
What can a naturalist celebrate in August?
Check out this month’s Naturalistic Traditions at Patheos.com.
Jungian-based Paganism begins with the proposition that the human psyche is not unitary. We are not one; we are many striving to become one. As James Hillman writes, “every sophisticated theory of personality has to admit that whatever I claim to be ‘me’ has at least a portion of its roots beyond my agency and my awareness.” Our conscious mind is only the tip of an iceberg which is largely unconscious. The unconscious includes the primal parts of ourselves as well as parts of ourselves that have been repressed. The goal of Jungian-based Neopaganism is wholeness, the integration of the unconscious and the conscious.
A Jungian-based Paganism uses ritual to facilitate this integration. In Jungian Pagan ritual, the contents of the unconscious (archetypes) are represented symbolically: as persons sometimes, but also as things, places, and events. The archetypes sometimes become the “gods” of Jungian Pagan ritual. As David Waldron explains, psychic development
“cannot be achieved through will or intention alone. People require symbols and rituals to express realities beyond the scope of conscious thought in order to achieve wholeness. The collective unconscious, the wellspring of intentional and unintentional thought is, by definition, unknowable and cannot be grasped within the confines of conscious rational intent. The mediation of symbols is required to give a person’s psychological development meaning beyond that of the purely rational. From this perspective, when a Jungian-oriented neo-Pagan utilizes ritual, it is a metaphor to describe psychic realities in relation to certain archetypes, within the collective unconscious […]”
However, the conscious nature of ritual creation raises an interesting dilemma. When the purpose of ritual is to listen to the unconscious, what role does the conscious mind play? Jungian Pagans seek to consciously and intentionally construct rituals for the purpose of integration of the psyche. But, according to Jungian theorists, psychic development cannot be achieved through conscious intention alone.
The reason is because the conscious mind is always trying to transform the contents of our unconscious into something more psychologically palatable, and in the process defeating the purpose of ritual. Jung wrote that, “Filling the conscious mind with ideal conceptions is a characteristic feature of Western theosophy […]. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” We run the risk of “imagining figures of light” when our rituals are too much the product of conscious intention. When this happens, the ineffable archetypes are reduced to mere symbols*. Waldron explains that, when an archetype is reduced to a symbol which can be a consciously apprehended, it ceases to be archetypal. Although a symbol may masquerade as an archetype, it is a construction of the ego, and can become what Waldron calls “a collaborator in the suppression of the shadow.” In other words, when ritual symbols are a product of conscious intention, they not only fail to speak for the unconscious, but actually contribute to its ongoing repression.
How then is a new ritual to be arrived at? Edward Whitmont answers, “A genuine ritual, like a living symbol or a religious experience, cannot be fabricated; it can only be discovered.” Rituals are not invented; like our dreams, they happen to us. James Hollis echoes this formula:
“A rite is a movement in and toward depth. Rites are not invented. They are found, discovered, experienced. They rise out of some archetypal encounter with depth. The purpose of the symbolic act which the rite enacts is to lead back toward that experience of depth.”
Thus, for Jungian Pagans, the process of creation of the ritual is a collaboration with the unconscious. We can liken it to an artist being inspired by a muse (or possessed by a daimon).
Understood in this way, ritual is the product of a conscious form applied to unconscious content. Conscious design of ritual is unavoidable, or else there could be no “ritual” per se. However, to balance the conscious side of the equation, as it were, the Jungian Pagan seeks to draw the content from the unconscious. This can be done though meditation, dream work, what Jung called “active imagination” (which would be better named passive imagination), creative engagement with mythology, or by collecting what W.H. Auden calls “privately numinous words”, phrases, and images. These contents are then combined into a ritual form. Jung explains that the secret of great art (in which I would include ritual creation)
“consists in the unconscious activation of an archetypal image, and in elaborating and shaping this image into the finished work. By giving it shape, the artist translates it into the language of the present, and so makes it possible for us to find our way back to the deepest springs of life.”
