The Return of the Sacred: An Interview with John Cottingham

This article presents the full transcript of my conversation with the distinguished philosopher, Professor John Cottingham. For those who prefer to watch the discussion, the full video episode is available on YouTube here:

The following text provides a cleaned-up version of our dialogue, preserving the depth and nuances of the conversation while removing minor repetitions and filler words for readability.

My guest, John Cottingham, is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Reading and an Honorary Fellow of St John’s College,1 Oxford. Renowned initially for his work on 17th-century rationalists like Descartes, his extensive career later shifted towards moral philosophy, philosophical psychology, and particularly the philosophy of religion. Professor Cottingham has explored profound questions about the meaning of life, the interplay between spirituality, morality, and science, and advocated for a “humane perspective” in philosophy that integrates emotional, literary, and practical dimensions alongside abstract reason.

In this wide-ranging discussion, we delve into the challenge of making deep philosophical and religious ideas accessible beyond academia. We explore the nature of religious experience, contrasting views on whether it stems primarily from awe or suffering, and discuss the complex relationship between science and religion — addressing potential conflicts, the limits of scientism, and the need for an “epistemology of receptivity.” Furthermore, we touch upon the connections between Greek philosophy and Christian thought, the role of practice and ritual versus abstract belief, the controversial place of psychedelics in modern spirituality, and Professor Cottingham offers personal reflections on the goals and integration sought in a philosophical life.

Tiago (Host): Hello everyone. Welcome to another episode of the Anagoge podcast. I know it has been a very long time since the last episode. I’ve been busy with work last year, but this year I’m making a commitment to doing more episodes, and I have an excellent guest to start this revival. Before we get into it, a small announcement: I have published a book called In Search of the Infinite: A Psychedelic Memoir. I’ve been writing it for the last seven years. It’s available on Amazon. It’s about philosophy and religion, with likely overlap with this conversation and my podcast more broadly, which covers questions of human meaning, human existence, and similar topics. I will explain more about the book at the end of the podcast. I just wanted to get this out of the way. Welcome, John Cottingham. It’s truly a pleasure to have you here.

John Cottingham (Guest): Very nice to be here.

Tiago: Amazing. I first got to know you during my undergrad degree in philosophy; I think I did some essays on your work, although I’ve forgotten what they were because my memory isn’t great and it was a while ago. Then last year, when I was in a bookshop, I saw this little book — well, in your case it’s a little blurred, so for you it’ll be hard to tell — but it’s In Search of the Soul. I saw this book on the shelf, and the name caught my attention because it’s something I’m interested in. Then I recognized the name as well: Oh, I know this person. So I got it, and it was very enjoyable. That’s what made me look deeper into your work, and that’s why I invited you here. So it’s really great. Maybe before we start, you can give a concise introduction about yourself and your work. I like to let people do that themselves, especially when they have such a long career, because then you can pick what you think is relevant and most meaningful to you.

Cottingham: Yes, thanks. I started my philosophy interests when I was still at school. Then at Oxford, I did the so-called Mods and Greats course: Latin and Greek for the first two years, then Philosophy mainly for the second two. As a PhD (or DPhil) student, I studied Descartes, and my doctoral thesis was on Descartes. For the first phase of my career, I worked mainly on the 17th century: Descartes, but also Leibniz, Spinoza — the rationalists, as they are called. I increasingly became interested in moral philosophy and philosophical psychology, particularly psychoanalytic theory. From there, it segued into philosophy of religion, which had always been a background interest. For the last 20 years or so, that’s probably been my principal research interest, starting with rather grand questions about the meaning of life and the purpose of human existence, but moving on to the relationship between religion and spirituality, the moral life, the spiritual life, and how religious belief connects with other areas of our worldview, our moral outlook, and what science tells us about the cosmos.

The most recent work, as you mentioned, is In Search of the Soul, which I did for Princeton University Press two or three years ago. And more recently still, The Humane Perspective. [Holds up copy] which was published by Oxford University Press last year. That deals with a whole variety of issues connected with the interrelation between religion, morals, science, and what I call the humane perspective, advocating a broader conception of philosophical inquiry. Instead of being narrowly analytic, concerned merely with abstract argumentation, it tries to draw on all resources of the human mind, including the emotional, affective dimension, and also drawing on literary and poetic resources, which all seem to me to feed into our philosophical understanding.

Tiago: Okay, amazing. When you mentioned emotion, and that some of your work touches on that, I find that perplexing, and I hope we have time to get into that. First of all, as a disclaimer, my questions might be a little disjointed because our time is short. I’m trying to prioritize the things I find most interesting and get to them.

