saw and knew more in a quarter of an hour than if I had been many years in the universities” (12.7/1886, 2.7). In another letter he claims, “I have always written as the Spirit dictated… I do not acknowledge it as a work of my own reason, which is too weak, but as the work of the Spirit… I set it down as the Spirit represented it;”

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vision—an immediate consciousness of God’s loving presence, which is both imageless and ineffable, although Boehme does attempt to clothe its deep emotional tones in traditional imagery:

my spirit broke through the gates of hell and into the innermost birth of the divinity, and there I was embraced by love as a bridegroom embraces his beloved bride.74 As for my exultation of spirit, I cannot express it in writing or in speech, nor can it be compared to anything, except the generation of life in the midst of death, like the resurrection from the dead” (Aurora 19.11-11).75

Here the ineffable and incomparable is assimilated to the core Christian figure of death and resurrection. Boehme then continues his account with a description of what McGinn would call

“theophanic nature mysticism,” which involves seeing God’s presence in all creatures, and thus seeing all creatures as poetically symbolic of the divine, which seems to include both corporeal and spiritual vision: “In this light my spirit suddenly saw through all, and it knew God in and by

(10.17-18/1886, 3.17-18; see also 10.44,48/1886, 3.44,48). In the Three Principles he also says “I do not wish to set down anything strange which I did not myself experience so that I do not find myself a liar before God” (24.1), 74 This transition from a state of “hell” to one of “love” is likely the experiential prototype for his description of the transition from a “two-fold” to a “three-fold” soul, discussed below. 75 This part of Boehme’s experience seems to fit McGinn’s definition of a truly “mystical” experience, although McGinn does not describe it as such. The bridal mysticism here is a common late medieval motif, and the ineffability is a famous element of William James’ definition of mysticism. In the Clavis (2) Boehme also describes the hidden or unmanifest God as both good and ineffable (“the eternal good that cannot be expressed” [“das ewige Gut, das man nicht aussprechen kann”]). If we believe Boehme’s friend and first biographer, Franckenberg, this illumination was occasioned by a beam of light reflected off of a pewter dish, which caused Boehme to become “enraptured… with the light of God… by means of an instantaneous glance of the eye” (1780, 7). In this respect the experience resembles Benedict’s vision, described by Gregory the Great, which McGinn calls “perhaps the most famous nonbiblical vision of the early Middle Ages”: “The whole world was brought before his eyes, gathered together, as it were, in a single ray of light” (Dialogues 2.35; McGinn 1994, 71).

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all creatures, even in vegetation and grass;76 it knew God, who he is, and how he is, and what his will is” (Aurora 19.12).77

Finally, Boehme’s experience culminates by charting a course for his entire corpus and identifying its central purpose: to describe the being of God that unites the previous two aspects of his vision, connecting the ineffable, innermost birth of God to the God poetically symbolized in every aspect of creation:

And suddenly in that light my will was possessed by a mighty impulse to describe the being of God. But because I could not then apprehend the deepest births of God in their being, and comprehend them in my reason (Vernunft) there passed almost twelve years before the exact understanding (Verstand) of them was given to me… From this light I now have my knowledge, and also my will, impulse and drive, and therefore I will set down this knowledge in writing according to my gift (Aurora 19.12-13, 17).

What Boehme “set down” was primarily the seven archetypal qualities of Wisdom in the form of images that establish a symbolic relationship between God and all created beings. In other words, his inspired life’s work was to connect the ineffable to the corporeal through the imaginal realm.

As McGinn notes, it is important neither to exaggerate nor undervalue the significance of this experience. But it seems to fit the Lutheran pattern of an initial inspiring illumination

76 For a discussion of Boehme’s influence on Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass see Tisiker (1974). Whitman’s friend, the Canadian psychiatrist Richard Maurice Bucke, had a similar experience of “theophanic nature mysticism” while contemplating Whitman’s work, an experience he described as a “consciousness of the cosmos… of the life and order of the universe” in his book Cosmic Consciousness (1905, 2). Here Bucke also describes a lineage of those he believes to have experienced the same consciousness, including Francis Bacon, Boehme, William Blake, and Whitman himself. Bucke is cited favorably in James’ Varieties of Mystical Experience (1902, 84-5, 398-9, 492, 505). 77 This might be the best place to mention that Solomon’s famous gift of Wisdom, which was granted to him in a dream in 1 Kings 4:29-34, included knowledge of the created order, the content of which is elaborated in Wisdom 7:17-22.

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that reframes the interpretation of scripture and gives its narrative renewed coherence.

Boehme says that prior to this experience, “even scripture could not comfort or satisfy me, though I knew it very well and was versed in it.” And he continues this sentence by mirroring

Luther’s well-known struggle with the adversary: “at this time the devil was by no means idle, but was often beating into me many heathenish thoughts” (Aurora 19.8). Like Luther, Boehme’s illumination seems to reconfigure scripture in his mind,78 giving him a new awareness of the central event of “resurrection from the dead.” But for Boehme this resurrection includes both

“the innermost birth of divinity” and God’s presence in all things. In Boehme’s reframing, the motifs of death, resurrection, inner rebirth, and integral vision are encapsulated in the revelatory bookends of the Bible—the seven days of Genesis 1 and the seven spirits of

Revelation 1—which form a polarity that figures the seven pillars of Wisdom in Proverbs 9:1 and pervades the whole of scripture.

Further, Boehme’s reanimation of the imaginal realm follows Luther’s return to scripture, in that biblical theophanies are overwhelmingly imagistic. Augustine actually noted this fact just before delineating his theory of threefold vision:

Hence, if Paul saw Paradise as Peter saw the dish sent from heaven; as John, what he described in the Apocalypse; as Ezekiel, the plain with the bones of the dead and their resurrection; as Isaiah, God seated and before Him the seraphim and the altar from which the live coal was taken to cleanse the lips of the prophet; it is obvious that he could have been unable to determine whether he saw Paradise in the body or out of the body (TLMG 12.2.5).

Along with the above biblical visions, Boehme surely would have noticed that in Acts 2 Peter accounts for the Pentecostal outpouring of the Holy Spirit by quoting the prophet Joel: “In the

78 For a contemporary theological and psychological analysis of such mental reconfigurations, which resonates with Boehme via Kierkegaard, see James Loder’s The Logic of the Spirit (1998).

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last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams” (Acts 2:17; Joel 2:28). There is a good chance that the Lutheran recovery of both scripture and Augustine influenced Boehme, either directly or indirectly, in his reanimation of the imaginal realm and his recovery of Augustine’s integral vision.79

Finally, Boehme’s Lutheran integrationist tendencies include not only the book of scripture and the book of experience but also the book of nature, the natural science of the day. As Weeks notes:

It is commonly thought that Lutheranism was opposed to nature theology and Catholic superstition, and that astrology was rejected by Luther. However, in declaring Luther free of medieval nature philosophy and superstition, we set up a false dichotomy. Luther’s humanistic colleague Philip Melanchthon [1497-1560] embraced astrology on grounds which were arguably as rational as those on which Luther rejected it. Much of what Boehme means by astrology would have been unobjectionable to many people in that age, Luther included (2013, 27).

It is thus no surprise that Boehme integrates the new heliocentric cosmology into his theological system. Weeks notes further that “astrology and astronomy” were “closely associated” at the time, and that in “Wittenberg, Melanchthon’s son-in-law Caspar Peucer

(1525-1602), a native of Upper Lusatia, published practical handbooks equipped with mathematical tables and moveable dials for charting [astrological] nativities” (Weeks 2013, 27; see also Thorndike 1941, 6:493-501). In a similar spirit Melanchthon wrote a German introduction to the most famous dream-book of the ancient world, Artemidorus’ Onierocritica.

79 The Lutheran recovery of Augustine was not limited to Luther himself: by 1518 the Wittenberg faculty of theology, under Carlstadt, was “committed to a programme of theological reform based on ‘the Bible and St. Augustine'” (Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 3rd rev ed., s.v. “Luther, Martin,” accessed April 4, 2019, http://www.oxfordreference.com.myaccess.library.utoronto.ca/view/10.1093/acref).

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And Peucer, a Calvinist, penned a book on divination, including a lengthy discussion of dreams and visions in relation to the theories of Macrobius and current scientific theories of brain function and the humours. This attitude to natural philosophy helps explain Boehme’s incorporation of Paracelsian motifs, which he likewise subordinates to scriptural principles and

Luther’s doctrine of grace. In short, Boehme’s reanimation of the imaginal, including dreams, can be viewed as a typically Lutheran integration of scripture, experience, and the natural science of the day.80

To be clear, I am not suggesting that Boehme was aware of all of the historical tributaries noted above. His genius was nonetheless a product of them—born at a remarkable nexus point and pushed forward by their combined current. But I do want to emphasize that the imaginal realm is itself inherently integrationist, both in its ability to reveal the mythical basis of rational doctrine, and in its tendency to reconcile abstract ideas with concrete bodies.

In terms of Boehme’s actual historical awareness, the proximate stimulus for his recovery of the imaginal, which partly accounts for the deep melancholy preceding his seminal illumination and his calling to understand this realm, was likely the intractable and blood-soaked theological polemics of his day. Here reason was impotent, but the imaginal offered possibilities, not only

80 Remarkably, a very similar kind of “Protestant mysticism” emerged independently in the work of Emanuel Swedenborg, who as far as we know did not read Boehme, but who was likewise concerned to reconcile scripture, experience, and nature. Swedenborg was an eminent Enlightenment scientist, and his own interpretation of his many visions included a distinction between what Kant would later call the phenomenal (the realm of epistemology) and the noumenal (the realm of morality). Kant acknowledged this debt (slightly) while vilifying Swedenborg as the “arch enthusiast of all enthusiasts!” (see McGee 2003). Swedenborg’s enlightenment began with a series of dreams that came to him along with their interpretations ([1744] 1947).

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to reconcile warring Christendom, but to help understand the differences that separated

Christians from “Jew, Turk, and heathen” (e.g. Aurora 11.58E).

Boehme seems to have been caught by an idea inherent in the Greek etymology of the word “symbol,” a word that was once commonly used to describe the Christian creeds themselves. Sym-bolon means “to put together,” and the opposite of this integrating tendency is dia-bolon, “to divide,” a noun that names the devil himself.81 In other words, because the imaginal realm is symbolic it is also inherently conciliatory. But reason by itself—abstracted and dissociated from bodily existence—can be truly diabolical. In its attempt to escape the body, reason easily becomes the unwitting plaything of powerful bodily drives, drives that Boehme describes so perceptively in the dark world of the soul. Boehme seems aware that the pious tones of doctrinal disputes can easily conceal the dark desire to dominate and annihilate the other, and even to create a veritable hell on earth. Clearly this desire was realized in the inquisitions, witch hunts, and religious wars of Boehme’s day. To my knowledge, Boehme was the first not only to take in the full weight and scope of this horrific time, but to accurately diagnose its disease. His polemic against the institutional church and its clergy needs to be heard against this backdrop, and the profound sadness it provoked in Boehme’s own soul.

81 I am indebted to Robert Gardner for this idea.

Chapter 3: Boehme as Psychotherapist

This chapter provides an introduction to Boehme’s work as a whole, and highlights his orientation as a theological “psychotherapist”—a theologian who is primarily concerned, like

Augustine, with soul-healing. We begin by exploring his method, which generally takes its bearings from experience, including Boehme’s own experience of illumination, which was also informed by the many literary and social currents of his own time and place: biblical, theological, philosophical, and scientific. We then look more specifically at how Boehme relates God to the human soul in terms of a three-tiered ontology. Finally, we explore the most challenging aspect of Boehme’s writing: his “psycho-mythical” approach, which pulls the reader into a vast web of symbolic correspondences. Boehme’s core symbols are the seven qualities of Wisdom, which structure both the soul and the cosmos. But these archetypes radiate polyvalent meanings in a widening gyre of associations that can, in theory, expand to encompass a breathtaking view: the symphonic harmony of the whole created order, connected by invisible threads to the soul’s inner world.

3.1 METHOD: PSYCHOLOGY AND THEOLOGY When compared to Augustine in broad strokes, Boehme’s work shows two contrary tendencies: On the one hand Boehme associates psychology more closely with theology, and on the other hand God is more distant from the psyche, mediated by the crucial figure of Wisdom or Sophia. Let me unpack these two tendencies in turn. First, it is no exaggeration to say that when Boehme speaks of God he is almost always speaking of God’s formation and

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transformation of the soul,1 a transformation that Boehme calls the “new birth” (die

Wiedergeburt). Thus for Boehme, even more so than for Augustine, theology is always both psychology and psychotherapy. We see this tendency, for example, in the programmatic opening lines of the Mysterium Magnum, Chapter 1: “What the Manifested/Revealed

(geoffenbarte) God is and of the Trinity”:

1. If we want to understand the new birth, what it is, and how it happens, then we must first know what the human being is, and how he is the image of God, and what the divine indwelling is; also what the revealed God is, of whom the human being is an image (MM 1.1).

The sequence of this sentence indicates Boehme’s general theological method, not only in the

Mysterium but in his entire corpus. To use modern theological language, where Augustine in

The Trinity begins “from above”—from the revelation of the triune God in scripture (in the first half of The Trinity)—and only then moves to an experiential understanding of the Trinity’s reflection in the human soul (in the second half), Boehme tends to begin “from below”—from an experiential understanding of God’s presence in the world and the soul—only then moving to biblical interpretation. And yet the distinction I am drawing here is very much quantitative, not qualitative. Both thinkers were writing long before modernity’s obsession with method, and for both thinkers the biblical text exists in a constant dialogical interplay with human experience. And importantly, both thinkers have a higher view of the revelatory power of scripture than the majority of modern theologians.

1 E.g. “All that God has, and can do, and that God is in his Trinity, that the soul is in its essence (Essenz)” (Forty Questions 2.1).

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For both thinkers the result is in an attempt to establish congruence between the

Word’s activity in three spheres: the biblical text, the natural world, and the human soul, although Boehme likely stresses the symmetry of this triad more thoroughly than Augustine.2 In

Boehme’s day, Renaissance natural science and the new heliocentric cosmology were providing greater impetus to reconcile the book of scripture with the book of nature, just as various

“spiritualist” strands of the “radical reformation” were placing greater stress on the action of the Word in the soul.3 Boehme harmonizes these three spheres—theology, cosmology, and anthropology—through the dialectic polarity of a hidden and revealed God, which is also a polarity of being (Wesen) and non-being, as the opening lines of the Preface to the Mysterium

Magnum make clear:

1. When we consider the visible world with its being (Wesen), and consider the life of its creatures, we discover in them the likeness of the invisible spiritual world, which is hidden in the visible world, like the soul (Seele) in the body. And we see thereby that the hidden God is nigh unto all and through all and yet completely hidden in the visible being (Wesen) (MM Preface 1).

2 Faivre sees this “God/Human/Nature Triangle” as one the three distinguishing characteristics of what he calls “theosophy,” a moniker by which he distances Boehme and his followers from the mainstream theological tradition of the west (2000, 7). And yet this triad is also present in Augustine: God’s presence in the human soul is explored most fully in the Confessions and the second half of The Trinity, just as God’s presence in nature is explored most fully in the The Literal Meaning of Genesis. Further, this triad is also explicit in the Christian monastic tradition beginning with Bernard of Clairvaux, who introduced the “book of experience” as a compliment to the traditional “book of nature” and “book of scripture” (McGinn 1994, 185-6). 3 For a general survey of Boehme’s “spiritualist” precursors, like Hans Denck (1500-1527), Sebastian Franck (1499-1542), Caspar Schwenckfeld (1490-1561), Valentin Weigel (1533-1588), and Johann Arndt (1555-1621), see Jones (1914) and McGinn (2016). Boehme acknowledges the influence of Schwenkfeld and Weigel, while also distancing himself from their heterodox (mainly docetist) tendencies (e.g. Letters 12.54,59-60/1886, 2.54,59-60).

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For Boehme, we come to know the invisible action of the Word in nature and the soul just as we come to know his invisible presence hidden in the literal, manifest text of the Bible. While both Augustine and Boehme would agree that figural (or “spiritual”) readings of scripture are higher than literal readings, for Boehme these figural readings assume greater prominence, as they unveil the invisible Word that is also operative in nature and the soul.4 Boehme’s psychological theology is thus thoroughly apocalyptic, in the true sense of an “unveiling.”

Yet in comparison with Augustine, while Boehme aligns theology more closely with psychology, he also imposes a greater barrier between them, in that God’s presence is always mediated through the enigmatic figure of Wisdom. Eternal Sophia is Boehme’s most important and probably his most challenging concept, and his works are filled with extended elaborations of her seven qualities, which we will explore in the next chapter. But while Wisdom has greater prominence in Boehme than Augustine, this does not obviate the similarities that justify situating Boehme in the Augustinian tradition: Both thinkers see Wisdom as an eternally created feminine being—a partner of the Godhead as described in the biblical Wisdom literature;5 both also see Wisdom as a realm of eternal creation, figured in the seven eternal

4 Figural readings are dispersed throughout Boehme’s corpus, but they are most evident in the Mysterium Magnum, which has the informative subtitle, “An exposition of the first book of Moses called Genesis, concerning the manifestation/revelation (Offenbarung) of the divine Word through the three principles of the divine essence (Wesen), and of the origin of the world and the creation, wherein the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace are described for the better understanding (Verstande) of the Old and New Testament…” Interestingly, as Peuckert notes, the Mysterium “became decisive” for Boehme’s first popularizer in Russia, Quirinus Kuhlmann, who said it revealed “Boehme’s method of seeing in the figure,” how an “internal event could anticipate and give direction to a future event” (1958, 5, my translation). We will explore these figural hermeneutics in Chapter 5 in relation to dreams. The exegetical basis of Boehme’s work is generally underemphasized, mostly because it is implied rather than explicit: Boehme assumed a high degree of biblical literacy in his Lutheran readers. 5 Like Augustine, Boehme sees the Wisdom literature as an important part of the canon and he alludes to it frequently. Luther’s Bible of course reorganized the Latin canon and assigned several books of Wisdom

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days of Genesis 1; both see Wisdom as the realm of the eternal angels—a realm that becomes divided by the fall of Lucifer and his rebel angels prior to creation and the fall of humanity;6 and finally, for both thinkers Wisdom represents a higher form of human cognition: Augustine’s distinction between scientia (knowledge) and sapientia (Wisdom) roughly corresponds to

Boehme’s distinction between Vernunft (reason) and Verstand (understanding), as we will see.

3.2 ONTOLOGY: THREE LEVELS Confusion about Boehme’s concept of Wisdom has tended to marginalize his thought in relation to mainstream western theology. Boehme has, for example, been labelled a “monist” or “pantheist” who fuses God and creation,7 and a “gnostic” who locates evil in God.8 Some of

literature a secondary status as “apocrypha." Boehme’s frequent use of these books can be seen as an indirect critique of Luther’s canon. 6 The difference here is that, for Boehme, both fallen creation and the fallen soul mirror the angelic fall in the realm of Wisdom, while for Augustine it is primarily the soul that is fallen, not the created order. Mathewes calls this Augustine’s “noetic fall” (2010). For Boehme, because of this angelic fall, evil is nascent in the temporal creation (which explains the tempting serpent’s presence in Paradise) but evil is not expressed until the fall of humanity when “Adam stirred up the curse” (MM 10.5). This is why, for Boehme, the redeemed soul also has an effect on the macrocosm, as Paul implies in Romans 8:19-23. The contrast between Augustine and Boehme on this point might be due to a very simple exegetical difference: Augustine’s Old Latin (Vetus Latina) Bible contained a mistranslation, in which God declares the second day of creation and its firmament between the waters “good” (see TLMG 2.1.1). In the original Hebrew, the second day of creation is the only day that God does not declare “good,” a detail that was not overlooked by the Rabbis (Midrash Rabba 1:4.6; Tikunei Zohar, tikun 5.19b; see Wolfson 1995, 246n112). This mistranslation was corrected in the Vulgate, and in Boehme’s Luther Bible. 7 Boehme could be seen as a “monist” or “pantheist” if he is read through the lens of his more prolific philosophical heirs (e.g. Hegel or Schelling). But I do not know of any Boehme scholars who would see these terms as adequate. McGinn says Boehme is “not a pantheist” (2016, 176). Wolfson says that “pantheism” and “panentheism” are inadequate descriptors, both for Boehme and Jewish kabbalah (2018, 34). And Boehme’s contemporary Henry More (1614-1687) distinguished Boehme’s thought from the monism of Spinoza (Hedley 2018). 8 The word “gnostic” is both loaded and contested, but I will not contest it here. Suffice it to say that early Christianity recognized both orthodox and heterodox forms of gnosis. Clement of Alexandria, for example, called his ideal Christian a “true gnostic,” and the apostle Paul speaks of a “secret and hidden Wisdom of God, decreed before the ages,” which is “foolishness to the world,” and which is spoken only to the “mature” (1 Cor 1:18, 2:6-7), in a passage that was also central for Luther’s theologia crucis (1518; cf.

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these charges seem to stem from a failure to distinguish three ontological levels in Boehme’s thought, and to understand Wisdom’s place in this schema. It might help to clarify this at the

Boehme Incarnation 1.5.13/1764, 1.5.64; Clavis Preface). Berdyaev calls Boehme “one of the greatest of Christian gnostics,” though importantly he is not using the term to identify “heresies” (1957, 247). David Walsh (1983) and Cyril O’Regan (2001, 2002) both use the term “gnostic” to impute heresy to Boehme, but only O’Regan defines the term carefully, including the criterion of locating evil within God. O’Regan’s overall project builds on the work of Eric Voegelin (1968; 1971) tracing the evils of modern totalitarian states back to Hegel’s “totalizing” system, and for O’Regan the fault ultimately lies with Boehme, since “massive structural correspondences can be shown to exist between Boehmian theosophy and Hegelian ontotheology” (1994, 18). While I agree with O’Regan’s critique of Hegel, I am not sure that it holds for Boehme, whose work is far from “totalizing.” Voegelin differentiates Boehme’s “gnosticism” from that of Hegel, noting “the warning of Jacob Boehme, in his Mysterium Magnum, against precisely the type of magia that Hegel was to pursue” (1975, 768). O’Regan is an impressive and careful scholar, and I will note my differences with him below. O’Regan is also building on the work of Hans Urs von Balthasar, for which I have profound respect, and which I see as closely allied with what I am attempting here. It is unfortunate that Balthasar’s reading of Boehme, Freud, and Jung is so negative and so thin (e.g. Theo-Drama 1:48-49, 505-522), especially given his great love for the “dream world” of Georges Bernanos, for whom “nothing is more real or more objective than dreams” (in Balthasar 1996, 125). Balthasar’s theology was called “gnostic” by Karl Rahner, unfairly I think, but in much the same spirit as Boehme has been called “gnostic” (see Balthasar, Theo- Drama 5:13). Balthasar’s anticipation of this charge against him might be precisely why he attempts to separate himself from Boehme (and Freud and Jung), while maintaining a strong indebtedness to Schelling. Sean McGrath offers a helpful critique of O’Regan’s reading of Boehme as a Valentinian gnostic: “While Boehme shares with Gnosticism a substantive and productive account of evil… he shares nothing of the Valentinian or Manichaean matter-vilifying dualism. On the contrary, Boehme’s cosmology is one of the most affirmative philosophies of nature in the history of theology. Personality is for Boehme essentially embodied” (2012, 51). Here McGrath notes Boehme’s influence on F.C. Oetinger, for whom “Embodiment is the end of all God’s work” (Oetinger 1776, 1:223; in McGrath 2012, 77n20). McGrath further notes the tendency to conflate Boehme with Hegel on the question of “historical immanentism, the position that God only knows himself through the history of man.” And here McGrath parts company with Dourley (2008), who claims that Boehme (like Jung) sees human consciousness as necessary for divine consciousness. As McGrath says, “More careful readers of Boehme (Friesen 2008; O’Regan 2002) follow [Franz von] Baader and [Alexandre] Koyré in arguing that for Boehme, God’s self-revelation is always already achieved prior to God’s creation of the world.” McGrath rightly notes that unlike “Hegel and Jung, and in accordance with Schelling and Tillich, Boehme does not hold actual evil to be necessary to God’s self-revelation. Both arguments, that human history is necessary to God’s self-knowledge and that actual evil is necessary to God’s perfection, violate the founding presupposition of Boehme’s thought: the freedom of the divine” (2012, 78-79n23). Notably, among modern theologians, Boehme shares this founding presupposition with Karl Barth. Such debates might seem like hair-splitting to contemporary therapists, but they have crucial theological (and therapeutic) consequences, which stand at the heart of the important but unfinished dialogue between Jung and Dominican theologian Victor White (Jung 2007).

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outset, since Boehme’s ontology in the macrocosm mirrors his psychology in the microcosm, just as we saw with Augustine’s tripartite ontology and epistemology.

On the first and highest ontological level is God, considered “outside nature and creature” and thus logically prior to revelation (see figure 2). And here Boehme clearly defines

God as a “unity,” an “eternal good,” (Clavis 2) and “in reference to the creature… an eternal

Nothing (Nichts)” (MM 1.2). In other words, God is ineffable on this level (Clavis 2), which is why Boehme rarely speaks of God on this level, except in passing.9 On the second level is God’s revelation/manifestation (Offenbarung) as Trinity, a revelation that includes the dialectic of hidden and revealed in relation to Father and Son respectively, which is then expressed in the

“outgoing” (Ausgang) of the Holy Spirit (e.g. MM 1.1-5; Clavis 3-11). Also on this second level is the eternal creation of Wisdom with her seven qualities (MM 1.6-8; Clavis 17-19). As a

9 The first chapter of the Clavis is entitled “How God outside nature and creature should be thought of,” and in this respect Boehme says that God is “an eternal immeasurable (unchanging) unity… the eternal good that cannot be spoken of” (2). The first chapter of the Mysterium Magnum is “What the Manifest/Revealed (geoffenbarte) God is, and on the Trinity,” and here Boehme suggests that the revealed God is the only God humans have access to, since all we can say about God in Se is that “He is the One; in reference to the creature, as an eternal Nothing (Nichts)” (1.2). Likewise Boehme says that the “Word” considered “beyond or without all nature or beginning” has “neither darkness nor light, neither thick nor thin, neither joy nor sorrow… for it is the eternal good, and nothing else” (MM 3.3; see also 7.11). In his earlier work Boehme also insists that God is totally good (e.g. Aurora 2.35; Forty Questions 1.6/1764, 1.8; Incarnation 1.14.7-8/1764, 1.14.34-37). O’Regan (and Balthasar) downplay these passages when they claim that Boehme locates evil in God. In the schema I am outlining here, it is truer to say that Boehme locates evil in the rebel angels and in fallen divine Wisdom (or “Eternal Nature”). My schema is nonetheless quite similar to O’Regan’s (2002, 32-50). Throughout the Mysterium Boehme reminds us that he speaking only of the “manifest/revealed” God (e.g. 4.7, 5.10, 7.12). To use modern theological language, Boehme posits an “immanent” God who is distinct from and logically prior to a revealed or “economic” Trinity. He does this to protect God’s freedom, sovereignty, and grace, an approach he shares with Karl Barth against other modern theologians who follow Karl Rahner in identifying the immanent with the economic Trinity, like Jürgen Moltmann, Wolfhart Pannenberg, and Eberhard Jüngel (see e.g. Molnar 1982). One of Boehme’s fundamental theological principles is that God’s free nature is revelatory, for the Word is by nature manifesting/revealing, which is another idea he shares with Karl Barth (see e.g. Church Dogmatics 1.1:172).

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Figure 2. Boehme’s Three-Level Ontology.

Level 1

Hidden God Abyss (Ineffable Good)

Trinity Abyss F S Level 2 HS Revealed God (Good) Wisdom (Genesis 1) Abyss 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Fallen Wisdom or “Eternal Nature” Abyss 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Level 3 Eternal Eternal Fallen World Dark Light Fallen Soul World World “Father” “Son” (Good and Evil) Temporal World “H. Spirit”

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reflection of God, and as God’s “house” or “temple,” Wisdom is likewise purely good (e.g. MM

1.5-6, 3.2-4). And while there is a potential for evil arising from Wisdom, if certain of her seven qualities are separated from the whole, this potential is only actualized on the third level—the level of the eternally created angels and the three “Principles” (Principia), “Kingdoms”

(Reichen), or “worlds” (Welten), the third of which is temporal reality.10

For Boehme, the angels were originally created in the pure goodness and harmony of

Wisdom. But Lucifer and his rebel angels fell when they seized the first three qualities of

Wisdom in hubristic self-will, and used these qualities over against Wisdom’s remaining qualities. That is, they freely chose to divert the primal desire of Wisdom toward their own narcissistic ends, away from its divinely ordained expression in love. They hoarded Wisdom’s primal desire, rather than surrendering it. In short, the rebel angels divided Wisdom against herself, seizing a part to challenge the whole. This act, and God’s judgement of it, brought three worlds into existence, each with its own angelic hierarchy: (1) a dark demonic fire-world (the kingdom of hell) defined by the first three qualities of Wisdom, (2) a light angelic world (the kingdom of heaven) defined by the last three qualities of Wisdom, and (3) the temporal-spatial

10 If we were to compare these three levels to the kabbalistic Tree of Life, we could say that the first level corresponds to the Ein Sof (see Wolfson 2018, 35-47). On the second level, the Trinity resembles the first three emanations (sefirot), and Wisdom the final seven. Wolfson notes that “it is not uncommon for kabbalists to divide the divine realm into the upper three emanations and the lower seven” (2018, 32). And on the third level, the whole Tree is recapitulated, but this time from the perspective of the final emanation (Malkhut) in exile. As Scholem notes, Malkhut is identified with the Shekhinah, in which “all the preceding sefirot are encompassed,” and which is in turn identified “on the one hand with the mystical Ecclesia of Israel and on the other hand with the soul.” This Shekhinah in exile is characterized by “ambivalence”—a mix of good and evil. And the “reunion of God and his Shekinah,” symbolized by a mystical marriage, “constitutes the meaning of redemption,” (Scholem 1965, 106-9). Strangely, Wolfson does not mention these Boehmian resonances with the Tree of Life in his otherwise excellent and ground- breaking article on Boehme and Kabbalah (2018).

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world (the kingdom of creation), which derives especially from the middle quality of Wisdom, and which, after the fall of Adam, becomes an amalgam of the previous two eternal worlds (e.g.

MM 8.4-10).

That is, like the angelic world, the temporal world was originally created in pure goodness, but with the fall of humanity it becomes “cursed” and likewise divided between good and evil (e.g. MM 24.1-35). In this fallen state, the world and the soul mirror each other as macrocosm and microcosm respectively (e.g. MM 2.5), and the redemption of the soul is also mirrored in the redemption of creation. In summary, on the third ontological level we have both creation and the soul in a fallen state, and both are composed of three worlds or kingdoms: the first two worlds are eternal, representing Wisdom’s seven qualities divided against each other into darkness and light, and the third world is temporal, representing an amalgam of the previous two eternal worlds.

While in several passages Boehme clearly distinguishes these three ontological levels,11 in many other places he is not precise. And because each level participates in those next to it in

11 These three levels are more clearly distinguished in his later works. The first level is usually mentioned in passing while the second and third levels are distinguished in various ways, and Boehme’s terminology is not consistent: In the Clavis Boehme distinguishes the second level of “Wisdom,” which is the “emanated Word of divine… holiness,” from the third level of the “Mysterium Magnum,” out of which “originate good and evil… heaven and hell” (Clavis 17, 23). The latter seems to be what results from the fall of the rebel angels prior to creation. In the Mysterium Magnum he is more specific, and he distinguishes “1. The free lubet” (die freie Lust), which is “the Wisdom,” and which is a desire that is “free from all inclination and is one with God” from “2. The desire (Begierde) of the free lubet in itself” (MM 3.7), which seems to be a desire separated for a particular end, as with the rebel angels. This leads to a distinction between “Wisdom,” which is purely good, and “Eternal Nature,” which is basically fallen Wisdom. (And thus I agree with O’Regan’s characterization of “Eternal Nature” as an “antitype” to Wisdom [2002, 37-38]). This distinction is meant to explain, as the chapter title says, “How out of the eternal good an evil is come to be, which had no beginning in the good, and of the origin of the Dark World, or Hell, where the devils dwell” (MM 3). In MM 8.1 Boehme likewise distinguishes the second level

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a kind of seamless blending, confusion can easily arise. The third level is particularly confusing because here Boehme often identifies the three worlds with the three persons of the Trinity: the dark world is identified with the Father, where God “is called an angry jealous God,” the light world is identified with the Son, where “God is called a loving merciful God,” and the temporal world is identified with the Holy Spirit (Clavis 21; see also MM 7.13). But importantly, on this third ontological level Boehme is not speaking of the actual persons of the Trinity, but only of their reflection in a fallen world (e.g. MM 5.10), where evil becomes associated with the law and wrath of God in typical Lutheran fashion.12 On this third level, Boehme seems to follow

Luther’s idea that God hides under his opposite (sub contrario), since Boehme is clear that only the light world of the Son, not the dark world of the Father, is God’s “proper manifestation,” where God’s true nature is revealed as grace, mercy, and love (MM 7.14).

In fact, we might even distinguish Boehme’s first and third ontological levels by looking at Luther’s appropriation of Pseudo-Dionysian apophaticism. In Luther’s early work, while discussing the darkness that hides God in Psalm 18:11, Luther approved of the apophatic approach: “Dionysius teaches that someone must enter into anagogical darkness and ascend by negations, because God is hidden and incomprehensible” (1513/15, WA3:124.30-33).13 This is

of the Trinity and Wisdom from the third level of the angels, and in MM 4.1 he distinguishes the Trinity from the eternal beginning of the Three Worlds. 12 Luther is of course drawing on the Pauline dialectic of law and grace, especially as it appears in Galatians. Interestingly, Boehme espouses something like a “two covenants” theory of Christianity and Judaism (MM 51.25-41), long before Pope John Paul II hinted at it, and before the “new perspective” on Paul (e.g. E.P. Sanders, James Dunn) began to read Romans 9-11 as the heart of Paul’s thought. 13 In his early work Luther calls Dionysius’ “ecstatic and negative theology… the true Cabala which is very rare” (1513/15, WA3:372.13-19). Luther’s later brutal anti-Jewish writings are fairly well known. What is less known is that Luther saw his early theology as a rapprochement with Judaism, in contrast to Catholicism, and indeed Luther’s law-grace dialectic, and his “two hands of God,” have some affinities

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precisely how God appears on Boehme’s first ontological level, where the dark Nothing is defined as an ineffable, eternal good. But as McGinn notes, Luther later repudiated Dionysius and came to see God’s dark hiddenness as “the darkness of affliction and suffering

(Anfechtung) caused by the God who hides himself sub contrariis, that is, under contrary appearances, such as temptation, suffering, even despair and human reason itself” (McGinn

2016, 24; see also 2002, 94-114).14 This is precisely how the Father appears in the dark world of

Boehme’s third ontological level, where the dark Nothing does not represent goodness, but wrath and hell. On this level Boehme is clear that this “Father” is not the true face of God,15 which is only revealed in the light world of the Son.16 On this third level, the “good” Nothing of the first level appears as a wrathful, hellish Nothing.

Boehme’s second and third ontological levels can also be difficult to distinguish because, in many passages, when he is describing the seven qualities of Wisdom, he does not distinguish between original and fallen Wisdom. (Below this distinction will become clear when we explore the seven qualities of fallen Wisdom in the soul in Chapter 4, and the seven qualities of original

with Kabbalah. In Boehme the attempted rapprochement with Judaism is even more pronounced, and it also extends to Muslims (something we certainly do not see in Luther) and other faiths. 14 See also McGinn (2002, 94-114). 15 Drawing on Boehme, Blake will later call this counterfeit Father “Nobodaddy.” Freud, as we will see, also wanted to dethrone this dark fatherly lawgiver, although he also recognized his usefulness in restraining evil and maintaining social order. 16 Much has been written about Boehme’s neologism “Ungrund,” which in his later works he seems to use interchangeably with “Abgrund,” and “Nichts” (“Nothing”) to describe the “abyss” (for a good summary see McGinn 2016, 180-184). But this abyss means very different things depending on which ontological level it is describing. For McGinn, who depends mostly on Boehme’s earlier works, Boehme’s “view of the Ungrund differs from… the divine nihil of Eriugena, or the grund/abgrund of Eckhart, Tauler, Ruusbroed, and others” (2016, 195). My sense is that McGinn neglects the three ontological levels, which are especially evident in Boehme’s later work. On the highest level, Boehme’s Nothing is very close to that of Eckhart and his followers, although Boehme is more reticent than Eckhart to say anything about this highest level, beyond the fact that it is ineffable and good.

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Wisdom from Genesis 1 in Chapter 6.) Usually, because Boehme is talking about the current state of nature and the soul, he is talking about the qualities of fallen Wisdom, which he generally refers to as “Eternal Nature.” But these fallen qualities always exist in participation with the originally good qualities of Wisdom, because this original goodness is being continually distorted by the fallen angels who divide Wisdom against herself. Further, in describing the current fallen state of the soul, Boehme is always concerned to show that the soul can be reborn as divided Wisdom finds harmony again, through the mediation of Christ. Thus there is often a kind of fuzziness in his description of the seven qualities, as he attempts to account both for their current division and corruption, and their possible unity and reconciliation. It is of course the very nature of Wisdom’s qualities, mirroring the Trinity, to effect this transformation and rebirth in the soul, and Boehme always wants to keep this therapeutic transformation in view.

Likewise, the second and third ontological levels are easily confused when Boehme divides the seven qualities of Wisdom into “darkness” and “light,” since darkness is not always equated with evil. Darkness only becomes evil when it is divided against the light; it remains good when it functions harmoniously with the light (e.g. Forty Questions 1.6-9/1764, 1.7-14;

Clavis 20-24). Originally, for example, in the eternal creation figured in Genesis 1, darkness and light coexisted harmoniously in a purely good creation. In many cases when Boehme speaks of

“darkness” in the first three qualities of Wisdom, he means to convey a sense of hiddenness, but not necessarily of evil. In the fallen world and the fallen soul, this darkness also conveys a sense of pain and suffering. And the suffering of these dark qualities is both revealed and transformed in the sacrificial death of Christ on the cross, which for Boehme is a temporal

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event with an eternal potential to transform darkness into light, and to mend fallen Wisdom or

“Eternal Nature” in both the soul and the cosmos. For Boehme, and this is crucial for our psychotherapeutic exploration below, it is especially when these dark painful qualities remain hidden and suppressed—cut off from the light—that they are “evil.” When opened and surrendered to the light they themselves are transformed into it, and they actually increase the light’s potency. In short, when the dark qualities function harmoniously with the light as they were intended, they are good. And the darkness of affliction (Anfechtung), on the third ontological level, is transformed into a darkness of ineffable good, on the first ontological level, thus accounting for both of Luther’s readings of the hidden God.17

Boehme’s ontology is certainly more complex than Augustine’s Platonic notion of evil as a privation of good (privatio boni).18 The classic biblical theophany of Exodus 3 might provide a helpful way to distinguish them on this point. When asked to provide a name, the God of

a Hebrew phrase that can ,(אֶהְ יֶה אֲשֶ ר אֶהְ יֶה) Moses’ burning bush said only ehyeh asher ehyeh be translated in two very different ways: For Augustine, God’s name is “I am who am,” and thus the image of eternal fire is assimilated to Augustine’s ontological schema, where God and

17 Karl Barth’s famous statement that “mysticism is esoteric atheism” (Church Dogmatics 1.2:322) was meant to be derogatory, and it is consonant with the later Luther’s denigration of Dionysian apophaticism. But in Boehme that same statement can appear as both positive and descriptively true, in a way that both incorporates and goes beyond Barthian theology. That is, for Boehme, a mystical experience of ineffable goodness emerges from a “releasement” (Gelassenheit) into the “God beyond God,” the abyss of “eternal silence/stillness without essence” (Forty Questions 1.6/1764, 1.9; see Pektas 2006, 103), which is a kind of non-theism. It appears that Barth never had such an experience, although I suspect he was urged toward it in his famous dream of Mozart, where Barth’s favourite composer revealed what he likely most needed to learn: silence (Barth 1956; see Merton 1965). 18 Although the privatio boni doctrine is not expressed in the ecumenical creeds, it became a kind of de facto orthodoxy in the medieval west.