How do we know if we have succeeded in tapping into the unconscious? Jung writes that the origin of a work of art can be seen in the work itself. A ritual of one’s own conscious intention and will can be expected to reflect the effect intended and “nowhere overstep the limits of comprehension”. But if a ritual is a product of the “alien will” of the unconscious, we find
“something suprapersonal that transcends our understanding to the same degree that the author’s consciousness was in abeyance during the process of creation. We would expect a strangeness of form and content, thoughts that can only be apprehended intuitively, a language pregnant with meanings, and images that are the best possible expressions for something unknown — bridges thrown out toward an unseen shore.”
Jung describes these as two different types of art, but it is probably better to think of them as two ends of a spectrum.
When I first began creating my own Pagan rituals, I did not feel authentic in performing the rituals, I felt a distinct sense that the rituals were lacking life of their own. I first attributed this to the newness and unfamiliarity of the ritual. However, I have come to realize over time that my early rituals, although drawing heavily on mythological symbolism, were overly cerebral, lacking in poetry and bodily movement. The most evocative rituals I have since created have been poetic creations, ones that seemed to come from somewhere other than my rational mind. They combined words that I had read or heard, which had a talismanic-like effect on me, with intuitive bodily movements. It is only at the end of the process that I would consciously apply structure to these contents to give the ritual a form. The result is a ritual that feels like, as Jung says, a “bridge thrown out toward an unseen shore”.
Next week in Part 2, I will discuss how I try to maintain the connection with the unconscious during the performance of the ritual.
Sources
Auden, W.H. “Making, Knowing, Judging”, The Dyer’s Hand (1962)
Hillman, James. Re-visioning Psychology (1975)
Hillman, James. “A Psyche the Size of the Earth”, Ecopsychology, eds. Roszak, Gomes & Kanner (1995)
Hollis, James. Under Saturn’s Shadow: The Wounding and Healing of Men (1994)
Hollis, James. Tracking the Gods: The Place of Myth in Modern Life (1995)
Jung, Carl. “The Philosophical Tree”, Alchemical Studies; Collected Works, vol. 13
Jung, Carl. “The Psychology of the Child Archetype”, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious , Collected Works, vol. 9, part i
Jung, Carl. “On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry”, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, Collected Works, vol. 15
Tillich, Paul. “Symbols of Faith”, Dynamics of Faith (1957)
Waldron, David. Sign of the Witch (2008)
Whitmont, Edward. Return of the Goddess (1982)

John Halstead is a former Mormon, now eclectic Neopagan with an interest in ritual as an art form, ecopsychology, theopoetics, Jungian theory, and the idea of death as an act of creation. He authors the blog The Allergic Pagan.
Check out John’s other posts:
Get set for two weeks of ritual and the unconscious with John H. Halstead, author of The Allergic Pagan.

When the purpose of ritual is to listen to the unconscious, how can we consciously create ritual?
Pagan ritual as an encounter with depth, part 1, by John H. Halstead
Appearing July 29th, 2012

How do you maintain connection to the unconscious after ritual is created?
Pagan ritual as an encounter with depth, part 2, by John H. Halstead
Appearing August 5th, 2012
Isis in Big History, by B. T. Newberg – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4
Neural love story, by Trent Fowler
Revering the universe, by Annika Garratt

The evolving cultural entity of Isis exists in symbiosis with her devotees, meeting their needs in exchange for replication.
– by B. T. Newberg
Big History is the entire story of the universe. In the scale of cosmic time, human life can and perhaps should feel dwarfed – it puts us in perspective.
At the same time, the story is not complete till it’s told right down to the human level of individual daily life, else it is not relevant. Thus, this series concludes with how the story of Isis unfolds in the life of one Contemporary Pagan: myself.