While I was diving deeper into your work, I remember watching one of your lectures where everything made perfect sense to me, perhaps because we have similar views on many of these things. But it occurred to me that much of it might be unintelligible to the average person — not because of the lecture’s quality, which I think was excellent, nor because it had jargon, which was minimal. It’s more that it’s an alien way of thinking and looking at the world. This seems especially true for non-philosophers. For example, in your lecture, something you do often, which I appreciate, is make references to other philosophers to clarify your point and highlight how others have thought similarly. For example, if I’m watching and you mention a specific concept from Heidegger to help me understand, I might think, ‘Okay, now I understand this better.’ But the average person doesn’t know Heidegger. You could explain, but then that adds an extra piece to the conversation, and things can expand very quickly.

So even though your arguments and line of thinking are excellent, I think it’s difficult for the average person. Again, this isn’t a flaw in you or your argumentation; I think it’s somewhat universal to the topic. So how do you think we can best bridge that gap, particularly for people without a traditional education in philosophy, theology, or the humanities?

Cottingham: Yes, that’s a very important question. I’m glad you find the work clear and accessible, as that’s always been a major aim of mine: to communicate as clearly as possible. I believe much contemporary academic philosophy has become inaccessible, taking refuge in technicalities, abstract argumentation, and increasingly narrow research areas that may interest specialists but not a wider readership. I strongly believe philosophy should be a synoptic discipline; it shouldn’t just focus on minute technical problems but should take a wide, holistic view.

Regarding the term ‘worldview,’ it’s true that most non-academic people might not consciously think much about a worldview or a grand philosophical theory. However, I think most human beings, perhaps only occasionally or when they have free time, do turn to these fundamental questions: Why are we here? What is the purpose of our life? Can we know what is right to do? Are there objective standards of rightness, or are we alone with our subjective feelings and projections? There are central questions fundamental to the human condition. All philosophers should do, I believe, is articulate those questions as clearly and accessibly as possible. I don’t see philosophy as a specialized discipline separate from the concerns we all share as human beings. Does that make sense?

Tiago: Yes. Although my concern is that even though the underlying interest is universal, it’s still a hard conversation because people frame the topic differently due to our culture. They come with different assumptions about religion, philosophy, God, and so on. Then it’s our job, when doing philosophy, to help them see from a particular angle, but that angle can feel alien to them. So even though you’re right about the fundamental human inclination towards the transcendent and religion, it remains a difficult conversation. I’m sure you’ve experienced this outside the philosophical environment, talking with friends or family, where they might say, ‘I just don’t understand where you’re coming from.’

Cottingham: Yes, we all come to any discussion with preconceptions based on our individual histories. Many people approach religion either with dogmatic commitments they feel determined to defend, or feeling alienated, perhaps because they were hurt by religion growing up or feel they accepted something too readily. So there can be preconceptions both for and against religion. In my work, I try to move beyond doctrinal questions and connect with issues we all share. For example, most of us have probably felt wonder at nature at some point — perhaps at the starry heavens or the beauty of the natural world in spring, as we see it now. These are broadly common human experiences, and they connect with the religious impulse, which, as many philosophers following Aristotle have said, starts with wonder. He said philosophy starts with wonder; I think the same is true of religion. It also involves a sense of awe (A-W-E) — a sense of our insignificance when confronting something far greater than ourselves. I don’t think these are difficult or technical ideas. I’m trying to get at a common ground we share as we confront the mystery of existence. Philosophers might elaborate on it, reflect on it, or articulate it more, but I would hate to think this kind of philosophical work is difficult. I don’t believe these ideas are inherently difficult. One needs time to reflect. Of course, many people are busy with the necessities of living. We in the developed world are a relatively privileged minority in having time for these questions. But I believe these questions are endemic to human nature, so given suitable time and resources, they would likely impinge on any thoughtful person.

Tiago: Yes, absolutely. Although I find it interesting that you frame the pathway to philosophy and religion as awe, because I frame it somewhat differently. Awe isn’t exclusively positive; within the biblical tradition, for instance, there’s an element of terror and overwhelmingness associated with it. But generally, it leans positive. However, I’d argue that religion often starts more from suffering than awe, based on my reading and understanding. In my experience, suffering drives people to religion more than awe does. Awe seems more easily secularized (put into secular terms). But thanks for the answer; that was great.