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goodness represent being itself,19 and evil is a privatio boni. For Augustine, all that is is good.

Boehme seems to follow the other translation, where God’s name is “I will be who I will be.”20

And here the eternal fire becomes an image of deep mystery, where God and goodness ultimately transcend human ontological categories. On the highest ontological level Boehme defines God as both the “eternal good,” and as “Nothing,” and on this level “God in his own being (Wesen) is no being” (MM 6.1).21 As God reveals Godself as Trinity and Wisdom on the second ontological level, goodness manifests as being, although always with traces of its former hiddenness. In short, for Boehme, both God and goodness are never ontologically static; they can never be reified in human conceptual categories. In God both being and goodness continually emerge from Nothing, as a desire from an abyss, in an eternal process that is the precondition for all existence in the macrocosm, and all awareness, thought, and language in the microcosm.22

In summary, it is important for the exposition ahead that we understand how Boehme’s

“abyss” appears differently on these three ontological levels (see figure 2). On the first level the

19 In Augustine’s phrase, “ipsum esse” (e.g. Commentary on Psalm 134. 4). 20 Augustine’s Old Latin (Vetus Latina) Bible has Exod 3:14 as “ego sum qui sum,” which captures the meaning of the LXX quite well: “ego eimi ho on.” Whereas Boehme’s Luther Bible has “Ich werde sein, der ich sein werde.” 21 See Weeks for a discussion of Boehme’s use of Wesen (1991, 100-101). 22 If I had the space it would be interesting in this context to explore Heidegger and Nietzsche, who critique the Platonic ontology of the west, and who both learned their “alternative” ontology from Boehme (likely via Schopenhauer). Both see their critique as a thorough critique of Christianity, and yet Boehme derives his ontology from the Bible.

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dark Nothing is an ineffable “eternal good.”23 Here God is beyond being, and beyond any distinction, so it would seem that whatever Boehme means by “good,” it is not defined in opposition to “evil.”24 On the second level God is revealed as Trinity, and Wisdom is revealed as

God’s first object.25 Both manifest in a dialectical emergence of Being from Nothing, and both exist in pure goodness. And here, importantly, Boehme at times suggests that the dark Nothing has a light within it, as described on the first day of the biblical creation account, which we will explore in chapter 6.26 Here there is a potential for evil to emerge from Wisdom if her dark qualities become isolated from the whole. But this potential is only actualized on the third ontological level by the rebel angels, who, as autonomous beings, misuse Wisdom. And when this happens, importantly, Augustine’s doctrine of privatio boni no longer holds. As Wisdom becomes divided against herself, the dark abyss becomes hell, divided against heaven, with their respective angelic hierarchies. Here the abyss is not only evil, but it has an existence of its own as an ontological power energized by the demonic hierarchies and manifesting in physical reality. On this third level Boehme depicts both creation and the soul as a dualistic battle between good and evil—a coincidentia oppositorum, meaning a collision or coincidence of

23 At times Boehme also implies that the Nothing on the first ontological level has an ineffable light within it: e.g. “The pure Godhead is a light that is incomprehensible, unperceivable, almighty and all-powerful” (Three Principles 4.32). 24 This is not quite the view of Berdyaev, who thinks that Boehme’s Nothing is “beyond good and evil,” anticipating Nietzsche (1958, xxi). Boehme’s differences from Nietzsche on this point suggest that Nietzsche’s critique of Christianity is not fatal: it arises from Christian sources, and only implicates certain aspects of Christian thought. 25 E.g. “Wisdom is… a medium or object of the infinite One in existence, in which the Holy Spirit works, forms, moulds… for Wisdom is the passive one, and the Spirit of God in it is the active” (Clavis 18). 26 E.g. “Behold I will tell you a mystery… in the center of the astringent quality [i.e. the dark Nothing] the light grows clear and bright” (Aurora 11.43; see also 11.19).

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opposites.27 On this third level Boehme can easily sound Manichaean or “gnostic” (in the heretical sense), but only if this level is isolated from the levels above it.28

3.3 APPROACH: PSYCHO-MYTHICAL THEOLOGY To conclude this introduction to Boehme’s work, let me briefly note the most significant difference between Boehme and Augustine, and likely the main reason that Boehme has been excluded by the mainstream western theological tradition that was defined by Augustine:

Boehme is extremely difficult to read. Instead of clear rational concepts Boehme gives us an impressionistic bricolage of symbols. He blurs conceptual boundaries by piling up partially synonymous images, whose semantic associations continually expand his categories of thought, forging new connections while obscuring old ones. This associative style has always frustrated

Boehme’s more rationalistic readers. Cyril O’Regan, for example, calls it “a coagulated cyclone of language, a form or nonform of linguistic implosion that repels and excludes.”29 Boehme might even have intended to exclude the more hardened rationalists among his readers, just as he often criticizes the university-trained theologians and clerics of his day.

But it is important to note that there is more going on here than sloppy thinking. There is method in the madness. And for those with the patience to contemplate Boehme’s prose with an open mind, there is a new and strange logic to be discovered, with its own rules and

27 The coincidentia oppositorum motif seems to originate with Nicholas of Cusa (1401-1464). See C. Miller (2003). 28 We will later see that Jung uses Boehme’ ontology to critique Augustine’s privatio boni doctrine, particularly for its neglect of evil as a concrete physical and psychological force. 29 O’Regan continues, calling Boehme “simply one of the most difficult reads in the history of Christian Thought” (2001, 3). Likewise John Wesley called his writing “most sublime nonsense; inimitable bombast; fustian not to be paralleled!” (Journals and Diaries 2: 272).

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structure.30 In fact, something quite similar was discovered by Freud and Jung when they tried to understand the symbolism of dreams. They uncovered a mode of thought that functions, for most of us, outside conscious awareness, yet which continually undergirds consciousness.

Freud called it “primary process thinking,” and he attempted to recreate it in the consulting room with his method of “free association,” a method similar to Jung’s symbolic

“amplification.” Both thinkers realized that this strange dream logic was structured by symbolic images with a surplus of divergent meanings, and that the way these meanings coalesced and condensed was itself quite significant, and never random. Boehme calls his symbolic, associative mode of thinking Verstand or “understanding,” by which he means the understanding of divine Wisdom, and he contrasts it with Vernunft or “reason,” by which we explore outer knowledge—a distinction we will unpack further in a moment. Suffice it to say that the resistance Boehme’s writing evokes in rationalistic readers can be compared to the resistance Freud and Jung encountered in their consulting rooms. The resistance emerges partly from the fact that, to really understand Boehme’s prose, we must learn to understand deeper aspects of ourselves.

My sense is that the early charges of heresy against Boehme had more to do with his bewildering style than with the actual dogmatic content of his work. And Boehme’s blunt

30 Some who discover this structure even describe it as a coherent “system,” like Grunsky in his formidable work (1956), which even attempts a precise Boehmian lexicon. This systematic coherence explains why many have called Boehme a “philosopher,” as does Koyré ([1929] 1968) who is still my favourite reader of Boehme. But if Boehme’s writing is “philosophy” it certainly does not obey the conventional rules of logic. As Erb says, Boehme has “gone beyond the axiom of contradiction… A is both B and non-B, and he must develop a language to describe his experience, an experience for which there is no human language” (1978, 22).

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critiques of the scholastic clergy of his day certainly didn’t help matters, especially in his home town of Görlitz, where the contentious Lutheran pastor Gregor Richter led an extended campaign against him.31 But it seems clear even from Boehme’s earliest writings that he saw himself as an orthodox Christian, even an orthodox Lutheran. And he was surprised by the early charges of heresy against him, even in an age of hair-splitting and heresy hunting. His later works are more careful in this regard.32 But even when Boehme is clearly defending orthodox dogma, he never attempts to conform to the style and approach of the theologians of his day.

As he says in the Aurora, “I can do nothing with their methods and their formulas, since I have not studied by them” (22.11). For Boehme, traditional doctrinal formulations function mainly in the realm of rationalistic Vernunft; his aim is to find the mythical-symbolic substrate of

Verstand behind these formulations. The bloody religious wars of the time had given Boehme ample evidence of reason’s impotence in the face of doctrinal disputes, and also reason’s power to fuel useless orgies of violence. Ultimately Boehme hoped that by describing dogma in the deeper language of Verstand, he would unite not only the various Protestant factions, but even the warring monotheisms.33

31 Boehme seemed to get along quite well with the previous pastor in Görlitz, Martin Moller. 32 As stated above (note 149) I agree with Weeks that “the conclusion of Boehme’s career is conducive neither to the Christian orthodox attempt to cast him as an outsider, nor to the heterodox attempt to reclaim him as the conscious founder of an alternative spiritual tradition” (2006, 190). The former attempt can be seen in O’Regan (2002) and McGinn (2016), and the latter attempt can be seen in Faivre (1996) and his heirs. 33 Boehme’s desire to unite “Jew, Turk, and heathen” first appears in the Aurora (22.43, 52), and is given more doctrinal substance in terms of grace and salvation in the Mysterium Magnum (70.83-85), in a way that resembles Rahner’s “anonymous Christianity.” Weeks notes that the “tolerant ecumenicism” of Boehme’s writings “was doomed to fail almost from the start” (2006, 187). I think Boehme, in this regard, was way ahead of his time. The remarkable interfaith bridges that Wisdom builds did not become fully obvious until the twentieth century, when Henri Corbin noticed the deep resonances between Boehme

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Because of this preference for symbolic Wisdom over discursive reason, Boehme’s work has been categorized as “theosophy” rather than “theology.” But Boehme himself never made this distinction, and there is nothing to suggest that he would have wanted to segregate his work in this way.34 I would prefer to keep him under the rubric of “theology,” partly to emphasize that there is a kind of logic in his writing, not unlike the strange logic we find in mythic narratives and in the psyche, the study of which we likewise designate as “mythology” and “psychology.” In fact, Boehme’s work reveals how the strange logic of these three fields is quite connected. We will soon see that part of the genius of both Freud and Jung was in describing how “psyche-logic” and “myth-logic” have much in common. Freud voiced this idea in an early (1897) letter to his friend Wilhelm Fliess:

Can you imagine what ‘endopsychic myths’ are? The latest product of my mental labor. The dim inner perception of one’s own psychic apparatus stimulates thought illusions, which of course are projected onto the outside and, characteristically, into the future and the beyond. Immortality, retribution, the entire world beyond are all reflections of our psychic internal. Meschugge? [crazy?] Psycho-mythology (1985, 286).

Crazy or not, Freud eventually discovered remarkable heuristic value in the myth of Oedipus.

But even in the above quotation we see a somewhat pejorative view of myths as “thought illusions.” Freud later proposed that such illusions—including the sacred myths of Christianity and Judaism—should be dispelled, or at least reduced to psychological explanations (1928).

and Sufism (1958, 1971). Valentin Tomberg has since used Boehme to build bridges with Jewish kabbalah and Hindu yoga. Tomberg’s magnum opus (1985) contains a very favourable preface by Hans Urs von Balthasar, who cites Tomberg in his epigraph to the Theo-Drama vol. 3. 34 Boehme uses the word “theosophy” in his work, but never to distinguish it from “theology.” At times he uses it to clarify that he is not confusing nature with God, as “pagans” do (Aurora 8.56; see Faivre 1996, 13). It was Boehme’s followers and their critics who used “theosophy” to distinguish his work from “theology,” beginning with Gichtel’s first edition of Boehme’s complete works, Alle Theosophische Werken, published in Amsterdam in 1682 (see Faivre 1996, 14). McGinn notes that Pseudo-Dionysius and John Scotus Eriugena “both use the word theosophi to describe theologians” (2016, 204).

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In many ways Freud’s Enlightenment leanings prompted him to try to escape from myth; whereas Jung’s Romanticist leanings prompted him to see the Enlightenment itself as structured by a potent (and largely hidden) Promethean or Faustian myth. For Jung, escaping myth was not really a human option, and the attempt to do so reflected modernity’s tragic hubris. Jung’s goal was to find what Northrop Frye and others have called “myths to live by.”

My general point here is that the deep connection between myth and the “psychic internal” noted by Freud does not necessitate the reduction of one to the other; it can just as easily suggest a reciprocity between them. Jung, for example, saw the psychological potency of the

Christ myth as evidence for its historical veracity, rather than as evidence that theology should be subsumed under psychology. For all of these reasons, rather than designating Boehme’s approach “theosophy,” which tends to segregate his work,35 I would prefer to describe it as

“psycho-mythical theology”—theology that is primarily concerned not with explaining dogmatic formulas in discursive logic, but with charting the strange logic that connects sacred myth to the soul, with the goal of psychological healing and transformation.36 The implications of this definition will become more obvious in what follows.

35 I recognize the value of the words “theosophy” and “esotericism” for designating a fairly coherent historical stream that emerged (in part) from Boehme, so I hope I am not just quibbling about words. The point is to look at the historiographical basis for Boehme’s marginalization. Some of this has to do with the pioneering work of Frances Yates. As Hanegraff notes, Yates viewed “the Hermetic tradition” and its related strands of “gnosis,” “occultism,” and “esotericism” as a “quasi autonomous counterculture.” This has been questioned by subsequent historians who believe it “was by no means limited to some magical subculture but was abundantly present in ‘mainstream’ religious, philosophical, and scientific discourse as well,” and which is therefore a “traditionally underestimated dimension of general religious and cultural developments in pre- and early modern western society” (2006, ix-x). As noted above, I am not sure that Boehme fits comfortably within “the Hermetic tradition,” but even if he does this should not be a cause for his marginalization. 36 What I mean by “psycho-mythical” in relation to theology is illustrated quite well by Gustav Aulén’s classic study Christus Victor (1930), which describes how Luther recovered the myth-logic behind the

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Certain movements in modern theology have also emphasized that the discursive logic of traditional dogmatics must remain connected to the deeper logic of sacred myth and narrative.37 Boehme’s work makes the same claim, since his ultimate goal is not a separation but a union of Vernunft and Verstand. But Boehme goes much further than most modern theologians in that, rather than simply describing this psycho-mythical logic in discursive terms, he immerses his readers in it.38 And in so doing he attempts to awaken deeper aspects of the soul itself. But I see no reason to separate Boehme’s use of figural biblical exegesis from that of someone like Augustine, since for both thinkers the psychologically informed interpretation of these figures is the bedrock that structures their work. In other words, I am claiming that western theology has always involved a conversation between the psycho-mythical logic of

traditional doctrine of the atonement. Luther framed the atonement in terms of the mythic powers of “sin, death, and the devil,” in contrast to the more rationalistic “objective” Anselmian and “subjective” humanistic views. And yet Luther’s heirs, like Melanchthon, quickly reverted from myth to rationalism. In this regard, Boehme is again extending Luther’s approach. 37 I am thinking here of Balthasar’s “dramatic” approach, and the emphasis on “narrative” in the so-called “Yale school” inspired mainly by Karl Barth. As I said above, I see Balthasar’s work as closely allied with what I am attempting here. To take just one example, in Theo-drama vol. 4 (Balthasar’s dramatic approach to soteriology) he begins, provocatively, with the Book of Revelation: “we must assume that an objective world of images exists in God; excerpts from it are communicated now to this prophet, now to that, until in the Apocalypse of John a kind of summa is distilled from it” (16). Boehme would be in profound agreement with this statement, for Wisdom is this objective world of images, and Wisdom’s seven qualities or “source-spirits” are derived from the seven spirits surrounding the throne of God in Revelation 1:4, and 4:5, which form a kind of anti-type to the seven days of creation in Genesis 1. 38 Interestingly, several streams of modern theology seem to be converging on this psycho-mythical approach: Bultmann gave us psychological depth with his “existentialist” approach, which was nonetheless explicitly “demythologized.” Tillich follows this “existentialist” stream, but he recognizes that myth contains “elements of infinity which express ultimate concern” (1951, 80), and yet he barely engages the sacred myths of the biblical text. Barth enters the fray almost as an anti-Tillich, by profoundly engaging the narrative structure of the Bible, and yet strongly disengaging from any psychological analogies. Balthasar can be seen then as a remarkable mediating figure, who, like Boehme, lets the drama of the biblical text itself set the terms for the emergent psychology. Balthasar notes some of the convergences I am alluding to here (Theo-Drama 1:15-50). This oversimplified sketch is simply to note that Boehme’s approach is sophisticated, relevant, and in many ways ahead of its time.

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Verstand and the rational logic of Vernunft, and in this respect Boehme’s work seems different in degree, but not in kind.

Boehme’s work has also been called “esoteric,” but I find nothing in it to suggest that he was attempting to create a secretive or elitist spiritual group (although some of his followers may have attempted to use his work in this way).39 Boehme tried to disseminate his work widely in his later years, and the spiritual elites of his day were his main targets. Boehme calls himself the “philosopher of the simple folk (Philosophus Einfältigen)” (Aurora 18.80), likely believing that uneducated minds had a better chance of grasping his thought than the university-trained intelligentsia.40 If there is anything esoteric about Boehme, it is that one can only understand him by looking at the secret aspects of one’s own soul. His key symbols represent something like a psychological and mythical bedrock: Wisdom’s seven pillars form the deep structure of the entire biblical narrative, starting with the seven days of creation in

Genesis 1, and ending with the seven spirits of the Book of Revelation.41 These seven qualities

39 Boehme’s work was taken up by Freemasonry and other “initiatory societies” throughout Europe, Russian, and North America in the late 18th century (see Faivre 2000, 20-24). 40 As Weeks says, “Doctrine, as the province of the professional clerical class, is exclusionary and authoritarian. By contrast, the writings of Boehme… were intended to be non-exclusionary and antiauthoritarian (2006, 187). 41 Wisdom’s association with the number seven comes from Proverb 9:1-6, a passage that could be taken as the leitmotif of Boehme’s whole corpus, in its description of a joyful banquet of the simple: “Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn her seven pillars. She has slaughtered her animals, she has mixed her wine, she has also set her table. She has sent out her servant-girls, she calls from the highest places in the town, ‘You that are simple, turn in here!’ To those without sense she says, ‘Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight” (NRSV). This passage would have Eucharistic overtones, particularly for Protestants, who tended to emphasize the “joyful feast” aspect of the Eucharist over the usual Roman “sacrificial” aspect. It also echoes Jesus’ parable of the feast (Matt 22: 1-14; Luke 14:15-24). Margaret Barker’s hypothesis, that Wisdom and her seven pillars were a crucial aspect of the first Temple cult, which were purged from the second Temple, and later recovered in Christianity, is very intriguing in this regard (Barker 2012).

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also represent both the soul’s structure and its path to transformation. At first glance,

Boehme’s frequent descriptions of Wisdom’s qualities can seem repetitive and bewildering. But a closer look reveals that he is not repeating but amplifying. His writing circles centrifugally, drawing more associations into each archetypal symbol, and drawing the reader deeper into the inner world. This widening gyre of meaning is meant to eventually extend to all reality— visible and invisible, inner and outer. And the most significant corollary of Boehme’s psycho- mythical approach is that he believed his theological corpus, with God’s help, could effect the change it was describing.

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Figure 3. Boehme’s Map of Everything. By Andreas Freher, in William Law (1764. vol. 3).

Chapter 4: Boehme’s Map of the Soul: The Birth of the Unconscious Mind

This chapter explores Boehme’s map of the soul. Augustine’s soul-trinity of memory

(Father), understanding (Son), and will/love (Holy Spirit) is modified in Boehme’s schema of abyss (Father), Wisdom (Son), and knowledge (Holy Spirit). Boehme’s schema includes four key modifications of Augustine, each of which brings him into closer alignment with the eventual theories of Freud and Jung. First, for Boehme, “will/love” is no longer confined to the Holy Spirit element of the soul; it infuses all three elements. The psychological priority of “will/love” that we saw in Augustine’s schema is thus extended in Boehme’s formulation, such that desire permeates every aspect of the soul and its movements, just as it permeates each member of

Boehme’s Trinity, and indeed every object in the created world. For Boehme everything is charged with and driven by desire, and we will hear an echo of this in what Freud and Jung call libido.

Second, while Augustine’s Father-element of the soul, memoria, is explicitly tied to recall of past experience, for Boehme this Father-element includes past, present and future experience.1 Here the idea clearly emerges that cognition is undergirded at every moment and in all three “tenses” by a hidden inner abyss of desire. We saw in chapter 1 that Augustine describes memoria, as the “abyss” of consciousness, and Boehme again amplifies this concept.

For Boehme this abyss has many names, which together form a pastiche that attempts the impossible task of representing a concept that should have no predicates. In some ways the

1 Boehme’s view is hinted at by Augustine, for whom the cumulative past of memoria represents the present being of the soul. For Augustine memoria also contains the archetypes of Wisdom, which structure past, present and future.

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concept is typically apophatic in that the abyss is defined by negation: the Son-element of the soul is “Grund” or “Ground,” whereas the Father-element is “Ungrund,” “Abgrund,” or “No- ground” (e.g. MM 2.24, 5.3), 2 the Nothing (“Nichts”) before all differentiation and duality. But this Nothing is not simply nothing. And here Northrop Frye, with characteristic wit, helps us distinguish Augustine from Boehme on this point: “we might put it this way,” says Frye,

A. There is nothing to be afraid of. B. Wrong. There is Nothing to be afraid of” (1990, 289).

For Boehme this absence has a phenomenological (not ontological)3 presence, and it can thus be described in terms of the psychological feelings or experiences it evokes in the soul,4 including the existential angst5 mentioned by Frye. Keep in mind that here and in what follows we are speaking of the fallen soul (Boehme’s third ontological level in figure 2), where the

“Father” hides under his opposite (sub contrario).

Third, following what was said above, for Boehme this hidden abyss in the soul has a hidden will of its own. While Augustine clearly emphasizes that the human will can be divided,

Boehme extends the possibility of division: For Augustine, any one movement of the soul will

2 Sparrow captures this in his English translation using the words “byss” and “abyss.” 3 Or not-ontological: E.g. “God in his own being (Wesen) is no being” (MM 6.1). “The something is yet nothing” (Clavis 38). 4 Comparisons could also be made with Rudolf Otto’s famous “numinous”: the wholly other that precedes rationality and morality, that both terrifies and fascinates, and that induces feelings of creaturely dependence (1917). 5 Boehme’s strong influence on Kierkegaard has yet to be described in detail. Kierkegaard’s teacher, Hans Martensen, wrote one of the best early monographs on Boehme [1882] 1949. Similarly, Boehme’s influence on Nietzsche (probably indirect through Schopenhauer) has been mentioned but not detailed. This connects Boehme with a vast swath of existential and so-called postmodern thought that makes reference to the angst of the abyss. For a recent psychological study of Kierkegaard’s Nothing, see Becker (1973).

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take place either in a disposition of love-of-self or in a disposition of love-of-God/other/self.

With Boehme the idea clearly emerges that one movement of the soul can involve two separate wills, possibly in conflict. Further, the soul in this divided state might have no awareness of its division. The dark will can remain entirely hidden, while the mind ascribes its motivation entirely to the conscious will. In short, by assigning “will/love” to all three soul-elements,

Boehme intensifies the possibility that the soul can have ulterior motives of which it remains unaware. These last two modifications of the Augustinian framework, on their own, likely justify crediting Boehme as the father of the psychodynamic concept of the unconscious mind.6

Fourth and finally, Boehme modifies the Augustinian framework by taking Augustine’s distinction between knowledge and Wisdom and building it into the structure of his soul-trinity.

For Augustine, the three elements of the soul-trinity, taken together, can function either in knowledge (scientia) or in Wisdom (sapientia). For Boehme, two elements of the soul-trinity

(Father and Son), when they function harmoniously, represent eternal Wisdom or

“understanding” (Verstand), and the third element (the Holy Spirit) represents temporal knowledge or “reason” (Vernunft). For both Boehme and Augustine Wisdom is a higher, inward, eternal, receptive, and contemplative form of cognition, while knowledge is a lower, outward, temporal, active, and administrative form of cognition.7 And for both thinkers, when the soul

6 Importantly, these modifications originate with Boehme. To my knowledge they are not found in any previous theological thinkers. 7 Following John Sparrow’s original English translation, Boehme’s “Verstand” is usually translated as “understanding,” and “Vernunft” is usually translated as “reason.” But as this sentence indicates, Boehme uses these words in much the same way as Augustine uses sapientia and scientia respectively, and I will treat them as basically synonymous in what follows. In crucial places Boehme uses “Wisdom” (Weisheit) and “understanding” (Verstand) synonymously (e.g. MM Preface 6; 1.2-6), although the latter often connotes the human reception of divine Wisdom. At times Boehme refer to Wisdom as “divine

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functions harmoniously, Wisdom is united with knowledge in a perfect marriage. The big difference here is that, for Boehme, Wisdom or “understanding,” as a form of cognition, is explicitly identified with the imagination, and Sophia herself is identified with the imagination of God. Wisdom is

herself the divine understanding (Verstand), or the divine contemplation/tranquility (Beschauligkeit), in which the One is manifest/revealed (offenbar). She is… a divine imagination (Imagination) (Clavis 19).

And just as (in the macrocosm) eternal Wisdom structures the outer temporal realm, so (in the microcosm) inner imaginative “understanding” (Verstand) structures outward “reason”

(Vernunft):

The outer world… is a housing and tool of the inner spiritual world that is hidden within it and works through it, and thus the inner spiritual world introduces images into the outer world (und sich also mit in Bildungen einführet). And likewise human reason (Vernunft) is also only a housing of the true understanding (Verstandes) (Clavis 115- 116).

For Boehme Wisdom or “understanding” (Verstand) is explicitly an image-based cognition, and this seems to modify Augustine’s formulation by granting the image-based cognition of visio spiritualis a certain kind of parity with visio intellectualis, a tendency we also saw in some of

Boehme’s precursors in the western mystical tradition in Chapter 2.8 This modification, in

knowledge” (Göttlicher Erkentniss) or “divine science” (Göttlicher Wissenschaft), but the modifier is important here, and these should not be confused with Augustinian scientia. Koyré calls Vernunft “discursive” cognition, and Verstand “intuitive” cognition ([1929] 1968, 86). See also Schaublin (1963, 112, 125). 8 In a sense, Boehme’s modification here emerges from a tension inherent in Augustine’s original formulation: For Augustine, Wisdom is partly defined by the images of the seven “eternal days” of Genesis 1. And in the case of these images, it is hard to see how one can “rise above” them—from visio spiritualis to visio intellectualis—even via figural interpretation. One can never fully dispense with the images. With other Augustinian qualities of Wisdom, like love, it does seem possible to move from visio spiritualis to a pure concept—dispensing even with the image of the word “love,” to arrive at a pure imageless concept

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combination with those above, eventually had immense importance for early psychotherapy, introducing the idea that conscious cognition is ultimately guided and structured by an (often hidden) imaginative realm, revealed most commonly in dreams.

4.1 THE SOUL-BODY NEXUS IN THE MICRO- AND MACROCOSM Before exploring the Boehmian soul in detail I will sketch its general contours,9 which are more complex than its Augustinian counterpart in two main ways: First, whereas Augustine tends to distinguish between a temporal body and an eternal soul, for Boehme both body and soul have eternal qualities proceeding from eternal Wisdom, which leads to a more complex integration: Boehme’s body-soul nexus includes three aspects of body interwoven with his three soul-elements. The “outward” Holy Spirit soul-element, representing temporal knowledge or reason (Vernunft), corresponds to two “outward” levels of the body—the “elemental” and the “astral” bodies. The two “inward” levels of the soul—the fiery abyss of the Father-element, which begets the light of eternal Wisdom in the Son-element—in turn correspond to the

“inward” body, which Boehme calls the divine, spiritual, or light body. This inward body is unique to the human species while the two outward bodies—the elemental and astral—are shared by the rest of creation. And at death this spiritual body accompanies the soul into eternity while the two outward bodies remain with the corpse.10 Most importantly, the inward spiritual body is the key locus of Boehme’s psychotherapeutic theory: the loss of this body is

of love. But in the case of certain biblical images (like those of Genesis 1), even for Augustine, visio spiritualis seems to have a certain parity with visio intellectualis. 9 This discussion is based mainly on Mysterium Magnum 15.10-31. 10 Boehme’s thinking here seems to be based on the apostle Paul’s discussion of the spiritual body (e.g. 1 Cor 15:35-58), which generally aligns with the accounts of Jesus’ resurrected body in Luke-Acts, and John, and possibly in the synoptic accounts of the transfiguration.

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the tragic consequence of the Fall, and its recovery is the main goal of spiritual regeneration or rebirth (Wiedergeburt).

Second, following the Renaissance fashion, Boehme’s threefold body-soul nexus is a microcosm with a complex correspondence to the macrocosm. Beginning with the two outward bodies associated with the outer Holy Spirit soul-element of knowledge (Vernunft), we have a lower “elemental” body corresponding to the four elements (air, earth, fire, and water), and a higher “astral” or “sidereal” body, corresponding to the sun, stars, and planets. For Boehme the elemental body has a spiritual character that is “inanimate and void of understanding,” having

“only lust and desire in it” (MM 11.24). Likewise the astral body has a spiritual character that is

“the true rational (vernünftige) life of all creatures,” capable of discerning the “knowledge of all essences in the elements” (MM 11.24, 25). These two bodies have a symbiotic relationship: the elemental body is the “servant or dwelling house” for the astral body (MM 11.23), and likewise in the macrocosm the “sun is the centre of the astrum, and the earth is the centre of the elements. They are to each other… as man and wife” (MM 11.31). This corresponds to the fact that astronomy and astrology had a certain influence and priority over alchemy in the natural science of Boehme’s day.11 Taken together, these sciences explore the logic of the “soul of the great world”: the anima mundi or World Soul (MM 11.30), which connects and governs the astral and elemental worlds, and in which reason (Vernunft) participates. Note that the World

Soul and reason both operate according to “scientific” causality, which in Boehme’s day

11 For a good summary of this science see Weeks (2013, 26-38).

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included both the logic of linear materialistic causality, and the non-materialistic “action at a distance” of magical correspondences.12

Moving from the outward to the inward soul-body nexus means moving from outward knowledge (Vernunft) of the World Soul to inner understanding (Verstand) of eternal Wisdom and her seven qualities.13 The inward, spiritual body is thus associated with the two inward soul-elements—the dark Father and the light Son elements—which together are composed of the seven qualities of Wisdom. In the regenerate soul these two soul-elements function harmoniously, as darkness is sublated14 into light, and desire is sublated into Wisdom. As a mode of cognition, understanding (Verstand) involves using imaginative symbolic amplification of Wisdom’s seven qualities in order to see how they order and influence all things, just as

Boehme does throughout his writings. As this takes place, and as the soul participates in

Wisdom’s seven qualities, it is transformed, and the inner spiritual body is formed, composed of the “holy element” or “spiritual water” that was separated from physical water by the

“firmament” on the second day of creation in Genesis 1 (MM 11.18-26; 15.30). Jesus refers to this spiritual water in his famous nocturnal teaching on rebirth: “you must be born from

12 On magical correspondences Faivre says, “Here the principles of noncontradiction and excluded third middle, as of causal linearity, are replaced by those of synchronicity and included middle” (1996, xxi-xxii). The idea of synchronous “action at a distance” is once again appearing somewhat viable for a few contemporary scientists, thanks to the now accepted theory of quantum entanglement, which Einstein at first called “spooky action at a distance” (see e.g. Radin 2018). 13 E.g. “The inward light, and power of the light, giveth in man the right divine understanding (Verstand); but there is no right divine apprehension in the sidereal spirit; for the astrum has another principle” (MM 11.25). 14 To avoid anachronism, I will use the term “sublate” to refer to Boehme’s concept, rather than “sublimate”—a word that has come to be associated almost totally with Freud—although I see the two words as synonymous. Weeks, who does not suggest that Boehme is a precursor to Freud, uses the term “sublimate” to refer to Boehme’s concept (e.g. 1991, 107).

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above… from water and spirit” (John 3:3-5),15 and also in his conversation with the Samaritan woman (MM 4.15, 10.57)—two passages that Boehme likes very much.16 The spiritual body is also called a light body (e.g. Way to Christ 4.2.8/1978, 5.2.8).17 We will explore the developmental stages of this rebirth in detail in Chapter 6.

4.2 ABYSS: THE ETERNAL DARK FIRE OF INNER DESIRE We will now take a more detailed look at Boehme’s three soul-elements,18 beginning with the Father-element, and keeping in mind that here it represents the “Father” hidden under his opposite (sub contrario), and the soul in the fallen state (Boehme’s third ontological level in figure 2). To summarize, this first soul-element is the inner eternal dark hidden foundation of the soul (see figure 4). It contains three qualities or drives19 that Boehme illustrates with help from the planetary attributes20 of the science of his day: (1) a Nothing-

15 This verse will likewise be central for Jung, in his attempt to transform Freud’s Oedipus complex into a more mythically based “Jonah-and-the-whale” complex, as we will see. 16 Boehme: “Man’s holy body must be regenerated, if his spirit will see God; otherwise he cannot see him, except he be again born anew of the water of the holy element in the spirit of God (who hath manifested himself in Christ with this same water-source); that man’s disappeared body may be made alive in the holy water and spirit; else he hath no sense nor sight in the holy life of God” (MM 11.21). 17 Faivre notes that a key aspect of the theosophical tradition he traces from Boehme is that “the imagination… gives our spirit the possibility to ‘fix’ itself in a body of light, that is to say, to effectuate a ‘second birth’” (2000, 9). For Boehme this body is “effectuated” by the grace of God. There is also a remarkable inter-religious quality to the seven archetypes of Wisdom that together compose the body of light: Boehme’s desciptions of them show remarkable resemblances with Iranian Sufism (Corbin 1971, 121-144), and with the chakra system of tantric yoga (Tomberg 1985). 18 These descriptions are summarized mainly from MM 3.1-26 and Clavis 38-47. 19 As mentioned above, early in the Aurora Boehme defines a quality (Qualität) as the “mobility, surging, or driving (Trieben) of a thing” (Aurora 1.3). The word Trieb (drive) later became very important for Freud. 20 I have included Boehme’s planetary correspondences because their deep psychological resonances help flesh out his ideas. In typical Renaissance fashion, the astrological planets and their corresponding alchemical metals carry the psychological “personality traits” of the respective Greco-Roman gods. For example, melancholy was generally accepted as a Saturnine trait. But importantly, Boehme subordinates this scientific view to the biblical view: he only uses the planetary attributions that accord with the biblical

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desire for death, like a hungry abyss, corresponding to Saturn (♄); (2) a lust-desire21 for life, that emerges in opposition to the Nothing-desire, corresponding to Mercury (☿); and (3) an anxiety and/or anger, resulting from the tension between the previous two qualities, corresponding to Mars (♂). These three drives can compete and combine to produce various unique expressions in each individual soul. But taken together they generally coalesce into a chaotic, irrational, and emotionally volatile soul-element, defined primarily by a hungry void and a sexual, anxious, and/or aggressive desire. And importantly, they generally remain hidden to conscious awareness. Anyone with a basic knowledge of the Freudian unconscious will see marked resonances here, which we will explore further below.

Morally this soul-element is evil, through its association with the dark world of the rebel angels and the kingdom of hell. It is the source of evil in human thought and action, and also the source of the rebellious individual will (“Ichheit” meaning “I-ness” or ego) that seeks

archetypes of Wisdom described in Genesis 1 and Revelation, presumably informed by his own experience. Also, as Stoudt notes, Boehme stopped using “alchemical tools” to describe the universe after Signatura Rerum in 1622 (see also Weeks 1991, 74). Boehme hardly mentions the planets in his description of the qualities in his late works, the Clavis and the Mysterium, but their symbols are still present. 21 In his later works, including the Mysterium Magnum and the Clavis, Boehme mainly uses two words for the desire that pervades all seven qualities: “Begierde” and “Lust,” both of which have a sexual connotation according to Grimm’s Dictionary. Both translate the Latin cupido and desiderium, while Begierde also translates cupiditas, and Lust also translates concupiscentia and libido. (DWB 1:1292; 6:1315). When Boehme uses these words by themselves, without a modifier, he seems to intend the sexual connotation; whereas in the light world where this desire has been transformed, he uses modifiers that mitigate the sexual connotation (e.g. “freien Lust” [free lust, or free pleasure], and “Liebe-Begierde” [love-desire]). Accordingly, I am using “lust-desire” to describe this desire in the dark world, and “love- desire” to describe it in the light world. John Sparrow’s early English translation mitigates the sexual connotation of “Lust” by translating it with the Latin “Lubet,” but only when it refers to Wisdom’s seven qualities, otherwise it is “lust.” And surprisingly Weeks does not mention the sexual connotations of either word in his otherwise excellent word study. He translates Lust as “desire or joy” (2013, 55), whereas Grimm’s dictionary notes that Lust is “particularly the pleasure of the sexual drive” (DWB 6:1315). The Nothing-desire of the first quality is also driven by this desire, as is the anguish/anger of the third quality.

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Figure 4. Boehme’s Map of the Fallen Soul.

Fallen Wisdom or “Eternal Nature” 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Nothing- Lust-Desire Anxiety/ Fire/Light Love-Desire Voice, Body of Desire Anger Sound Light

Hungry Life Tension Division/ Perception Expression Mansion Abyss Sexuality “I-ness” Sublation of Wisdom of Wisdom and House Death of Wisdom

Eternal Dark “Father” Eternal Light “Son” Inner Inner Chaotic Gentle Irrational Joyful Emotional Playful Hungry Selfless Sexual Artistic Anxious/Aggressive Embodied Desire Understanding (Verstand)

Temporal “H. Spirit” Outer Senses (Sinne) Astral Mind (Gemüt) Reason (Vernunft)

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personal gain over against the collective good. But as we will see, when this individual will offers itself for the collective good, what feels like the death of “I-ness” becomes a rebirth: evil is sublated into good, and the dark fire of the Father-element becomes the motive force serving the light world of the Son-element.

Since the Father-element is defined mainly by irrational emotions, it will help to flesh out the psychological “feeling-tones” of its three qualities. Boehme describes the first quality, the Nothing-desire, variously as “cold,” “hard,” “harsh,” “austere,” and as the source of “the great darkness of the abyss.” Its core metaphor seems to be “astringency” (herbe), a kind of absorption or vacuum suction, like that of a black hole (MM 3.9).22 Boehme often calls this

Nothing-desire “a hunger” (e.g. MM 3.5; Clavis 38), and we will soon see Freud and Jung debate whether the hunger instinct is anterior to, or concomitant with, the sexual instinct in the unconscious.23 Its planet, Saturn, is associated with death (e.g. Threefold Life 1.34/1764, 1.31).

And Saturn also corresponds alchemically to lead, the initial substance (prima materia) of the alchemical great work. As such this quality is intractable and inscrutable, with a dark inertia that can immobilize or paralyze when it manifests, for example, as Saturnine melancholy,24 which is

22 E.g. “The first property is the desire, like a magnet… the grasping in of the will… a sharp magnetic hunger, an astringency” (Clavis 38). Connections could be made here with the initial “contraction” or “tsim-tsum” of Lurianic Kabbalah. 23 Boehme could be used to plausibly support either side of this debate, which supports my contention that he defines the larger boundary in which these later debates took place. 24 Boehme: “The melancholy nature… corrodes and consumes itself inwardly in its own being, and abides always in the house of sorrow and sadness” (Way to Christ 8.8/1978, 9.8). We saw above that Boehme’s own seminal illumination was preceded by a period of melancholy. The psychology of melancholy was much discussed in the Renaissance, for example in Cornelius Agrippa’s Philosophia Occulta (1533), which likely influenced Albrect Dürer’s famous Melancholia I (1514), and later in Robert Burton’s popular The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621).

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basically the early modern precursor to today’s second most common category of mental illnesses: mood disorders.25

The feeling tone of the second quality is partly determined by the fact that it emerges from the first quality: from the Nothing-desire springs a “countervailing” (Einziehen) lust-desire that is “the beginning of motion, stirring, and life” (MM 3.10-11). As such this sexually-charged drive for life feels (secretly) bounded by Nothingness and death. Boehme even defines this relation between the first and second qualities in a way that surely would have pleased Freud and Jung: the first quality is like the “father” who attempts “to hold and shut in the disobedient son; whereby the son only grows stronger in his uneasiness” (MM 3.11).26 Like the alchemical

Mercury, this lust-desire is fluid and shimmering, with a tendency to both meld with and illuminate its desired objects.27 The science of Boehme’s day saw mercury as an “exceptional” planet and metal because of its chameleon-like character: it could assume both sides of various binary opposites, and could be either beneficent or maleficent (mercurius duplex) (see Weeks

2013, 29). Boehme notes that this lust-desire is “the ground for the ‘I-ness’ (Ichheit),”28 which will fully emerge in the third quality (Clavis 41).