This is the final installment in a series exploring the myth of Isis in the context of Big History. For part 1, tracing the story from the Big Bang to the rise of agriculture, go here. Part 2 is here, and Part 3 here. For a proposal of Big History as the narrative core of naturalism, including HP, go here.
Despite the prevalence of Isis in popular culture, I had no interest in her at all till one evening as I lied down for a “journey.” It was a technique from Michael Harner’s core shamanism*, my first introduction to Contemporary Paganism.
I followed the technique: visualize a spot in nature which leads downward, follow it down, then allow the spontaneous imagination to take over as you emerge into some new place. It becomes something like a waking dream. This is what came to me that evening:
I found myself falling down, down, deep down. Finally, I hit dirt in a place completely devoid of light. I could only feel around with my hands. It was a chilly, uncomfortable place which immediately suggested “underworld,” and “get out of here as quickly as possible.”
There in the darkness, a brilliant female figure, shining from within with bluish-white light, approached me. She wore a white Greek chiton or robe of some kind, and over her face was a white veil. A subtle wind lifted the veil up, but underneath was only more inky darkness.
The instinct to kneel immediately overwhelmed me. Never had I felt such a commanding presence, nor ever since. At the same time, out of compelling curiosity and naivete, I asked, “Who are you?” The glowing figure answered with a quiet, echoing hiss, “Isis.”
Later, I sketched the figure I had seen. For some reason, I felt moved to depict her offering her breast, even though it was not part of the original vision.
Over the next several days, I researched this “Isis” figure. Some elements of the journey appeared to check out, while others did not. The veil clearly linked with the historical veil motif ultimately deriving from an inscription at Isis’ temple at Sais. The offering of the breast linked with portrayals of Isis nursing Horus, carried over in the iconography of Mary and Jesus. These two elements “checked out.” However, other parts of the vision, including the Greek chiton, the cold underworld setting, and the figure’s aloof character, seemed inconsistent with Isis’ myths, closer to the Greek Persephone.
The simplest explanation was, of course, that I had been exposed to the veil and nursing motifs earlier without realizing it. Meanwhile, the Persephone imagery resembled a certain tarot card I owned. It seemed my mind had pieced together scattered scraps of mythology.
Nevertheless, the experience became profoundly meaningful to me as a personal vision. It perfectly symbolized my agnostic attitude toward religion, embodying the apparent impossibility of gaining knowledge of what lied “beneath the veil.” The more time went on, the more I kept returning to it and seeing new meanings in it.
I have found living with the myth of Isis rewarding, and it’s changed my behavior for the better. She plays on my human biology in order to meet my modern needs, and in return she gains replication.

Biophilia: We are instinctively attracted to the sensations of nature.
The myth of Isis exploits human biology in the ways recounted in part 1: through hypersensitivity to agents, supernormal stimuli, costly signals, the mammalian mother-child bond, a preference for modestly counterintuitive agents, and a need for large-scale group cooperation. In addition, the myth of Isis takes advantage of a few more features of my species.
Since she symbolized nature, I felt encouraged to spend time hiking, biking, and exploring the woods. The result was calm and joy, as often experienced by those who spend any length of time in nature. These positive feelings were then associated with Isis, increasing my bond with her. Thus, she exploited what E. O. Wilson calls biophilia, the “urge to associate with other forms of life.”
Isis’ association with the moon, in particular, became important to me. I timed my devotions to its phases, changing the robe adorning her statue to a color befitting the waxing, waning, full, or new moon. This caused me to spend time gazing at the moon, associating its natural beauty and glow with Isis, and her maternal nurturing love with it. I began to respond emotionally to the phases of the moon.
Mainstream Western society does not necessarily devalue emotion, but suffice to say Paganism places greater value on it as a source of deep meaning. It is no surprise, then, that an expanded, more fulfilling emotional life bonded me deeply to Isis.