Related to worldviews, you’ve mentioned often that we need a new epistemology for religion, arguing we’re too tied to conventional philosophical methods (already complex, especially post-20th century) and scientific methods, which heavily influenced philosophy. In my own work, I’ve sometimes spoken, perhaps somewhat hostilely, about the current cultural climate being largely driven by science, which I think produces an overly scientistic picture of reality. But I don’t detect the same level of hostility in you. I’m unsure if it’s politeness or if you view the problem differently. The way I perceive your stance sometimes is: science is over here, it’s good, it works, it’s true in its domain; religion is over here, an equally valid worldview. But I think it’s more problematic than that, because I see science itself as potentially a distortion of human intelligibility regarding the world. This might sound dramatic, but I think to some degree it can ‘poison’ the mind slightly. Wearing these ‘scientific glasses,’ one might miss what religion is about, which I consider closer to the default human condition. So I see it as more problematic than just an alternative view. I’m curious how you frame science within this dilemma.

Cottingham: Yes, you’ve raised many interesting points. Thank you. I don’t think scientific theories are distortions. You’re right to identify a positive response to science in my writing; I regard it as one of humanity’s greatest achievements, benefiting us immeasurably, although it also carries risks. To give one example, many of us have great reason to be thankful for the advances in medical science. I think the distortion comes when it’s taken as the sole touchstone of truth and reality. For instance, when people claim that unless something can be expressed scientifically, it’s not a valid truth.

Science doesn’t capture the whole of reality. There are truths expressed in poetry, truths concerning personal relationships, art, music. You could give a scientific description of the phenomena involved, but it would leave so much out. For example, a scientific description of music might detail sound frequencies, brain responses, electrical activity. All that is true and happens when we listen to music, but it doesn’t begin to touch the qualities so important to music lovers — qualities that are just as much a part of reality as the scientifically describable aspects. To some extent, I agree with the reservations you expressed. Scientific equations — mathematical descriptions of quantities, frequencies, fluctuations, atomic vibrations — are quantitative abstractions that don’t capture the human reality we inhabit. They don’t capture what’s sometimes called the Lebenswelt (life-world) in German — the world you and I inhabit as we talk, eat, drink, and interact.

Going back to your earlier remarks, I agree that suffering can be a crucial catalyst leading someone to a religious worldview. Wittgenstein, who influenced me considerably — and I find it regrettable his influence has faded recently in philosophy, often replaced by a very scientistic conception of truth — Wittgenstein said that life can educate one to believe in God. By ‘life,’ he explicitly included sufferings of various kinds. The point is that suffering can act as a catalyst; it can soften people, open their sensibility, so that aspects of reality previously hidden become visible.

This connects with what you mentioned earlier: the epistemological model I advocate, which I call an ‘epistemology of receptivity.’ This view suggests that rather than always remaining detached observers — scrutinizing, criticizing, evaluating — there may be other modes of awareness requiring a certain openness for relevant properties and facts to be discerned. The American philosopher Martha Nussbaum gave a good example from literature: in experiencing a great novel or poem, she said we have to be ‘porous,’ like blotting paper, prepared to yield, to soak up the material, to receive it in order to discern it properly. If we always remain stepped back, analyzing and criticizing in a ‘left-brain’ way (to use that shorthand), we cut ourselves off from perceiving it properly. So, I believe there is a genuine form of knowledge that requires something other than the scientific method.

Tiago: Yes, amazing. That makes total sense. Kind of continuing this thread of science, something else I wanted to get your thoughts on: a common claim is that the Theistic worldview isn’t necessarily opposed to science. To some degree, that’s a basic proposition within an educated, sophisticated theistic worldview. We can set aside caricatures like denying evolution or claiming the Earth is 6,000 years old. In one way, that’s true.

But I think that oversimplifies things. If you claim to be a theist, at minimum you accept the basic proposition: God exists or God is real/true. Again, you can say God exists and science exists, and that’s fine. The problem, I think, is that within a Christian context, the concept of God and Christianity itself don’t exist in a vacuum. They exist in a tradition and a worldview. If you claim to be a theist, you generally have to accept (simplifying for argument’s sake) that this is the God of Christianity, situated within a specific historical and cultural context. That leads to Christianity’s basic proposition: Jesus is the Son of God.

One can secularize Christianity to a degree — framing religion as sketching ideal behavior, with Christ as the embodiment of this ideal, a human teacher to follow. But that’s not Christianity’s central claim: its identity hinges on Jesus being the Son of God. You have to take that seriously, or at least wrestle with it. If so, the simplistic dismissal of a science-religion conflict becomes harder. If God must be understood in the context of Christianity, you have to grapple with its identity, which relies heavily on Christ and, at a minimum, his resurrection from the dead. Given this, a conflict seems hard to avoid. How do you tackle this situation?