These first two properties continually pull against each other in opposition, yet they remain tethered and dependent, and the tension between them produces the feeling-tone of the third property, which is both “anxiety” (Angst) and “anger” (Zorn) (MM 3.12; Clavis 31).

Boehme goes so far as to call it a “raging madness” with the proviso that, as with all the drives

25 These include, primarily, depression, and bipolar disorder. 26 Freud will later call this motif “castration anxiety,” associated with the Oedipus complex. 27 Freud will later call this melding with the object “libidinal cathexis.” 28 Freud will later say that the ego emerges from the Id.

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of the dark world, this feeling is generally “not perceived” by consciousness (MM 3.16). Its planet is Mars, god of war. And accordingly Boehme associates it with both the wrath of God, and the fear and anguish induced by that wrath, which together form the picture of hell (Clavis

44). The angst of this quality is basically the early modern precursor to today’s most common category of mental illnesses: anxiety disorders.29

In this third quality the fiery “I-ness” (Ichheit) or “independent will” (eigene Wille) emerges in full, and this in turn is the root of “mind (Gemüt), and the senses (Sinne)” which will fully emerge in the fourth quality (Clavis 43). The I-ness of this third quality is connected to both its anger and anxiety, and anger forms something like the mirror image of anxiety: the I-ness either succumbs to anxious fear of a wrathful God, or it overcomes this anxiety by attempting to become “like God” itself (Gen 3:5). It will thus either underestimate or overestimate its actual abilities (or both in turn). Jung called the latter condition “inflation,” where the ego becomes “puffed up” beyond natural limits (1 Cor 8:1). In Boehme’s day this condition was known as a “choleric temperament” which Boehme says is “of the fire’s property. It produces stout courage, violent anger, aspiring pride, self-centredness, and disregard of others” (Way to

Christ 8.3/1978, 9.3). With this third quality a kind of circulation begins in the dark world. A

“whirling wheel” begins to turn around a centre, and the three drives of Nothing-desire, lust- desire, and anxiety/anger take on a unified character, like a kind of infernal trinity (Clavis 44).

Boehme explicitly compares this to the alchemical trinity of salt, mercury, and sulphur, from which all matter was said to arise (MM 3.17; Clavis 46).

29 These include, primarily, generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and specific phobias. In Boehme’s day anxiety was often included under the melancholic temperament, which Boehme says “stands in continual fear of the anger of God” (Way to Christ 8.6/1978, 9.6).

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The crucial transition between the dark world and the light world is found in the fourth quality, which strictly speaking belongs to neither world but separates and mediates between them (e.g. Clavis 75). This quality corresponds to the sun (☉), the alchemical Sol, and Boehme characterizes it by a sudden “enkindling of the fire,” also called a “lightening flash” (Blitz) or

“fright” (Schrack)30 that divides the dark fire world from the holy light world (MM 3.25-26). This is also a division between the natural and the spiritual: the “fourth form of nature is the enkindling of the fire, where the sentient (fühlende) and intellective (verständige) life first arises, and the hidden God reveals himself… in the fire and light; in the fire the natural, and in the light the oily spiritual” (MM 3.18-19). That is, in this flash the light of Wisdom begins to be revealed.

The fourth quality is mysterious in that it both divides and transforms—it both sunders darkness from light, and sublates one into the other:

In this fright or enkindling of the fire two kingdoms sever themselves…the one comprehends not the other in its own source; and yet they proceed from one original, and are dependent on one another; and the one without the other were a nothing (MM 4.1)

The dualistic character of this fourth quality also influences a vertical axis, so to speak. That is, horizontally, in the realm of eternal Wisdom, the fourth quality divides and transforms darkness into light. Vertically, the dualistic character of the fourth quality is passed down into the time- space realm of both the World Soul in the macrocosm, and temporal reason or Vernunft in the

30 This word is likely a dialectical variation of the German “Schreck” meaning “fright” or “shock.” Sparrow’s English edition uses its own neologism to translate it: “flagrat.” See Grimm (DWB 9:1615).

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microcosm (see figures 2, 3, and 4). That is, the temporal realm of outer reason that we will explore shortly (section 4.4) proceeds from this fourth quality.

Boehme associates this fourth quality with the mystery of the crucifixion of Christ,31 which, as an event that defines God’s righteousness or goodness, also serves to define and differentiate unrighteousness or evil. Mysteriously, the crucifixion also transforms virtue into vice, and vice into virtue, though without confusing the two. That is, Boehme agrees with the

Pauline (and Lutheran) view of the crucifixion, that “God made him who had no sin to be sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (1 Cor 5:21). Good is made evil and evil is made good in this mysterious exchange.32 Thus the fourth quality exists like a cross at the centre of Wisdom, running right through time and eternity, in both the macro- and the microcosm.

4.3 WISDOM: THE ETERNAL HOLY LIGHT OF INNER UNDERSTANDING (“VERSTAND”) In contrast to the Father-element, the Son-element reveals the true face of God, and represents the soul in the regenerate state. To summarize, this second soul-element is the inner eternal holy light of Wisdom or understanding (Verstand), which is the manifestation of the hidden dark-element.33 As such it can exist either in conflict with the dark element, or in a

31 The Christocentric and cruciform nature of Boehme’s theology has generally been understated by his interpreters. 32 Luther calls this the “wonderful exchange” (e.g. 1519/21 WA5:608). 33 Boehme: “the abyss (Ungrundes) introduces itself into the byss (Grund) and essence (Wesen)… wherein the manifestation/revelation of the abyss consists” (MM 5.3). Each of the qualities of the dark soul- element finds its manifestation in the corresponding quality of the light soul-element: “Above all it should be noted that the first and seventh properties must always be accounted one, and also the second and the sixth are one, equally the third and fifth are one; the fourth is simply the dividing line” (Clavis 75).

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harmony that sublates and transforms the darkness into light.34 At times Boehme suggests that this sublation cancels the dark element, in a way similar to the Hegelian concept of aufhebung, meaning both a cancelation and a completion. At other times he suggests that the light properties of the Son-element enlighten the dark properties of the Father retroactively, so to speak.35 It is important to note that the light soul-element does not “manifest” the dark soul- element in the sense of making it conscious. Consciousness roughly corresponds to the Holy

Spirit-element that we will explore shortly, which is “outward” and thus bound by space and time.36 The dark and light soul-elements are both “inward,” meaning that they participate in the eternal realm of Wisdom, which is accessed through the symbolism of the creative imagination, including the realm of dreams.

The Son-element contains three qualities or drives, which Boehme again illustrates using the planetary attributes of the science of his day: (5) a gentle, joyful, playful “love-desire”

(Liebe-Begierde),37 corresponding to Venus (♀), which allows the soul to perceive Wisdom; (6) a

34 Fallen and regenerate aspects of the soul can coexist simultaneously for Boehme, following the Lutheran concept of simul iustus et peccator (“both sinner and saint”) (e.g. Three Principles Preface 9-10). As we saw above, Boehme at times says that the dark and light soul-elements are dependent on each other (e.g. MM 4.1). This can sound dualistic (e.g. Manichaean or “gnostic”), but it need not be: The light- element only exists as a result of the harmony of all seven qualities of Wisdom, and thus the light clearly depends on the dark as its motive force. When the dark-element is in conflict with the light, it is still dependent on the light in the sense that it depends on the existence of the full spectrum of Wisdom in order to seize part of that spectrum for its own willful purposes. 35 See p. 131 notes 23 and 26 above. We will see this in Chapter 6, in Boehme’s exegesis of Genesis 1, where the seven qualities appear in their original goodness. Here the first quality is defined by the light created within the dark abyss on the first day. Boehme reads Genesis 1 in concert with John 1:5, where “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome/comprehend it.” At other times Boehme also suggests that all seven qualities can exist either in a fallen or a regenerate state. 36 Comparisons could be made here with Kant, which is important because both Freud and Jung are explicitly Kantian. 37 See p. 149 note 21 above.

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voice, sound, speech, or “melodious song,” representing the soul’s expression of Wisdom,38 corresponding to Jupiter (♃); and (7) a spiritual body of light, which is the “mansion and house” that gathers the previous six qualities (MM 6.20), corresponding to both Saturn (♄) and Luna

(☽), the moon. Each of these three qualities reflects an aspect of Christ the Son as cosmic Logos, the template and fulfillment of both the micro- and macrocosm, representing the soul’s harmonious participation in the eternal order of creation. These three can combine to produce various unique expressions in each individual soul. But taken together they generally coalesce into a loving, free, joyful, playful, selfless, artistic and fully embodied soul-element, defined primarily by “understanding” (Verstand), which is the soul’s ability to perceive and express divine Wisdom. Anyone with a basic knowledge of Jung’s concept of “individuation,” and particularly the ego’s relation to the “Self,” will see marked resonances here, which we will explore further below.

Morally this second soul-element is good, through its association with the light world of the holy angels and the kingdom of heaven. It is the source of goodness in human thought and action, and as such it involves a “releasement” (Gelassenheit) of the individual will or “I-ness”

(Ichheit) of the first soul-element, in such a way that collective good now takes priority over personal gain. As mentioned above, in this releasement what at first feels like the death of “I- ness” turns out in fact to be a resurrection—a transformation or rebirth experienced as a free gift of grace (e.g. Incarnation 2.10.9-11/1764, 2.10.42-52). Here the basic similarity with

Augustine is obvious: Released from self-will and solipsism (Augustine’s “love-of-self”), the soul

38 Sometimes Boehme seems to ascribe both the perception and expression of Wisdom to the sixth quality (e.g. Clavis 71).

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no longer situates itself at the centre of the universe. Self-will recedes as perception and awareness expand to include ever greater vistas. In this way the soul becomes aware of a universe pulsating with loving abundance, and it takes its place joyfully in the harmonious order of the whole.

It will help to note, in general terms, the way that Boehme differentiates the first soul- element from the second. He sometimes refers to the first simply as the “soul” (Seele) and the second as the “spirit (Geist) of the soul.”39 Similarly he calls the first element the “true desiring soul,” and the second the “true understanding (verständigen) spirit” (Clavis 59). This spirit is both affective and cognitive, defined both by its joyful love and its discernment of Wisdom, and thus Boehme describes it as both “mind” (Gemüthe) and “heart” (Herze) (e.g. MM 1.4). At times he is even more specific about the relation between these two: “The spirit… is born in the heart… and keeps its seat there, and goes forth from that seat in power to the brain. The brain itself is a product, or a gentle power of the heart” (Aurora 5.21). As with Augustine, we see here a certain priority of love over knowledge. We also see that the character and quality of love affects the character and quality of cognition. Augustine’s love-of-self and Boehme’s “lust- desire” generally inspire a knowledge that is detached from eternal Wisdom and serves merely individual aims. Augustine’s love-of-God/other/self and Boehme’s “love-desire” generally inspire a knowledge that is integrated with eternal Wisdom and serves the whole.

To describe the actual content of understanding (Verstand), Boehme often uses a kind of shorthand: understanding perceives the “powers, colours, and virtues” that together

39 E.g. “The soul is the pearl, and the spirit of the soul is the finder of the pearl” (Forty Questions 16.5/1764, 16.6).

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compose Wisdom (e.g. MM 1.6-7, 2.9; Incarnation 2.2.2/1764, 2.2.9). The metaphor suggests a perception of how the seven colours of the spectrum illuminate all things, and are yet aspects of one light. It also shows that Boehme, like Augustine, sees the virtues as eternal archetypes, with all of the virtues arising from the free love-desire of the fifth quality. Also, like Augustine, for Boehme virtue is defined as the Wisdom to discern our place and role in a morally ordered cosmos. In short, understanding grants the ability to perceive all of the archetypes and their

“signatures” in the created order,40 with an emphasis on the ability to see how they all form a unity in God.41

The perception of these “powers, colours, and virtues” is facilitated primarily by the imagination. Let me quote Boehme at length on this point, as he describes how imagination drives the process of regeneration, including the death of self-will and the birth of imaginative freedom, which allows the perception and expression of Wisdom:

The soul [i.e. the dark soul-element] desires or hungers to manifest itself; hence, it needs food or substance. To get substance for manifestion it has to cast its imagination forward into the light—the only place or state in which genuine substance is to be found—and thus it goes out of itself into another vibration. It has as it were to sink into death and rise out of it into life. It has to die as to its fiery, proud self-will, and to re-

40 Boehme’s Signatura Rerum is based on the Renaissance idea of the Book of Nature, where the unity of all things in God can be discerned in the interconnected harmony of the cosmos. At Boehme’s time this harmony was symbolic, aesthetic, and mathematical. Thus Kepler, in his Harmonies of the World, prays to “the Father of Intellects”: “through the sweetest bonds of harmonies Thou hast made all Thy works one.” Kepler further notes, in his Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, that “Copernicus reckons up the principle parts of the world by dividing the figure of the world into regions. For in the sphere, which is the image of God the Creator and Archetype of the world… there are three regions, symbols of the three persons of the Holy Trinity—the centre, a symbol of the Father; the surface, of the Son; and the intermediate space, of the Holy Ghost.” Kepler visited Görlitz in Boehme’s day (quoted in Weeks 1991, 189; 2013, 30). 41 Boehme sometimes describes eternal Wisdom as “the One, which is All” (MM 5.14). Just as all things “spring out of the One, so they all go back into one ground… although all alike work in distinct ways and properties” (Clavis 73). In Boehme’s account of his own seminal illumination he says: “In this light my spirit soon saw everything, recognizing God in all creatures, in vegetation and grass; I recognized who he is, and how he is, and what is his intention” (Aurora 19.10-13).

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enter the will of God in the light… For its root is the anger of God and the hell-fire, and its predominant love is dominion—a hellish love. When desire’s imagination goes strongly forward out of itself it produces a terrible flash, which, like a cross, separates the dark substance caused by the contractive force in itself from the light substance caused by the expansive force, and the light kindles in the light substance. Thus the brimstone worm [i.e. the dark soul-element] is reborn as a new creature—an angel; humble, gentle, loving, and altruistic—in God’s Kingdom, which is in the sphere of the light” (Incarnation 2.5.12/2.5.56).

The imagination seeks manifestation and embodiment, and this search drives the self-will out of its protective cocoon—a death that causes the birth of imaginative freedom, which itself facilitates the perception and expression of embodied Wisdom. We will discuss Boehme’s view of the creative imagination, including the crucial role of dreams, more fully in the next chapter.

Whereas the three qualities of the Father-element are defined primarily in terms of irrational, chaotic and (often hidden) feelings, the three qualities of the Son-element are defined primarily in terms of an affective cognition that promotes creative freedom. Boehme’s central metaphor for this joyful, loving, and embodied creativity is birth,42 a metaphor that will later become central for Jung in his recasting of Freud’s Oedipus complex. It will help to unpack the character of this creative freedom in each of the three qualities: The love-desire of the fifth quality is associated with the all-embracing love of Venus, and also with the five senses, which became fully activated to perceive Wisdom in all things. The sixth quality is associated with the jovial ebullience of Jupiter, which guides the imaginative expression of this “understanding” in a multitude of forms, including speech, writing, music, and all of the creative arts. These artistic expressions are of the highest value because they allow humans to create in the image of the

Creator. For Boehme, the whole creation is emphatically an artistic expression that rings with

42 Boehme seems to have inherited the motif of the birth of God in the soul from Valentin Weigel (see McGinn 2016, 112-128).

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the Creator’s music (MM 5.11). And “understanding” allows the soul to participate in this theophanic poiēsis, for “Wisdom is the great mystery of the divine art” (Clavis 19).

The seventh quality, corresponds to both the moon (☽) and Saturn (♄) in that it recapitulates all seven qualities. Boehme calls it “the medium or container of the other six properties, in which they work, as life does in flesh” (Clavis 35). It represents the “melodious play of the divine Wisdom,” where all the properties “act their love-play… mutually to play and melodise one with another in their wrestling sport of love” (MM 6.1, 6.3). It is also “the essence of corporeality,” by which Boehme means that the six qualities or “powers stand manifest… in a spiritual water, viz. in the holy element, whence this world with the four elements was brought forth and created into a substantial form.” (MM 6.5). This primordial holy element, as mentioned above, was present throughout creation in its paradisiacal state, but was lost when the earth became disordered after the Fall. Similarly, in the microcosm, this element constitutes the spiritual body that was lost after the Fall and is regained in the second birth (die Wiedergeburt).

4.4 KNOWLEDGE: THE TEMPORAL REALM OF OUTER REASON (“VERNUNFT”) To summarize, the third soul-element, corresponding to the Holy Spirit, is the soul applied to the outer world of space and time. Boehme calls this the “astral mind,” and it basically corresponds to what Freud and Jung will later call the conscious mind.43 For Boehme the outer visible temporal world exists as an amalgam of the previous two eternal worlds, although in its physicality it is primarily the product of the dark fire world. Likewise, in the

43 I will, however, qualify this generalization in what follows, since for all three thinkers what is conscious is not static but is meant to be expanded in very particular ways, and dreams play a crucial role in this expansion.

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microcosm of the soul, the third soul-element is that part of the soul that administers the outer temporal world. It too exists as an amalgam of the eternal dark and light soul-elements, although in its fallen state it is primarily attuned to a dark perception that sees the world as a theatre for its own self-aggrandizement.

For Boehme this third element or “astral mind” is defined by outward knowledge or reason (Vernunft), which is common to all animals, although more developed in humans. In its lower aspect, Vernunft manages the most basic aspects of existence: it allows the soul to provide for itself, “to eat and procreate” (MM 10.2). In its higher aspect, where humans seem to surpass the rest of the animal kingdom, Vernunft explores the vast interconnected cosmos of stars, planets, and elements—of astronomy, astrology, and alchemy—which together defined the World Soul in the science of Boehme’s day. Importantly, this higher aspect of Vernunft as scientific knowledge is not value-neutral. Especially when it is detached from eternal Wisdom, its knowledge is Faustian, intent on manipulating this vast causal web of space-time creation for its own aggrandizement.44

Before moving to the next section, it might help to summarize these three soul- elements, and their respective three worlds, in Boehme’s own words:

44 On Boehme as a response to Faust see Weeks (1991, 51-54). The Faustian nature of modern science was just becoming evident in Boehme’s day, for example, as Francis Bacon’s Instauratio Magna called for “a line and race of inventions that may in some degree subdue and overcome the necessities and miseries of humanity” (1620, Preface). In Boehme’s system, certain techno-scientific productions would fall under the category of “black magic,” but their dark nature would remain hidden just as the dark soul-element that motivates them remains hidden. In this respect Boehme was again prophetically prescient. The dark unconsciousness of modern science is probably best exemplified in the words Oppenheimer used to justify the atomic bomb: "When you see something that is technically sweet, you go ahead and do it and you argue about what to do about it only after you have had your technical success.” It is easy to see why the Romantics were so fond of Boehme as an antidote to Enlightenment scientism.

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the soul stands in three kingdoms… the first is the eternal nature: the potent might of eternity, the dark and fire-world, according to which God calls himself a strong zealous angry God and a consuming fire, in which Lucifer hath wholly diabolised himself. The second is the holy light-world, where the eternal understanding (Verstand) has displayed itself through the fire’s sharpness, in the light of the great fiery love-desire, and turned the wrathful dark-and-fiery property to a kingdom of joy, which is the true manifestation of the Deity, and it is called the holy heaven of the angelical delight and bliss. The third kingdom or world is the outward astral and elemental kingdom: the air with its domineering stars, wherein all the five outward constellations rule, and the higher and lower of the four elements, out of which the five senses take their origins, wherein the vegetable and reasonable (vernünftige) life consists. This is the animal soul, which rules in all the creatures of this world, in all the outward heavens or constellations, and in all the earth or essences of the outward world (MM 15.18-20; see also Signature 3.8, 13.22-26/1781, 3.6, 13.19-23; Election of Grace 4.27/1781, 4.61-68).

The harmonious functioning of these three worlds is the goal of Boehmian psychology. And just as we saw with Augustine, as the soul is healed its three elements resemble the Trinity more fully. The elements begin to interpenetrate (“perichoresis”) as time is wedded to eternity.45

45 McGrath describes Boehme’s three soul-elements or principles as follows: The first is “the principle of ipseity or self, defined, as it must be, over and against the ‘other.’ The second principle is the principle of alterity or otherness, defined over against the ‘self’” (2012, 55). I tend to see this as going beyond Boehme’s own formulation. In a footnote McGrath notes, “to be precise, Boehme does not speak of alterity, difference, or otherness,” and he notes that the term alterity is “less than precise” (78n28). (The term “alterity” is, however, used by S.T. Coleridge in a way that was likely influenced by Boehme via Schelling [OED s.v. “alterity,” accessed April 4, 2019, http://www.oed.com.myaccess.library.utoronto.ca]). For McGrath, the first two soul-elements or principles are distinguished by conflicting drives: “One drive directs eros within, toward the self; the other drive directs eros without, toward the other. But the second drive presupposes the subordination and support of the first. Relatedness to the other is not simply a negation of narcissism; to speak in the language of Freud, love is the sublimation of narcissism” (2016, 49). I tend to see these conflicting drives (inner vs. outer) emerging already in the first two qualities of Boehme’s first principle or soul-element. Thus the “narcissism” (Boehme’s “lust-desire”) of the first soul- element involves relations both with the inner world and with outer objects, and likewise for the “love- desire” of the second soul-element. On the third principle or soul-element McGrath says, “if one reads Boehme carefully one notices that the third principle does not add anything new to the drama that transpires between the first and the second principles” (2012, 56). My view is that the third principle is temporal, distinct from the other two as eternal. McGrath further notes that the third principle does not represent a “resolution of the opposites” as in Hegel’s logic (78n33), and I agree. But the third principle does represent a temporal resolution or instantiation of the two eternal principles. I also agree with McGrath that the first two principles remain partially unconscious, while the “fullness of self-manifestation is in the third principle, which, anticipating Schelling, we call personality” (2012, 71). In general McGrath’s reading of Boehme looks forward both to

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4.5 INTERACTIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS: THE TWOFOLD AND THREEFOLD SOUL Having introduced Boehme’s three soul-elements, we are now in a position to see how they interact to produce various psychological states and transformations. It is important to underline Boehme’s originality in both his description of the seven qualities or drives, and in his schematic organization of them into three soul-elements. While Boehme draws on the planetary attributes of the science of his day, he also subordinates this scientific view to the biblical view of Wisdom’s seven qualities or “source-spirits” as described in Genesis 1 and the book of Revelation. That is, he only includes those planetary attributes that align with his reading of the biblical text, informed by his own experience.46 But as we will see, Boehme is even more original in his description of the interactive dynamics of these three soul-elements.

And importantly, these dynamics reveal the very striking large-scale structural analogies with

Freud and Jung. Thus it is precisely the most original aspects of Boehme’s schema that bring him into alignment with Freud and Jung.

At times Boehme speaks of the fallen soul as “twofold,” and the reborn soul as

“threefold” (e.g. Incarnation 1.2.14, 1.13.1-17, 3.5.9/1764, 1.2.58, 1.13.1-110, 3.5.35). And while these terms represent ideal types that can vary by degree, they provide a helpful shorthand for the discussion below, since the twofold soul is roughly Freudian, and the threefold soul is roughly Jungian. This general statement also holds true for the respective

Schelling and von Baader (e.g. 2012, 54, 55, 78n24, 78n26). And in general I differ from him by emphasizing the particularity of the seven qualities, and how they coalesce in the three principles uniquely in each individual, and in each movement of the individual psyche. But in general our views are quite complementary. 46 As Weeks says, referring to the Aurora, the “more or less traditional astrological associations are the raw materials of Boehme’s ‘system,’ not the final results” (1991, 73). See p. 148 note 20 above.

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dream theories of Freud and Jung: Freud’s “wish fulfillment” theory of dreams generally corresponds to the “phantasy” dreams of Boehme’s twofold soul, and Jung’s “compensatory” theory, where dreams structure the developmental process of individuation, generally corresponds to the “imagination” dreams of Boehme’s threefold soul. I will unpack these statements here generally and revisit them in later chapters.

The twofold soul functions according to the first and third soul-elements described above: the hidden inner dark element of chaotic desire, and the outer time-space element of worldly rationality (Vernunft). A twofold soul thus generally sees itself as contained and defined by the outer world of time and space, while it is driven (unconsciously) by the hidden dark desires of the first soul-element: a Nothing-desire for death, a lust-desire for life, and an anxiety or anger resulting from the tension between them. This twofold soul likewise has a twofold will, but it is generally only aware of the conscious will of the third soul-element, while the dark will of the first soul-element remains hidden.

A soul in this state might be very socially adapted in its occupation with worldly affairs, particularly if it is skilled at using outward rationality (Vernunft) to navigate the space-time realm, and it will generally see itself as “a good person,” while in a larger sense it remains totally unaware of the dark motives for its actions. In fact, a soul in this state is more likely to notice the many evils in the world around it than to notice any darkness in itself.47 The twofold soul remains conflicted, with its two wills divided. But because the dark will and its desires remain unconscious, the outer soul often fails to understand the source or reason for the

47 This follows Jesus’ teaching about what Freud and Jung will later call projection: we see the “speck” in our neighbour’s eye rather than the “beam” in our own (Matt 7:3-5).

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conflict, much like the state described by the apostle Paul in Romans 7:15: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” The dark world can manifest in the twofold soul in a variety of ways that will thus seem generally incomprehensible to the outward cognition of the third soul-element: depression, fear, anxiety, moodiness, anger, obsessions, compulsions, etc. Much more radical evil can manifest if the third soul-element surrenders itself to, or is “swallowed” by the dark world. But in general, the most common (and generally unnoticed) manifestation of the dark soul-element is its desire to control and consume48 the world around it: it neglects the innate beauty and goodness of objects and sees only how they serve “I-ness.” In attempting to control space-time reality for its own benefit, the twofold soul finds itself increasingly (and paradoxically) alienated from any true and deep relationship with the world around it.

For Boehme, the dreams of the twofold soul primarily contain “phantasy,” where the dark world conjures false visions that, on the surface, largely reflect the whims and wishes of “I- ness” as it navigates the time-space realm. But on a deeper level, as Freud discovered, beneath the surface narrative, such phantasy dreams also reveal the drives of the dark world, including its overwhelming lust-desire, which tends to fuel unrealistic egoistic desires for power and control, while always pushing against the shadow of Nothingness and death with its haunting, angst inducing inevitability.49

48 Boehme describes this as a “fierce wrathful dragon, which only wills to devour, as in the Revelation of John” (Incarnation 1.13.4/1764, 1.13.23). Comparisons could be made here to contemporary “consumerism,” and its roots in an advertising genre that was pioneered on Freudian principles by Freud’s nephew Edward Bernays. 49 Boehme’s “kingdom of phantasy” is the astral-elemental realm and the outward soul, inasmuch as it is the manifestation of the hidden dark world (see e.g. Election of Grace 2.12-13, 4.29, 5.20, 7.7/1781, 2.37-

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While the wishes of these “phantasy” dreams are ultimately unrealistic they are nonetheless revelatory in that they reveal the dark inner world, and the dark desires hiding beneath the wishes of “I-ness.” We cannot help but be surprised by the fact that Freud’s observation of dreams eventually led him to posit an unconscious mind or “Id” (Es) with qualities virtually identical to those of Boehme’s dark world: a death-drive, a life-drive or libido

(“Eros”), and an angst induced by their polar tension.50 Likewise for Freud the “ego” (Ich) is that time-space aspect of the soul that emerges from the Id, and mediates between the Id and the outer world. Freud’s ego thus attempts to function according to the “reality principle,” while the Id functions according to the desires of the “pleasure principle.” Finally, the third element of Freud’s structural model, the “super-ego” (Über-Ich), gives us a hint of Boehme’s light world, since it is the repository of virtue, represented by Freud as the “ideal self” with its moral norms and conscience.51 Importantly, however, for Freud these moral ideals are inculcated by the parents, whereas Jung posited an innate and archetypal conscience, which approximates to some degree the Boehmian and Augustinian view of eternal archetypal virtues.

For Boehme, the transition from the twofold to the threefold soul begins with a process of confession, as the third soul-element turns inward and becomes dimly aware of the dark

40, 4.71-2, 5.59-67, 7.15-17; Way to Christ 3.1.42/1978, 4.1.42). On the difference between dreams of “phantasy” and “imagination” see MM 67.5-14. At other times Boehme calls “phantasy” the “false imagination.” I have used the older spelling of “phantasy” to highlight its continuity with the “phantasms” of the dark world (see Couliano, 1987, 1-84). 50 Here I am referring to Freud’s later structural model, which shows even closer conformity to Boehme than his earlier “topographical” model, implying that Freud’s resemblance to Boehme increased with his clinical experience. 51 Strachey’s English translation changed Freud’s simple German words into their Latin cognates for emphasis, but in the original German “ego” is simply “I,” “Id” is simply “It,” and “super-ego” is simply “over-I.” I will use Strachey’s now accepted terms.

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motives for its actions. It begins to realize that even (and perhaps especially) its best intentions and efforts can be fueled, unconsciously, by darkness. Here confession is less about admitting known wrongs than about becoming aware of unknown dark motivations, and the ways they have unconsciously harmed others. The twofold soul’s self-image of “average goodness” begins to crumble as it becomes aware that, for example, even our most “charitable” acts can be fueled by secret egoistic desires to appear virtuous before others, or to demonstrate our superiority to those in need.52 This process of becoming aware of the dark soul-element forms the core of traditional Freudian analysis, and in Jungian individuation it is represented by the initial stage of confrontation with the “shadow,” a figure who appears in dreams representing the inferior aspects of the conscious personality.

This process of coming to awareness of the soul’s inner darkness is by no means easy, and it is generally resisted both by egoistic hubris and by rationality itself. Reason (Vernuft) tends to fear the dark world because the syllogistic logic of time and space can neither comprehend nor control the imagistic logic of the inner eternal world. In excluding awareness of the dark fire, the soul also excludes its most irrational emotions by fleeing to the sanctuary of reason. But this attempt usually proves futile, since the reason-bound soul usually tends to feel increasingly persecuted, often by invisible or invented enemies in the outer world, which appear as projections of the inner dark world. The soul’s inner dark face thus appears in the face of the other, and the ego’s supposedly “neutral” rationality tends to become the plaything of hidden emotional undercurrents. Thus when Boehme describes the transition from the

52 Boehme was well aware that the worst evils are often cloaked in virtue. For example, he was deeply troubled that, in his own day, defending religious doctrine had become a pretext for mass murder.

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twofold to the threefold soul as a “releasement” (Gelassenheit), he is talking about a general surrender of the ego’s hubris, its self-image of “average goodness,” and its attempt to control and dominate both the outer world and itself through a reason (Vernunft) that excludes

Wisdom or understanding (Verstand).

In terms of biblical imagery, Boehme describes this process of confession, releasement, and increased conscious awareness in fairly typical Lutheran and Pauline terms as a “dying and rising with Christ” (Incarnation 1.12.4/1764, 1.12.18). And yet the imagery here is crucial, since the process itself is thoroughly imaginative: “No one can go into the light world except through a dying. In this dying the imagination must first lead the way” (Incarnation 2.4.15/1764, 2.4.70).

We will trace this imaginative journey in more detail in Chapter 6, but suffice it to say that, in general, the growing awareness of the inner dark world sparks a desire for and an awareness of the light world of Wisdom. Confession and releasement are met by grace and forgiveness, and grace appears as the greater or superordinate category. At this point the world within, as it surfaces mainly in dreams and spontaneous creative imagination, no longer appears as simple darkness but as a collision of opposites (coincidentia oppositorum)—darkness and light—as we see in Boehme’s fourth quality, where the “lightening flash” (Blitz) both divides and transforms one into the other. Here the light breaks forth in the soul, although darkness still remains, in keeping with the Lutheran doctrine of simil iustus et peccator. And yet in relation to the darkness, the light of Wisdom reveals itself as the whole in relation to the part.

Freud offers more than a hint of this emergence of light from darkness, particularly in his concept of sublimation, which became increasingly important in his later work. In a typical

Freudian analysis, the growing awareness of the Id and its dark desires is generally

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accompanied by a similar awareness of the superego’s moral norms, which are generally inculcated in childhood. In this process the ego is generally prompted to take responsibility, both for its own dark desires, and for the parental norms it has thus far blindly accepted

(whether it obeyed them or not). Thus the ego that previously projected its dark desires on others, and felt oppressed by an external superego of judgmental moralism, begins to see both the darkness and the light within, and generally feels less constrained in the process. This does not necessarily mean that moral norms are weakened, but they generally appear less oppressive because they are no longer seen simply as the product of external authorities. In turn, in a successful analysis, the ego’s increased conscious awareness tends to free up more

(sublimated) libido for the outer world. In short, and in Lutheran and Boehmian terms, life is increasingly experienced in terms of grace rather than law, play rather than work; or rather grace infuses law as play infuses work. Moral norms feel less oppressive as the harsh critic ceases, and increased energy brings joy to daily life. Here Freudian sublimation seems very close to Boehmian transformation. But importantly, for Freudian theory the process ends here in a mixed world of darkness and light, with sublimation generally as the goal or terminus. And in therapeutic practice, of course, the realization of this process is by no means easy, as there really is no “typical” analysis.

Jung goes further. After the confrontation with the shadow, the unconscious begins to appear in dreams in typical Boehmian form as a coincidentia oppositorum—darkness and light.

And the centre-point of these polar opposites indicates a new centre for the personality—a centre outside the ego, and around which the ego begins to circle, so to speak. This centre and the ultimate circumference of its circle are what Jung calls the “self” archetype, represented in

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dreams by symbols of “unity and totality” (1951a, CW9ii:31), since it represents the totality of the psyche rather than the ego’s limited perspective. For Jung, the “self” archetype is the imago

Dei in the soul, and “the approximation of the ego to the self… must be a neverending process”

(1951a, CW9ii:23). For Jung as for Boehme, in Christian imagery this centre is marked by the cross of Christ, where darkness is transformed into light. And the emergence of this new centre in the psyche is often marked by the dream motif of birth—the birth of a divine child— corresponding to Boehmian “rebirth” (Wiedergeburt).

But for Jung, while this new centre of the imago Dei is hinted at in dreams at this point, it can only be consciously integrated as the ego enters into relationship with another dream figure: the “anima” in men or “animus” in women. Whereas the shadow represents the personal unconscious, the anima and animus open the door to Jung’s “collective unconscious” and its universal archetypes. And the ego’s marriage with the anima/animus in Jungian theory generally corresponds to Boehme’s marriage with the Virgin Sophia—the attendant phenomena of this marriage being virtually identical. Importantly, for both Boehme and Jung, this marriage is realized in conversation with dreams and/or waking creative imagination. The

“imagination” of Boehme’s (and Jung’s) threefold soul, in contrast to the “phantasy” of

Boehme’s (and Freud’s) twofold soul, represents a higher reality and awareness than waking life (both ontologically and epistemologically) that naturally tends to inform and structure waking life as the ego finds its bearings in relation to eternal archetypal realities and a morally ordered cosmos. We will explore the imaginative imagery of this developmental process in more detail in Chapter 6, after we first explore Boehme’s general theory of dreams.

Chapter 5: Boehme’s Theory of Dreams: Building the Body of Light

This chapter explores Boehme’s theory of dreams as a specific aspect of his theory of the imaginal realm—that “mesocosm” between eternal ideas and corporeal bodies, between mind and matter. Augustine described this realm in terms of visio spiritualis, and Boehme describes it in terms of Wisdom as the “divine imagination” in which the human imagination can participate. Let me quote Boehme at length to orient us:

Holy scripture says: Wisdom is the breathing of divine power, a ray or breath of the Almighty (Wis 7:25). Again, God made all things through his Wisdom (Ps 104:24). This is to be understood thus: Wisdom is the emanated Word of divine power… a medium or object of the infinite (ungründlichen) One in existence/being (Wesen), in which the Holy Spirit works, forms, moulds. Understand, the Spirit forms and moulds the divine understanding (Verständniss) in Wisdom, for Wisdom is the passive one, and the Spirit of God in her is the active… in her the powers, colours, and virtues are manifest/revealed (offenbar). In her is the multiplicity of the power, that is, the understanding (Verstand): she is herself the divine understanding (Verstand), or the divine contemplation/tranquility (Beschauligkeit), in which the One is manifest/revealed (offenbar). She is… a divine imagination (Imagination) in which the ideas (Ideen) of angels and souls are seen from eternity as divine images (Göttlicher Ebenbildness)—not as creatures, but as a reflection, as one sees oneself in a mirror (Clavis 17-19).

Imagination (Einbildung/Imagination) is one of Boehme’s most important concepts because, as we see in this quotation, at times he uses it almost synonymously with both Wisdom (Weisheit) and understanding (Verstand). Usually it denotes the image-based cognition of the human soul that is capable of both perceiving and participating in divine Wisdom.1 Imagination is like a mental mirror in the soul, in which Sophia’s playful images can be reflected, just as Sophia is herself a mirror of the Trinity, where the unity of God is reflected in the harmonious multiplicity of created being.

1 See MM 1.1-6, and Martensen (1882, 42-43), Koyré ([1929] 1968, 213-214), Brinton (1930, 112); Berdyaev (1937, 184); and Weeks (1991, 149-153).

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For Boehme, imagination includes image-based cognition in both dreams and the waking state, although at times he deals specifically with the topic of dreams, as we will see below. Further, as mentioned above, Boehme distinguishes between the “phantasy” of the two-fold soul, which is false but nonetheless revelatory in that it reveals the dark desires beneath the whims and wishes of “I-ness,” and the “imagination” of the three-fold soul, which presents objects that are ontologically superior to the objects of temporal reality, and truths that are higher than those of temporal reason (Vernunft).2 As Blake said, “A spirit and a vision are not, as modern philosophy supposes, a cloudy vapour or a nothing; they are organized and minutely articulated beyond all that mortal and perishing nature can produce” (1988, 541).

The fact that both dreams and waking imagination grant access to the imaginal realm led some of Boehme’s later followers to assume that both proceed from a common “faculty” in the soul.3 While Boehme never speaks of a faculty, he does suggest that the hidden desire of the dark soul-element creates images continuously, and that these spontaneous images are eclipsed by the outward rational soul-element when it is driven by ego or “I-ness” (Ichheit) (e.g.

Six Theosophic Pts 7.3, 13-22, 30). This explains why, when the I-ness and the outward soul- element are stilled either in contemplation or in sleep, these spontaneous images begin to

2 See p. 166 note 49 above. 3 Faivre gives a good summary of Boehme’s “theosophical” successors on this point: “man possesses in himself a generally dormant but always potential faculty to connect with directly, or to ‘plug into,’ the divine world or that of superior beings. This faculty is due to the existence of a special organ within us, a kind of intellectus, which is none other than our imagination—in the most positive and creative sense of that term” (1996, 8). We saw above that Augustine was often likewise misinterpreted as advocating a faculty psychology.

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emerge freely into consciousness.4 In short, it seems that for Boehme there is a kind of dreaming or spontaneous imagination that operates continuously in the soul and that can only be perceived when I-ness is stilled. This idea later became an important aspect of Jung’s dream theory.5

Many of Boehme’s “theosophical” followers emphasized accessing this spontaneous creative imagination in the waking state, through “active imagination.”6 But Boehme himself, drawing on biblical precedent, seems to place the emphasis more on dreams, which allow a regular nightly immersion in the imaginal.7 In general Boehme’s dream theory has been overlooked not only by his “theosophical” followers but by scholars, likely because his most sustained treatment of the topic is given in the Mysterium Magnum, which as noted above is his longest, most comprehensive, and least studied work. As Boehme’s English translator John

Sparrow notes, in the original German edition the third and final part of the Mysterium

(chapters 64.6-78) was published separately under the title Josephus Redivivus ([1654] 1965,

617). And here Boehme pictures Joseph, the famous biblical dreamer and dream interpreter, as the ideal Christian and the archetypal “new human.” We will explore this final section of the

4 Boehme speaks of the abyss of the first soul-element, when it is redeemed, as both still and radically free. The “contemplation” he encourages in his readers seems to be a kind of “stillness” in cognition that initially forms a mirror in which the imagination can express itself freely, and that ultimately leads to pure silence (e.g. Forty Questions 1.6/1764, 1.9; see Pektas 2006, 103). 5 Here Jung is following C.G. Carus ([1846] 1970) and other followers of Schelling. 6 Faivre calls active imagination “the essential component of Esotericism” (Faivre 1994, 21). Jung’s concept of active imagination, though slightly different, seems to originate with Boehme and his followers (Faivre 1996, 109). 7 Some of Boehme’s later followers in the Romantic period also emphasized dreams, including G.H. von Schubert in his influential Die Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaft (The Nocturnal Side of Natural Science, 1808) and Die Symbolik des Traumes (The Symbolism of Dreams, 1814).