The Christian idea of a transcendent deity with an exclusive claim to Truth no longer appeared plausible in an age of science and multiculturalism. The exclusively male image of deity as well as the devaluation of nature and the sensual body were sore spots, too. My needs were not being met by the Christian myth.
After a long period of searching, a new myth came along that was more fit for the environment of my heart and mind. Isis offered a vision in which nature, sexuality, and the feminine were sacred.
Moreover, her story appeared plausible, since I’d come to her by naturalistic routes. Having entered Paganism under the impression that myth and ritual manipulated inner psychological states, it seemed scientifically believable that devotion to her could make a difference in my life (I later learned this was a minority view in Paganism, but the “damage” was done: I had become a naturalist).
The way I lived my life began to change. Since Isis was, for me, embedded in a way of life (i.e. Paganism), integration of her myth had wide-reaching effects. Not only did I take up rituals and devotions, but my behavior toward the environment, society, and my own body transformed. The moon felt overlaid with emotional value, as did every tree and river. Hiking and biking became big parts of my life. I was motivated to clean up trash beside the river, often almost everyday. Family became important to me, as did learning the life stories of deceased relatives. Giving to charity was, for the first time in my life, a priority. Poetry flowed out of me. And my sexual body was no longer a bundle of urges to be pacified, but a wonder of nature to be explored.
All these concrete, empirical changes flowed, in part at least, from living with the myth of Isis. Put simply, my needs were better met.
Meeting my needs has paid off in dividends for Isis. As a cultural meme, her sole “interest” is the same as that of genes: replication. To propagate, she needs to leap from mind to mind, and she’s gotten me to help her do that.
By exploiting my biology and meeting my needs, she became so meaningful to me that I’ve felt moved to spread her story through artwork, poetry, conversation, and writing – including the present series of essays. I don’t proselytize, but I’m not shy about sharing either. Articulating a mythic path both scientifically plausible and morally responsible is quickly becoming my life’s work.
So, in evolutionary terms, she and I have developed a mutually-beneficial symbiotic relationship. She gets what she needs by helping me get what I need.
This symbiosis is surprisingly close to how ancient peoples viewed their relationship with deity: reciprocity. They made public offerings to deities in the belief that such pleased them, and requested blessings in return. The Romans formulated it as do ut des, or “I give so that you may give.”
Astonishingly, they were actually pretty close to the truth. Myths do need public displays in their honor, in order to leap from mind to mind. To encourage such behavior, they did bless humans, by helping them meet their needs. Reciprocity was unconscious symbiosis.
To conclude: What is Big History? It’s the tale of the whole universe, as pieced together through the best evidence of modern science.
What does that have to do with myths? Well, let me answer a question with a question.
Have you ever read a forum comment out of context, only to see it in an entirely different light when you go back and read the whole conversation? Myths are the same. They demand to be read in their natural context.
Myths are cultural phenomena that have emerged, like all other phenomena, through the unfolding of natural evolutionary processes. In this context, they bear the following features. Myths are:
When a myth becomes meaningful in one’s life, most of the reasons tend to be unconscious. There may be a sense of the myth “resonating”, or of feeling “drawn” to it. There may be some awareness of consistency with personal values.
The deeper underlying causes, though, are the myth’s exploitation of biology and meeting of bio-psycho-social needs. Ultimately, it’s a function of the evolutionary forces of Big History.
Thus, even everyday interactions with myths are part of the greater story of the universe. Without this context, myths may seem quaint at best. With it, myths become meaningful, consequential parts of nature.
Embedded in Big History, myths become real.

Evolutionary history makes sense of the appeal and transformations of Isis, including this art nouveau rendition by Barrias from 1899.
– by B. T. Newberg
What happens when a myth goes through an extinction event?
Pagan cults were stamped out as far as possible under Christian domination, but Isian strains survived through radical adaptation.
This post is the third in a 4-part series exploring the myth of Isis in the context of Big History. For part 1 go here, for part 2 here. For a proposal of Big History as the narrative core of naturalism, including HP, go here.
