Cosmological myths place us in the world and involve us with it. The cosmologies of today—big bangs and black holes, antimatter and curved, ever-expanding space going nowhere—leave us in dread and senseless incomprehensibility. Random events, nothing truly necessary. Science’s cosmologies say nothing about the soul, and so they say nothing to the soul, about it’s reason for existence, how it could be. The invisibilities that we feel enmeshing our lives with what is beyond our lives have been abstracted by the cosmologies of science into the literal invisibility of remote galaxies or waves. They can’t be known or perceived, because they are measured by time, and our lives are mere nanoseconds in the vast panoply of Science’s myth. What’s the purpose of anything? James Hillman
He goes on to say that “the creation myth of random events in unimaginable space keeps the Western soul floating in the stratosphere where it cannot breathe.” The ancient myths of the Kaballah, the Bible, and those of Ancient Greek and Egyptian civilisations “found us in myths, and the myths unfold downward into one’s personal soul.”
Today we feel surprised by the “gross credulity” of man just a few hundred centuries ago. When man believed that his world was flat and encapsulated in a heavenly shell of the seven planets, the sun and the moon, of which man himself was the centre and the object of their focus.
To influence him seemed the object of their being. The sun gave him light and warmth. The moon mitigated his night. over him marched each year the procession of the constellations. With them they brought the seasons for him… The human microcosm and the macrocosm of the spheres reflected one the other. Between the two there plied a constant commerce of ‘causes’ and effects, an unceasing circulation of elements, of influences and of souls… The macrocosm fulfilling it’s vast circuits and epicycles of meticulous precision, its risings and its settings, it’s movements within movements, was an immense body fashioned after the likeness of man’s body. Inward it faced man the microcosm, concentrated prototype of creation, epitome of the Universe itself. Macrocosm and microcosm were shot through with influences each of the other. Why else should they wheel unceasingly around him? Sir Charles Sherrington