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Mysterium in a moment after a brief comparison of the dream theories of Boehme and

Augustine.

5.1 ECSTASY, MAGIA, AND DREAM DECEPTION Like Augustine, Boehme sees the biblical account of Adam’s sleep and the creation of

Eve as a crucial biblical precedent for understanding the nature and function of dreams. We saw above that for Augustine, and Tertullian before him, the word “ekstasis” used in the

Septuagint translation of this passage (Gen 2:21) helped define dreams as a common or everyday form of “ecstasy,” where the active eternal soul “stands out” from the sleeping temporal body. For Boehme it is not ecstasy but “magia” that sleep grants us, although the two concepts are related. We saw above that Boehme uses “magia” as a general descriptor of the imaginal realm, but one that emphasizes its ability to “create where nothing is” (Forty

Questions 13.5/1764, 13.9) through spontaneous symbolic images. For Boehme, “all dreams are magical, therefore the soul without a body stands in the magia of God” (Forty Questions 26.17,

1764, 26.20). Similarly, in Boehme’s reading of the Genesis text, Adam

fell into a sleep, that is, into the magia: it was as if he were not in this world; for all his senses ceased… he knew nothing of his body… and he stood magically with his mind (Gemüthe) like a mirror on which the Spirit of the Great World [i.e. the World Soul] gazes and conveys whatever it sees… which are dreams and representations (Vorbildungen)” (Incarnation 1.6.1).

Here Boehme, like Augustine and Tertullian, sees dreaming as a process whereby the body and its senses become still while the soul remains active. But unlike his patristic forebears, Boehme is more specific about the actual activity within the dreaming soul: one aspect of the soul becomes a smooth “mirror,” and in this state it can receive and perceive images that originate from beyond it. Boehme’s mind mirror is part of the divine image in humans, since God also

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creates by means of the “mirror” of Wisdom.8 We also see here that dream images are received primarily from the astral realm of the World Soul.9 In a moment we will see that dreams can also reflect the eternal archetypes of the seven qualities of Wisdom, which can guide the soul on a specific transformative journey. What is clear is that dreams and magia are virtually synonymous in the above quotations, and for Boehme, magia is also “the best theology, for in it true faith is both founded and discovered” (Six Mystical Pts 5:23). We hear more than an echo of Tertullian’s assertion that “the greater part of humanity get their knowledge of God from dreams” (De Anima 47).

Adam’s dream magia is also important because during it, in the biblical account, the sexes were divided, and for Boehme this division is a kind of prefiguration of the Fall. In this division Adam “lost the heavenly wit or understanding (Verstand)” (Incarnation 1.6.7/1764,

1.6.40). Like Augustine’s figural reading of this passage as a division between female knowledge

(scientia) and male Wisdom (sapientia), Boehme reads it as a division between female spirit and male soul: Eve represents “spirit” (Geist), in that she embodies the spiritual water of the light soul-element, and Adam represents “soul” (Seele) in that he embodies the fiery desire of the dark soul-element (e.g. Incarnation 1.2.14/1764, 1.2.61; MM 19.16-17). Importantly, just as we saw with Augustine, this is a figural and not a literal reading, meaning that in reality both sexes

8 E.g. Incarnation 1.5.2, 1.10.5, 1.11.10, 1.14.7/1764, 1.5.5, 1.10.20, 1.11.61, 1.14.30. This is a biblical motif: “she is a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God, and an image of his goodness” (Wis 7:26). On Boehme’s use of this motif see Faivre (1996, 137-142). Similarly, on a lower level, Boehme calls the World Soul a mirror of Wisdom (Incarnation 1.11.3/1764, 1.11.20). 9 Boehme states this elsewhere in several places, e.g. “the starry heaven models to Man a figure in sleep in his mind” (Incarnation 1.10.5/1764, 1.10.19; see also Three Principles 12.24, 13.27/1764, 12.23, 13.27; MM 67.5).

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retain all three soul-elements. But for Boehme each sex tends to project part of its soul on the opposite sex (Incarnation 1.6.11/1764, 1.6.52). Men project their inner female on women, and women project their inner male on men, a motif that Jung will later appropriate.10 “And so,” says Boehme, “the vehement imagination of man and wife begins, so that the one desires to mix with the other” (Incarnation 1.6.10/1764, 1.6.48). The result is desire, enmity, and hierarchy between the sexes, characteristics that the biblical account refers to as “curses” of the Fall.

Ultimately, Boehme believes that both sexes are searching for the Virgin Sophia in their partner (Three Principles 13.39). And thus erotic love between the sexes becomes a psychotherapeutic process of unmasking projections and discovering one’s own inner world, which is first seen in the face of the beloved (Incarnation 1.12.3/1764, 1.12.11-12).11 The spiritual goal of this process is figured in the “making together of a child”—the birth of the divine child in the womb of the Virgin Sophia (Incarnation 1.6.11, 1.12.3/1764, 1.6.52, 1.12.8).

And the painfulness of this process is figured in certain biblical consequences of the Fall, which include the toil of work and the pain of childbirth (Gen 3:16-19). This psychotherapeutic view of the division and union of the sexes was appropriated by Jung, in his concepts of anima and animus. Similarly, Freud’s idea of original bisexuality likely has a Boehmian pedigree, possibly via Gustav Fechner.

10 Interestingly, Boehme seems to assign the more positive qualities of the light world to women, whereas Augustine’s figural reading was more typically misogynistic. But for both thinkers it seems that misogyny itself results from projecting one’s own worst qualities on the opposite sex. 11 Dante’s Beatrice can be understood in these terms, as the source and goal of the entire journey.

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Because this figural division of the sexes—between the dark world of soul and the light world of spirit—occurred during the first dream magia, dreams can play an important role in charting the figural reunion of the sexes, as we will see in the next chapter. For Boehme, the division of the sexes also prefigures the eating of the fruit of the dualistic Tree of Knowledge of

Good and Evil. This eating symbolizes Adam becoming “captivated in his imagination” with the astral-elemental kingdom of earth rather than the eternal kingdom of heaven. In the biblical account, the consequence of this eating is death, but Boehme reads this “death” back into the earlier account of the division of the sexes: Adam’s “sleep signifies death,” in which the “earthly kingdom overcame him and ruled over him… Therefore Adam was drawn, and rightly tempted, to see whether he could be a Lord and King over the stars and elements” and he “lost his heavenly eyes” (Incarnation 1.5.7-9/1764, 1.5.40-48). Just as the dream magia of sleep is the portal into the temporal realm for the primordial human, it is potentially also the door that reopens us to the eternal realm of Wisdom, as we will see.

In summary, both Boehme and Augustine read the account of the Fall as a figural description of division in the trinitarian soul, which in turn causes a truncation of human perception and awareness. For Boehme the division between the eternal dark and light soul- elements, between soul and spirit, figured by Adam and Eve, causes a fall into the astral- element realm and the outward temporal soul-element. We lose our ability to perceive the eternal realm of Wisdom that speaks in the depths of our own soul and shines in the world all around us. Likewise the soul’s healing is figured in the reunion of the sexes, which was a common alchemical and kabbalistic motif of the time (see figure 5), and which we will see in the transformative journey of dream symbolism in the next chapter. According to the biblical

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Figure 5. Marriage of Sun and Moon from the Rosarium Philosophorum, Griemiller (1578).

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account, for the sexes to once again become “one flesh,” importantly, they must first leave father and mother, a motif that became very important for both Freud and Jung. And we will see the importance of “leaving” these early family bonds again in the story of Joseph below.

We noted above that Augustine explicitly mitigated the fear of demonic deception in dreams. For while visio spiritualis can be deceived by clever demons posing as angels of light, visio intellectualis, and thus the interpretation of dreams, cannot be deceived. Interpretations can be true or false, but their truth or falsity soon becomes self-evident, and a false interpretation does no harm to the soul, which can simply continue searching for a true interpretation. We also noted above that Augustine’s openness to dreams and visions was gradually overruled in the medieval period by the fear of demonic trickery, a fear that was aided and abetted by the prohibition against “observet somnia” (observing dreams), a mistranslation that Jerome introduced into the Latin Vulgate, which was then quoted liberally by Gregory the Great, whose more negative view of dreams seemed to win the day, particularly in medieval monasteries. We also noted that in the visionary explosion of the 13th century, dreams and visions proliferated amid deep suspicion in the burgeoning discourse on discernment of spirits, which again tended to dismiss dreams as possible demonic trickery— even those dreams that seemed to contain self-evident truth.

With Boehme we see an interesting historical retrieval of the Augustinian view on this point. To begin this discussion we need to be aware that, for Boehme, dreams can be influenced not only by angels and demons, but by the souls of deceased humans: Good souls

appear to men magically in sleep, and show them good ways, and many times reveal arts which lie in secret (Arcano), in the abyss (Abgrunde) of the soul… Thus know that no soul separated from the body enters into any wicked matter unless it be a damned soul, which indeed enters in magically and takes joy therein, and teaches great masterpieces

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of wickedness in dreams, for it is a servant of the devil. And whatever a wicked man desires, that the devil readily helps him to” (Forty Questions 26.16-19/1764, 26.19-22).

Here the discussion of deceased human souls generally follows the medieval discussion of angelic and demonic influences in dreams. Presumably, angels and demons can reveal similar benefic and malefic visions, but as far as I can tell Boehme says nothing about individual angels and demons planting helpful or deceptive images into the sleeping mind. This is likely because, for Boehme, the dark and light realms of the human soul actually participate in the angelic and demonic “kingdoms” of heaven and hell. And thus the lack of discussion about the occasional influence of particular angels and demons reflects the fact that the entire realms of the angelic and demonic worlds have now become permanent aspects of the individual soul. And these worlds, as a whole, operate according to the seven archetypal qualities of Wisdom. Thus the nature of demonic deception and angelic blessing is best understood according to these seven qualities themselves and their particular characteristics and dynamics. In general we can say that, following the Renaissance trajectory, we are beginning to see angelic and demonic forces integrating themselves into the soul. And this tendency will continue into the modern period, as angels and demons were gradually evicted from their respective celestial and sublunary spheres, only to take up residence in the individual psyche. As the pre-modern practice of demonic exorcism was gradually replaced by the psychological and “scientific” techniques of mesmerism and hypnotism,12 angels and demons began to lose their ontological status, while

12 See Ellenberger’s discussion of the famous confrontation between Franz Anton Mesmer and Father Johann Joseoph Gassner (1970, 53).

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increasing their psychological status as mysterious, autonomous aspects of the individual human psyche.13 Their presence in the dream world was certainly noted by Freud and Jung.

In terms of the demonic deception motif, because Boehme spends so much time describing the qualities of the dark demonic world and their influence on the soul, he leaves little room for the clever deceits of individual demons. And because this dark demonic world has begun to move within the soul’s own precincts, for Boehme the real source of deception is not so much fallen angels but the fallen soul itself, and its “I-ness,” which tends to see itself as better than it actually is, and which tends to project its own evil onto outside entities, whether these entities are demons, other people (including, notably, marriage partners), or the followers of other creeds, both within and outside Christianity. The Boehmian soul, as a microcosm, has enlarged to encompass, at least via analogy, the whole universe. And the corollary is that any disharmony in the soul is not so easily blamed on the outside world. The soul as microcosm must now begin to take responsibility for its own functioning. Thus like

Augustine, Boehme mitigates the fear of deceptive demons and invests the individual soul with both the onus and capacity for discerning truth, with God’s help. The fact that the angelic and demonic realms are becoming integrated with the soul will have profound consequences: we will soon see that Freud’s seminal dreambook, one of the most influential books of the 20th century, begins with an epitaph signalling nothing less than a journey into the dark world of hell.

13 Pierre Janet eventually described them as autonomous subconscious “idée fixe,” a concept that was the precursor to Jung’s “complexes.” See Monahan 2009.

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5.2 BECOMING JOSEPH: DREAMING THE NEW HUMAN The third and final part of the Mysterium Magnum (chapters 64.6-78) is titled “The Most

Excellent History of Joseph, who is the clearest figure of the New Man regenerated out of the earthly Old Adam, and is a mirror in which all may try, examine, and discern which spirit’s child they are.”14 Here Boehme attempts not merely to describe a transformation in the soul, but actually to effect it in the reader, whom he presumes “also intends to become a Joseph” (MM

64.14). And just as dreams figure prominently in the biblical story of Joseph, likewise this final part of Boehme’s magnum opus contains his most sustained theoretical discussion of dreams.

As we will see, like Augustine, Boehme gives his dream theory a thoroughly exegetical basis, and here his mode of exegesis is mainly “literal” rather than “spiritual” or figural, at least as these words were understood at the time. For Boehme, “we see very obviously that the Spirit of God manifested itself in Joseph… so that he could understand dreams and visions. In the same way that the prophets in the Spirit of Christ saw visions and could expound them, so also

Joseph” (MM 64.19). As we saw with Augustine, for Boehme it is not just the ability to experience dreams and visions, but more importantly the ability to understand and interpret them that is the true prophetic gift. We will explore dream interpretation in more detail in the

14 This title is given in Sparrow’s English edition (1654), and it appears to come from the German original. Sparrow notes that “The Third Part of the Mysterium Magnum was published in Germany as a Complete Treatise of itself, under the Name of Josephus Redivivus. But when the whole Book came to be printed together, there was only the First Part, and the Second Part, which comprehended the Third Part also as one with the Second. Yet because the History of Joseph, being an Exposition of the last 14 chapters of Genesis, is so excellent and entire a piece, it may well go as a Third Part of the Mysterium Magnum” (1654, 617). The Robinson edition (1762) likewise keeps Sparrow’s division of the text into three parts, with the same titles, while the German facsimile edition does not divide the text into parts, and thus omits the titles.

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next chapter, in relation to the archetypes of Wisdom, after this general overview of what

Boehme means by “becoming Joseph.”

In typical Augustinian fashion, for Boehme the way of Joseph begins with a simple attempt to love both God and neighbour, an attempt that involves both compassion and confession: “the beginner in Christianity… must turn his heart to God his Father, and learn to love him heartily” and must “bring before God all his own miseries, and the miseries and sins of all that belong to him, and indeed of the whole of Christendom… in hearty compassion” (MM

64.37). In and through this earnest attempt both the heart and mind of the seeker are opened, and divine Wisdom is revealed in the imaginal realm of dreams: “the heart becomes very simple, honest, and upright” and the

mind becomes altogether simple and desires no kind of deceit… then Joseph is born, as God his Father clothes his soul with the many coloured coat, that is with divine power. And the Spirit of God immediately starts to work playfully in his soul, as he did with Joseph, for the Spirit of God sees through the soul, and with the soul. Just as Joseph in the vision of dreams saw future things in figures, as the Spirit worked playfully in his soul, likewise the Spirit of God immediately starts to work playfully with the soul of a new Joseph, that is with the inward spiritual world, so that the soul understands the divine mysteries, and sees into the eternal life, and knows the hidden world” (MM 64.38-39).

Note the playfulness that Boehme ascribes both to the work of the Spirit and to the symbolism of dreams, which as we saw above is a characteristic of the inner light world of Wisdom. This playfulness is best appreciated by a childlike or “simple” soul, like the “tender young lad

Joseph” (64.38). Note also that the realm of Wisdom grants enhanced awareness and perception, as the Spirit “sees through the soul, and with the soul.”

As we saw with Augustine, this enhanced perception is a repairing of the truncated perception that began with the Fall of Adam:

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We see how the outward human only seeks the kingdom of this world [i.e. the astral- elemental kingdom], which was even the bane and undoing of Adam, in that he abandoned the inward and sought after the outward. Joseph’s many coloured coat, which his father made, signifies how the inward power of God is again revealed through the outward human, whereby human nature becomes variously coloured (that is, mixed with God) as the inward spiritual kingdom is expressed through the outward (MM 64.34-35).

Here the many coloured coat becomes the perfect figure of the inner eternal worlds of the

Boehmian soul: Wisdom’s spectrum of seven colours. And the goal of the soul’s rebirth is again described in terms of the harmonious functioning of all three soul-elements, as inner understanding (Verstand) from the eternal dark and light worlds infuses outer temporal reason

(Vernunft). In short, as the soul chooses the simple goal of love, compassion, and confession, the Spirit opens the playful world of eternal Wisdom in the imaginal realm, and the soul is clothed with a growing awareness of the “inward spiritual kingdom… for [Joseph’s] coat of many colours was a figure of the inward” (MM 64.35-36).

So far Boehme has given us a general summary of what it means to “become Joseph,” but now he goes into much more detail through a close reading of the biblical text. The Joseph cycle in Genesis (chapters 37-50) revolves around three key pairs of dreams. Not only do these dreams provide the driving force of the narrative, but their profound symbolism summarizes and encapsulates the entire plot.15 For Boehme, each pair of dreams marks a crucial stage in the soul’s developing awareness. The first pair is composed of Joseph’s own dreams, which describe his place within his own family matrix, while also describing his particular personality type within the astral-elemental realm. The second pair of dreams come from Pharaoh’s two

15 For a review of the scholarly literature on the importance of these dreams in the story see Grossman (2016). Some scholars even claim that these dreams recapitulate large swaths of the biblical narrative outside the Joseph cycle, from Abimelech to Saul, and from Saul to Solomon (Hilbert 2011).

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servants, the baker and the cupbearer. Joseph, having realized the subjective perspective of his own astral-elemental personality type, is now in a position to interpret the dreams of others.

These two dreams again describe the astral-elemental realm, and particularly its character as a seemingly capricious amalgam reflecting the dark and light worlds of Wisdom. What these dreams actually reveal is the dark and light aspects of Pharaoh’s own soul, and his capricious authority over his subjects: Pharaoh restores the cupbearer to his former position, and executes the baker, just as Joseph predicted. The final pair of dreams come from Pharaoh himself, and in distinction to the previous dreams, for Boehme these do not describe the outer astral-elemental realm, but the inner eternal realm of Wisdom itself, and particularly how this realm transcends the seemingly capricious amalgam of darkness and light in the temporal order. These final dreams ultimately reveal Wisdom’s desire and power to transform darkness into light in the temporal realm, and they show how this transformation can actually be effected, with God’s help, through the interpretation of dreams. We will explore these three pairs of dreams in turn.

For Boehme, the first pair of dreams describe a kind of initiation process that sets

Joseph on the inward path:

When Joseph had the two dreams, the one of his sheaf standing upright, before which the sheaves of his brothers bowed, the other of the sun, moon, and eleven stars, which had done obeisance to Joseph, envy immediately arose among his brothers, for they supposed that he would be their lord. And because they were older they desired to rule over him. Here we see how the outward man only seeks the kingdom of this world (MM 64.33-34).

Joseph’s dreams turn him inward, putting him at odds with the outward mentality of his brothers, a mentality firmly rooted in the outward astral-elemental realm with its human dominance hierarchies and power structures. This dream and its aftermath reveal how these

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power structures are first manifest, sometimes in very brutal forms, within the family unit itself—a point that Freud will also emphasize.

While these initial dreams set Joseph on the inward path, this path begins by revealing the fundamental nature of the outward astral-elemental realm in both the soul and the cosmos. And the initiatory content of these two dreams provides a remarkable encapsulation and summary, first of the character of the elemental world, and then of the astral world: The sheaves of grain in the first dream depict both the elemental realm and the soul’s elemental desires, which as we saw above are based on immediate survival needs, like the need for food.

Indeed grain, as the domesticated plant that helped give birth to civilization in the fertile crescent, has the remarkable ability to transform the four elements of earth, air, water, and fire

(i.e. sunlight) into food. In the elemental soul this struggle for immediate survival manifests as a basic desire for power, dominance, and control,16 a desire about which the young Joseph seems quite naïve, given that he freely relates his dream without anticipating the reaction of his brothers. That is, Joseph is still living in the illusion of totally benign and loving family relationships, but he will soon be initiated into the brutality of elemental family power dynamics.

The second dream recapitulates the first, but this time the figures of wheat are transposed into the very obvious astral figures of the sun, moon, and eleven stars. The fact that these two dreams convey the same plot using different symbolism fits Boehme’s schema perfectly, in that the elemental realm is ultimately the “servant and dwelling house” of the

16 Gilbert even claims that the text’s depiction of Joseph’s wheat sheaf as “standing upright” alludes to a male erection, which again speaks to the elemental character of the dream (1990, 45).

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astral realm, which governs and structures it (MM 11.23). The second dream thus depicts the higher astral dynamics operative in the first dream. Interestingly, the biblical text seems to take it for granted that readers will already know the symbolism of these astral dynamics, including the fact that the sun is the astral or archetypal “father,” the moon is the astral or archetypal

“mother,” and that each child is represented by a particular star (Gen 37:10).17 Even modern biblical scholars point to the important astrological resonances in this story, including the fact that the eleven stars in the second dream, plus Joseph, likely represent the twelve constellations of the zodiac.18 Indeed, Jacob’s prophetic blessing on each of his sons in Genesis

49 describes the character of the twelve zodiacal constellations quite well, and forms the culmination of the narrative.

Boehme takes a very similar approach based on the science of his day: he sees the sun as a kind of “nature god” (e.g. MM 13.16), and the moon as a “nature goddess” (e.g. Aurora

21.4)—meaning that they have a relative and subsidiary authority as astral influences on the elemental world. Sun and moon are also “man and wife” (MM 11.31), which was a common alchemical and kabbalistic motif of the time (see figure 5), and which we will see again in the next chapter. And Boehme likewise views the stars in this dream as the respective

“constellations” influencing Joseph’s brothers (MM 67.3). What the dream depicts then is the character of the key entities in the astral realm, as this character is instantiated in the particular members of Joseph’s family. For Boehme these dream symbols reveal the astral forces that

17 This interpretation is simply assumed in the text, not argued for. 18 This was first pointed out by Alfred Jeremias, and later by Gunkel and von Rad. See Heck (1990, 23) and Grossman (2016, 720).

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govern all family relations, and indeed all relations in the natural world, at least according to the relative logic or reason (Vernunft) of the World Soul in the astral-elemental realm, which is in turn governed by divine Wisdom in the eternal realm.

Joseph is not yet able to grasp the full meaning of these dreams, but he seems to sense their import. And as the story continues he will be initiated into a full experiential understanding of how divine Wisdom works through the astral-elemental realm, guiding the lives of both families and nations. Importantly, for Boehme, this second dream describes particularly how Joseph must become aware of his own individual “constellation”—or personality type—by seeing how it relates to all the other “constellations” represented by his brothers. For Boehme this awareness is necessary for any true understanding of the psychology of other people, and any accurate interpretation of their dreams, since it grants an awareness of the subjective element in one’s own perspective and interpretation (MM 67.1-4). The understanding of these personality types likewise seems important in the biblical story, which ends by describing the twelve “constellations” in Jacob’s blessing of his sons—the twelve houses of Israel.19 We will also see that Jung’s initial project, Psychological Types, was a personality typology, which he undertook for precisely the same reason. It is not necessary to believe in astrology to believe in the viability of a personality typology, since an array of inner personality types can easily be projected on the signs of the zodiac.

19 Boehme was no doubt aware that Jacob’s sons—the twelve houses of Israel—are recapitulated in the twelve apostles, which are in turn represented by the twelve precious stones that adorn the walls of the New Jerusalem in the final vision of Revelation (21:14-21). These twelve types thus run through the entire biblical narrative.

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“Becoming Joseph” is not without its difficulties, and these dreams seem to initiate a significant period of suffering for our hero—suffering that for Boehme is a necessary aspect of

Joseph’s growing awareness, as the inner eternal world is opened to him. We will soon see that both Freud and Jung also experienced periods of suffering when they first confronted the dark world of the soul—a depression in the case of Freud, and something like a psychotic break in the case of Jung—for which Ellenberger later coined the term “creative illness” (1970, 447-48,

672-73, 889-91). These dark periods became the basis for the very fruitful and prolific creative output that followed them.

Note also that in the Joseph story, suffering is precisely the opposite of what a divinatory reading of his dreams would predict. It is true that Joseph will eventually “rule over” his brothers, and his dreams will be fulfilled, but only after he has experienced precisely the opposite dynamic in the brutal tyranny of his brothers. In general Boehme shows little interest in the divinatory possibilities of dreams,20 and here he follows the biblical view of prophecy, where a prophet is not primarily a diviner or fortune-teller, but one who is given a divine or transcendent view of temporal affairs. This transcendent view might of course have a bearing on future events, but its main purpose is not to predict, and for Boehme its outlook is never fatalistic. Boehme places great stress on human free will (contra Calvinistic excesses of the time), and he believes that the prophetic call for change presumes that change is possible—that the future is not written in stone. We see this in the text when Joseph’s interpretation of

Pharoah’s dream ultimately intervenes to change the course of history—averting a famine,

20 This also distances Boehme from Paracelsus, and Renaissance magic in general. The divinatory view of dreams was common in the ancient world and throughout the middle ages, instantiated in popular “dreambooks” like Artimedorus’ Onierocritica.

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saving two nations, and revealing God’s desire to transform darkness into light in the temporal realm. For Boehme, the transcendent and transformative divine view offered by dreams applies not just to the outworking of history, but also to the individual human soul, where dreams reveal the larger forces at work in the soul’s struggle, including both the archetypes of the astral-elemental realm and their greater counterparts in the eternal realm.

For Boehme, Joseph’s initiatory suffering includes three major trials that the soul can expect to face as it begins to access the realm of Wisdom: First, a relativizing of self-willed reason (Vernunft); second, an uncovering of the (hidden) dark world that drives the soul; and third, a scapegoating of the person who becomes aware of this dark world. These three trials are often intertwined and contemporaneous, and their inward aspects are often mirrored in outward manifestations, as we see in biblical story. Joseph, after his two initiatory dreams, is sent wandering in the wilderness to find his brothers. The text even emphasizes this task when an unidentified man asks Joseph “What are you seeking?” And Joseph replies, “I am seeking my brothers” (Gen 37:15-16). This underlines what for Boehme is the main task initiated by the first pair of dreams: Joseph must come to understand the personality “constellations” of his brothers in order to see his own subjective perspective and personality in relation to the whole.

For Boehme, the wilderness wandering represents the process by which “reason beholds itself” and becomes “confounded,” because divine Wisdom initially appears to it as foolishness (1 Cor

1:18-25).21 “Reason must become a fool” and “go wandering in great sorrow and desertion with

Joseph in the wilderness” (MM 64.41-44). This is also a wandering away from the comforts of

21 This is a central biblical passage for Boehme as it was for Luther. Boehme also uses it as the keynote in the opening pages of the Clavis.

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hearth and home, where reason received its initial imprint. In many cases this is also a wandering away from the illusion of the “happy family,” and Joseph will soon discover that his greatest enemies are among his own kin, a motif that will also become important for Freud.

Here Boehme describes the process by which temporal reason, in the astral-elemental soul-element, begins to recognize the dark world that drives it. When reason sees that it is not neutral, but fueled by selfish desires, it can then be relativized and dethroned as the soul’s central authority. This sacrificium intellectus already involves the second trial, where the soul begins to see the dark motivations for so much of human behaviour, in both itself and others.

This involves both a personal process of confession, and a growing awareness that the many social relations and power hierarchies that configure society are based largely on (hidden) selfish motives.22 That is, confession here is about becoming aware of previously unknown

(unconscious) darkness, in both oneself and society. And for Boehme this involves a growing awareness that even the most sacred social institutions are tainted by radical evil, and often in direct proportion to their attempts to portray themselves as good. This motif is well attested in the Gospels, where Jesus’ polemic with the religious authorities of his day reflects precisely this unmasking of the “blindness” of those who “claim to see” (e.g. John 9:1-41).

In the third trial, the soul that becomes aware of the dark world within begins to attract projections from the dark world of others, as we see in the brilliantly evocative words of the biblical text, when Joseph’s wilderness wanderings come to an end and his brothers see him

22 Boehme devotes a good deal of space (most of chapter 66) to describing these hierarchies in his own context, including those rulers who “govern Christendom” in “village, city, country, principality, kingdom, and empire” (MM 66.10). Like Augustine, Boehme ultimately sees private property in the face of poverty as sinful and seems to espouse some form of Christian socialism. See p. 70 note 109 above.

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approaching in the distance: “They said to one another, ‘Here comes this dreamer. Come now, let us kill him’” (Gen 37: 19-20). It is precisely Joseph’s growing awareness of the inner world of dreams that makes him a target. As Boehme notes, this scapegoat mechanism is a result of the fact that “the world” and its power brokers have a strong resistance to the insights that Joseph has discovered in his wilderness wanderings. The world and its supposedly neutral reason resists seeing itself as beholden to selfish desires. And thus the collective reason of the outer world is used to marginalize the person who has discovered the wisdom of the inner imaginal world:

Now when this man begins to speak of divine things and visions, of the hidden world’s divine mysteries and the wonders of God, and when his brothers, who are the children of the outward world in whom the hidden spiritual world is not yet manifest, hear about it, they see it a mere fable and a melancholy chimera and whimsy, and esteem him foolish… they account it some astral instigation or false enthusiasm, or the like” (MM 64.40).

There is more than a hint of Beohme’s own experience in these words.

And if the worldly rationalists do not dismiss the inner imaginal world, they are just as likely to misinterpret it and make personal attacks against the person describing it: “That is to say, they deprive and bereave him of his honour and good name by their slander, and take his words and doctrine, and make false constructions and conclusions from it” (MM 64.49). Such misinterpretations are figured by the brothers’ stealing and bloodying of Joseph’s many- coloured coat, representing inner divine Wisdom. Boehme was certainly well acquainted with insults and misinterpretations from the ecclesial hierarchs of his day (not to mention those of later scholars). And likewise, when Freud and Jung emerged from their own wilderness wanderings and began to describe the inner world they had encountered, they were often surprised by the misunderstandings and personal attacks that ensued from both scholarly and

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popular circles—attacks that seemed far beyond what would be expected from supposedly neutral rational debate.

Boehme describes the learned discourse of the ecclesial-scholastic ivory tower of his day using two evocative and similar biblical words: “Babel” and “Babylon.” The former connotes the rationalism and detachment used as a defense against the latter, which connotes the dark world of the soul: “the Babylonish tower of the high schools and universities is built; and from thence come the confused languages, so that Christ is not understood in his children” (MM

64.24). Their “distinguished speech,” says Boehme, is a product of “the height of their tower… a height that signifies the pride of self-love… so that they do not understand the power of God… in the simplicity of Joseph, but call him a dreamer, a diviner, a man of phantasies (Schwärmer), an enthusiast, and a fool” (MM 64.25). Clearly Boehme’s own experience of censure by the

Görlitz magistracy is evident here,23 and it would be easy to see these words as nothing more than petty resentment for Boehme’s own mistreatment. But there is more going on here.

For Boehme, the height of the ecclesial-academic tower is a metaphor for its rationalistic detachment from the quiet promptings of the inner world of images. Words lose their meaning without some primary reference to the Word, which for Boehme speaks

23 Boehme’s own experience is especially evident as this passage continues: “What, shall this fellow reprove us? He has not come from the universities, and yet he thinks he can teach and reprove us… What is he? He is but a layman… Moreover, he is not called and it is not his vocation; he puts himself forward only to draw attention to himself, and to get some name and fame among the people. But we will so silence him that he shall be the fool of all the world… so he may learn to stay at home and attend to his worldly vocation, and leave it to us to judge of divine matters, who are appointed and authorised by the magistrate, and have studied in the universities, and there have learned such things” (MM 64.45). According to Franckenberg, the magistracy arrested Boehme, confiscated his writings, called him an idiot, and told him to stop writing books that “did not belong to his profession and condition” (1651, 8-9).

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continually in and through the inner realm of Wisdom. Language itself has its source in this inner imaginal realm.24 And only a theology that was thoroughly detached from this realm could so lose the meaning of words, and so twist the words of scripture, that it could be used as a pretext for violence and war. Only a profound rationalistic detachment could so deform the

Word as to make the Crucified appear as a murderer. The bloody evidence of a theology alienated from imaginal Wisdom was everywhere in Boehme’s day: “As Joseph was hated by his brothers because he had visions (Gesichte), so nowadays is the divine Wisdom (which reveals itself in God’s children) vilified and hated by the natural Adam,” including “the stone-churches and their ministers” in “Christendom” (MM 64.23). Note that Boehme is not attacking the true church that manifests in the inner soul, but only the outward ecclesial structures, which are taken as holy based on mere appearances.25

All three of these trials—the dethroning of reason, the confrontation with the inner darkness, and the scapegoating that results—are summed up in one biblical figure: “thus poor

Joseph is thrown down into the desolate pit in the wilderness and lies in misery” (MM 64.50).

As the text implies, this pit represents nothing less than Sheol, the realm of the dead (Gen

37:35). Boehme sees this suffering as a necessary step on the path of Wisdom: “If he shall attain to the contemplation of the divine mysteries, then he must first be judged, and come under the censure and judgment of the world; that they may judge his inbred sins, and sacrifice them before God… and come to the divine vision within himself” (MM 64.51). For Boehme this

24 Boehme had a theory of a primordial universal “nature-language” (Natursprache) (see Weeks 1991, 4, 34; Popper 1958). 25 Augustine likewise distinguished between “tares and wheat” in the earthly church (City of God 20.9).

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suffering bears fruit in a decentring of the ego or Ichheit, as the soul expands to encompass and perceive a much larger swath of reality. That is, “the pit” is a cruciform figure representing “the death of [Joseph’s] natural will” (MM 66.7),26 followed by “resurrection from the dead,” meaning that “the divine power rules him; and now he attains divine understanding (Verstand) and Wisdom” (MM 66.8). The experience of suffering, which fosters “releasement”

(gelassenheit) of the ego, eventually allows Joseph “to rule and govern in divine knowledge over God’s wonderful works, as Joseph did over the land of Egypt, and in which type and figure this pen is likewise born… which yet is hidden unto reason” (MM 64.13). With this last sentence

Boehme seems strangely confident that, in spite of his persecutors, the Wisdom of his writings will one day bear fruit, find recognition, and be vindicated, like Joseph.

5.3 DREAMING FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT

Joseph’s initiatory dreams of his family introduce him to the character of the elemental and astral worlds, including what Boehme calls the “constellation” or astral influence on

Joseph’s own soul, and how this “constellation” or personality type relates to those of his brothers. “For each man bears the image (Bilde) of his constellation (Constellation)” (MM 67.3).

The awareness of one’s “constellation” is important for dream interpretation, as it seems to grant both an awareness of the subjective element in one’s own perspective, as well as an

26 Joseph’s experience of the pit is not singular event. In the biblical account it is quickly repeated in another form, as if the narrative were circling closer to the archetypal kernel of the experience. As the story continues, Potiphar’s wife attempts and fails to seduce Joseph, then falsely accuses him, which lands him in prison. Here Boehme sees a purer form of the type of Babel and Babylon: Potiphar’s wife represents the “great whore of Babylon” from Revelation, the “habitation of all devils and unclean spirits (Rev 18:2),” who is an anti-type to the Virgin Sophia, and who is eventually “for ever sealed up in the abyss” (MM 66.44).

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awareness of how astral forces will be “framed” according to the personality types of other souls:

For to explain (zu erklären) dreams is nothing else but to see and understand (verstehen) the figure (Figure), that is, how the Spiritus Mundi frames (fasse) itself into a figure in the constellation of a person… to interpret (zu deuten) dreams is nothing else but to understand (verstehen) a magic image (Bilde) of the astrum in the human character (Eigenschaft) (MM 67.1-2).

We will soon see that the images of dreams speak not just of the astral realm, but also of the eternal realm of Wisdom and her seven qualities. But the above quote refers to the next twist in the Joseph story, where our protagonist finds himself in prison faced with a second pair of dreams, this time from Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker respectively. Boehme sees these dreams as revelatory of the astral realm as it forms “figures” or “images” in the souls of Pharaoh’s two servants.27

For Boehme, Joseph’s interpretation of this second pair of dreams shows his understanding, with God’s help, of the astral-elemental realm and its influences—an understanding that Joseph only attained through a period of suffering and introspection. And this second pair of dreams also reveals the divided and dualistic character of this outward realm: Joseph’s interpretations indicate that Pharaoh will release the cupbearer from prison and restore him to his former life in the royal court, while on the other hand the same Pharaoh will send the baker to his untimely death. The biblical text gives no rationale for Pharaoh’s

27 For Boehme, one’s “constellation” can also be understood “by the diligent consideration of astronomy according to astrology” (MM 67.1). But Boehme, in accord with biblical teaching, sees these divinatory arts as unreliable and ill-advised, both because the astral realm is a complex and unpredictable congruence of forces, and because it is subject to the higher influence of the eternal realm of Wisdom, and the providential ordering of the created realm. Thus Boehme follows the biblical text in noting that Joseph’s interpretations were not given through divination, but through “the Spirit of God” who “explained the dream through the spirit of Joseph” (MM 67.2).

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actions, leaving us with the impression of a capricious and tyrannical ruler. For Boehme, the astral-elemental realm itself represents this strange congruence of life and death—light and darkness—in a seemingly capricious amalgam, in both nature and the human soul. But it is important to remember that in this case the capricious life and death judgements did not come from God or the cosmos, but from the soul of Pharaoh himself. As the story continues we will see an explicit contrast between Pharaoh’s flawed attempts to rule, and the graceful influence of a divine Ruler who speaks through Joseph. In other words, if the astral-elemental realm is an unpredictable amalgam of darkness and light, the question then becomes whether and how we might go about transforming darkness into light, which is precisely the question that the next pair of dreams answers, as Joseph is released from prison to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh himself (Gen 41:15-24).

In the first dream, Pharaoh sees seven “sleek and fat” cows rise out of the Nile and proceed to go feed in the meadow. He then sees seven “ugly and thin” cows rise from the Nile and devour the seven fat cows. In the second dream seven “plump and good” ears of grain grow out of a stalk, and then seven “thin and blighted” ears grow out of a second stalk and devour the first seven ears. Pharaoh awakes troubled and calls for his magicians to interpret the dream, which they cannot. He then sends for Joseph, who explains that the dreams portend seven years of plenty, followed by seven years of famine in Egypt. To save his kingdom, Joseph advises Pharaoh to store up grain during the seven prosperous years in order to survive the lean years.

Boehme first offers a fairly literal reading of these events, and then a more spiritual reading that specifically describes dreams and their interpretation, but both are related. The

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literal reading focusses on the nature of prophecy, and Joseph’s prophetic gift of interpreting dreams:

Every prophet expressed a purpose, wherein a time is included or an age comprehended; and he is the mouth of that kingdom or dominion… the mouth of the inward ground, which declares and expresses both the vanity in the chaos (Turba) and also the grace of God that has taken compassion on human misery and opposed the wrath of the chaos (Turba)… [the prophet] reproves that kingdom for their vanity and idolatry and comforts them with the introverted (eingewandten) grace again. For his spirit stands in the figure (Figur), in the eternal speaking Word of God (MM 67.9).

Here we see that the prophet is one who rises above an astral-elemental understanding by fixing his spirit in the “eternal speaking Word of God,” which for Boehme speaks continually through scripture, nature, and the soul. We will explore the importance of scripture for dream interpretation further in a moment. Here we see that the prophetic gift puts a choice before the people of a given age—who must choose to follow either chaos and death, or grace and life (c.f.