By the late Roman period, Isis had become Isis of Ten Thousand Names, enveloping virtually every other goddess (at least in the eyes of her followers). In this way, she came to reflect and reinforce the very principle of empire itself: infinite dominion. The only type of myth better suited to the task was monotheism, the Christian version of which finally out-competed the cult of Isis.
The myth of the one Christian God could not save the Roman Empire, which was slowly imploding, but it did survive it as a spiritual empire of sorts. The one church under the Pope gave unifying structure and common meaning to the disparate feudal kingdoms of the Middle Ages. To survive, Isis had to adapt to the environment of that new meaning.
One element of her myth, the supernormal mother figure, survived by mutating into Christian form: the iconography of Isis suckling her child Horus became Mary with the baby Jesus. The cult of the Virgin was readily disseminated by missionaries.
Another element survived by sidestepping competition with the Christian God. No longer competing for worship, pagan* deities became allegories for aspects of the natural world. They had already been seen as allegories by some, as we saw in part 2, but now they were exclusively so. Isis, drawing in no small part on “DNA” acquired through identification with Artemis of Ephesus, endured the Middle Ages as an allegory for material nature.
In both cases, Isis survived by subordinating herself to the dominant myth, thereby reinforcing it. In the first case, she assumed the role of a human woman who submits to a male God with a graceful fiat or “let it be done to me.” In the second case, she represented an order inferior to that of its Creator, the natural under the supernatural, in the terms of Thomas Aquinas. In this way, she helped the Medieval mind understand what was real – a dualistic universe under a patriarchal order – and what mattered – cooperation under a hierarchy of male dominion.
Male dominance was not new to the world; the Greeks and Romans had been quite patriarchal. But subordination was new to Isis. Gone was the fierce Aset who tricked the male Ra into telling her his true name with a scorpion sting only she could cure. Gone was the Roman cult whose sexual ethics (possibly trumped up for political reasons) incurred censure by Augustus and Tiberius, and which empowered wives and even prostitutes to withhold sex during periods of ritual abstinence. The new Isis survived by bolstering the new patriarchy, at the same time that it agitated against it by preserving the sacred feminine.
Another way in which Isis survived was through esoteric mysticism. The Hermetic Corpus, a collection of 2nd-century texts rediscovered in the Renaissance, preserved Isis as mother and teacher. In the minds of mystics, pagan deities went from allegories of natural phenomena to powers imbuing nature.
Hermetic, alchemical, and proto-scientific currents swirled in the Renaissance, producing an environment fertile for a new adaptation of Isis. The goddess as an allegory for nature became associated with an enigmatic fragment from Heraclitus: “nature loves to hide.” This in turn cross-fertilized with a report from Plutarch of an inscription on her temple at Sais: “I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be; and my veil no mortal has hitherto raised.” These elements fused into the veil of Isis motif, a metaphor for the concealment of nature’s inmost secrets.
The image was tantalizing. Nature loves to hide; she veils herself, but – so interpreters hoped – the knowledgeable might be able to glimpse what lies beneath. The masculine sexual fantasy it evoked was probably no coincidence, reflecting and reinforcing the patriarchal social order.
As modern science took its first bleary-eyed steps in the Renaissance, then learned to run in the Enlightenment, the myth of Isis found a rich environment. Scientists saw their experimental procedures as peeping into nature’s forbidden secrets.
In the scientific enthusiasm of the Enlightenment, atheists began to thrive openly, but this was not particularly adverse for Isis. She was already an allegory for the natural order subordinate to the supernatural order; subtract the supernatural and the natural remained. Thus, Isis thrived in the climate of scientific naturalism.