Deut 30:15-20). Here the prophetic gift of interpretation is firmly separated from dream divination of the astral-elemental realm and its implied fatalism. The prophet emphasizes the disjunction between light and darkness, and thus raises the stakes for human choice and free will; whereas the diviner tends to emphasize a kind of deistic determinism in the outward astral-elemental realm.28

This point is further emphasized in Boehme’s exegetical distinction between “natural” magic, operating in the temporal astral-elemental realm, and “divine” magic, operating in the eternal realm of Wisdom and her seven qualities. Pharaoh’s wise men, who could not interpret these dreams, represent the “natural magus” who “only has power in nature, only in that which nature frames in its working; he cannot apprehend, nor advise in that which the Word of God

28 Again, this tends to separate Boehme from Paracelsus and other Renaissance magi.

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models and frames. But a prophet has power to interpret that, for he is a divine magus, as here

Joseph” (MM 68.2).29 For Boehme, Pharaoh’s dreams “had their origin in the Eternal Nature”— that is, in the realm of eternal Wisdom—which is why Pharaoh’s nature magicians could not understand them. For Boehme these dreams reveal Wisdom’s seven qualities, and here all seven qualities exist either in darkness or light: “the seven fat cows in the pasture signify… the seven properties of the Eternal Nature in the holy, good substance or essence, that is, in the kingdom of heaven… And the seven lean, ill-favoured, meagre cows signify… the seven properties of the Eternal Nature in the wrath of God” (MM 68.11). That is, the dream reveals

Wisdom in both its fallen aspect, and in its original or redeemed goodness.

Thus, according to a literal interpretation, the story of Joseph describes the nature of prophecy and prophetic inspiration in relation to dream interpretation. And according to a more figural interpretation, the story reveals how dreams speak of different levels of reality and different aspects of the soul, ultimately leading to a revelation of the seven archetypal qualities of Wisdom. In this figural reading the three pairs of dreams become paradigmatic stages on the soul’s journey of spiritual awakening: The initial pair describe Joseph’s relationship to his family matrix, or what Freud and Jung will later call the matrix of

“endogamous libido,” including the archetypal “imagos” of the of sun, moon, and stars in relation to father, mother, and siblings. These dreams also describe the nature of the elemental and astral realms, respectively, which Joseph comes to understand experientially through his

29 Boehme notes that “the natural magia was suppressed among the Christians, which in the beginning was well that it was supressed” (68.3). That is, paganism was suppressed by early Christianity. But in an interesting aside Boehme also notes that, in his day, natural magic has re-emerged in “the sects of Christendom, which they set up for gods, instead of the images of heathen idols” (MM 68.4).

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cruciform journey. The conscious realization of these first dreams then allows Joseph to interpret the dreams of others, including the second pair of dreams, which again describe the astral-elemental realm with its seemingly capricious and fatalistic mixture of darkness and light, a mixture that actually reflects the soul of a capricious ruler. Crucially, the third pair of dreams moves beyond fatalism to true prophecy, revealing the eternal realm of Wisdom herself and her continued creative activity in the temporal realm. Here, at the conclusion of the story, we see not only how God’s eternal Word and Wisdom can speak directly through dreams and their interpretation, but we also see the graceful character of Wisdom whose nature it is to bring light out of darkness. Joseph’s initial dream is fully realized as he forgives his brothers in the final scene: “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today” (Gen 50:20). Eternal divine Wisdom supersedes and yet includes the astral-elemental realm in an inclusive hierarchy, and the revelation of her seven transforming qualities mitigates the catastrophe of a famine in the astral-elemental realm. In the next chapter we will see the symbology of this transformative process in more detail, as it applies specifically to human psycho-spiritual development.

5.4 THE GREAT CODE OF DREAM INTERPRETATION A final word is in order about the scriptural context of Boehme’s theory of dream interpretation. Not only does his dream theory derive from the paradigmatic biblical story of

Joseph, but his entire hermeneutical approach to dream interpretation is grounded in the Bible as a kind of symbolic lexicon. That is, Boehme’s imagination is a thoroughly biblical imagination, a fact that has been underemphasized by scholars, likely because Boehme, in typical Lutheran

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fashion, assumes a high degree of biblical literacy in his readers and is often not explicit about how the Bible infuses all of his writing.

We saw above that, for Augustine, outer knowledge (scientia) should be infused by inner Wisdom (sapientia) if it is to function harmoniously. And likewise, for Boehme, outer reason (Vernunft) needs to be grounded in inner understanding (Verstand). This means generally that all logos should be structured by biblical mythos, and all conceptual theology should be grounded in the biblical narrative, an idea that has found something of a renaissance in contemporary theology. Also, like Augustine, Boehme sees the archetypal days of Genesis 1 as a kind of deeper biblical mythos—the eternal creation of Wisdom—which is a myth-logic that forms a kind of fundamental mythical structure for both human history and human development.

But Boehme takes this deeper mythical thinking much further than Augustine. In the seven qualities of Wisdom Boehme has drilled down to a kind of biblical-mythical bedrock, and these images then structure all of his thinking. For example, when Boehme compares the lust- desire of the dark soul-element to the love-desire of the light soul-element, what he is primarily comparing are the images of fire and light, respectively. Like fire, the lust-desire has a dangerous, unpredictable, and consuming character. Like light, the love-desire warms, illumines, and promotes growth. And of course fire produces light, just as the dark world is the motive force for the light world. The rational concepts here proceed directly from the polyvalent nature of the symbolic images. And often in his writing it seems that Boehme would rather just use the symbolic images as a kind of short-hand to summarize the many rational concepts they embody.

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But importantly, the fire and light of these qualities are also a distillation of a host of biblical images, from the light of the first day of creation (Gen 1:2; John 1:5), which is a central

Boehmian motif, to the famous Mosaic theophany of a bush that was “blazing” but notably

“not consumed” (Exod 3:2), to the “tongues of fire” that danced on the heads of the apostles

(Acts 2:3) and subsequently produced “tongues of speech” that seemed to heal the divisions of language (Acts 2:4-12)—the babble of misunderstanding that emerged from the famous tower

(Gen 11:1-9), to the fiery Apocalypse that is presaged in the Synoptic Gospels (Matt 24-25;

Mark 13; Luke 21) and explicit in the book of Revelation.30 When we look more carefully at these passages we notice that the Pentacostal flames, like the Mosaic burning bush, did not burn or consume but illuminated. And in both cases the pictorial image of fire preceded the communication of illuminating words. In the Pentecost passage the pictorial image of “tongues”

(glōssai) precedes, and seems to be the basis for, the linguistic spoken “tongues” (glōssai) that represent something like a universal language, heard by those in the crowd “each of us, in our own native tongue” (dialéctō). That is, the outpouring of the Spirit moves from image, to universal language, to various dialects. The image is primary. And this is reinforced in the subsequent verses where Peter quotes the prophet Joel’s description of the outpouring of the

Spirit: “your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams” (Acts 2:17).

30 For a comparable summary of biblical fire imagery as a basis of revelation see Balthasar Theo-Drama 4:59-63. Balthasar’s final sentence here could not be more Boehmian: “this is not the kind of light to which one can become accustomed, but one which illuminates by an ever-new blinding. Revelation can never pass over into ‘enlightenment.’ But the depths of this abyss of light are only revealed when the light shines in the darkness that cannot overcome it (Jn 1:5), when the blind see and those who see are made blind (Jn 9:39)” (63).

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And all of this biblical imagery seems to be presupposed in Boehme’s fourth quality of fire and light, but he never sees a need to unpack it explicitly.

In sum, Boehme’s seven qualities reveal the deepest mythical structure of scripture, nature, and the human soul, and they reveal how the Word of God is continually operative in all three of these contexts. This fact has a corollary for dreams and their interpretation:

True dreams arise when a person’s will rests in God and then God’s will is manifest/revealed in the human will, and the soul sees with God’s eyes from its most inward ground, where it stands in the Word of God… And then the Word of God, that is, the ground of the soul, expresses the figure in the soul so that the soul understands it, as Joseph and also Daniel expressed and expounded… for thus also are the magic visions of all the prophets (MM 67.8).

For Boehme the Word of God speaks primarily in images and figures. And we come to know and understand these images in three primary contexts: scripture, nature, and the soul’s imagination, including dreams. Following Boehme, Blake will later call the Bible the “Great Code of Art,”31 meaning that it is the symbolic lexicon of the imagination, including dreams.

31 This appears in Blake’s engraving of the Laocoön (1998, 273).

Chapter 6: Boehme’s Theory of Dream Interpretation: Seven Steps to Heaven

Having explored Boehme’s map of the soul and his general theory of dreams we can now look more specifically at his hermeneutical framework of dream interpretation, which reveals the soul’s journey of development and transformation. Boehme’s seven qualities of

Wisdom describe not only the phenomenological structure of the soul, as we saw in Chapter 4, but also the process of the soul’s development and transformation, which we will explore here.1

Because this process is driven by Wisdom, it naturally appears in the human imagination, including dreams. Thus for Boehme, as dreams goad us toward expanded consciousness, certain recurring dream symbols function like signposts marking the soul’s path of development, rebirth, and illumination. I am calling these symbolic signposts Boehme’s

“hermeneutical framework” of dream interpretation. Both Freud and Jung are well known for their respective theories of the soul’s development, which were based primarily on the dream symbolism they observed in their patients. Freud’s theory of psychosexual development and

Jung’s theory of individuation, I will argue, can both be situated within the larger boundary of the Boehmian symbolism of Wisdom. I will refer to the Freudian and Jungian theories here in broad strokes before summarizing them in the concluding chapter.

In Chapter 4 we saw the seven qualities or drives of fallen Wisdom, or “Eternal Nature,” as they manifest in the fallen soul. And here each quality appeared as a single abstract idea or

1 As Weeks notes, it is particularly in Boehme’s second work, The Three Principles of Divine Essence, where “the correspondences of microcosm and macrocosm” become “focused in their shared patterns of birth and development” (1991, 112). And in his third work, The Threefold Life of Man, “the sevenfold pattern is articulated more finely to convey the emergence of life and consciousness” (1991, 145). This theme remains crucial to his later works.

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drive. But the precise character and developmental function of these abstract qualities is illumined immensely when they are resituated in the concrete exegetical context of Genesis 1, where they appear in their original unfallen state, and where each “day” of creation involves a cluster of related symbols. Genesis 1 seems to be Boehme’s primary exegetical context for the seven qualities of Wisdom,2 a context he first explores in his earliest work, the Aurora (chapters

18-26), and which he later modifies and extends in both the Mysterium Magnum (chapters 2-

17) and the Clavis (sections 83-95). The discussion below depends mainly on the latter two works. By pairing Boehme’s abstract qualities of Wisdom in the fallen soul, with the original eternal “days” of Wisdom in the creation story of Genesis 1, Boehme’s hermeneutical framework of development and transformation comes more sharply into focus.3 Thus while

Boehme does not offer a comprehensive theory of interpretation for all possible dream symbols, which would be impractical given that dream experience is every bit as complex and diverse as waking experience, this hermeneutical framework allows an understanding of some of the most important dream symbols, which mark discrete stages on the path of development and transformation.4 For Boehme, Wisdom’s seven qualities also have a teleological urgency in

2 E.g. “By the working days [of creation] Moses means the creation or manifestation of the seven properties” (Clavis 84). “In the origin (Urstand) of Eternal Nature, which is an eternal origin, the manifestation (Offenbarung) of the six days’ work is very clearly to be found” (MM 12.32). Boehme’s seven qualities could be a distillation of both the seven days of Genesis and the seven spirits of Revelation, the latter forming a rather complex anti-type to the seven days. It is also possible that the seven abstract qualities emerged directly from Boehme’s illumination experience, as he suggests at times. 3 This pairing might seem like an extrapolation from Boehme’s work, since he does not describe it in the distinct categories I will use below. But Boehme is clear that, in Genesis 1, “the days’ works have a far more subtle meaning: for the seven properties [or qualities] are also understood therein” (MM 12.2). Boehme says that this pairing reveals the “divine magic,” which is “veiled” in the Genesis account, to protect it from those who might misuse it (MM 11.1-12). 4 It might help to think of these stages and transitions in terms of rite de passage, as understood in cultural anthropology, which often involve rituals derived from both dream symbolism and sacred stories.

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that the symbols themselves seem to provide the energy or motive force to help negotiate and realize these transitions. Wisdom’s qualities are not just sign posts but drivers of transformation.

Here again, in general terms, Boehme is following the Augustinian tradition. We saw in

Chapter 1 that for Augustine the realm of eternal Wisdom is defined by the seven eternal days of creation in Genesis 1, and that these archetypal days structure the unfolding of both history and the human soul. Each day can thus be interpreted figurally as an age of the world and a stage of human development. Boehme follows this general pattern, but his figural readings of the seven days are more elaborate. And while at times he interprets the seven qualities and days in terms of archetypal ages of the world,5 it is fair to say that he is generally more concerned with their manifestation in the developing soul. Yet this relationship between micro- and macrocosm is still important, because as the soul is reborn it begins to work in concert with the redemptive archetypal forces of Wisdom in the outer world. The soul establishes a kind of resonance or harmony with the cosmos, such that it partners with the forces transmuting darkness into light in the outside world, both through direct linear causal mechanisms and through acausal, non-linear correspondences, or what Jung later called “synchronicity.”6 As the soul is transformed, the cosmos is transformed in a complex correspondence between

5 See Pältz (1980). Ages of the World is the title of Schelling’s final unfinished work, which clearly bears the Boehmian imprint, and which has a sophisticated, Boehme-inspired theory of dreams (see McGrath 2012, 112-115). 6 See p. 147 note 12 above. Jung developed the idea of “synchronicity” in conversation with physicist Wolfgang Pauli to denote a meaningful and statistically improbable experience of coincidence between psychological processes and natural processes—mind and matter.

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subjective and objective reality that involves both the soul’s expanded consciousness and its active engagement with the world.7

Boehme’s figural reading of Genesis 1 thus includes a very complex understanding of both the cosmos and the soul, which encompasses (but does not always clearly differentiate between) past development, present structure, and ongoing transformation. And Boehme’s way of including this panoramic complexity is by dealing primarily in symbols. He alludes to, but often does not spell out the many symbolic resonances and implications involved. Rather, as usual, he tries to draw his readers away from more rationalistic thinking and into his own more fluid psycho-mythical and associative form of thought, where each symbol explodes with polyvalent meaning, and readers are then forced to take the work further through their own associations. Especially in these exegetical passages on the seven days of creation, Boehme’s readers do need to digest his work quite slowly. A cursory reading will not only miss a great deal, but will find itself overwhelmed by the dizzying possibilities of symbolic resonance.8 What

7 The redeemed soul’s redemptive influence on the cosmos is a theme in many religious traditions (e.g. the Jewish kabbalistic concept of “tikkun olam,” or “repairing creation”). In Christianity it is particularly evident in Eastern Orthodox spirituality, for example, in Dostoevsky’s description of Alyosha’s ecstatic conversion experience in chapter 4 of The Brothers Karamazov, “Cana of Galilee”: “The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of the stars… Alyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing, and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love it for ever and ever. ‘Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears,’ echoed in his soul. What was he weeping over? Oh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were shining to him from the abyss of space, and ‘he was not ashamed of that ecstasy.’ There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over ‘in contact with other worlds.’ He longed to forgive everyone and for everything, and to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for everything” (1991, 362). 8 McGinn, for example, calls Boehme’s exposition of the seven days in the Aurora “meandering,” and suggests that his later expositions in the Mysterium and the Clavis add nothing in terms of either content or clarity (2016, 177). This strikes me as both uncharitable and incorrect.

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follows then is really an exegesis of Boehme’s own exegesis of Genesis 1, which unpacks in a more logical mode only some of the symbolic possibilities of meaning. I will concentrate mainly on how this symbolism applies to the soul rather than to the cosmos, but readers should keep in mind that these microcosmic changes also resonate in the macrocosm.

Boehme always repays his patient readers, and in this case what he offers us is immensely valuable: nothing less than a symbolic key or lexicon for the imaginal universe—a key that connects mind to body, spirit to materiality, and the soul to the cosmos, in a grand process of both integration and renewal. Boehme’s symbolic key helps us decipher the major dream symbols that reveal how the soul’s structure is mobilized and modified on a journey of psycho-spiritual transformation that resonates throughout the cosmos. This symbolic framework can then be used to help decipher at least some of the immense variety of dream phenomena. Importantly, the discussion below also distinguishes between the soul’s initial development and its later transformation. The initial developmental path of infancy and childhood is recapitulated on the later transformative path, which revisits and reconfigures earlier developmental stages—a process of “regression in the service of transcendence.”9 It is also important to remember that each day of creation is cumulative, presupposing and building upon the symbols and events that precede it. Because of the symbolic nature of this material, the discussion below may at times seem non-linear and disjointed (a truly Boehmian experience!) but in the first paragraph of each section I will provide an initial summary of how the key symbols of each day of creation refer to both development and transformation.

9 Michael Washburn uses this helpful phrase in his excellent “transpersonal” synthesis of Freud and Jung (1995, 171-202).

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Table 1. The Seven Days of Creation: Development and Transformation.

Verbum Fiat Boehmian Freudian Jungian Genesis 1 Boehmian Development Command Transformation Development Transformation

Light “Jonah complex”: Day 1 (in Darkness): Intrauterine Rebirth: light born in darkness “Oceanic Feeling” the pearl in the Life-energy belly of the fish Firmament: Recovery of eternal Wisdom in “Jonah complex”: Day 2 Eternity Postpartum perception through deep Oral Stage boat/vessel on the ocean vs. Time feeling and descent below “I-ness” emerges, identifies Recovery of awareness of “Jonah complex”: Dry Land with body, desires temporal bodily instincts, confession Anal Stage board boat/vessel on trip Day 3 Vegetation objects, “naked and Body ego to edge of the known world “Fruit Trees” unashamed”

“I-ness” identifies with Acknowledgement of image- Phallic, Latency, and Sun – Day “Jonah complex”: language-based reason based understanding Genital Stages Day 4 Moon – Night journey to the edge of (Vernunft), (Verstand), Parental Imagos Stars the water eats forbidden fruit dreams and imagination Oedipal shame

Living Creatures in Anima/Animus Archetypes Expanded Conscious Day 5 Air, Water Integration/expansion of Awareness (B. adds Earth, four functions Fire)

Primordial Day 6 Human Marriage of Sun and Moon Self Archetype (Microcosm)

Sabbath Rest Day 7 Body of Light ? Blessing

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6.1 DAY ONE: DARKNESS, LIGHT, AND PRIMORDIAL LIFE-ENERGY To summarize, the symbolism of day one describes a primordial light that emerges in the midst of a dark chaotic void (Gen 1:1-5). Boehme interprets this light as a life-force energy that stands at the root of the soul—a concept that is surprisingly similar to the psychodynamic concept of “libido.” In terms of the soul’s development, the symbolism of day one corresponds to the initial, intrauterine phase of infancy. And in terms of the soul’s transformation, this symbolism corresponds to the climax of the process of rebirth—the nadir of the descent into the inner world, when light is born at the point of deepest darkness. Jung placed great emphasis on the idea of rebirth through regression to the intrauterine phase and its secret memories of eternity, whereas Freud merely hints at this possibility in his concept of the

“oceanic feeling of eternity,” which we will explore more fully on day two.

We saw in Chapter 4 that in the fallen Boehmian soul, the first quality, associated with

Saturn (♄), is a dark abyss of Nothingness, like a vacuum suction or a black hole. But when we bring this abstract quality back into the concrete exegetical context of Genesis 1, we see it in its original goodness. And here, within the dark Nothing a spiritual light is born1—the first creative act of the first day in the biblical account: “the earth was formless and void, and darkness covered the face of the deep… Then God said, ‘Let there be light’” (Gen 1:2-3). For Boehme this light is not the light of the sun that will be created on day four, but is rather a spiritual energy or

1 Boehme refers to this as “a mystery… in the center of the astringent quality [i.e. the dark Nothing] the light grows clear and bright. From the middle [i.e. the fourth quality], where the heat gives birth to the light, shooting toward midnight into the astringent quality. That is where the light grows bright” (Aurora 11.43/1764, 11.79-81).

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life-force from which both the universe and the soul originally emerged, and which the reborn soul recovers in its spiritual body of light.

For Boehme the six “let there be” commands of Genesis 1, which he calls the “Verbum

Fiat” commands, are creative expressions of the Word or Logos of John 1, who became flesh in

Jesus Christ. Each of the six Verbum Fiat commands are thus aspects of the Logos, imprinted in

Wisdom, that remain eternally active, holding creation and the soul in existence at every moment. However, in the fallen world and the fallen soul these commands are weakened or disfigured in various ways through the continued action of the fallen angels. The key description of the Johannine Logos that Boehme reads back into the Verbum Fiat of day one is this: “in him was life,2 and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend/overcome3 it” (John 1:4-5). Here as in Genesis 1 the primordial light shines within the darkness, establishing an original contrarium or resonance that structures the soul’s ongoing development, just as it runs through all the “days” of creation in the daily reverberation between night and day or “evening and morning.” In John 1 this light is explicitly identified as the life-energy of “all people,” and Boehme extends this to the cosmos as a whole, where the light is a “light of nature” that is a “working/acting life” (wirckend Leben)

(MM 12.14-16). Not surprisingly, Boehme also notes that this primordial light is the wellspring

2 The Greek ζωὴ (zōē) was translated by Luther as “Leben.” 3 The Greek κατέλαβεν (katelaben) can mean either. Luther’s Bible has “ergriffen” meaning “grasp” or “comprehend.” For Boehme this connotes especially the rational mind’s lack of understanding (Verstand) when it is dissociated from the light of Wisdom.

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of the human imagination.4 Conceptually, this light seems to be the historical precursor to the psychodynamic concept of “libido,” in that it is a singular force or energy that stands at the root of all living things and all psychological development and expression, although Freud and Jung based their respective concepts mainly in Darwinian evolution,5 and they differed somewhat in their respective definitions of libido, as we will see.6

In defining this life-energy, the distinction between the original and the fallen soul is important. We saw above that in the fallen Boehmian soul, a sexually-charged “lust-desire” emerges in the second quality, in opposition to the hungry abyss of the first quality. And in the third quality, this lust-desire takes on an anguished-angry tone as a result of the tension. These aspects of Boehme’s fallen soul generally resonate with the Freudian unconscious. But in the original soul, defined by the Genesis 1 account, a primordial life-energy exists in the first quality or day, prior to acquiring any sexual or aggressive qualities, and Boehme defines this primordial light as “the joy (Freude) of the creation or creature” (MM 12.18). For Boehme this light

“withdraws” from the soul after the Fall, although “it does not totally depart, but it is nothing compared with what it was before the sin… of Adam” (MM 12.16) and it is likewise recovered when the soul is reborn.7 In Boehme we thus see an aspect of life-energy that precedes its

4 E.g. “consider… your life light (deines Lebens Licht), whereby you can… look with your imagination without the light of the sun into a vast large space to which the eyes of your body cannot reach” (Three Principles 4.23/1764, 4.24). 5 On proto-evolutionary concepts in Boehme see especially Walsh (1983) and Nicolescu (1988). 6 Boehme’s description of this light and the spiritual body it eventually furnishes also go well beyond psychodynamic “libido,” providing a remarkable synthetic locus for discussions of comparative spirituality and mysticism, for example, in relation to the light body of Sufism (Corbin 1958/1969, 8-9, 20-23, 28, 49, 69, 190-91, 310), the prana of Hindu yoga, or the chi of Chinese medicine and spirituality. 7 One is reminded here of Nietzsche’s poem in Zarathustra, which likely has a Boehmian pedigree via Schopenhauer and/or Schelling: “O man! Take heed!/ What saith deep midnight, indeed?/ “I lay asleep,

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sexually-charged expression, and it is precisely this aspect that is lost in the Fall and recovered in the soul’s rebirth. Freud later defined “libido” as primarily a sexual energy, whereas Jung defined it as a more general “life energy” that precedes sexuality, and their differences here became a flashpoint of controversy. Boehme could be used to support either view, which again positions him as the broader framework in which to situate both Freud and Jung.

This primordial light and life-energy is a source of joy in the reborn soul because, in the first quality, the light illumines the hungry void of the Nothing in such a way that the second quality does not need to flee from the Nothing in “lust-desire,” but instead flows peacefully from the light, which in turn causes the third quality to manifest in an “I-ness” grounded in the calm strength of “releasement” (Gelassenheit) rather than in the anguished tension between lust and death characteristic of the fallen soul. I am describing these qualities in their forward sequence here, but in the actual process of transformation and rebirth, as depicted in dream symbolism, they tend to move in the opposite direction, so to speak. That is, the process begins with the “I-ness” of the third and fourth qualities as it embraces a posture of “releasement,” which allows it to regress back into its fundamental constituents in the second and first qualities as it moves deeper into the inner dark world. That is, “I-ness” begins to sense the extent to which its actions are driven by both an underlying lust and a fear of Nothing/death, as it realizes that it has no firm foundation for its own existence.8 This releasement and

asleep—/ I waked from my deep dream./ The world is deep,/ And deeper than even day may dream./ Deep is its woe—/ Joy—deeper yet than woe is she:/ Saith woe: ‘Hence! Go!’/ Yet joy would have eternity,/ —Profound, profound eternity!" ([1871] 1905, 79.12). 8 If space permitted, it would be interesting to discuss this in relation to Cartesian foundationalism, which was inspired by some remarkable dreams that Descartes took very seriously, and which could be interpreted according to Boehme’s framework (see von Franz 1968, 55-147).

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confrontation with the dark world within can literally feel like a death for the “I-ness.”9 But this death eventually gives way to resurrection. And the encounter with the first quality is the nadir and turning point of the process: light is born in the darkness, the fear of death is replaced by an underlying, non-egoic, joyful life-energy flowing up from the depths, and the ego’s anxious lust is replaced by a more free and peaceful love (see table 1).

Boehme also reads Genesis 1 in concert with Revelation 12, which describes a war in heaven, where the archangel Michael and his angels defeat “the dragon” and his angels: “the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him” (Rev 12:9). For Boehme, this primordial event explains why, in Genesis 1, before any divine action, we find the earth “formless and void” with “darkness upon the face of the deep.” It also explains why we find a serpent lurking in the centre of Paradise. For Boehme this pre-existent dark void is the hell that was created for Satan when he was expelled from heaven: “for hell was prepared for him and he fell into it, that is, into the great darkness of the first principle, where he now lives” (MM 12.11). The light that emerges on the first day thus symbolizes the primordial defeat of this “dragon.” Jung will later use this same mytheme or folklore motif to describe the heroic process of recovering libido from the protective dragon of the unconscious.10

9 There is some evidence to suggest that, for Boehme, one way to approach this process is through a form of contemplation defined by deep stillness and silence, as the soul confronts and enters the Nothing (see e.g. Pektas 2006, 103). This form of contemplation shows strong similarities with some forms of Eastern meditation, although with important differences. 10 Jung also pointed to the importance of this mytheme, evidenced by its prominence and dispersion in the West, for example, in the many dragon-slaying knights of medieval folklore, who were often granted gold or a beloved virgin for their efforts, and the in the story of St. George and the dragon.

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Thus in terms of the soul’s development, day one describes the initial intrauterine stage of life. And indeed, the symbolism here corresponds quite well to the infant in the womb, where a primordial life-energy infuses a growing embryo within a dark watery cavern. The oceanic symbolism of the womb will reappear again on day two. In terms of the soul’s transformation, the symbolism of day one describes a courageous confrontation with the

Nothing—the climax of the process of rebirth—through the Logos who was “glorified” precisely in the act of dying (especially in the Johannine account), and then raised from the dead with a spiritual body. As we will see, the “I-ness” of the third and fourth quality must follow this same cruciform path toward rebirth, and its confrontation with the abyss is symbolized by the dark tomb and the descent into hell on Holy Saturday. Dream symbolism suggests that this tomb is a recapitulation of secret memories of the intrauterine state. And thus Jung coined the term

“Jonah-and-the whale complex” to describe this dream motif of descent into the water and the

“belly of Sheol” (Jonah 2:2), noting that Jesus described his own crucifixion and resurrection as the “sign of Jonah.”11 Following Holy Saturday, the light born on Easter Sunday illumines the resurrected body of light, and thus for Boehme “Sunday… is the true paradisical day” because it

11 Jung was fond of the Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer, which says that Jonah found “one pearl… suspended inside the belly of the fish and it gave illumination to Jonah, like this sun which shines with all its might at noon; and it showed to Jonah all that was in the sea and in the depths” (Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer 1916, 69-70; see Jung [1911-12] 1952, CW5:330, 419). Boehme also speaks often of the “pearl” as the great mystery representing the Kingdom of God in the soul (Matt 13:46; e.g. Forty Questions 16.5, 37.1/1764, 16.6, 37.1- 2; MM 70:6-7). In the preceding chapter of Matthew, when Jesus is asked to perform a miracle, he famously said that he would give only one sign, “the sign of the prophet Jonah. For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the sea monster, so for three days and three nights the Son of Man will be in the heart of the earth” (Matt 12:39-40).

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participates in the first eternal day of creation, which was recapitulated on Easter Sunday (MM

12.7).12

6.2 DAY TWO: TIME, ETERNITY, AND THE OCEANIC FEELING To summarize, the symbolism of day two describes a firmament or dome that separates the primordial ocean into heavenly “waters above” and earthly “waters below” (Gen 1:6-8). For

Boehme the waters above symbolize “eternity,” the waters below symbolize “time,” and the eternal waters above can only be perceived in the temporal realm through a sense of deep

“feeling.” Boehme’s interpretation of this symbolism shows remarkable affinities with Freud’s concept of an “oceanic feeling of eternity” which in turn relates to Jung’s “Jonah-and-the-whale complex” mentioned above. In terms of the soul’s development, the firmament symbolizes the postpartum state after the infant has left the womb, and the eternal “waters above” represent the intrauterine state, which is remembered and partially recovered in postpartum bonding with the mother, particularly during breast feeding (Freud’s oral stage) and sleep.

Developmentally, this postpartum stage precedes the emergence of an independent ego on day three. In terms of the soul’s transformation, a regression to this stage allows one to recover the perception of eternal meaning in the temporal realm.

We saw in Chapter 4 that in the fallen Boehmian soul, the second quality, associated with Mercury (☿), is a sexually-charged desire that emerges in opposition to the dark Nothing of the first quality. This “lust-desire” then becomes the driving force of the soul’s ongoing

12 McGrath agrees with Dourley (2008, 86) that “the direction of Boehme’s mysticism… is exitus, that is, away from the non-dual toward differentiation, personalization, history and mediation,” in contrast to Eckhart’s “reditus, a return into the non-dual, unmediated point of origin of being.” Eckhart is “introverted,” and Boehme “extroverted” (2012, 60). In my reading Boehmian transformation involves both vectors: a return to the inner origin point in order to grant renewed outer expression.

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development, cognition, and behaviour. And, like Augustinian concupiscence, it remains insatiably hungry for finite objects but can only find true fulfillment in eternal Wisdom. Desire’s quest for eternity becomes very important in the present discussion. When we bring Boehme’s abstract “lust-desire” back into the concrete exegetical context of Genesis 1, we see it in its original goodness. On day two God’s Verbum Fiat is, “‘Let there be a dome [or firmament] in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters.’ So God made the dome and separated the waters that were under the dome from the waters that were above the dome” (Gen 1:6-7). In Boehme’s figural reading this firmament symbolizes “the gulf between time and eternity” (MM 12.23, 26). The waters above the firmament symbolize an internal and eternal “spiritual water” or “holy element,” which is the “essence of the seven properties” of

Wisdom, whereas the waters below the firmament represent “external material water” (MM

12.24, 30). For Boehme, because the “waters above” are eternal, they can actually be present anywhere and everywhere, whereas the “waters below” are confined to time and space. Thus

“heaven is in the world, but the world is not in heaven,” and “the outward water is the instrument of the inward”—an inclusive hierarchy (MM 12.23, 27).

In the soul’s original goodness, this heavenly water allowed the perception of eternal

Wisdom throughout the whole of temporal reality. In Blake’s memorable words, it allowed the soul “To see a World in a Grain of Sand/ And a Heaven in a Wild Flower/ Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand/ And Eternity in an Hour.”13 We referred to this earlier in terms of eternal understanding (Verstand) permeating and structuring temporal reason (Vernunft), although in terms of the soul’s development, temporal reason will not appear until day four. For Boehme,

13 From “Auguries of Innocence” (1988, 490).

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this eternal perception was lost in the Fall, such that “the earthly man is not able to understand anything” for his “understanding (Verstand) is barely in the power of the water above the firmament, that is, in the heaven.” But if “he is awakened in the water above the firmament, which disappeared in Adam, as to his life he sees through all; otherwise there is no understanding (Verstand) here and all is dumb” (MM 12.28). Boehme also notes that the main way of recovering this eternal vision is not through rational cognition, but through a kind of deep emotional sensing, or “feeling-into”14 the objects of perception: “the powers of eternity work through the powers of time as the sun illumines the water, and the water comprehends it not, but feels (fühlet) it only” (MM 12.29). But we are again seeing this process of transformation in the wrong direction, so to speak, since we have not yet encountered the “I- ness” that will appear developmentally in the terra firma of day three, and the rational cognition of day four. The ability to “feel into” the eternal realm of understanding and Wisdom involves a “releasement” (Gelassenheit) of both “I-ness” and its detached reason (Vernunft)— an opening to the eternal “waters above,” which allows them to permeate the temporal

“waters below,” so that “one water is not without the other” (MM 12.25).

For Boehme the key event that describes this renewed perception is the sacrament of baptism:

I see with the external eyes of this world only the water under the firmament: but the water above the firmament is that which God hath appointed in Christ to the Baptism of Regeneration, after the Word of the divine power had moved therein… the outward water is the instrument of the inward” (MM 12.25-30; see also MM 41.13-20).15

14 This translates the German word “Einfühlung” or empathy, which was very important for the German Romantics and early psychiatry (see Ellenberger 1970, 200). It seems to derive from Boehme. 15 This quotation also offers a snapshot of Boehme’s understanding of sacraments, which basically Lutheran in that the sacraments are effective through faith. But Boehme’s logic is symbolic rather than

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Similarly, for Boehme, Jesus speaks of this spiritual water both in his diurnal conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4:10-14; MM 4.15, 10.57), and in his famous nocturnal conversation about rebirth with Nicodemus, where Jesus says “no one can see the kingdom of

God without being born again/born from above.” Here Nicodemus’ response is important, hinting at how developmental stages can be recapitulated in the transformational process:

“How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answer rephrases his original statement, this time adding two potent and primordial symbols from the first and second days of creation: “no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit” (John 3:3-5). In Boehme’s reading, Jesus is attempting to replace Nicodemus “fleshly” or literal understanding of a “return to the womb,” with a symbolic or spiritual understanding. And Boehme is well aware that this spiritual understanding and its potent symbols involve a recovery of the hidden memory of earlier developmental stages (e.g. MM 30.8).16 Thus to be born “again/from above… of water and Spirit,” is to recover the eternal spiritual water above the firmament—the perception of eternity—which begins to recede after the child leaves the womb.

It is important to note that Boehme sees the symbols of the second day as distinctly feminine and maternal for various reasons. He notes that the second day is Monday, which was ruled by the moon in the science of his day (MM 12.19), and the moon in turn was thought to

rationalistic. That is, the efficacy of sacraments, and the comprehensibility of all dogma in general, only makes sense with primary reference to the imaginal realm—the realm in which Christ is both simultaneously eternally crucified and eternally resurrected, and the realm in which faith is founded, for “magia is the best theology. In it true faith is both founded and discovered” (Six Mystical Pts 5:23). 16 Jung will later emphasize this nocturnal conversation with Nicodemus ([1911-12] 1952, CW5:224-227).

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rule not only the night but also the ocean tides and the female fertility cycle,17 waxing and waning like the womb. The womb itself contains the oceanic waters of amniotic fluid that surround the gestating child, who is born in the midst of these waters, like the cosmos itself in the biblical account. The moon and the ocean waters were thus considered female in contrast to the fiery male sun and its life energy. For Boehme, the sun as a “nature god” eventually manifests on day four out of the spiritual light of day one (MM 12.13), and the moon as a

“nature goddess” manifests on day four out of the firmament of day two (MM 12.30). Thus developmentally, these parental planetary forces are imprinted very early in the developing soul, and their duality and polarity will become palpable when they appear on day four.

Thus in terms of the soul’s development, while it is hard to know what the intrauterine experience is like for an infant, if we are thinking of the symbolism of day two and its firmament in terms of Boehme’s “gulf between time and eternity,” it is not implausible to think that a fulsome experience of temporality and temporal sequence only begins when the infant exits the womb. And it is also not implausible to think that birth posits a significant barrier or

“firmament” between intrauterine experience, with its dark, quiet, floating, protected containment, and postpartum experience, where the buzzing blooming world fills the child’s senses. Like the firmament or dome in the biblical account that creates an atmosphere of breathable air between the primordial waters, the postpartum child takes her first breath in a new world of temporal sensations and sequences.

The child then experiences a regular, periodic recovery of something like the intrauterine experience in the protected solace of breast feeding, which often leads to sleep.

17 The moon cycle and the average female fertility cycle are both 28 days.

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Thus mother and breast come to represent a recovery of the “oceanic feeling” of the womb, though not a full recovery. Freud later spoke of this “oceanic feeling” as a “feeling of the eternal… of something limitless, unbounded,” and he believed that it was based in the early bond with the mother, before the child’s ego had developed a subject-object divide. In this state, “originally the ego includes everything” (1930, SE21:64, 68). The emergence of Freudian

“libido” (Boehme’s “lust-desire”) and the Oedipal longing for the mother and the womb are thus partly an attempt to recover this “feeling of eternity,” which is often depicted in watery, oceanic dream symbolism. Jung, as we noted above, observed the same dream motif, which he called the “Jonah-and-the-whale” complex, giving Freud’s Oedipus complex a deeper mythical grounding, and positing an ultimately intrauterine source for the feeling of eternity. Jung noted that the appearance of this dream motif in an adult often signalled a period of introversion, as the libido turned inward seeking spiritual rebirth. Likewise, according to Boehme’s framework, day two includes Freud’s “oral” phase, since for Boehme the primordial Nothing of day one is primarily experienced as a “hunger,” and on day two the attempt to fill this void with eternal spiritual water is primarily experienced during breast feeding.

In terms of the soul’s transformation, the cruciform surrender of the “I-ness” of the third and fourth qualities leads back to the symbolism of day two, which plunges the soul into the eternal baptismal waters of rebirth. Importantly, the firmament of day two runs through the whole Bible as a symbol that both reveals and conceals eternity.18 In the Markan account, the firmament or heavens are “torn open” at Jesus’ baptism as the Spirit descends like a dove

18 E.g. on the one hand, “the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament declares his handiwork” (Ps 19:1); on the other hand, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” (Isa 64:1).

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(Mark 1:9), and when Jesus breathes his last at the crucifixion, the temple curtain is “torn in two” (Mark 15:38). The temple was constructed as an analogue of the cosmos, with the curtain as the firmament dividing time from eternity.19 Both of these texts use the same Greek word

(σχιζο; schizo), and both presuppose the cosmic symbolism of day two. The connection between them is why the apostle Paul can speak of “baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the father, so we too might walk in newness of life”

(Rom 6:4). In Boehme’s symbolic reading of transformation, the cruciform surrender of “I-ness” baptises the soul with a renewed perception of eternity. And this baptism allows temporal objects to speak symbolically and poetically, while also stimulating the production of imaginative symbols in the soul, as eternal meaning shines through finite objects. This recovery of eternal meaning then in turn leads back to the hidden light in the dark centre of day one, where the soul is reborn within the dark womb and tomb.

There is some evidence that, for Boehme as for Augustine, a kind of existential Fall is repeated in every child in the form of a truncation of perception. In other words, it may be that for Boehme the infant originally exists in a bond of “love-desire” with the nourishing mother, who offers not just physical but spiritual nourishment in the form of an oceanic feeling of eternal oneness with all things. But this infant-mother matrix begins to divide as the infant’s cries produce the nourishing breast with varying degrees of success, and the infant slowly realizes that mother is “not me.” Here lie the roots of “I-ness,” just as Boehme’s framework predicts. As this subject-object differentiation proceeds, the oceanic feeling of eternal oneness

19 See e.g. Levenson 1984; 2014. Josephus notes that the temple curtain displayed a “panorama of the heavens” (in Levinson 1984, 284).

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recedes (and yet remains forever in unconscious memory). The infant-mother matrix of undifferentiated comfort and abundance is then increasingly replaced by an anxious desire to control and possess mother and breast as objects. The egoic identification of these objects itself causes a tear in eternal oneness and creates a perceptual firmament dividing time from eternity. Like Augustinian concupiscence, the “lust-desire” that emerges remains forever unsatisfied by finite objects, becoming increasingly anxious in its objectification and consumption of them. As Blake later said, “More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul; less than

All cannot satisfy Man.”20 Thus the symbolic depth of day two encompasses many interrelated psychological dualities, which are mapped onto each other in complex ways: infant/mother, subject/object, time/eternity, hunger/fullness, lust/love, death/life. In the developmental stages that follow, we will continue to see further aspects of this existential Fall, and interestingly they seem to generally follow the narrative of Genesis 2, while presupposing the symbolic framework of Genesis 1.

6.3 DAY THREE: DRY LAND, VEGETATION, AND THE TERRA FIRMA OF “I-NESS” To summarize, the symbolism of day three describes dry land emerging out of the

“waters below,” and then trees and vegetation growing on the land (Gen 1:9-13). In terms of the soul’s development, for Boehme this symbolizes the emergence of the terra firma of “I- ness” (Ichheit) in the soul, and the growing ability of “I-ness” to bend the temporal world to its

“own will” (eigene Wille). Here the existential Fall continues as “I-ness” identifies itself with the temporal body, and eternity further recedes. In terms of the soul’s transformation, for Boehme the “I-ness” that initially differentiates itself from the “waters below” and their connection to

20 From There is No Natural Religion (1988, 2).

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the “waters above,” can later be baptised in those waters through a “releasement”

(Gelassenheit), as noted above.

We saw in Chapter 4 that in the fallen Boehmian soul, the third quality, associated with

Mars (♂), is an anxious-anguished rage that emerges from the tension between the previous two qualities, and from which “I-ness” or the ego is born. The previous two qualities continue to work in and through this third, and thus the sexually-charged “lust-desire” of the second quality, itself a response to the “Nothing-desire” of the first, continues to move outward with its grasping, controlling gaze. But now it is increasingly channelled through the “I-ness” of the third quality, which expands or inflates accordingly. When we bring this abstract quality back into the concrete exegetical context of Genesis 1, we see it in its original goodness. To illustrate the difference, Boehme notes that day three is Tuesday, which according to the science of the day was ruled by the planet Mars, “wrathful and fiery” in its fallen state (MM 12.37). But in its original goodness the third quality is pervaded both by the primordial light of the first day, and the eternal water of the second day, which promotes a peaceful and joyful, rather than a wrathful and fiery “I-ness” (MM 12.35). Or, as Boehme says with typically elliptical brilliance,

“all growth consists in the light and water… then Mars springs up for great joy” (MM 12.38). On day three God’s Verbum Fiat has two parts: First, “‘Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together in one place, and let the dry land appear.’ And it was so. God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas.” And second, “Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it” (Gen 1:9-11).

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In terms of the soul’s development, on day two we saw the undifferentiated infant- mother matrix beginning to split into subject and object, and yet the subject, such as it was, remained in a watery, inchoate state.21 Here on day three the dry land, according to Boehme’s schema, symbolizes the “standpoint” of “I-ness.” And the emergence of the dry land symbolizes the emergence of bodily awareness out of the inchoate watery fusion between body and environment typical of day two. In the developing child, the identification of “I-ness” with the body emerges in concert with willful control of the body, as the infants learns, for example, to use her hands and fingers to grasp and consume desired objects. Thus the “I-ness” initially identifies with the body and the body’s spatial boundaries, or as Freud later said, “the conscious ego… is first and foremost a body-ego” (1923b, 31). In Boehme’s reading of the biblical text this is symbolized by the dry land emerging from the temporal waters below as distinct from the eternal waters above. That is, the “I-ness” sees itself as firmly planted in time and space because the body itself exists within these parameters and must function according to them. Thus following the existential Fall of day two, where eternity is increasingly divided from time, on day three both “I-ness” and its body are increasingly subsumed within and subject to temporal categories and constraints. Genesis 2 describes the “formation” of this earthly temporal body as “the LORD God formed man (Adam) from the dust of the ground

21 In many ways, it seems that the subject in this state defines itself by the gaze of its object, or as Hegel later contended (in a Boehme-inspired insight), “Self-consciousness exists in and for itself when, and by the fact that, it so exists for another; that is, it exists only in being acknowledged” (1807, 111). From this social and reflexive self-consciousness Hegel’s notion of Spirit emerges as an intersubjective property, and Hegel bequeathed these ideas to a vast swath of modern continental thinkers. Freud and Jung certainly agree that the ego is significantly defined by the gaze of the parents. Balthasar will later say that “the little child awakens to self-consciousness through being addressed by the love of his mother” (1993, 15).

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(Adamah)” (Gen 2:7). According to Boehme’s reading, the existential Fall of day three repeats

Adam's initial Fall into temporality and the temporal body.22

Further, as vegetation grows on the earth, the biblical text highlights the many categories and “kinds” of plants and trees, as well as the “fruit” that each one produces (Gen

1:11-12). This symbolizes the ability of “I-ness” to categorize objects of perception and construct a “mental map,” so to speak, which is both constructed and perceived according to the desires of “I-ness.” That is, fallen “I-ness” perceives the world and its objects in terms of temporal “lust-desire,” and thus in terms of how they can serve the self. Fruit is one of the best examples of a natural object that is perfectly tuned to the self-centred perception and bodily awareness of “I-ness,” since it is brightly coloured, sweet tasting, and perfectly formed for human hands to grasp and dissemble.23 This is hinted at in the biblical account of the forbidden fruit in Genesis 3, where, after the serpent tells Eve that the fruit will open her eyes, she immediately “sees” two things, first “that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes” (Gen 3:6). The real eye opener comes in the next verse after Adam and Eve actually eat the fruit. And for Boehme this eating of “knowledge of good and evil” symbolizes the decisive Fall of day four, when eternal Wisdom or understanding (Verstand) is totally cut off from temporal reason (Vernunft). Here on day three we are still dealing with an “I-ness” where perception is determined by its desires; on day four we will see the desires of “I-ness” drive the develop of more abstract cognition, as the sun, moon, and stars emerge in the sky-world of

22 For Boehme, the fleshly body was originally perfectly united to the spiritual body, but after the Fall the spiritual body is lost (see e.g. MM 15. 10-15; 16.1-10; 18.1-10). 23 That is, fruit co-evolved with larger mammals, including primates, offering nutritional benefits to them, while benefitting from their spreading of its genetic material—seeds carried and planted in excrement.

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thought. Thus perception precedes more abstract cognition, but because both are driven by

“lust-desire,” even the perception of the bodily-identified “I-ness” points toward the decisive

Fall of day four, when “I-ness” identifies with temporal language-based reason (Vernunft).

Importantly, while the “I-ness” of day three identifies with the body, its “individual will”

(eigene Wille) can only control certain aspects of the body, leaving other aspects beyond conscious control and therefore unconscious, including the autonomic nervous system and its various functions (e.g. breathing, circulation, digestion, endocrine regulation, etc.). Boehme, of course, does not mention this latter point, but it will become important in the discussion below.

It means that, according to Boehme’s reading of the biblical text, the distinction between land and water, or “I-ness” and the unconscious, runs right through the body itself, somewhat ambiguously, since “I-ness” gradually learns to control various bodily functions: first the ability to grasp and consume objects, then the ability to crawl and walk, and later the regulation of excretion. All of this is a progressive emergence of the terra firma of bodily “I-ness” out of the waters below. The symbolism here also generally corresponds to Freud’s anal and phallic stages, during which the Freudian ego develops out of the Id, although the phallic stage is especially evident on day four with the development of language-based reason (Vernunft). The emergence of excrement or “earth” out of the body, and the willful control of that emergence, is precisely what fascinates the toddler in the anal stage of toilet-training,24 and in the biblical text the emergence of earth is followed by the growth of phallic trees on the egoic landscape,

24 In fact, as Freud realized, the toilet-training infant acts a little like God in the biblical account, taking pride in the creation of “earth” or excrement. The godlike wilfulness of this stage is commonly referred to as the “terrible twos.”

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representing the ability to dominate and control a limited mental map of reality.25 Likewise, on day three the developing child is still “naked and unashamed” (Gen 2:25), consistent with

Freud’s phallic stage, but after the decisive existential Fall of day four the shame of nakedness will set it (Gen 3:7), consistent with Freud’s latency stage.

In terms of the soul’s transformation, it will be helpful to begin here with dream symbolism itself. Jung noticed that dreams dealing with the conscious outer world of the ego and its challenges normally take place on land, whereas dreams describing the inner dynamics of the unconscious normally take place in watery landscapes. These symbolic landscapes were so distinct and so common that Jung, who eschewed almost all attempts to generalize with dream symbols, made an exception in this case: land generally symbolizes the conscious world and water the unconscious. And Jung noticed that when the libido of a patient turned inward, either because it was overwhelmed by outer events, or because it was searching for deeper meaning and significance in life, dreams would often depict a transition from land to water, often via some kind of boat or vessel. In terms of the “Jonah-and-the-whale complex,” Jonah flees his worldly calling by boarding a ship bound for Tarshish, which at that time was at the edge of the known world. Now interestingly, as mentioned above, both Freud and Jung located the unconscious to a significant extent, in the body itself and the autonomic nervous system, or the “watery” aspects of the body that are not under conscious control. And both were surprised by the fact that unconscious memories and traumas seemed to be “stored,” so to

25 If this seems speculative, consider whether any other day of creation has symbolism that better corresponds to Freud’s anal and phallic stages.

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speak, in the body.26 Thus the descent into the “waters below” tends to activate these unconscious memories, stirring up the waters. The mytheme of stormy seas fits here, not only as depicted in the Jonah story, but in the Gospel accounts of Jesus calming the storm, walking on water, and pulling up those who were afraid of sinking beneath.

According to this view the “waters below” are a symbol of the unknown aspects of the nervous system itself, and the ambiguous boundary where psyche meets soma. And according to Boehme’s interpretation of the biblical symbolism, the waters below were originally connected to the eternal realm of waters above. Thus as the “I-ness” releases itself and regresses to an earlier “watery” state of development, it becomes more aware of the body and begins to sense the body’s elemental physicality more deeply. And this in turn activates the eternal realm of archetypal images and symbols, which begin to populate the imagination, including the world of dreams. Jung was continually intrigued by the way that his archetypes, which he deduced from his observation of recurring dream symbols, seemed to mirror biological instincts—a kind of resonance between the waters above and the waters below. That is, for Jung the unconscious has an upper and a lower register, above and below ego consciousness: “The dynamism of instinct is lodged as it were in the infra-red part of the spectrum, whereas the instinctual image lies in the ultra-violet part" (1954a, CW8:211). This accords quite well with Boehme, in the sense that the waters below symbolize the elemental aspects of the body, and the waters above symbolize eternal Wisdom as the “body” of God. As the “I-ness” descends into the dynamism of the body, following the cruciform path mentioned

26 Freud first noticed this in treating cases of “conversion hysteria,” where the bodily symptom symbolized the traumatic memory.

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above, it often encounters stormy seas. But ultimately it is baptised in the eternal spiritual water and receives the gift of light and life-energy born from the womb and tomb of the dark

Nothing.

6.4 DAY FOUR: HEAVENLY BODIES, ASTRAL REASON, THE HIDDEN DARK MIND, AND THE TRANSFORMING CENTRE To summarize, the symbolism of day four describes the creation of the astral realm of sun, moon, and stars (Gen 1:14-19). For Boehme this symbolizes the realm of abstract thought, and this realm includes temporal language-based reason (Vernunft), which can either be receptive to or dissociated from the eternal realm of image-based Wisdom or understanding

(Verstand). The symbolism of day four thus involves all three of the soul-elements described in

Chapter 4: the inner eternal dark element, the inner eternal light element, and the outward temporal element (see figures 2, 3, and 4). In terms of the soul’s development, day four corresponds to the acquisition of language, which continues the existential Fall described above. Here the decisive break is made with the eternal realm, as “I-ness” identifies itself with temporal language-based reason (Vernunft), which it chooses to seize as its own possession.

This is the eating of the forbidden fruit that gives “knowledge of good and evil,” dividing the three elements of the trinitarian soul, and relegating “I-ness” to the outward temporal element.

“I-ness” in this state becomes puffed up with outer temporal knowledge, even as it loses the ability to perceive inner eternal Wisdom. And here a great amnesia also sets in, as “I-ness” forgets that it emerged from the light of eternity and the undivided primordial waters (an echo of Freud’s “infantile amnesia”). As “I-ness” identifies with language-based reason and its dualistic tendencies (“good and evil”) the eternal dark and light soul-elements are divided, and

“I-ness” finds itself perched on a shaky foundation of Nothing-desire, lust-desire, and anxiety-

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anguish. These three dark qualities recede into the unconscious where they continue their hidden influence on the soul. In terms of the soul’s transformation, on day four the cross appears as the transforming centre that can reunite the three soul-elements in trinitarian harmony, and here the cross is a type of the Tree of Life, reopening access to eternal Wisdom.

The cruciform path thus involves not only the “releasement” of the bodily “I-ness,” as we saw on day three, but also of the rationalistic “I-ness.” Reason must be recentred in eternal image- based Wisdom. Logos for Boehme must be recentred in biblical mythos and its symbols. In this process the soul’s dark world is recognized, confessed, and transformed into light.

We saw in Chapter 4 that in the fallen Boehmian soul, the fourth quality, associated with the Sun (☉), is the point “where the sentient (fühlende) and intellective (verständige) life first arises” (MM 3.18). Here a great “lightening flash” (Blitz) or “fright” (Schrack) divides the eternal dark fire world from the eternal holy light world. And this flash also represents the creation of a hidden dark mind in the soul. As Boehme says:

in this fright (Schrack) the astringent harsh darkness, which is cold, becomes frightened before the light… and becomes in itself a fear of death (ein Schrack des Todes), where the wrathful and cold property retires back inside and closes itself up like a death. For in this fright (Schrack) the dark mind (finstere Gemüth) becomes its own essence (wessentlich); it preserves itself in itself as a separate being (Eigenes), as a great fear (Furcht) before the light, or an enemy of the light (MM 3.26).

Here what Freud and Jung will later call the “unconscious mind” is born, as a separate entity with a hidden will of its own. That is, in the fourth quality the soul splits apart, and the previous three qualities withdraw into unconscious darkness, precisely as “intellective” life is born in the soul. Here the “I-ness” that appeared in the third quality attempts to hide from the inner darkness that birthed it by identifying with outer, temporal, language-based reason (Vernunft), by which it attempts to control and dominate the outer world. This marks a division or enmity

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between light and darkness, sun and moon, day and night, eternity and time, understanding

(Verstand) and reason (Vernunft).

When we bring this abstract fourth quality back into the concrete exegetical context of

Genesis 1, we see it in its original goodness. On day four God creates the sun, moon, and stars, which for Boehme are the heavenly bodies that allow the seven qualities of eternal Wisdom to flow down into time, and to stamp their character on the temporal world and on temporal reason (Vernunft). As Boehme says, “here we understand very fully and exactly the ground of the manifestation of the inward nature into the external” (MM 13.1). God’s Verbum Fiat says:

“Let there be lights in the dome [or firmament] of the heaven to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years.” The next phrase in the text seems almost superfluous, except to underline how these heavenly bodies imprint their influence on the earth below: “…and let them be lights in the dome of the heaven to give light upon the earth” (Gen 1:14-15). For Boehme this “astrum” originally existed in harmony with eternal Wisdom, as its medium of expression in the temporal world, and likewise astral reason

(Vernunft) was originally the temporal medium to express eternal understanding (Verstand), for

“the whole astrum is a pronounced voice of the powers, an expressed Word… It is an echo… out of the dark-and-light world” (MM 13.10). These allusions to speech, language, and expression will become important below.

For Boehme, in the macrocosm, the sun, moon, and stars, which together comprise the

“astrum,” represent “the soul of the outer world [or World Soul], as a constantly enduring mind

(Gemüthe),” and likewise these symbols play an important role in the mind of the microcosm.

For Boehme, “God has awakened a king… with six councillors, which are his assistants: that is,

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the sun, with the other six planetic stars, which were spoken forth out of the seven properties

[of Wisdom]” (MM 13.16). If the sun is king, then the moon is queen, and each rules its respective domain, as the biblical text says: “God made the two great lights—the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night—and the stars” (Gen 1:14-15). We will see below that the symbols of sun and moon are important “rulers” in the microcosm of the soul, and the “marriage” of sun and moon27 will be an important symbolic motif in Boehme’s reading of the days that follow (see figure 5).

In terms of the soul’s development, the “I-ness” that identified with the temporal body on day three now begins to identify with temporal reason (Vernunft), which it uses to navigate the external temporal world. The emergence of temporal reason is generally concomitant with the emergence of language, as children learn both to speak and to think in linguistic categories.

And indeed Boehme’s description of day four is replete with linguistic allusions, as “the speaking word diffuses itself” in the temporal realm (MM 13.6). Day four is Wednesday, which

Boehme notes, following the science of his day, is associated with the “quick perceptive

Mercurius” (MM 13.1), a planet and metal associated with “eloquence, intelligence, and expression” (Weeks 2013, 29).

This development of language-based reason (Vernunft) again seems to further the existential Fall noted above. We saw the infant originally emerging with a memory of the

“oceanic feeling” of eternity, as the waters divide on day two and “I-ness” emerges on day three. And the attempt to recover eternity prompts a mistaken “lust-desire” for temporal objects, in terms of which “I-ness” begins to construct a mental map of reality. The emergence

27 This was an important alchemical and astrological motif in the science of Boehme’s day.

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of language is the next logical step in constructing this mental map, and it is alluded to in

Genesis 2 as Adam “gives names” to “every living creature.” Naming, especially in the ancient world, was a means of exerting control. Importantly, it is Adam’s loneliness that prompts this naming, as he searches for “a helper as his partner,” and the final name he gives is to the helper created from his own body: “woman” (Gen 2:18-23). None of this was lost on Boehme.

According to Boehme’s developmental schema, the “lust-desire” of “I-ness” continues to seek the eternal in temporal objects, first through perception, and now through language- based reason (Vernunft). The culmination of this search is “woman.” But for Boehme, we ultimately “fall” in love precisely because we seek eternal Wisdom and understanding

(Verstand) in the face of the beloved. And as the biblical text says, in order to “cling to” the beloved, we must first “leave father and mother” (Gen 2:24). The deep psychological connection between these two forms of love—child-parent, and lover-beloved—will later become crucial for Freud and Jung. For Boehme, all of this takes place according to the symbolism of day four, where the sun and moon appear as archetypes of both the parents and the sexes in the temporal realm.28 Again, as we would expect, this stage of development corresponds to the emergence of Freudian Oedipal dynamics, which begin in intra-familial or endogamous relationships and later affect exogamous relationships. For Freud the Oedipus complex begins in the phallic stage, along with language development, and it produces the great amnesia of the latency stage, when “primary process” thinking with its Oedipal proclivities is largely repressed, as language-based, rationalistic, “secondary process” thinking comes to the fore, just as Boehme’s schema would predict.

28 Above we saw the parental sun and moon symbolism in the dream of Joseph.

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For Boehme, the final and decisive Fall, to which all the other existential precursors have merely been pointing, is the eating of the “Tree of the Knowledge of Good an Evil,” which also takes place according to the symbolism of day four. This eating represents not merely the development of language-based reason (Vernunft), but the decision of “I-ness” to see this reason as its own possession, rather than as the expression (or Word) of eternal Wisdom. Thus

“I-ness” identifies with its own perception and linguistic cognition of outward reality, without remainder, and comes to see itself as the centre of the universe. In this decision it is fully cut-off from eternal Wisdom. In Boehme’s reading, the two trees at the centre of the Garden are really

“only one, but manifest in two kingdoms” (MM 17.11). The Tree of Life represents the eternal realm of Wisdom, where darkness is fully sublated into light, and where reason remains open to understanding; the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil represents the division between darkness and light, which also causes a division between the temporal and the eternal, reason and understanding. The soul that tries to possess Wisdom actually causes this division in itself, losing its eternal perception and becoming trapped in the divided world of temporal reason.

In terms of the symbolism of day four, the Tree of Life represents unity and harmony between sun and moon, light and darkness, whereas the Tree of Knowledge represents their division and enmity. Thus before the Fall, according to Boehme, Adam did not sleep, and “the night was as the day, for he saw with pure eyes” (MM 18.13). After the Fall, night becomes the realm of sleep and concealment, where the eternal dark world remains hidden, although it is partially revealed in the image-based thinking of dreams. Likewise, waking language-based reason (Vernunft) can no longer perceive its source, although the light of Wisdom can be partially revealed in waking imagination. In the picture Boehme paints of this Fall, it is as if “I-

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ness” tries to hide from its own inner source—the dark world of the first three qualities. This hiding is symbolized in the biblical text by Adam and Eve hiding part of themselves—their

“nakedness”—including the “lust-desire” that they now identify with their sexual organs. In the text immediately following this episode the first couple also hide themselves “from the presence of God,” symbolizing reason hiding from its source in divine Wisdom. Thus for

Boehme, “I-ness” flees further from the inner world of the soul by losing itself in external things.29

In terms of the soul’s transformation, day four represents a healing and reconciliation of all three soul elements under the sign of the cross, which is also a marriage of sun and moon, bridegroom and bride—a marriage that will continue as a central motif in Boehme’s reading of the next two days. Indeed, the Lukan account of Jesus’ crucifixion notes that “the sun was eclipsed” at the same time as “the curtain of the temple was torn in two”—a solar eclipse being a conjunction or marriage of sun and moon (Luke 23:45).30 Importantly, for Boehme day four is actually the beginning of the process of transformation—the initial stage of the “releasement” of the prideful rationalism of “I-ness,” which initiates the journey into the inner world. As every therapist knows, distressed clients usually arrive with excellent reasons for why their life cannot be other than it is. And as Freud and Jung discovered very early on, exploring the symbolic data emerging from a client’s dreams can often provoke the strongest defenses from the rationalistic ego. But if the ego can release these defenses, dream life is usually strongly

29 The parable of the prodigal son offers a good illustration of this motif. 30 The other synoptic gospels also note that darkness came over the land beginning at noon (Mark 15:33; Matt 27:45). Renaissance painters often depicted the crucifix with sun and moon in the upper quadrants e.g. Raphael’s Mond Crucifixion, 1502-3.

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activated, as waking rationality begins to explore the strange image-based logic of the night world.

Here, in this initial stage, dreams tend to speak of all the personal dynamics that make relations with parents and lovers so universally fraught. These are the endless dreams of what

Jung called the “personal unconscious,” and many of them speak of what Jung called the

“shadow,” which is initially projected on other people, since we tend to see our own worst qualities in others first. The shadow is assimilated through a process of confession and greater self-awareness. Dreams at this stage are also full of wishful phantasies of escaping life’s conflicts, a fact that Freud noted in his theory of “wish fulfillment,” and that Boehme notes in the phantasies of the “twofold” soul. But as these dreams continue, they usually point to general patterns of relationship established in the initial bond with the parents, including

Freud’s Oedipal dynamics, which as Freud noted in his later work can take myriad forms of both love and hatred for either parent (1923b, SE19:33-34). This dream regression to the initial bond with father and mother tends to produce symbols of what Freud called parental “imagos,” and

Jung called parental “archetypes” (Boehme’s sun and moon). These unique character of these two archetypes in each individual soul exerts a profound and continued structural influence on all of the soul’s thought and perception. As one “leaves” the realm of father and mother in a psychological sense, dreams open into the realm of what Jung called the “collective unconscious,” where the archetype of the anima (in men) or animus (in women) emerges.31

There is a clear correspondence here between the inner world and the outer world. Freud

31 Jung defines the anima according to the relational bonds of eros and the animus according to rational connections of logos.

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emphasized the outer psychological situation, where, after one resolves the Oedipal dynamics of the family unit, libido is then freed for exogamous love interests, and other pursuits in the external world. Jung emphasized the inner psychological situation, where the movement beyond the parental archetypes leads to a new stage of inner development: the internal and transcendent beloved emerges who motivates the continuing journey as its telos. Dante’s

Beatrice is a good example of an anima figure of this kind.

Thus the initial “releasement” of the rationalistic “I-ness” leads into the inner dark world of the body and its instincts, on the cruciform path that we described in the first three days above. In this regression the archetypes of mother and father are recapitulated in other symbolic polarities including, respectively, night and day, unconscious and conscious, earth and heaven, and finally, regressing back to the first day of creation, water and Spirit, by which the soul is reborn. In this cruciform rebirth, dreams depict a new centre appearing outside the ego, a motif Jung referred to as the “self” or the “imago Dei” in the soul—often depicted as a cross with four quadrants (1951a, CW9ii:30-1). This new centre is the energetic midpoint of all the polarities noted above, around which the newborn ego begins to circle. As Boehme notes, this centre is born in the fourth quality, but it “shoots back” to transform all the previous dark qualities and their respective developmental stages:

Behold I will tell you a mystery. The time has come for the bridegroom to crown his bride.32 Guess, friend, where the crown lies? Towards midnight. For in the centre of the astringent quality [i.e. the first quality] the light grows clear and bright. Whence comes the bridegroom? From the middle [i.e. the fourth quality] where the heat gives birth to the light, shooting toward midnight into the astringent quality (Aurora 11.43/1764, 11.79-81).

32 This is an allusion to sexual intercourse. See Wolfson (2018, 43) for a comparison with Kabbalah.

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As the light “shoots back” from the fourth quality to the first, earlier developmental stages are recapitulated and transformed, as discussed above.

In summary then, in terms of the soul’s transformation, day four is like a central fulcrum marking the transition from the “two-fold” to the “three-fold” soul mentioned in Chapter 4. In

Boehme’s two-fold soul the inner dark world is hidden behind a greedy, grasping, rationalistic, outer “I-ness.” The picture here is very much like the Freudian unconscious secretly driving an ego that remains oblivious to its influence. The process of transformation to the three-fold soul begins by becoming aware of the inner dark world through its nocturnal productions. The “I- ness” begins to realize that its supposedly neutral language-based reason, with which it is fully identified, is in fact driven by the lust-desire of the dark world. As reason is dethroned and “I- ness” is surrendered, the realm of understanding (Verstand) and its image-based thought increasingly comes to the fore. In the biblical context it is notable that language itself can become fallen and fragmented. At the Tower of Babel language loses its universal referent precisely as it is attempts to ascend to heaven (Gen 11:1-9) in self-will. This linguistic Fall is redeemed at Pentecost, where angelic tongues are heard by all. And in Peter’s explanation of this phenomenon, he notes the coming of the Holy Spirit in the reactivation of image-based

(nocturnal) dreams and (diurnal) visions (Acts 2:1-17).

6.5 DAY FIVE: ELEMENTAL CREATURES, EXPANDING AWARENESS, AND THE HARMONIOUS SOUL The final three days of creation are easier to describe because there is no distinction here between the fallen and the reborn state of the soul, or between initial development and later transformation. The soul has already been reborn and recentred on day four, and the final three days describe the ongoing stages of transformation toward the spiritual ideal of the

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marriage of bridegroom and bride on day six, representing the union of consciousness and the unconscious, or of day and night, sun and moon—which ultimately represents the fully incarnate spiritual body (MM 15.28-31) of day seven. To summarize, the symbolism of day five describes the exuberant creation of living creatures in the air and water (Gen 1:20-23) , and to this Boehme adds the creation of land creatures (which in the Genesis account are created on day six), and fire spirits (which are not mentioned in the Genesis account). In dream symbolism such creatures generally represent inner concepts and affects that appear independently in the soul, but have not yet been assimilated to conscious awareness. Thus in terms of the soul’s ongoing transformation, day five symbolizes the growing perception of Wisdom through “love- desire,” which involves an expanding awareness of the many exotic creatures that populate the inner world: including the sky-world of thought, the oceans of feeling, the land-world of outer sensation, and the fire-world of spiritual intuition. This expanding awareness also establishes harmony and balance in the soul’s inner cosmos through the new centre established on day four, and the assimilation of these many creatures leads to the “full humanity”—the human microcosm—of day six.

We saw in Chapter 4 that Boehme’s fifth quality, associated with Venus (♀), is a gentle, joyful, playful “love-desire” (Liebe-Begierde) that allows the soul to perceive Wisdom. And we also saw that the sixth quality allows the soul to express Wisdom, which we will pick up in a moment. This follows from the fourth quality, where the dark fire was transformed into holy light through the cruciform centre, and within this transformation the “lust-desire” of anxious

“I-ness" was transmuted into the “love-desire” of free and surrendered “I-ness.” The fifth

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quality now reveals this “love-desire” in its fullness, as a vehicle that facilitates an expanded range of perception through a state of contemplative receptivity to divine grace.

When we bring this abstract fifth quality back into the concrete exegetical context of

Genesis 1, we see this joyful love-desire giving birth to a vast throng of living creatures. No other day conveys such a playful exuberance of fecundity. Boehme notes that the fifth day is

Thursday, ruled by Jupiter in the science of the day, whose jovial and playful aspects fit well here. On the fifth day God’s Verbum Fiat says, “Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the dome of the sky” (Gen 1.20). God then blesses these creatures and tells them to “be fruitful and multiply” (Gen 1.22). Interestingly,

Boehme’s exegesis of this passage alters and expands upon the biblical text: he takes the

“cattle and creeping things” created on day six and moves them to day five. While we cannot know his motives for doing so, given his thorough biblical knowledge it is doubtful that this was an oversight. My guess is that he wanted to reserve day six for the creation of the primordial human as a perfect microcosm, recapitulating the entire creation. He thus makes day five about the creation of “all creatures, except man” (MM 14.4). On day five he also ascribes the creation of animals to the four elements (and their respective astral influences), and thus he naturally includes the land animals within this schema:

…creatures were produced in all the four elements; in each astrum according to its property: as birds in the astrum of the air; fishes in the astrum of the water; cattle and four-footed bests out of the astrum of the earth… likewise spirits in the fire-astrum, which also is in the other elements (MM 14.2).

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The inclusion of “spirits in the fire-astrum” is another Boehmian midrash that is absent from the biblical text.33

These alterations, however, make Boehme’s intentions clearer. He is trying to highlight that the astrum of day four impresses itself on each of the four elements, and that each element then gives birth to a class of living creatures. This emphasizes the balanced harmony of the architecture of Wisdom in both the micro- and macrocosm. But more importantly, in the microcosm, each class of elemental creature symbolizes an aspect of the soul’s perception. We already saw above that for Boehme the earth symbolizes the realm of “I-ness” and its outward sense-based perception, the air represents the realm of more abstract thought and

“intellective” life, and water represents the realm of deep feeling. To this we add the fire world, which seems to indicate a kind of spiritual intuition that, as Boehme notes, also has access to the other three perceptual realms. Together these four realms symbolize the perception of

Wisdom in all its fullness.

As Boehme says:

The birds were created in… the air, therefore they fly in their mother; also the fishes in… the water; and the worms in… the earth. Thus each thing lives in its mother from which it was taken in the beginning… And the essence and life of this time is nothing else but the contemplation of the inward spiritual world; and the possibilities that eternity has within it, and what kind of spiritual play is in the ens of the inward spiritual world (MM 14.11-12, my emphasis).

33 Space does not permit a discussion of Boehme’s doctrine of scripture, but suffice to say that for Boehme the bible invites and demands an imaginative response, which is not to say that every imaginative response is equally valid. Thus Boehme’s alteration of the biblical text here is based partially on his own imaginative experience of Wisdom’s seven qualities.

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Thus for Boehme the microcosm of the soul contains this teeming throng of creatures, which can be perceived through a contemplative awareness that presupposes the releasement of “I- ness.”

Anyone who has observed their dreams for any length of time will notice the remarkable number of animals that populate the inner world. In general, these dream creatures represent thoughts, affects, sensations, and intuitions that emerge within the soul, but which remain unacknowledged or underappreciated because they are (at least partially) outside conscious awareness. That is, they appear as individual creatures because they have a degree of autonomy outside the will of “I-ness.” They can even have a degree of influence and control over “I-ness,” commensurate with their size and strength. And thus the biblical text notes, rather ominously, that “the great sea monsters” were also created on day five.34 Taken together, this inner world of living creatures as it appears in dreams represents unlived life within the soul—life that the ego’s narrow reality tunnel has neglected, and thus failed to assimilate into consciousness.

Jung later discovered these four elemental worlds of perception in his influential

Psychological Types: earth as outward “sensation,” air as “thinking,” water as “feeling,” and fire as “intuition.”35 This formulation was influenced by his observation of dream symbolism, as he noticed that clients tended to have one highly developed perceptual function that guided

34 Because of this, in the Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer, which as mentioned above influenced Jung’s formulation of his “Jonah-and-the-whale” complex, a midrash on the Jonah story is given within the description of the fifth day of creation (1916, 60-73). It might be that this “great fish,” which for Jung ultimately represents an unconscious memory of the intrauterine state, also includes the repressed trauma of birth itself. The concept of birth trauma and its symbolism was first discussed by Freud’s student Otto Rank (1929). 35 These four have now been popularized in the Myers-Briggs personality test, which tends to oversimplify Jung’s original ideas.

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consciousness, and another undeveloped perceptual function that remained in the unconscious, while the other two functions were usually partially developed. In dreams the underdeveloped function would come to the fore, and dream symbolism itself would encourage the ego to recover it. The goal then, for both Jung and Boehme, is a balanced harmony of all four perceptual functions, representing the fullness of Wisdom. The Gospel accounts of Jesus granting his disciples a miraculous catch of fish could be situated according to this dream motif

(Luke 5:1-11; John 21:1-14),36 along with the story of Elijah receiving bread from the ravens (1

Kings 17:6).

6.6 DAY SIX: THE MICROCOSM, OR HUMANITY IN FULL To summarize, the symbolism of day six describes the creation of a human being as the image of God (Gen 1:26-29). For Boehme this symbolism depicts the human being as a cosmos in miniature, who reflects and expresses all aspects of divine Wisdom, and who is thus capable of rejuvenating and healing the outer cosmos. We saw in Chapter 4 that Boehme’s sixth quality, corresponding to Jupiter (♃), is a voice, sound, speech, or “melodious song,” representing the expression of Wisdom in the soul and the cosmos. This follows the fifth quality, where “love- desire” allowed the perception of Wisdom, and the fifth day, where the soul opened itself in

“love-desire” to take in the many and varied creatures of the inner world. The natural result on day six is the joyous expression of this creative life that now flows through the soul. On day six

God’s Verbum Fiat says: “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness.” And

Boehme interprets this as follows: “out of the mixture of all essences, out of the property of all

36 Peter’s response to this catch, “Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man” (Luke 5:8), makes more sense if we see these fish as repressed affects.

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powers and constellations, the love-desire desired a form out of all essences for a living image”

(MM 15.6). The biblical text continues, granting this primordial human “dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the bids of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth” (Gen 1:26). In Boehme’s reading, this “dominion” is not the anxious controlling dominance of the fallen “I-ness,” but the gracious and ever-expanding openness of the surrendered and reborn soul.

As Boehme describes it, the key result of opening to the full panorama of cosmic being is the firing of the “strong ardent imagination” (MM 15.3). Boehme describes each of the four elements that give rise to each class of creature on day five as a “fountain of an astral property… from a particular heaven” (MM 15.2). And as the soul drinks from these astral fountains of eternal Wisdom, its imagination is inspired with the same abundant creativity. This imaginative impulse, by its very nature, seeks to join all of these energies into a single form. As

Boehme says,

because this love-desire flowed out of all the properties of nature and the heavens… in which all creatures lay from eternity in a mystery, and because it was poured into a spectrum of separation, into various distinct degrees, therefore now this love-desire longs to be an image of all degrees and properties: a living, reasoning (vernünftiges), and understanding (verständiges) image (MM 15.5).

The single form that the love-fueled imagination seeks is the image of God seen most fully in

Jesus Christ.37 For Boehme, the soul that is united with Christ can receive Wisdom and expanded perception through divine grace, which then allows it to express Wisdom in a healing way:

As God plays with the time of this outward world, so likewise the inward divine human should play with the outward world in the manifested wonders of God, and open the

37 C.f. Balthasar’s reflections on “seeing the form” in The Glory of the Lord.

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divine Wisdom in all creatures, each according to its property; so likewise in the earth, in stones and metals” (MM 16.10).

Boehme’s vision of full humanity is one of playful inspired creativity that elevates and heals the world around it. The human as a fully aware microcosm is a co-creative consciousness, who creates in the image of the Creator.

For Boehme, importantly, the image of God created on this sixth day is the androgynous

(though not hermaphroditic38) Adam, who symbolizes the ultimate union of the sexes, which in turn symbolizes the dark fire fully sublated into holy light in the eternal realm of Wisdom (on the horizontal plane), and eternal understanding (Verstand) married to temporal reason

(Vernunft) on the vertical plane. In his exegesis Boehme mentions that this “spiritual human” is created “out of all the three principles, that is, according to the inward divine world, both according to the fiery and light world, and the outward world” (MM 15.10). And this spiritual human is also clothed with a “spiritual body… the heavenly holy corporeality of the inward holy love-desire… and the outward love-desire of the earth, elements, and visible constellations of the third principle” (MM 15.11). In summary, as the soul in love-desire opens spiritually to the whole cosmos, both outside and within, the “fire and light” of the imagination “open the lustre and beauty of the colours, wonders, and virtues of the divine Wisdom” (MM 15.30).

6.7 DAY SEVEN: SABBATH, SHALOM, AND SILENCE We saw in Chapter 4 that Boehme’s seventh quality, corresponding to both Saturn (♄) and Luna (☽), is a spiritual body of light that houses the other six qualities. Likewise, Boehme calls the seventh day a “rest or mansion of the other six days works, wherein they work as a

38 The hermaphrodite is an alchemical and kabbalistic symbol that Boehme chose not to appropriate.

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spirit in the body” (MM 17.18). In the end is the beginning, for “the seventh day and the first belong mutually to one another as one… out of the seventh day the first day has taken its original and beginning (MM 16.16).39 The restfulness of this final day recapitulates the dark

Saturnian stasis that preceded the first creative act, although with a crucial difference: this final rest has wholeness and therefore blessing; “God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it” (Gen

2:3). This sabbath rest represents the beginning of Paradise, which is described in the garden of

Genesis 2, and for Boehme this garden itself symbolizes the spiritual body. Here it is worth remembering that in the Johannine account of Jesus resurrection, his resurrected spiritual body makes him unrecognizable to Mary Magdalene, who supposes him “to be the gardener” (John

20:15). Likewise this beginning is also the eschatological end, for the seventh day… “is the transparent glassy sea before the throne of the Ancient in the Revelation of St. John” (MM

16.27).

In terms of the soul’s journey of transformation, there is some evidence that here

Boehme goes beyond Jung, and beyond the realm of dreams and spontaneous imagination, into a final state of mystic silence. We saw above that Boehme’s original Nothing could be defined as an abyss of “eternal silence/stillness without essence” (Forty Questions 1.6/1764,

1.9; see Pektas 2006, 103). Here on day seven Boehme urges us to “dwell in this Sabbath,” a

“rest” he defines as a “divine kingdom of joy” (MM 16.24). The question is whether and to what extent this eschatological sabbath telos of the soul can be realized in the present moment. But if Boehme’s account of his own ecstatic experience is any indication, it can only be realized in the present moment.

39 This is a Kabbalistic motif. The first sephirot (Ein sof) is in the last sephirot (Malkhut).

Conclusion: The Rebirth of Dreams

Readers familiar with Freud and Jung will have already noted the striking resonances with Boehme in the discussion above. This concluding chapter is meant simply to summarize and underline those resonances, and also to foreground how the work of both Freud and Jung fits within the larger boundary provided by Boehme, demonstrating my claim that Boehme is the larger continent within which the smaller (sometimes warring) countries of Freudian and

Jungian theory can be mapped. While this topic deserves a fuller treatment, I can only provide the barest summary of the theories of Freud and Jung in relation to Boehme. We will explore the same three themes as with Augustine and Boehme: (1) their respective psychodynamic maps of the soul, (2) their respective theories of dreams, and (3) their respective hermeneutics of dream interpretation, which describe various stages of psycho-sexual (Freud) and psycho- spiritual (Jung) development. In Chapter 4 I described Boehme’s “two-fold” soul as roughly

Freudian, and his “threefold” soul as roughly Jungian. This generalization also includes their respective dream theories, since Boehme’s twofold soul gives rise to “phantasies” that have much in common with Freudian “wish-fulfillments,” while Boehme’s three-fold soul grants access to the revelatory lineaments of imagination (Einbildung/Imagination), characterized by understanding (Verstand) and Wisdom (Weisheit), which has much in common with Jung’s

“compensatory” theory of dreams. I also said in Chapter 4 that I would later qualify these generalizations, and the time has come to do so.