Further, her veil offered a meaningful metaphor for the pursuit of science itself. The gaze of science, still quite male, extended to all nature. It held dominion over it, an empire of knowledge. Matter was conceived as inert, passive before the active penetration of science. The submissive character would later be captured by Barrias’ art nouveau sculpture, Nature Unveiling Herself Before Science. Meanwhile, Deists, who believed in a Creator who set nature in motion but thereafter did not interfere in her working, sought nature’s secrets not as her own but as reflections of the mind of God. Isis thus helped a more scientifically-minded society see what was real – nature, with or without a Creator above it – and what mattered – cooperation under reason and empirical enquiry.
At the same time that scientists embraced the veil motif, so did the Romantics and Freemasons. For the Romantics, the unveiling of nature was not so much a discovery of knowledge as a glimpse of ineffable mystery. For the Freemasons, Isis came to represent a sort of cosmotheism, a truth reserved only for the carefully prepared initiate. As a result of these contributions, the myth of Isis’s veil developed an emotional dimension of wonder and terror, anguish and pleasure.
Since the Enlightenment, science and technology have led to extraordinary advances in health and wellbeing, eradicating or eliminating many serious diseases. They have also facilitated the return of birth control methods, known in the ancient world but mostly lost in the West, making a gender-equal society possible by empowering women to control their own bodies.
At the same time, the spread of locomotion and communication across the globe has brought an unprecedented level of multicultural collision, yielding disorientation that has manifested in racism, colonialism, and bloody wars.
Advances have also enabled massive population surges, natural resource depletion, and rampant pollution.
With all these rapid changes, new myths are desperately needed. Isis is playing a role in attempts to address these challenges.
Early 20th-century alternative spiritualities inherited the veil motif, as clear in the title of Blavatsky’s book of Theosophy, Isis Unveiled, and in the ceremonial magic technique called the Sign of the Rending of the Veil. Golden Dawn occultist Dion Fortune drew on Apuleius’ Isis to assert that all gods were one god and all goddesses one goddess. This duotheistic image would become widely disseminated through the Contemporary Pagan movement, especially Wicca. Meanwhile, feminist influences would spur the rise of Goddess spirituality, which saw godhead as female, with Isis as one of its expressions. Finally, reconstructionist polytheisms would attempt to restore the individuality of historical goddesses, such as Isis. In this way, the sacred feminine is beginning to throw off subordination.
As a symbol of nature, Isis lends herself well to current environmental concerns as well. Images of such supernormal mother figures mapped onto nature are inspiring green spiritualities and activism. Meanwhile, science is gradually rediscovering nature, no longer passive but now active, self-organizing, and inherently creative.
Finally, as a polytheistic deity, Isis helps make sense of the cacophonous pluralism of modern society. Divine multiplicity better captures the growing valuation of multiple perspectives, orientations, and lifestyles.
Contemporary Pagan debates over whether deities are metaphors or something more, involving a spectrum of views from naturalism on the one hand to hard polytheism on the other, address questions of plausibility. Naturalists may understand what’s real by linking myths metaphorically to perceptions of nature consistent with mainstream science, while hard polytheists may do so by linking myths to perceptions of historically-accurate styles of belief. Meanwhile, ambiguity on the point in most Pagan discourse may enable myths to serve in multiple situations and moods without apparent conflict, much as it may have done in ancient Egypt (see part 2).
At the present moment in history, Isis remains a minor influence in mainstream society. Nevertheless, she is helping a growing segment of the populace re-envision what’s real – the power and consequences of nature – and what matters – intercultural cooperation to address humanitarian and environmental concerns.
Looking to the 21st century, the Internet may do more than anything in recent history to shift the environment for myths. It now provides instant access to virtually every variation of Isis’ story, from every age of history, to everyone. Of course, competing myths enjoy the same advantage. Whichever fare best in a digitized world will proliferate. Whether Isis’ myth will be one of those remains to be seen.
This narration of Big History is not quite complete. The Big Bang must make it all the way to the daily life of the individual, else it is not relevant. The final installment of this series will explore the enduring appeal and meaningfulness of Isis as manifest in the life of one Contemporary Pagan.