7.1 FREUD’S MAP OF THE SOUL: RAISING HELL The Freudian soul is roughly “twofold” in that the Freudian unconscious, which Freud called the Id in his later structural theory, corresponds to Boehme’s hidden inner dark soul-

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element, while Freud’s ego and its conscious world correspond to Boehme’s outer temporal soul-element. For Boehme, the inner dark soul-element literally participates in the realm of hell, complete with all the fiery demons that so fascinated and terrified the pre-modern imagination. As we saw in the introduction, Freud was well aware that his landmark

Traumdeutung was attempting to transport this fiery underworld into the precincts of modern science, and to “raise hell,” as the book’s famous epigraph notes.1 Freud was not exaggerating when he described the book to his friend Fliess as “an intellectual hell, layer upon layer of it, with everything fitfully gleaming and pulsating; and the outline of Lucifer-Amor coming into sight at the darkest centre” (July 10, 1900; in 1954, 323).2 In a very real sense Freud’s dreambook was meant to reveal the hidden demons in all of us. At times he even allied his theories with the pre-modern exorcists3 against the materialistic medical scientists of his day:

The demonological theory of those dark times has won in the end against all the somatic views of the period of “exact” science… In our eyes, the demons are bad and reprehensible wishes, derivatives of instinctual impulses that have been repudiated and repressed. We merely eliminate the projection of these mental entities into the external

1 The epigraph is from Virgil’s Aeneid, and roughly translates as “if I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.” Freud quotes it again in a key passage in the last chapter of the Traumdeutung: “In waking life the suppressed material in the mind is prevented from finding expression and is cut off from internal perception owing to the fact that the contradictions present in it are eliminated—one side being disposed of in favour of the other; but during the night, under the sway of an impetus towards the construction of compromises, this suppressed material finds methods and means of forcing its way into consciousness. Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind” (1900, SE5:608). 2 For more on Freud’s view of the devil, and its influence on his work, see Bakan (1958, 187-237) who draws out striking resonances between Freud and traditional Kabbalistic teaching. 3 Ellenberger notes that psychiatry in many ways emerged out of the practice of exorcism, and he stresses the fateful meeting between Gassner and Mesmer, when Mesmerism or hypnosis succeeded in “explaining,” according to the science of the day, the phenomenon of demon possession.

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world which the middle ages carried out; instead, we regard them as having arisen in the patient’s internal life, where they have their abode (1923a, SE19:72).4

In moving hell within the bounds of modern science, Freud was also moving it within the human soul—a move that Boehme had begun three centuries earlier. But the demonic forces are no less potent, regardless of their provenance.

In terms of Boehme’s distinction between inner eternal soul-elements, and the outer temporal soul-element, we see something very similar in Freud, although expressed in terms of

Kantian philosophy:

As a result of certain psycho-analytic discoveries, we are today in a position to embark on a discussion of the Kantian theorem that time and space are ‘necessary forms of thought.’ We have learnt that unconscious mental processes are in themselves ‘timeless.’ This means in the first place that they are not ordered temporally, that time does not change them in any way and that the idea of time cannot be applied to them. These are negative characteristics which can only be clearly understood if a comparison is made with conscious mental processes” (1920, SE18:28).

While Freud, given his scientific orientation, prefers the negation “timelessness” to the metaphysical connotation of “eternal,” the resonance with Boehme is clear.

Freud’s most striking theoretical similarities with Boehme are in the actual details of the

Id, which are virtually homologous with those of Boehme’s hidden eternal dark soul-element.

The fact that Freud came to his structural theory of the Id and its instincts rather late in his

4 Freud also notes the role of libido in creating this inner hell: “The desire for pleasure—the ‘libido’, as we call it—chooses its objects without inhibition, and by preference, indeed, the forbidden ones: not only other men’s wives, but above all incestuous objects, objects sanctified by the common agreement of mankind, a man’s mother and sister, a woman’s father and brother… Hatred, too, rages without restraint. Wishes for revenge and death directed against those who are nearest and dearest in waking life, against the dreamer’s parents, brothers and sisters, husband or wife, and his own children are nothing unusual. These censored wishes appear to rise up out of a positive Hell” (1915-1916, 143).

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career (1923b) also means that his similarities with Boehme increased with his clinical experience and theoretical sophistication, a fact that we will revisit below. We saw above that

Boehme’s dark soul-element is defined by a “Nothing-desire” for death and a countervailing

“lust-desire” for life. The tension between these two in turn creates a third element of angst that includes both anxiety and aggression. Freud’s Id is likewise defined both by a life-drive

(“Eros”)5 and a countervailing death-drive (called “Thanatos” by Freud’s followers), with the tension between them likewise creating angst, defined primarily as anxiety.6 The slight difference here is that for Freud aggression proceeds not from angst but from the death-drive being “turned outwards” (1933, SE22:107). The polarity between Eros and Thanatos was a significant modification of Freud’s earlier instinct theory, but even at this later stage of his career Freud is still using dreams as his primary data. He notes that his death-drive concept emerged from two specific kinds of dreams that could not be accounted for by the wish phantasies of a life-drive: repetitive anxiety dreams, and punishment dreams (1920, SE18:32).

Like Boehme, Freud also grants the death-drive a certain priority, noting that the life-drive emerges out of the inanimate silence or of inorganic matter, and eventually sinks back into it.7

5 In 1923 Freud also began calling his sexual instinct “Eros,” in the Platonic sense, thus protecting it against a narrow sexual interpretation, and (silently) bringing it into conformity with Jung’s earlier theory. 6 Freud is aware that his Eros-Thanatos polarity is not original: “You may perhaps shrug your shoulders and say: ‘That isn’t natural science, it’s Schopenhauer’s philosophy!’ But, Ladies and Gentlemen, why should not a bold thinker have guessed something that is afterwards confirmed by sober and painstaking detailed research? Moreover, there is nothing that has not been said already” (1933, SE22:107). Boehme’s influence on Schopenhauer is well known (e.g. Hanegraaff 2006, 186). 7 Freud sometimes called this silence the “Nirvana principle,” following Barbara Low (1920, SE18:56; 1924, SE19:159).

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We also saw above that Boehme’s “I-ness” emerges in tandem with the angst of the third quality of the dark world, and this angst prompts “I-ness” to attempt to control the outer time-space world for its own benefit and security. Similarly, as Freud’s later structural theory granted anxiety precedence over repression in the psychic economy (1923b, SE19:57; 1926,

SE20:140, 161), the ego became “the sole seat of anxiety,” and anxiety became the ego’s primary defence against the Id, and its impetus for separating itself from the Id in the first place

(while always maintaining a nebulous border with the Id) (1933, SE22:85ff.; see also Meissner

2000, 143-50). In the structural theory, anxiety in many ways defines the ego, in its attempt to protect itself both from the internal tension of life and death drives in the Id, and from other external threats, both real and imagined, known and unknown. Anxiety becomes the primary experience that mobilizes the ego’s “defense mechanisms,” and repression is demoted to just one among several such mechanisms. In short, in Freud’s later theory, anxiety defines the ego’s borders, and remains as its first line of defense. The similarities with Boehme are again obvious.

While the relations between the Freudian Id and ego correspond remarkably well to

Boehme’s twofold soul of the hidden inner dark soul-element and the outer temporal soul- element, a hint of Boehme’s eternal light world is also evident in Freud’s superego. The superego is the repository of cultural morality, which is basically inculcated by parents

(especially the father) and other authority figures, and through introjection becomes the inner voice of conscience and the standard of the “ideal self” or superego. Likewise, Boehme’s eternal light soul-element includes the “virtues” of his often repeated triumvirate of Wisdom’s

“powers, colours, and virtues.” To my knowledge Boehme never unpacks or enumerates these virtues, but he is clear that they are not cultural products. Freud’s superego is partly

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unconscious, in that he believed that we have limited conscious control over our moral ideals, our ideal self, and our sense of guilt when they are not achieved. (Jung differed on this point, seeing conscience as a basically innate trait.) But because the superego is partly unconscious for

Freud, it is partly “timeless” or “eternal” in the Kantian sense noted above. The main difference here might be that the virtues of Boehme’s eternal light soul-element are fueled by a “love- desire” sublated from “lust-desire,” whereas for Freud morality is mainly the product of cultural constraint on libidinal desires, a compromise between personal pleasure and social propriety, although Freud’s later emphasis on sublimation moves in very a Boehmian direction.

In summary, while both Boehme and Freud described the character of the soul’s inner demons in very similar terms, only Boehme believed that these demons could be truly redeemed, their “lust-desire” sublated into the “love-desire” of the eternal light world. Freud saw very little possibility for transforming the dark unconscious. It tends to remain fairly immovable in his formulation. And thus his soul remains, in Boehme’s language, primarily

“twofold.” Yet the process of sublimation, which assumed greater importance in Freud’s later structural theory as an explicit “desexualisation” of libido (1923b, SE19:30, 46, 54), and the crucial role of the superego and its conscience within this process, do point to capacity for modification and growth in the Freudian soul.8 But it is really in Jung that we get a fuller picture of Boehmian transformation.

8 This emphasis on sublimation and transformation has been taken further by some of Freud’s heirs, including (especially) the wonderful Hans Loewald (1978), who takes Freud’s later theories in a very Jungian direction.

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7.2 JUNG’S MAP OF THE SOUL: COLLISION OF OPPOSITES Jung’s map of the soul is roughly “threefold” in Boehme’s sense, in that the Jungian unconscious includes Boehme’s eternal dark and light soul-elements as a coincidentia oppositorum, a coincidence or collision of opposites. Freud’s later structural theory also moves into closer alignment with Jung’s map of the soul, a fact obscured by the idiosyncratic terminology used by these rival theorists (and their followers). In what follows I will note both how Jung’s theory overlaps with and extends Freud’s later structural theory, and how it fits within Boehme’s larger framework. Boehme’s outer temporal soul-element corresponds to the

Jungian ego as the “centre of the field of consciousness” (1959, CW9ii:3). But the Jungian ego is further differentiated into an outer “persona” and an inner “shadow.” The “persona” is the mask or role that the ego assumes in order to manage various social spheres in the outer world.

It includes the mask of “professionalism” worn in the sphere of work, and the mask of the good child, the good parent, or the good spouse in the family sphere. As such the persona is based largely on collective social norms, and to the extent that the ego identifies with these norms, its true individual thoughts, reactions, and inclinations fall into the unconscious. The persona is thus compensated in dreams by figures of its “other” or opposite: first the shadow, and then the anima in men, or animus in women.

For Jung, the shadow represents the personal unconscious, usually represented by a same-sex personality in dreams, while the anima or animus represents the collective or phylogenetic unconscious, usually represented as an opposite-sex personality. (Both Freud and

Jung posited the existence of a phylogenetic layer of the unconscious.) While these figures are unique to the dreams of each individual, generalizations are also possible. The shadow contains

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all the personal traits that are repressed to allow the ego to conform to the collective ideals of the persona. In Freudian terminology, the shadow corresponds to the nebulous region where the ego emerges from the Id, representing the unconscious instinctual desires and wishes of the ego itself. But for Jung the shadow is not simply negative, and here we begin to see how the

Jungian unconscious contains both dark and light aspects. While the shadow generally contains tendencies that are infantile, morally suspect, and uncivilized, it also contains positive traits, the most notable of which is latent creative potential or imagination.

The assimilation of the shadow into consciousness takes considerable and sustained moral effort corresponding to the spiritual practice of confession. Effort is necessary because the most obstinate aspects of the shadow always appear in projection, with the unshakable certainty that the fault or inferiority lies in some “other” in the outside world. Here the brilliance of Jesus’ New Testament aphorism becomes clear: we see the speck in our neighbour’s eye in order to avoid looking at the beam in our own (Matt 1:1-5; Luke 6:37-42).

And just as these words suggest, as the persona and shadow are gradually reconciled, perception expands and the eye becomes clear and single (Matt 6:22). The ego becomes more integrated and coherent in its thought and behaviour, and this ego integration leads to true integrity, which is not mere adherence to collective social mores or tables of the law, but rather is signaled by the appearance of an inner guiding sense, traditionally called conscience, which keeps the ego on track toward its unique telos and vocation. Here Jung sides with Boehme against Freud in seeing conscience as an inner innate factor in the soul, which goes beyond mere adherence to parental and social authorities.

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With the integration of the shadow the figure of the anima or animus begins to appear more frequently in dreams, representing the gateway and mediator of the collective or phylogenetic unconscious. Here the ego, in its newfound wholeness, confronts an “other” much more formidable than the shadow, whose appearance in dreams is likewise accompanied by a more formidable sense of numinous awe.9 We are moving here into the deep interior of the soul—into Boehme’s eternal dark and light worlds—which Jung, like Freud, defines in Kantian philosophical terms. Jung’s archetypes are “eternal” in the Kantian sense in that they originate in the noumenal realm, and form a bridge into the phenomenal time-space realm.10 Likewise these archetypes are “purely formal” in that their actual content is imprinted through experience, analogous to the way that Conrad Lorenz famously imprinted himself as “mother”

9 Jung invokes Rudolph Otto’s Idea of the Holy (1917) to define the numinous (e.g. 1934b, CW8:104). 10 Kant famously limited reason to the phenomenal realm in the epistemology of his first Critique (1787), in order both to secure a place for modern science, and to make room for the noumenal realm of “God, freedom, and immortality” in the ethics of the second Critique (1788) and the aesthetics of the third (1790). In the latter Critique of Judgment, we find Kant describing the artist’s ability to incarnate the noumenal, through the imagination, which has access to ineffable “aesthetic ideas” or “archetypes: “The aesthetic idea (archetype, prototype [Urbild]) is fundamental for both [sculpture and painting] grounded in the imagination; the shape, however, which constitutes its expression (ectype, afterimage [Nachbild]) is given either in its corporeal extension (as the object itself exists) or in accordance with the way in which the latter is depicted in the eye (in accordance with its appearance on a plane)” (1790, 199). Kant further notes how aesthetic ideas function in poetry: “The poet ventures to make sensible rational ideas of invisible beings, the kingdom of the blessed, the kingdom of hell, eternity, creation, etc., as well as to make that of which there are examples in experience, e.g., death, envy, and all sorts of vices, as well as love, fame, etc., sensible beyond the limits of experience, with a completeness that goes beyond anything of which there is an example in nature, by means of an imagination that emulates the precedent of reason in attaining to a maximum; and it is really the art of poetry in which the faculty of aesthetic ideas can reveal itself in its full measure” (1790, 192-3). The dreams and visions of Emanuel Swedenborg had a significant influence on the formulation of Kant’s whole critical edifice (see Magee 2003). And Kant’s concept of the “archetype” or “aesthetic idea” had a significant influence on Jung’s view of dream archetypes. On how Kant’s view influenced the Romantic idea of imagination generally, see Kearney (1988). From a theological perspective, all of this has intriguing implications for Karl Barth’s basically Kantian view of biblical revelation.

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to a group of young geese. The geese then situated and perceived Lorenz within the much more powerful context of the archetype and behaved accordingly.11 In men the anima is the archetype of Woman, and eventually the woman; in women the animus is the archetype of

Man, and eventually the man. These, in Freud’s terms, “object cathexes,” include the many and varied patterns of libido12 that these archetypes serve to channel and delineate.

The first imprints, instantiations (or ectypes) of these archetypes are the parents, meaning that the parents become the first bearers of these numinous projections, which account for the powerful Oedipal dynamics between parents and children described by Freud.

For Jung, in “normal” development, the libido that is initially directed within the family unit

(endogamous libido) eventually transitions to the outer world (exogamous libido), and thus the anima/animus projections eventually fall on outer love interests. Or rather the ego, again caught in the thrall of this anima/animus projection, falls in love. While lovers always feel that the fire of their initial attraction (and later conflict) is truly unique, it must be apparent to any objective observer that this feeling is itself an aspect of the eternal archetype, since the language and behaviour of erotic love—both its agony and ecstasy—are the same the world over, but nonetheless eternal in that sense. This universal and collective character is attributable to the influence of the archetypes.

11 Jung thus defines archetypes as “patterns of instinctive behaviour,” and as “images of the instincts,” attempting to eschew any metaphysical basis for them (1936b, CW9i:44). In contrast to Freud, Jung’s allegiance to Kant was apparent from the beginning, although he also loved many other thinkers who were influenced by Goethe, including Schelling and, in particular, Nietzsche. 12 Jung originally defined “libido” in terms of Platonic “Eros,” against Freud’s more narrow sexual definition, and Freud’s later structural theory comes into alignment with the Jungian view on this point (although without acknowledgment).

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Corresponding to Boehme’s inner eternal dark and light soul-elements, both anima and animus contain positive and negative valences, and they often embody both at the same time as a coincidentia oppositorum. In Boehme’s terms one could speak of these valences in terms of

Adam and Eve as primordial humans in their original and fallen aspects, according to the biblical account. For Jung, all of our earliest and most moving experiences of parental love, solace, and protection are included in the positive valences. The negative valences include fierce wrath and cunning parental control. Both valences are often crystalized in in the tropes of folklore, fairy tale, and sacred myth.13 Importantly, Jung calls the anima and animus “projection-making factors,” which means that their positive and negative valences also colour our perceptions of the outer world. All of the “facts” of our human experience are value-laden, and the value, meaning, and feeling-tone of our experience is largely determined by projections from the anima/animus archetypes.

The anima/animus archetypes pull us into life, and as Jung says, “not only into life’s reasonable and useful aspects, but into its frightful paradoxes and ambivalences where good and evil, success and ruin, hope and despair, counterbalance one another” (1951a, CW9ii:13).

The power of their projections is evident in the deep and enduring emotional conflicts that characterize relationships between parents and children and between marriage partners, which together account for a good deal of the subject matter brought before the psychotherapist. But these archetypal conflicts also colour our perceptions of the whole of reality, and help explain why, for example, some see Father God and Mother Church in terms of solace and security,

13 And yet for Jung this does not mean that these tropes in sacred myths are simply reducible to the anima and animus archetypes. Jung is, in this sense, less of a “reductionist” than Freud.

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while others see them in terms of pernicious control and abuse. For Jung it is precisely in the tension of such conflicts that the potential exists to withdraw the projections and open the inner world. Instead of perceiving our loved ones and indeed the whole of reality through an archetypal filter, we can return these archetypes to their rightful place in the inner world soul, where they tend to open the vast nocturnal realm of dreams and imagination, revealing the soul’s eternal dimensions and even its participation in the Divine.

Jung calls the deepest layer of the soul the “Self,” which appears in dreams in various symbols of “unity and totality” that “can no longer be distinguished from the imago Dei”

(1951a, CW9ii:31). The Self represents the wholeness (or shalom) of the psyche, and this wholeness is born from the original conflict and duality between the diurnal conscious world of the ego, and the nocturnal unconscious world opened by the anima or animus. One powerful symbol of the Self, which frequently appears at a momentous time (kairos) in dreams, is the birth of the “divine child,” who emerges as an unexpected third, a “tertium quid” or transcendent function from the polarity of the opposites, variously defined as consciousness vs. the unconscious, ego vs. anima/animus, day vs. night, fact vs. value, intellect vs. feeling, Logos vs. Eros. In Boehme’s language this is the point at which the dark and light eternal worlds move from a state of division to a state of sublimation and continuity, where light is born in the darkness, and Christ is born in the soul. When Jung notes that the tension of the polarity leads to the birth of the Self, he does so in language that echoes Boehme in certain respects: “The stirring up of conflict is a Luciferian virtue in the true sense of the word. Conflict engenders fire, the fire of affects and emotions, and like every other fire it has two aspects, that of combustion

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and that of creating light” (1964, CW9i:96).14 With the Self a new centre is born in the soul, an

“imago Dei” around which the ego now begins to revolve. This new Centre also identifies a circumference of wholeness and balance in the soul, consonant with the concept of the internal imago Dei stretching back to Augustine.

Jung further identifies a progression in the anima/animus figures that appear in dreams.

The anima progression includes “Eve” (the personal mother, both positive and negative),

“Helen of Troy” (the collective ideal sexual image), the “Virgin Mary” (representing the birth of the light world and the divine child, including spiritual impulses and the capacity for lasting relationships), and finally “Sophia” (the full spectrum of conscious awareness, including an harmonious relationship between consciousness and the unconscious) (1946, CW16:173-4).

The animus progression, about which Jung was more hesitant, often involves an “Adam” (the personal father, both positive and negative), a muscular athlete or brooding lost soul (the collective ideal sexual image), a “logos spermatikos” often represented in dreams as a professor or clergyman (representing spiritual impulses), and finally a figure representing the incarnation of spiritual meaning, who seems to be the partner for Boehme’s Sophia (1951a, CW9ii:16;

1928, CW7:209).

7.3 FREUD’S THEORY OF DREAMS: WORD AND IMAGE We saw above that, even in the sweeping theoretical revisions that gave rise to Freud’s later structural theory of the soul, dreams remained his primary data. From first to last, Freud’s dream theory was the bedrock for his theoretical constructions. Late in his career, when he

14 “The Self is made manifest in the opposites and in the conflict between them; it is a coincidentia oppositorum. Hence the way to the self begins with conflict” (1936a, CW12:186).

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published his New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis (1933), which were a supplement to his original and popular Introductory Lectures… (1916-17), he published within them a lecture on the “Revision of the Theory of Dreams,” wherein he could still say that his dream theory “has remained what is most characteristic” of his “young science.” It was the

“shibboleth” that sifted the true “followers of psycho-analysis,” and for Freud personally it was a “sheet-anchor” that stabilized his theoretical landscape: “Whenever I began to have doubts of the correctness of my wavering conclusions, the successful transformation of a senseless and muddled dream into a logical and intelligible mental process in the dreamer would renew my confidence of being on the right track.” The “revision” of his dream theory that this lecture promises thus “amounts to very little” (1933, SE22:7, 22).

Strictly speaking, Freud’s landmark Traumdeutung presents two dream theories, and the difference between them became a fault-line in the early Freudian movement, which had much to do with Freud’s expulsion of both Jung and Wilhelm Stekel from its ranks. Freud presents these two theories again, unchanged, in the 1933 “Revision.” The first theory describes the well-known distinction between latent dream-thoughts and manifest dream-images. Here language-based thoughts form the bedrock of meaning in the dream, and through the dreamwork of “displacement” and “condensation” these thoughts eventually manifest as images:

“The latent dream-thoughts are thus transformed into a collection of sensory images and visual scenes” (1933, SE22:20). This dream-work is the result of a “censor,” which Freud in his later structural theory identifies with the superego, whose task it is to obscure the dark forbidden wish at the heart of the dream and thus to preserve sleep. The task of the analyst is then to translate the dream-images back into their underlying thoughts and to uncover the hidden wish

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that the dream fulfills. This is accomplished via Freud’s famous method of “free association,” where the dreamer, in a relaxed reclining position, says whatever comes to mind in relation to each dream-image.

For Freud, the difference between latent thoughts and manifest images indicates that the dream is “a compromise-structure. It has a double function; on the one hand it is ego- syntonic [ego-supporting]… on the other hand it allows a repressed instinctual impulse to obtain the satisfaction that is possible in these circumstances, in the form of the hallucinated fulfilment of a wish” (1933, SE22:19). This again resonates with Boehme’s “phantasies” of the twofold soul, which represent a compromise between the hidden inner dark soul-element and the outer temporal soul-element. These phantasies reflect the attempts of “I-ness” to navigate the outer world, but fueling them are the hidden desires of the dark world, most notably a lust- desire that flees from the dark Nothing, and a desire for power and control that attempts mitigate the angst of the third quality. Boehme notes that these phantasies can be false and deceptive, reflecting the “false light” of demons, who “practice foolery with shows and tricks, and metamorphose themselves… elevating themselves… above the angelic hierarchies of God… to make ostentation in the pompous might of the fire” (Election of Grace 4.30/1781, 4.74). Here we see the familiar theme of demonic dream deception, where “even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light” (2 Cor 11:14). Freud’s theory contains a variation on this theme, since we saw above that for Freud “the demons are bad and reprehensible wishes,” which are transformed by the dream-work of the superego into a morally palatable, ego-syntonic form, sometimes even painting the ego with heroic virtue. Both Freud and Boehme believed that these dark wishes should be unveiled and made conscious, and much of Freud’s theory of interpretation is

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about just such an unveiling. For Boehme this unveiling follows the traditional path of confession, for it is only by revealing the truth of the dark world that we can begin the transformation into light.

The second theory of dreams in the Traumdeutung, was limited to a few pages in the first edition, and Freud calls it “strictly speaking, a second and auxiliary method of dream- interpretation” (1900, SE4:241). But by the fourth edition (1914) this “auxiliary method” had expanded into its own section on “Symbolism,” and the editor James Strachey notes that this section represents “by far the greater number of additions dealing with any single subject”

(1900, SE4:xii). According to this second theory, certain dream-images elicit no associations from the dreamer, and thus it is difficult to detect any latent dream-thoughts. Freud notes that this tends to occur in relation to the same images, and in his 1925 revision of the

Traumdeutung he notes that certain people, including his student Wilhelm Stekel, have an intuitive knack for interpreting these images as symbols “with a permanently fixed meaning.”

He further notes that those experiencing psychosis (which might be an allusion to the unmentioned Jung) often have a talent for “direct understanding” of the fixed meaning of this symbolism. Freud then offers several examples:

The Emperor and Empress (or King and Queen) as a rule really represent the dreamer’s parents; and a Prince or Princess represents the dreamer himself or herself… All elongated objects, such as sticks, tree-trunks and umbrellas… may stand for the male organ—as well as all long, sharp weapons, such as knives, daggers and pikes… Boxes, cases, chests, cupboards and ovens represent the uterus, and also hollow objects, ships, and vessels of all kinds. Rooms in dreams are usually women… if the various ways in and out of them are represented, this interpretation is scarcely open to doubt” (1900, SE5:353-4).

While in his examples Freud always treats these symbols univocally (x=y), he also notes that they “frequently have more than one or even several meanings” within the context of the

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dream. He also notes that these images can retain both their literal and symbolic meaning simultaneously. Importantly, he hypothesizes (along with Stekel and Jung) that such symbols arise from an earlier phylogenetic layer of the unconscious—from “prehistoric times” when language was image-based, hieroglyphic, or pictographic—and that this archaic level of the psyche is reactivated in both dreams and psychotic states. Let me emphasize, if these images precede the development of language as we know it, they cannot simply be translated back into latent, language-based “dream-thoughts,” as with the first theory of dreams. They are primarily images.

While Freud expanded the Traumdeutung significantly to incorporate this second theory, he remained uneasy about it, partly because, as he says, by following it “we shall feel tempted to draw up a new ‘dream-book’” in the genre of Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica, a genre of speculative divination popular since ancient times, which Freud’s “young science” had chiefly defined itself against (1900, SE5:351; 1933, SE22:7). Freud was also likely uneasy because this second theory runs counter to the whole trajectory of the first, in that it emphasizes the manifest content of the dream and has no need for the vagaries of dream distortion. It sees the dream-image as primary, rather than as a mere cover for underlying language-based dream- thoughts. Stekel continued and expanded this emphasis on the manifest image in his 1911 The

Language of Dreams,15 which was likely the main reason he was marginalized from the

Freudian movement. In his 1914 revision of the Traumdeutung, Freud refers to Stekel as someone who “has perhaps damaged psycho-analysis as much as he has benefited it,” through

15 Partially translated into English as Sex and Dreams (1922).

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“reckless interpretations,” and a “method which must be rejected as scientifically untrustworthy” (1900, SE5:350).16 Jung similarly emphasized both the manifest image and its archaic nature in his 1911-1912 Symbols of Transformation, which led to his split with Freud. In his 1914 revision of the Traumdeutung, Freud also notes that there are “numerous, and to a large extent still unsolved, problems attaching to the concept of a symbol” and that these problems have been mainly explored by “Bleuler and his Zürich pupils,” whose names he lists, with the notable omission of Jung (1900, SE5:351). Like Stekel, Jung followed the trajectory of

Freud’s second theory, where certain dream-images are more primary than the language used to interpret them, and where manifest images thus cannot simply be reduced to latent language-based dream-thoughts.17

In fact, Jung was already pursuing this line of thought before he knew of Freud’s work, as he attempted to understand the phantasy images of patients with schizophrenia and psychosis at the famous Burghölzli psychiatric hospital in Zürich.18 The differences between neurosis and psychosis likely have much to do with the differences between these two theories.

That is, dream-images that conceal dark desires are much more characteristic of neurosis,

16 Stekel disputes the characterization of his method as unscientific, and continues his emphasis on the manifest content of the dream in a later works (1943, 1-6). 17 For resonances on this point among three of Freud’s star pupils, who were all marginalized from his movement, see Rudnytsky (2006) “Rescuing Psychoanalysis from Freud: The Common Project of Stekel, Jung, and Ferenczi.” 18 In his later years, Jung noted that he was among the first to find meaning and therapeutic significance in psychotic fantasies, and he lamented that his “investigations of that time are almost forgotten today” (1963, 127). R.D. Laing was among the first to resurrect Jung’s research in this area, and he notes that “Jung broke the ground here but few have followed him” (1967, 116). For a history of psychotherapy demonstrating that much of Jung’s theoretical edifice was developed independently of Freud, see Shamdasani’s important Jung and the Making of Modern Psychology (2003).

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whereas dream-images and waking fantasies that reflect an earlier phylogenetic form of image- based cognition are much more characteristic of psychosis, a point we will revisit below. We have already seen that, for Boehme, the phantasies of the twofold soul are driven by the hidden desires of the dark world, which can produce demonic deceptions, whereas in the threefold soul the image-based Wisdom or understanding of Verstand is more primary than the language-based reason of Vernunft.19 Thus both of Freud’s theories can be situated within the

Boehmian framework.

7.4 JUNG’S THEORY OF DREAMS: OPENING THE INNER WORLD

After his famous split with Freud, rather than repudiating Freud’s theories, Jung attempted to incorporate them within a larger framework.20 And here he begins with the concept of causality: “it is advisable to bear in mind at least one of the classical distinctions, namely that between causa efficiens and causa finalis. In psychological matters, the question

‘Why does it happen?’ is not necessarily more productive of results than the other question ‘To what purpose does it happen?’” (1948b, CW8:281). Freud’s “causal” approach to dreams

19 Freud seems aware that his second theory of dreams was consonant with “the followers of Schelling”— a group from whom he tried to separate himself in the introduction of the Traumdeutung (1900, SE4:5). In discussing the second theory he credits G.H. von Schubert (1814), a follower of Schelling, with the insight that dream-images connect us to an archaic form of hieroglyphic, pictographic, or image-based thinking. Schubert (and Schelling) likely learned this from Boehme. 20 Jung’s broader framework was heavily influenced by what Ellenberger calls “the first dynamic psychotherapy (1775-1900),” where dreams are associated with the phenomena of hypnosis and “somnambulism,” in a fairly unified “paradigm of sleep” (James 1995, 5-9). Here the unconscious is often pictured as a collection of “subpersonalities,” which can behave autonomously, and exhibit various “automatic” phenomena (e.g. sleep-walking, automatic writing, mediumistic phenomena). The creative and mythopoetic functions of the unconscious are also emphasized in this earlier constellation of theories (Ellenberger 1970, 111). Jung’s medical thesis was on the various subpersonalities exhibited in mediumistic trance by his cousin Hélène Preiswerk. The final representatives of this tradition include Théodore Flournoy, Pierre Janet, and Frederic Myers. The eventual success of Freud’s theories, and his separation of dreams from hypnotic phenomena, marked the decline of this tradition.

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viewed them in terms of the dark instinctive wish that gave rise to them. To this Jung added a

“final” approach that viewed dreams in terms of “the immanent psychological striving for a goal,” or a “sense of purpose,” inherent in the dream narrative. For Jung, “all psychological phenomena have some such sense of purpose inherent in them” (1948a, CW8:241). He was also aware that the “final” point of view aligned him with ancient and medieval forms of thought, since the “causal point of view is obviously more sympathetic to the scientific spirit of our time with its strictly causalistic reasoning” (1948a, CW8:247).

One of Jung’s case examples might help illustrate the point. He describes a young man who dreamed the following: “I was standing in a strange garden and picked an apple from a tree. I looked about cautiously, to make sure that no one saw me.” The dream contains a pronounced feeling of guilt, which the dreamer associates with an experience on the previous day, where he

had met a young lady in the street—a casual acquaintance—and exchanged a few words with her. At that moment a gentleman passed whom he knew, whereupon he was suddenly seized with a curious feeling of embarrassment, as if he were doing something wrong. He associated the apple with the scene in the Garden of Eden, and also with the fact that he had never really understood why the eating of the forbidden fruit should have had such dire consequences for our first parents (1948a, CW8:242).

The young man also confessed to Jung that “he had recently begun a love-affair with a housemaid but had not yet carried it through to its natural conclusion. On the evening of the dream he had had a rendezvous with her” (1948a, CW8:242). Interestingly, and in contrast to the dream, the young man had no moral qualms about his affair with the servant girl, since “all his friends were acting in the same way” (1948a, CW8:244).

According to Freud’s “causal” view, the dream fulfills the wish to consummate the affair with the servant girl. And here the image of picking the apple is a concealment of the latent

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dream-thought of the act of sex. Jung does not disagree with this reading, but he notes that according to Freud’s causal understanding of symbols, the young man “could just as well have dreamt that he had to open a door with a key, that he was flying in an aeroplane, kissing his mother, etc. From this point of view all those things could have the same meaning” (1948a,

CW8:245). But according to Jung’s “final” view, dream symbols “have an intrinsic value of their own.”21 And in this case the dream serves the purpose of pricking the dreamer’s conscience: “it shows the young man the necessity of looking at his erotic conduct for once from the standpoint of morality.” It reveals that the dreamer, “hypnotized by his friends’ example, has somewhat thoughtlessly given way to his erotic desires, unmindful of the fact that man is a morally responsible being” (1948a, CW8:244). Thus according to this “final” view, “the dream has more the value of a parable: it does not conceal, it teaches.” (1948a, CW8:246). This is not to say that all dreams strike such a moralistic tone, since as Jung notes, “the dreams of those persons whose actions are morally unassailable bring material to light that might well be described as ‘immoral,’ in the ordinary meaning of the term” (1948a, CW8:245). That is, for those who see their actions as morally pure, dreams foreground the hidden dark motives behind them. And as Boehme noted, this is also meant to lead one toward confession, and a more honest self-image.

Jung concludes that dreams represent “a compensating function of the unconscious whereby those thoughts, inclinations, and tendencies which in conscious life are too little

21 “The causal point of view tends by its very nature towards uniformity of meaning, that is, towards a fixed significance of symbols. The final point of view, on the other hand… recognizes no fixed meaning of symbols. From this standpoint, all the dream-images are important in themselves, each one having a special significance of its own” (1948a, CW8:246).

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valued come spontaneously into action during the sleeping state, when the conscious process is to a large extent eliminated” (1948a, CW8:244). And thus if “we want to interpret a dream correctly, we need a thorough knowledge of the conscious situation at that moment, because the dream contains its unconscious complement, that is the material which the conscious situation has constellated in the unconscious” (1948a, CW8:248-9). He adds further that

“religious compensations play a great role in dreams. That this is increasingly so in our time is a natural consequence of the prevailing materialism of our outlook” (1948a, CW8:250). Jung was aware that this compensatory view of dreams was not new, and he notes the example of

Nebuchadnezzar’s dream in Daniel 16:19-16, where the dream attempts “to compensate the king’s megalomania, which, according to the story, developed into a real psychosis” (1948a,

CW8:251).

But in summarizing his theory, Jung ends on a note of restraint and humility:

In putting forward a compensation theory I do not wish to assert that this is the only possible theory of dreams or that it completely explains all the phenomena of dream- life. The dream is an extraordinarily complicated phenomenon, just as complicated and unfathomable as the phenomena of consciousness. It would be inappropriate to try to understand all conscious phenomena from the standpoint of the wish-fulfilment theory or the theory of instinct, and it is as little likely that dream-phenomena are susceptible of so simple an explanation” (1948a, CW8:254).

Jung did not want his compensation theory applied as a simple truism, which could detract from the unique and individual message of every dream. Rather, he hoped that careful attention to dreams would lead us into the inner world, where we might begin to sense its vast importance, as we see in the continuation of the above quotation:

Nor should we regard dream-phenomena as merely compensatory and secondary to the contents of consciousness, even though it is commonly supposed that conscious life is of far greater significance for the individual than the unconscious… In my view, which is based on many years of experience and on extensive research, the significance of the

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unconscious in the total performance of the psyche is probably just as great as that of consciousness” (1948a, CW8: 254).

Like Boehme, Jung’s primary goal was to open us to the inner world, which he saw as every bit as complex and important as the outer world.

In keeping with Freud’s second theory of dreams, Jung asserts that “dream-thinking should be regarded as a phylogenetically older mode of thought,” an idea that he notes was

“already put forward by Nietzsche” (1948a, CW8:247). As a result, dreams do not express themselves in a “logical, abstract way but always in the language of parable or simile,” in

“sensuous, concrete imagery,” which is “also a characteristic of primitive languages, whose flowery turns of phrase are very striking” (1948a, CW8:248). For Jung, the meaning of each symbol can be discerned from the dreamer’s associations, but in distinction to Freud’s “free association,” where one thought can lead to another in a sequence that leads away from the original image, Jung’s “amplification” stays with the original image, believing that its polyvalent meanings are all directly related to and embodied by the image itself. All of this is quite similar to Boehme’s understanding and use of symbolic images.

In summary, Freud’s “causal” view uncovers the hidden instinctive wishes that give rise to dreams, and these instinctive wishes accord very well with the desires of Boehme’s hidden dark world. To this unveiling of dark causal instincts Jung adds a “final” approach that looks at the purpose of dream images, as a compensation to the views of the conscious ego, with the ultimate aim of bringing the psyche into a state of balance and wholeness. As noted above, for

Jung some of the most important dream images are characters representing autonomous subpersonalities in the unconscious, including the myriad representations of the shadow and the anima/animus. As the ego comes into conversation with these split-off personalities, both their

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autonomous perspectives and the libido that animates them can gradually be assimilated to the ego with beneficial effects. Thus where the causa efficiens of dreams is based in darkness, the causa finalis points toward the light. As the ego follows this teleological trajectory, and progressively integrates various dream figures, the darkness of these figures is gradually sublated and transformed into light, and the psyche finds wholeness and completion in a centre—an imago Dei—beyond the ego.

7.5 FREUD’S DREAM HERMENEUTIC AND THE PSYCHO-SEXUAL STAGES OF DEVELOPMENT As with Boehme, while Freud and Jung do not offer a comprehensive hermeneutic for interpreting all dreams symbols, they both point to major symbols that help structure a developmental path. In Chapter 6 we saw that for Boehme the seven days of creation structure stages of psycho-spiritual development, and I noted very generally how both Freudian psychosexual development and Jungian individuation fit within the Boehmian framework. Here

I will simply summarize those findings while paying more attention to the details of Freudian and Jungian theory. Let me emphasize again that both Freud’s and Jung’s developmental theories emerged from the data of dreams. In Freud’s case, his theory of childhood psychosexual stages emerged primarily from observing the dreams of adult patients suffering from various neuroses. The dream symbols pointed to various fixations and distortions of libido, related to traumatic events in childhood, which were now causing problems in the adult patient’s psyche. It is important to note this retrospective approach: Freud’s view of the

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psychosexual stages emerged mainly from the dream symbolism of adult patients with neurotic symptoms.22

Freud’s psychosexual stages were formulated early in his thinking, and were already taking shape in the Traumdeuting.23 They are structured according to erogenous zones that form the primary loci of libidinal pleasure, and they are both overlapping and cumulative: the oral stage during breast feeding (from about 0-1 ½ years of age), the anal stage during toilet training (from about 1-3 years of age), and the phallic stage when genital arousal and masturbation increase along with the Oedipal constellation in the family unit (from about 3-6 years of age). With the onset of the latency stage (from about 6 years of age until puberty) the

Oedipal conflict is usually resolved partly by becoming unconscious (“infantile amnesia”), and partly by the onset of the superego’s strong internal regulation of instinctual impulses. Finally, beginning with the intensification of libido in puberty, the genital stage foregrounds the fixations and distortions of all the previous stages as the libido now seeks exogamous, extra- familial love interests. Freud’s retrospective approach means that he was largely observing the earlier stages through the lens of the genital stage. These stages are well known and have entered the popular consciousness; what is less known is that Freud placed greater emphasis

22 That is, according to Jung’s teleological view, this dream symbolism was keyed to the present adult psyche and was attempting to move it toward wholeness and healing. Jung felt that Freud, by locating the problem in the distant past of childhood, was unintentionally encouraging the present neurosis to continue. In discussing the dreams of children, Freud admits that they often show no dream-distortion: “the manifest and the latent dream coincide. Thus dream-distortion is not part of the essential nature of dreams” (1915-1916, SE15:128, emphasis Freud’s). Freud also notes that censorship and dream-distortion are much stronger in the dreams of neurotic patients (1900, SE5:374). And this fact goes a long way toward explaining the divergence between the dream theories of Freud and Jung. 23 They are partially sketched in Five Lectures on Psycho-Analysis (1910), and the Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis (1916-1917, SE16:326-328), with the phallic stage being added in “The Infantile Genital Organization” (1923c), and the first systematic portrayal appearing in “An Autobiographical Study” (1925).

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on the pre-Oedipal (or pre-phallic) stages of development in his later work, after he realized the importance of the “primary narcissism” of the undifferentiated infant-mother matrix. As above,

I will emphasize Freud’s later formulations.

The oral phase coincides with primary narcissism and the slow, incomplete differentiation of ego from object. The infant’s first object is the mother, and more specifically her breast (or its substitute, a bottle), which come to be perceived as objects when the baby’s cries do not produce them with sufficient speed or regularity. Ego differentiation thus initially takes place alongside the polarity of hunger and satiety. But the child’s hunger is for much more than milk. Freud believed that breast-feeding was actually an attempt to return to the intrauterine state: “There is much more continuity between intra-uterine life and earliest infancy than the impressive caesura of the act of birth would have us believe. What happens is that the child’s biological situation as a foetus is replaced for it by a psychical object-relation to its mother” (1926, SE20:138). And further, “there arises at birth an instinct to return to the intra-uterine life that has been abandoned – an instinct to sleep. Sleep is a return of this kind to the womb” (1940, SE23:166). Breast-feeding, which facilitates sleep, thus involves a hunger to return to the womb and its “oceanic feeling of eternity,” where there is no subject-object split and “the ego includes everything.” Mother and breast as primary objects thus come to represent this return to eternal bliss.

We saw above that all of this coincides quite nicely with Boehme’s exegesis of the first two days of creation. Day one coincides with the intrauterine state, where light is born in the midst of darkness. This light for Boehme is a life-force that stands at the root of the soul, akin to

Freudian libido, and after the Fall this light is partially extinguished. On day two the firmament

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separates the eternal waters above from the temporal waters below, corresponding to the act of birth. In its original goodness the soul could perceive eternity shining through the thin veil of time, but the fallen soul loses this ability. Thus the first quality of fallen Wisdom is a dark

Nothing, defined primarily by hunger, and its second quality is a “lust-desire” that emerges from the insatiable vacuum of the first, in an attempt to recover eternal vision. Boehme’s symbolic exegesis paints the picture of an infant whose “lust-desire,” itself a response to an insatiably hungry Nothing, seeks eternity, and specifically the nourishing eternal water that

Jesus speaks of in his conversation with the Samaritan woman: “those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14). For Boehme this is the water above the firmament that can pervade the waters of time, and symbolically it also represents the amniotic water from which the infant was born, and to which it seeks to return by drinking at the mother’s breast. Likewise for Freud the first object—which is breast, milk, mother, and intrauterine peace all wrapped together—becomes an object of both hunger and libidinal desire, a desire for a return to eternity and undifferentiated unity.

Freud’s anal stage coincides with the emergence of the ego’s desire for mastery, and it is popularly recognized as the “terrible twos” stage. The attempt for control and mastery of objects in the outer world coincides with the most important area of inner bodily mastery: the excretory functions. Freud notes that this inner/outer mastery is fueled by anger and hatred as a primary affect, and thus he often uses the term “sadistic-anal” to describe this phase:

“At the higher stage of the pregenital sadistic-anal organization, the striving for the object appears in the form of an urge for mastery, to which injury or annihilation of the object is a matter of indifference. Love in this form and at this preliminary stage is

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hardly to be distinguished from hate in its attitude towards the object” (1915, SE14:138- 139).

All of this aligns with Boehme’s third quality of angst and anger, where “I-ness” emerges. In the symbolism of day three this corresponds to the terra firma or “standpoint” of “I-ness” emerging from the inchoate waters below, and this generally accords with the emergence of Freud’s

“body ego.” For Freud the child at this stage shows great pride in the achievement of producing mud or earth at will, somewhat like God in the creation account (1916-17, SE16:315).

In Freud’s phallic stage the previous stages are integrated into genital sexuality. Here

Oedipal desires and rivalries are constellated within the family unit as sexual differentiation and gender identity form in relation to the parents. Language and more abstract thought also develop in this stage, as further tools of the ego’s attempt to control the outer world. In his early work Freud believed that here the ambivalent love-hate of the anal stage becomes differentiated into love for one parent and rivalry with the other, and that the parents thus take on great significance as an opposing polarity in the child’s affective world. Freud also had many elaborate theories about how the phallus functions as a central symbol that produces all of the above Oedipal dynamics. But again, it is important to keep in mind that he was largely extrapolating from the dream symbolism of adult patients, where in its root meaning the phallus is a symbol of power and libidinal energy. Importantly, in his later work Freud abandoned his initial “simple” formulation of the Oedipus complex, where a male child loves his mother and hates his father, and the reverse for a female. In The Ego and the Id he admits that

“the simple Oedipus complex is by no means its commonest form,” and he posits instead an ambivalence toward both parents, which he ascribes either to the child’s introjection of both parents, or to the child’s bisexual attraction for both parents (1923b, SE9:33). What is clear is

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that the parents, through libidinal bonds, become the primary determinants of the child’s sexually differentiated personality (a point on which Jung would agree), and that at the end of the phallic stage the parents are introjected and internalized to form the superego.

Freud highlighted the importance of the parents in the phallic stage by using the term

“imago,” which he notes was introduced by Jung. For Freud the parental “imagos” are internalized in the child’s psyche as a combination of both “innate (constitutional) factors” and

“infantile impressions,” which results in the formation of a “stereotype plate” or a “prototype.”

For Freud, this prototype becomes especially obvious in the transference, where the image of the therapist “will attach itself to one of the stereotype plates” in the patient (1912, SE12:99-

100). The innate aspect of these imagos is what Jung calls the parental “archetypes.” For Freud, the father is primarily an object of both fear and protection (1927, SE21:17), and this father imago often becomes dominant in the superego, its ethical norms, and the religious father God that stands behind them.24 In Freud’s later theory the mother imago, as noted above, contains the oceanic feeling (and also potentially the experience) of undifferentiated unity and eternity.

All of this aligns with Boehme’s exegesis of day four, where the sun and moon are created as the two great archetypes ruling the day and night respectively. For Boehme this is when language-based reason (Vernunft) develops in the child, and sun and moon as parental

“king” and “queen” rule this astral realm of the rational mind in both its dark and light aspects.

Boehme’s exegesis of Joseph’s dream also highlights the Freudian phallic nature of this stage, as the “seventeen year old” Joseph dreams that the sun, moon, and stars—his father, mother, and

24 In The Ego and the Id Freud clarifies that the superego arises from identification with the father in post- Oedipal (post-phallic) stages, and from identification with both parents in pre-Oedipal stages (1923b, SE19:31n1).

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siblings—will bow down to him, and the dream causes both his father’s “rebuke” and his brothers’ “jealousy” (Gen 37:2, 9-11). But for Boehme, the sun and moon are not just images of the parents. They are archetypes rooted in Wisdom that can thus mediate the eternal realm to the temporal, allowing eternal understanding (Verstand) to flow down and restructure temporal reason (Vernunft). They allow the reorientation of temporal logos according to biblical mythos. From this eternal realm, Boehme’s fourth quality of Wisdom can either divide darkness from light or, through the cross as a divine centre, it can sublate darkness into light, re-centring and reorienting the trinitarian soul. This happens as the “I-ness” in “releasement”

(Gelassenheit), surrenders both the rationalistic ego of day four and what Freud called the body ego of day three. In this releasement the “I-ness” finds rebirth (Wiedergeburt) and access to

Wisdom. And here we begin to see the motif of the marriage of sun and moon, which occupies the final three days in Boehme’s schema, and which we will revisit shortly in Jung.

Returning to Freud’s parental imagos, importantly, in discussing the “oceanic feeling” of the mother, Freud said that he could no longer discern this feeling in himself, and that he had no desire to reclaim it. In fact, it was precisely Jung’s attempt to explore this oceanic feeling of the mother imago that prompted the split in 1913. In Freud’s later theory, this feeling is a characteristic of “primary narcissism,” and thus of a pre-Oedipal (pre-phallic) consciousness where subject and object are imperfectly differentiated. Even Freud’s term “narcissism” gives a negative connotation to these states of consciousness, states that are also implicated in psychosis, with which Freud had little clinical experience. At the end of his discussion, Freud also suggests that these states are implicated in “the practices of Yoga,” “the wisdom of

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mysticism,” and “trances and ecstasies,” a list to which he might have added “prayer.” 25 But

Freud concludes his discussion by admonishing readers with the words of Schiller’s diver: “Es freue sich./ Wer da atmet im rosigten Licht” [“Let him rejoice who breathes here, in the roseate light!”]. In Schiller’s poem, these words are uttered after the diver, a young man, has completed an impossible quest by diving into an oceanic abyss to retrieve a golden cup. After his success, the king promises him his daughter and knighthood if he can retrieve the cup a second time, but this time the diver does not return. The implication is that those of us who have successfully escaped the pre-Oedipal stages of an undifferentiated ego should not seek to return to them, especially if these states are implicated in psychosis. The “roseate light” that

Freud was now breathing was the light of the scientific method he so valued, with its firm subject-object distinction.

By contrast, Jung’s clinical experience with psychosis at the Burghölzli prompted him to search for a path that might guide Schiller’s lost diver back to the surface. It also gave Jung an awareness of certain pre-Oedipal states that were not pathological or simply “narcissistic,” but rather were characterized by heightened imagination, creativity, and wholeness.26 These are precisely the themes he explored in Symbols of Transformation ([1911-12] 1952), which prompted the split with Freud. Here Jung charts a path that would have helped Schiller’s diver find both the treasure and his beloved—a path he calls the “Jonah-and-the-whale” complex,

25 Freud’s friend, the poet Romaine Rolland, whose letter to Freud sparked these reflections and coined the term “oceanic feeling,” later produced book-length treatments of Sri Ramakrishna and Swami Vivekananda. 26 See Jung’s Visions (1930-34), where he explores the waking visions of an intelligent and highly adapted woman, Christiana Morgan.

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and which Jesus, referring to his crucifixion, called “the sign of Jonah” (Matt 12:38-42; Mark

8:12).

7.6 JUNG’S DREAM HERMENEUTIC AND INDIVIDUATION

Jung’s developmental journey basically begins where Freud’s ends, in the genital stage of puberty, when the libido begins to seek extra-familial love interests. In Jung’s language, the anima or animus that was previously projected on the parents is now projected on an exogamous love interest. And if all goes according to plan, children leave the family unit and begin a new family of their own. But Jung noticed that in many cases, even in those who succeed in leaving home both physically and psychologically and who become successfully adapted to the outer world, certain obstacles from the inner world could still intrude. Especially in mid-life, and even in highly successful individuals, a sense of meaninglessness could slowly blacken the outer world they worked so hard to build. Often a regression sets in, and the parental imagos are once again activated in the inner world of dreams. The “mid-life crisis” is so common that it has entered popular consciousness. The Freudian view would tend to see these dream symbols as indicative of a problem in childhood involving the actual parents, but this does not explain why the symptoms of this problem took so long to set in. For Jung the parental imagos, when constellated in this later stage of life, point beyond the actual parents to the parental archetypes, which represent new aspects and potential vistas of conscious awareness.

The anima and animus, as noted above, lead the way into the inner eternal world for the purpose of spiritual rebirth. And as mentioned, this journey normally begins by confronting the shadow—a dream figure representing the negative side of the ego and the personal unconscious—in a process that overlaps with Freudian theory. Shadow work corresponds to

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Boehme’s unveiling of the dark world of the twofold soul. And after this the anima or animus opens the door to the collective unconscious.

In Symbols of Transformation ([1912-13] 1967), Jung’s central thesis is that the Oedipal longing for the mother is not necessarily pathological in later life, and thus a regression should not be resisted in all cases, especially when the ego is differentiated and well-adapted to the outer world. In such cases, dream symbols of Oedipal longing often move beyond the typical incest motifs noted by Freud, and begin to speak of a return to the maternal womb. But for

Jung it is not the personal mother who is represented here:

The “mother,” as the first incarnation of the anima archetype, personifies in fact the whole unconscious. Hence the regression leads back only apparently to the mother; in reality she is the gateway into the unconscious… For regression, if left undisturbed, does not stop short at the “mother” but goes back beyond her to the prenatal realm of the ‘Eternal Feminine,’ to the immemorial world of archetypal possibilities where, ‘thronged round with images of all creation,’ slumbers the ‘divine child,’ patiently awaiting his conscious realization. This son is the germ of wholeness, and he is characterized as such by his specific symbols ([1911-12] 1952, CW5:330).

In this case Freud’s Oedipus complex becomes a “Jonah-and-the-whale complex.”27 And the

“divine child” as the “germ of wholeness” is what Jung will later call the Self archetype. Jung finds the whole process encapsulated in Jesus’ nocturnal conversation about rebirth with

Nicodemus: The Rabbi asks if he can literally “enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” and Jesus responds with the two primordial symbols of the first day of creation,

27 Jung continues, giving the full meaning of the “Jonah-and-the-Whale” complex from Jewish sources: “When Jonah was swallowed by the whale, he was not simply imprisoned in the belly of the monster, but, as Paracelsus tells us, he saw ‘mighty mysteries’ there. This view probably derives from the Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer, which says: ‘Jonah entered its mouth just as a man enters the great synagogue, and he stood there. The two eyes of the fish were like windows of glass giving light to Jonah. R. Meir said: One pearl was suspended inside the belly of the fish and it gave illumination to Jonah, like the sun which shines with all its might at noon; and it showed to Jonah all that was in the sea and in the depths’” ([1911-12] 1952, CW5:330).

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which precede the birth of light: to be reborn is to be born “of water and Spirit.” The birth of the divine child in the soul is precisely what Boehme means by rebirth (Wiedergeburt), and for

Boehme the process likewise begins by exploring the realm of the “moon,” the “queen” of the dark world, and through confession sublating her dark fire into the light world of the “sun.” This process likewise involves a birth of archetypal imagination in the soul, as the image-based

Wisdom (Verstand) of dreams seeks a marriage with language-based reason (Vernunft). And all of this takes place according to the symbolism of day four.

For Jung the birth of this divine child is only the beginning of the “marriage of sun and moon,” a “coniunctio” that is the focus of some of his latest and most involved works (“The

Psychology of the Transference,” 1946; Mysterium Coniunctionis, 1955-56). In general, when the anima or animus begins to appear in dreams, a symbol of the Self also appears indicating the midpoint of the marriage between the conscious ego and the unconscious anima/animus.

And here Jung’s four functions become important: thinking, feeling, sensing, and intuition

(outlined in his first major work Psychological Types, 1921). The conscious ego is defined by one of these functions, and the shadow is usually defined by a subsidiary function that assists the ego. But because it is so difficult for opposing functions to coexist, one of the functions necessarily falls into the unconscious, where it defines the anima/animus. Thus we can easily think of personality stereotypes, like rationalists who exclude their emotional life, or intuitive creative geniuses who do not have enough empirical “sensing” skill to do their taxes.

The marriage of the conscious ego and the unconscious anima/animus is thus a sustained spiritual discipline of allowing previously excluded unconscious contents to emerge into conscious life, usually through dreams, and of valuing these excluded contents. The goal

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here is the development and eventual balance of all four functions, centred in the Self. We saw above that, for Boehme, day five represents the creation of four types of animal life, corresponding to the four elements, and these elements in turn correspond to Jung’s four functions. As a dream symbol, an animal represents an excluded thought or affect that is functioning autonomously and instinctively in the unconscious (as animals do). Once this

“animal” is allowed into consciousness, it slowly becomes humanized under the control of the ego, and the personality expands accordingly. The final goal of assimilating these “animals,” and balancing the four functions in consciousness, is the goal of Boehme’s day six: the microcosm or the human in full as an imago Dei, depicted biblically in the first Adam and in Christ as the second Adam.

The culmination of Boehme’s schema is the spiritual body of the seventh quality, which makes Wisdom complete and grants sabbath rest and blessing. Jung, who was always defending his scientific credentials and empirical method against the charge of “mysticism,” had no empirical evidence for such a spiritual body, and yet in his later work he hints at it in relation to various alchemical texts. He notes that the Self, as the imago Dei, “has its roots in the [physical] body,” and “coincides psychologically” with the “shining body” or “corpus astrale” of the alchemists (1942, CW13:125,152,167; 1948c, CW13:195). Jung does not identify this body as the culmination of his developmental process, but its correspondence with the Self archetype hints at this.

7.7 THE QUESTION OF DIRECT OR INDIRECT INFLUENCE How can we account for these strong continuities between Boehme, Freud, and Jung?

The simplest explanation would be some form of direct lineage of ideas. Did Freud and Jung

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read Boehme? In Freud’s case this seems doubtful, although not impossible. I noted above

(note 406) that in formulating his structural theory, Freud was aware of certain resonances with

Schopenhauer. His discussion of this fact in the 1925 “Autobiographical Study,” provides a glimpse of what he calls his “constitutional incapacity” for philosophy:

I should not like to create an impression that during this last period of my work I have turned my back upon patient observation and have abandoned myself entirely to speculation. I have on the contrary always remained in the closest touch with the analytic material and have never ceased working at detailed points of clinical or technical importance. Even when I have moved away from observation, I have carefully avoided any contact with philosophy proper. This avoidance has been greatly facilitated by constitutional incapacity. I was always open to the ideas of G.T. Fechner and have followed that thinker upon many important points. The large extent to which psychoanalysis coincides with the philosophy of Schopenhauer—not only did he assert the dominance of the emotions and the supreme importance of sexuality but he was even aware of the mechanism of repression—is not to be traced to my acquaintance with his teaching. I read Schopenhauer very late in my life. Nietzsche, another philosopher whose guesses and intuitions often agree in the most astonishing way with the laborious findings of psycho-analysis, was for a long time avoided by me on that very account; I was less concerned with the question of priority than with keeping my mind unembarrassed (1925, SE20:59-60).

If this statement is true, it seems unlikely that Freud read Boehme directly, although Boehme’s influence on Schopenhauer and Nietzsche was certainly “in the air” as Freud was formulating his theories.28

Jung did read Boehme directly, and a glance at the references to Boehme in Jung’s

Collected Works reveals a fairly extensive acquaintance with Boehme’s corpus. Jung is mainly interested in Boehme’s earlier works, and specifically for the influence of alchemy, which Jung saw as the great precursor to modern psychology. He believes that Boehme’s “starting point

28 In “A Difficulty in the Path of Psycho-Analysis” Freud was already mentioning Schopenhauer’s importance as a “forerunner” of psychoanalysis (1917, SE17:143-144).

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was philosophical alchemy” (1955-1956, CW14:341), and his references to Boehme mainly explore this alchemical influence.29 Nowhere in these references does Jung note that Boehme’s eternal dark and light realms resemble his or Freud’s view of the unconscious, or that Boehme’s seven stages of development anticipate Freud’s psychosexual stages, or his own stages of individuation. His observations are much more general. For example, he notes that in Boehme the virgin Sophia “has the character of an anima, for ‘she is given to be a companion to thee in thy soul,’ [Three Principles 17.81/1764, 17.78] and at the same time, as divine power and wisdom, she is in heaven and in paradise” [Three Principles 13.9] (1955-1956, CW14:404). But there is no doubt that Jung notes resonances between his own work and Boehme’s. He attributes these resonances to what we might call a common empirical “data set”: Boehme,

“like the alchemists, was working on an empirical basis which has since been rediscovered by modern psychology. There are products of active imagination, and also dreams, which reproduce the same patterns and arrangements with a spontaneity that cannot be influenced”

(1950a, CW9i:332). The extent to which Boehme’s work is empirically based can be debated,

29 It is worth noting that Jung generally saw alchemy as an anti-Christian, counter-cultural body of thought. Northrop Frye questions this view in an early article on Jung, “Forming Fours”: “Alchemy, at least in its fully developed Christian form, was based on the idea of a correspondence between Scripture and Nature… Its religious basis is Biblical commentary (not the “Church,” as Jung keeps saying)… the idea of alchemy was to repeat the original divine experiment of creation… The philosopher’s stone itself was the chemical or demiurgical analogy (or perhaps rather aspect) of Christ, the elixir being to nature what his blood is to man… The associations of alchemy were apocalyptic and visionary, but not necessarily heretical, as Jung tends to think: the notion of a redeeming principle of nature as an aspect of Christ is a quite possible inference from the conception of substance which underlies the doctrine of transubstantiation… The essential point to remember is that when alchemy loses its chemical connections, it becomes purely a species of typology or allegorical commentary on the Bible” (1954, 617- 19). Frye later fleshed out this alchemical aspect of the Bible, and its influence on literature, in Words with Power, Chapter 8: “Fourth Variation: The Furnace,” where Boehme figures prominently (1990, 272-313). In general Frye is following William Blake in this view of alchemy and the Bible.

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but I have tried to show above that his empirical experience was certainly interpreted within the hermeneutical frame of both the Bible and Lutheran theology.

And in Jung’s case, beyond the common empirical data set he shared with Boehme, there is also an intellectual lineage that directly influenced Jung’s own interpretation of the data. As noted in the introduction, this lineage has been traced by S.J. McGrath and others, from Schelling through the “Schelling school of Romantic psychiatry” (2012, 17), which includes

C.G. Carus. As Sonu Shamdasani notes,

Against the Freudocentric reading of his work, Jung stated that his own conceptions were ‘much more like Carus than Freud’ and that Kant, Schopenhaurer, Carus, and von Hartmann had provided him with the ‘tools of thought’ (Ximena de Angulo 1952, 207). While Nietzsche and Burckhardt had influenced him, they were indirect ‘side influences.’… In his dissertation, Progoff had claimed that Jung had derived his concept of the unconscious from Freud. Jung denied this, adding, ‘I had these thoughts long before I came to Freud. Unconscious is an epistemological term deriving from von Hartmann’ (208). In a similar vein, in his 1925 seminar, he recounted that his idea of the unconscious ‘first became enlightened through Schopenhauer and Hartmann’ (1925, 5)… Jung claimed that Freud was uninfluenced by this philosophical background” (Shamdasani 2003, 164-5).

In other places Jung traces the concept of the unconscious ultimately to “Leibniz, Kant, and

Schelling,” but strangely he never situates Boehme in this lineage, let alone as its originator, and he seems unaware of Boehme’s influence on Schelling.

In summary, granted that this historical genealogy of ideas from Boehme to Freud and

Jung exists, by itself it does not seem to account for the striking structural congruities we have seen above. That is, Freud and Jung seem to have much more in common with Boehme than with the thinkers Boehme influenced, like Schelling, Schopenhauer, Fechner, Nietzsche, Carus, and others. And thus the fact that Boehmian psychology re-emerged so forcefully in Freud and

Jung is not entirely explained by historical genealogy. A more viable hypothesis is that Freud

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and Jung were unknowingly rediscovering significant aspects of Boehme’s psychology, via both a similar empirical data set and a similar hermeneutic frame for interpreting the data. Freud did not admit that the hermeneutical frame for his theories was influenced by the philosophy of his day (or indeed that he had a “hermeneutical frame” at all), but that can easily be disputed. Jung was generally aware of his indebtedness to romantic philosophy and medicine. But neither psychologist was aware that the philosophical context influencing their theories was ultimately indebted to theology.

7.8 IMPLICATIONS While this deserves a more detailed treatment, let me briefly mention some general implications of my thesis for (1) the field of spiritual/pastoral counselling, (2) the general field of psychotherapy, and (3) the broader scholarly discussion of the roots of modernity. First, the field of spiritual/pastoral counselling has always struggled to find a principled way of integrating theology and modern psychotherapy. Two fairly recent works, which have influenced significant sectors of the field, can be taken as emblematic of the general discussion: Don Browning and

Terry Cooper, in Religious Thought and the Modern Psychologies (2004), note how the various schools of psychology and psychotherapy make use of ethical and metaphysical presuppositions, derived from religion, which strictly speaking fall outside the purview of a scientific discipline. They make the case that some of the “deep metaphors” and “principles of obligation” in psychotherapy are implicitly religious or metaphysical, and can thus be critiqued in terms of the “ethical and metaphysical resources of the Jewish and Christian religious traditions” (2004, xii). Taking a more explicitly theological approach, Deborah van Deusen

Hunsinger in Theology and Pastoral Counseling: A New Interdisciplinary Approach (2005), uses

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Karl Barth’s Chalcedonian Christology as a pattern to structure interdisciplinary discussion. She first foregrounds the fundamental distinction between theological and psychotherapeutic concepts, before describing how pastoral counsellors might use both fields “bilingually,” granting each its own integrity, while also granting theology an asymmetrical priority over psychology.

While I agree with Browning and Cooper that various modern psychotherapies contain vestigial theological concepts, we saw above that these vestiges go far beyond general ethical or metaphysical metaphors or principles. Theology informs the most basic theoretical structures of psychodynamic theory. And rather than drawing a clear line of demarcation between what is theological and what is scientific in psychotherapy, we saw a rather large “grey area” of overlap, where psychological concepts derived from a theological frame were later validated empirically within a scientific frame. (We will revisit this “grey area” in a moment, with more specificity.) Thus in my view spiritual/pastoral counsellors can claim a much larger area of psychodynamic theory as falling under the purview of theology, far beyond the general ethical principles noted by Browning and Cooper. This means that basic psychodynamic concepts—concepts that are often viewed as empirical and scientific—should be allowed entrance into discussions of theological anthropology, in keeping with their historical pedigree.

Van Deusen Hunsinger’s book posits a more complex relationship between theology and psychology, which is very interesting in the present context. According to Chalcedonian

Christology, Christ exists in two natures, fully God and fully human (totus/totus). And the relationship between these two natures, for Barth and Hunsinger, defines the ideal relationship between theology and other academic disciplines. The two natures are related in “indissoluble

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differentiation” (meaning that the two disciplines are independent and should not be confused), “inseparable unity” (meaning that the two disciplines should not be separated or divided), and “asymmetry” (with theology having logical priority over the other discipline). This pattern itself can only be accepted in faith, but if accepted it avoids several pitfalls that have characterized attempts to relate theology and psychology in the past.

Hunsinger offers three examples of these pitfalls. First, some theologians have claimed that theology has little need of psychology, since theology itself is capable of addressing all of the most pressing issues that fall within the purview of psychology. Hunsinger critiques Eduard

Thurneysen, one of Barth’s colleagues, for precisely this approach: “He leaves virtually no room for psychology to contribute its own unique resources toward the healing of the individual”

(1995, 80). According to the Chalcedonian pattern, Thurneysen emphasizes the “indissoluble differentiation” between the two disciplines, but he neglects their “inseparable unity.” And his attempt to prioritize theology “asymmetrically” has the effect of denigrating and limiting the proper sphere of psychology.

A second pitfall is a reductionism that frames all theological concepts within psychological categories. Theology is translated into psychology without remainder. Hunsinger critiques one of Jung’s disciples, Edward Edinger, for this tendency (while also noting that Jung himself was less reductionistic). Edinger sees it as a mark of Jung’s genius that so much of traditional Christian theology can be translated into the categories of Jungian individuation.30

But of course, from the perspective of this dissertation, this feat is not as impressive as it

30 Edinger: “In fact when the Christian myth is examined carefully in the light of analytical psychology, the conclusion is inescapable that the underlying meaning of Christianity is the quest for individuation” (Ego and Archetype 1972, 131, quoted in Hunsinger 1995, 80).

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seems. The reason Jungian thought can so easily incorporate theological concepts is because it is so heavily indebted to them. Indeed what is more impressive is that this fact has gone unnoticed for so long, even by someone of the calibre of Edinger. For Hunsinger, “Edinger systematically collapses all meaningful distinctions between properly theological concepts and the language of depth psychology, interpreting the former by means of the latter” (1995, 83).

According to the Chalcedonian pattern, Edinger emphasizes the “inseparable unity” between theology and psychology, but neglects their “indissoluble differentiation.”

The third criterion of the Chalcedonian pattern, “asymmetry,” includes the prior two criteria but adds another element of complexity. As Hunsinger explains, “According to Barth, psychological concepts could not possibly exist on the same level as theological concepts because psychology by definition pertains only to a creaturely level of reality” (1995, 93). Here she critiques Paul Tillich “who typically posits a fundamental conjunction between God and the world at the point where Barth sees a fundamental disjunction” (1995, 91). Hunsinger defines this “asymmetry” in terms of both “logical precedence” and “conceptual independence,”31 and she concludes with a definition that includes all three criteria: “from a Barthian standpoint… although psychological categories are both logically independent of and dependent on theological categories in different ways, theological categories are by definition both logically prior to and independent of psychological categories with respect to their significance” (1995,

69).

31 “A conceptual account of X is an account of what we mean, understand, and intend ourselves to be talking about, when we talk or think about X. If X is not correctly thus accounted for in terms of Y, then X is conceptually independent of Y; if Y is accounted for in terms of X, where X is not in turn accounted for in terms of Y, then X is both conceptually prior to and independent of Y” (1995, 68).

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From the perspective of this dissertation, the two theologians we explored seem to conform to Barth’s definition of the Chalcedonian pattern. Both Augustine and Boehme define a realm of human psychology that is both independent of and dependent on theology in different ways. In Boehme’s case, the independence of his realm of psychology is attested by the fact that many aspects of it were later rediscovered and validated within an empirical frame by Freud and Jung, without any recourse to theology. And yet Boehme’s psychology is also clearly dependent on theological categories in that it is derived from them through analogy, as we saw above. Similarly, for both Augustine and Boehme, theological categories are both logically prior to and independent of psychological categories. In Boehme’s case, we saw above that it was not necessary for God to create humanity or the universe, and after creation God continues to exist on Boehme’s first and second ontological levels independently from humanity, in a way that is not necessarily conditioned by humanity (see figure 2). Similar to

Barth’s formulation, the God of both Augustine and Boehme exists in radical freedom, and in that freedom God chooses to involve Godself with humanity, in the continuing drama of covenant and redemption revealed most fully in Christ. For both Augustine and Boehme, theology is not conditioned by psychology, but psychology is conditioned by theology; theology cannot be accounted for in terms of psychology, but psychology can be accounted for in terms of theology.

While it would seem that Boehme and Augustine generally conform to Hunsinger’s

Barthian framework, this does not obviate the significant theological differences that distance them from Barth. One of the most salient differences is that Barth himself rarely mentions

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psychology, and when he does it is rarely in a positive light.32 While according to Barth’s framework one should be able to account for psychology in terms of theology, Barth to my knowledge does not attempt to offer such an accounting in any depth.33 Boehme and Augustine do. And both discuss the relationship between psychology and theology in terms of the relationship between temporal knowledge (scientia, Vernunft) and eternal Wisdom (sapientia,

Verstand). For both thinkers, temporal knowledge, even when it is logically and empirically valid, can be at odds with eternal Wisdom. But knowledge can also be caught up, transformed, and ultimately reconciled with the grace of Wisdom. And for both thinkers, dream experiences can play a significant role in their ultimate marriage. Barth, in his polemic with Schleiermacher and liberal theology, is hesitant to say much about the human experience of Wisdom, and yet his fertile biblical imagination leaves the door open for his followers to pursue this topic in more depth. And the fact that Boehme’s approach seems to conform to Barth’s Chalcedonian pattern could make him a helpful conversation partner.

Second, in regard to the implications of my thesis for the general field of psychotherapy, psychodynamic theory continues to be a dominant modality for psychiatrists, clinical

32 Hunsinger notes that Barth “seldom engaged in extensive conversation with the psychologists of his day. Unlike some of his theological contemporaries, notably Paul Tillich, Barth seemed to have scant interest in depth psychology” (1995, 10). She further notes the relative neglect of Barth in the field of pastoral care and counselling and wonders about its causes: “Was it the unfortunate anti-psychological tone that has crept into the writings of some of his followers? Were Barth’s own polemics somehow responsible for alienating those with interests in depth psychology and other human sciences?” (1995, 11) 33 Barth significantly altered Calvin’s doctrine of sanctification. For Calvin justification is God’s “once for all” forgiveness of humanity, and sanctification is the individual’s gradual (“more and more”) appropriation of this gift. Barth locates both in the person and work of Jesus Christ, meaning that sanctification is also a “once for all” gift, and its empirical instantiations in the individual may be more difficult to discern, more punctiliar, or even more ephemeral.

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psychologists, and other general therapists.34 And within all of these areas of practice, the potential therapeutic benefits of religious belief and practice are also being increasingly recognized and validated by research (see e.g. Koenig 2005), while certain therapeutic methods derived from various religious traditions (e.g. mindfulness meditation) are also being recognized and validated by research. Further, psychodynamic theory has now been exported globally, where it is entering into conversation with the world’s major religious traditions. In

1968 Alan Watts wrote,

If we look deeply into such ways of life as Buddhism, Taoism, Vedanta and Yoga, we do not find either philosophy or religion as these are understood in the West. We find something more nearly resembling psychotherapy. This may seem surprising, for we think of the latter as a form of science, somewhat practical and materialistic in attitude, and the former as extremely esoteric religions concerned with areas of the spirit almost entirely out of this world (1968, 1).

Watts’ view has been validated with increasing sophistication in more recent scholarship, some of which specifically explores resonances between eastern religions and psychodynamic psychotherapy (e.g. Kakar 2003; Vaidyanathan and Kripal 2002). Thus, while many western psychotherapists continue to see their work as empirical and “evidence-based,” many are also becoming aware that what they do is mirrored in religious traditions around the globe, traditions that are contributing not only to the mental health of their clients, but also contributing valuable therapeutic techniques to their own field. The time is ripe for a deeper awareness of the spiritual and religious roots of western psychotherapy itself.

34 In psychiatry, the American Accreditation Council for Graduate Medical Education requirements for psychiatric residents emphasize “competency in cognitive-behavioral therapy, psychodynamic therapy, and supportive treatments” (Feinstein, Heiman, and Yager 2015, 180). In psychology, in a recent survey 18% of clinical psychologists labelled their approach “psychodynamic,” 15% “behavioural,” 31% “cognitive,” and 22% “eclectic” (Prochaska and Norcross 2013).

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Finally, in regard to implications for broader scholarly discussions, in recent decades a number of scholars have been paying attention to the religious roots of modern thought.

Alisdair MacIntyre argues that modern ethical discourse has become lost in intractable debates largely because it has lost its moorings in the medieval virtue tradition. John Milbank argues that modern social theory, including its various attempts to understand politics, economics, and religion, is itself heavily indebted to western theology: “all the most important governing assumptions of such theory are bound up with the modification or the rejection of orthodox

Christian positions” (2000, 1). The views of both MacIntyre and Milbank have been widely disseminated in a more popular form by Stanley Hauerwas and his many students. And outside the field of theology, the prolific leftist intellectual Slavoj Zizek, though himself an atheist, argues that we cannot understand the predicament of the modern world without understanding its religious core. Michael Allen Gillespie’s The Theological Origins of Modernity

(2008) likewise provides a vivid assessment of the many historical, theological, and philosophical currents at play in this debate. Thus while the religious roots of modernity are being carefully explored, psychodynamic theory, which is a significant strand of modern thought, remains understudied. Hopefully this dissertation will offer a foothold for future work in this area.

7.9 CONCLUSION Returning to the opening epigraph from the biblical account of Joseph and his brothers, we can begin to see the outlines of a recurring historical pattern in the words: “here comes this dreamer, let us kill him…” Dreams have suffered several deaths (or concealments) in the history of the west. The first was a slow and gradual death, beginning after the time of Augustine, as

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the fear of demonic deception slowly poisoned the well against all attempts at dream interpretation. And it was not only dreams that died, but the whole realm of visio spiritualis— the mesocosm connecting mind and body, God and nature, heaven and earth—as mystical theologians of various stripes began limiting true experiences of God to the imageless ecstasy of visio intellectualis. But we also see evidence that the imaginal realm pushed back against these strictures, so to speak, in the deluge of dreams that began to pour forth in “the new mysticism” of the 13th century: “the flood of visionary narratives, especially by and about women… signal a new form of mystical consciousness… more direct, more excessive, more bodily in nature than older forms” (McGinn 1998, 25). Sophia would not be silenced.

While the Reformation signalled a return of sacred significance to the everyday corporeal life of the laity, here again dreams and their excesses were soon marginalized as enthusiastic Schwärmerei. And along with this marginalization of the imaginal came a very corporeal and bodily violence in the bloody wars of religion, where the impasses of rationalistic theology soon became a pretext for political power games and bloodshed. It was in the midst of this violence that Boehme’s imaginal rebirth appeared, with the firm conviction that a key to this symbolic realm, a lexicon that could decipher its significance, might somehow stem the tide of blood, and reveal reason’s indebtedness to something higher. Boehme’s key was coded to

Luther’s Bible, and it attempted to quell the Babel of confused tongues the had erupted after the printing press brought the Word to the laity in the vernacular. Boehme’s project mirrored

Pentecost, where angelic tongues comprehensible to all were connected to the outpouring of the Spirit in inspired dreams and visions.

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But Boehme’s remarkable psycho-mythical approach to theology was itself quickly swept into the polemical fray and branded as simply one more heresy. It took time for his work to bear fruit. Where Boehme’s imaginal rebirth did take hold, for example, in several of the more radical strands of the English Revolution, its social utility was rather difficult to evaluate, although there is no question that it empowered the common folk in their quest for the

“commons” and the common good. But in general, although historians would debate this narrative, the solution to the unrest prompted by the Reformation and the wars of religion was only finally discovered in the Enlightenment, which echoed Luther’s original call to limit the imaginal excesses of the Schwärmer. Once again dreams were disciplined and driven underground.

As the second wave of Boehme’s influence took hold among romantic philosophers and poets in the 19th century, dreams were once again resurrected in a valiant attempt to reconcile mythos and logos, science and spirit. And this second wave lasted until about 1850, when scientific positivism rose to ascendency in academic circles, while many aspects of romantic spirituality descended into crass spiritualism and occultism in popular culture. Reason had once again been divided from the imaginal realm, and once again the authority of reason was wielded by the elite classes and used to subdue the dreams and visions of the masses. But here is where things get interesting, as Freud’s dreambook made its appearance in the heart of the positivistic milieu, attempting to bring dreams within the scientific purview. The success of

Freud’s Traumdeutung, and the fact that dreams could once again be valued by science, was rather like Joseph ascending to power in Egypt—the great dreamer was now recognized in a foreign land after being rejected by his own people. In other words, if Freud and Jung were as

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indebted to Boehme as I have argued above, then it would seem that Boehme’s resurrection of dreams, though largely rejected by theologians, was later vindicated by the scientific psychologists of Freud and Jung’s day. And this has very intriguing implications both for their time and ours. At the end of the biblical account, Joseph famously reconciles with his brothers, saying “even though you intended to do evil to me, God intended it for good.” And the good that God intended was the preservation of two nations. In my figural reading of this story, the two “nations” that have been preserved are science and religion. Historically dreams have played a seminal role in helping each of these warring countries both to define their own borders, and to understand the realm of the other. If my thesis is correct, and if dreams did help blaze the trail from Boehme’s theology to Freud and Jung’s psychology, then dreams might one day help us reconcile the fraught relationship between science and religion, which continues to define our age, as we continue to seek the marriage of knowledge and Wisdom.

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