Cottingham: Great question. First, you’re absolutely right; we operate within a tradition. There’s no external point from which to judge religions as true or false. We are part of a living cultural tradition.

Science has revealed a remarkable world, characterizable by intricate mathematical equations yielding accurate predictions. Amazingly, the universe appears describable using logic and mathematics. That remarkable fact is, I think, at least compatible with a theistic, indeed a Christian, worldview. Christianity says in the fourth Gospel, “In the beginning was the Logos.” Logos translates variously as word, intelligence, reason, rationality, the divine creative intelligence. This picture doesn’t contradict science; on the contrary, if Logos or rationality is at the heart of existence, we’d expect an intelligible universe, not random chaos. That’s the first point: the intelligibility of the cosmos.

The question of the Incarnation perhaps takes us outside philosophy proper into theology. There is a mystery there. The Incarnation has always been understood within theology as a mystery. Descartes, in the 17th century, compared it to creation out of nothing — a mystery. He listed three mysteries: creation ex nihilo, the Incarnation (God becoming human), and free will.

But again, I’m not sure I agree there’s an either/or choice. God is understood as the source of all existence. In Aquinas, for example, God is pure being, the mysterious principle differentiating existence from non-existence. It doesn’t seem absurd or unintelligible that this mysterious source of being and goodness might manifest itself in particular events. There’s a complex theological question about whether God breaks into the natural order or works through it. Some of your questions about Incarnation and resurrection relate to that. But perhaps I’ve said enough to indicate why I’m not convinced of a radical opposition between science and religion here.

Tiago: I can understand that to some degree. Obviously, there’s no logical inconsistency between the two. If you assume an ultimate Creator, the ground of being, with the qualities ascribed in our theological tradition, then such events are logically possible. But I think the conflict exists because it forces you to admit the laws of nature can be broken. Maybe they can; Hume made a good argument against proving the impossibility of miracles. But from a scientific perspective, claiming laws were broken is either completely absurd, placing you outside acceptable science, or at the very least, it calls your entire system and epistemology into question. They’d ask: Sure, it’s logically possible, but on what grounds do you assert this compared to our entire scientific understanding?

Cottingham: You put that very persuasively. But the problem for me is trying to get an answer by extracting a proposition from its framework and asking, “Is it true or not?” Consider an analogy: the Catholic Mass, the Eucharist. You can ask, “Is this bread the body of Christ or not?” You can frame it such that science shows no change in the bread, forcing a choice between the scientific and religious views. But I think it’s misleading to isolate propositions like that. To understand the Eucharist, you need the whole context. This is a Wittgensteinian point: we can’t understand a sentence’s meaning in isolation from its language game, its form of life.

You have to ask for the meaning of these claims, not just “Are they true or not?” which forces them into a verificationist, scientific mold. The meaning of the Incarnation, I’d say (though I’m not a theologian), is understood in the context of Christ’s whole life, his moral teachings. It’s not a magical event judged solely on whether it happened or broke natural laws. Its significance lies within the context of the life and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and the subsequent faith of the church. This relates back to a holistic or synoptic understanding of religious claims. Does that make sense?

Tiago: Yes, that makes sense. I understand where you’re coming from. I think it’s complicated. Just for clarification, I’m not particularly interested in a verificationist position; I think it’s misguided, similar to your view. But I see it as misguided not because the question shouldn’t be asked or doesn’t have an answer, but because it’s looking from the wrong place — it’s not what one should primarily pay attention to. But the question remains. I insisted a bit because I think this issue inevitably arises as society becomes more secular, scientific, and materialistic. This problem won’t disappear. While the holistic meaning you mention is important, I don’t think it entirely solves the underlying tension. But I appreciate the answer; it’s a very good perspective.

Something else: Iris Murdoch was a significant influence for me in understanding religion better, particularly her discussion of the Good, its roots in Greek thought, while still maintaining a Christian link. That made more sense to me because religion often has its own internal language and symbols. If unfamiliar, reading it is like reading German without knowing German — worse, perhaps, because it’s in English, so you think you understand but don’t. Secularizing it to some degree, as Murdoch does, can make it more intelligible.

However, doing so might also dilute it. The Greek conception of the Good isn’t identical to the Christian one, even with Greek influence on Christianity. Christianity, in a sense, repurposes or enhances the Greek vision. Since you’ve worked on the Greeks and focus on philosophy of religion, I’m curious how you see this link — for example, the Good in Christian terms versus the Greek concept. How similar are they? How do we navigate this relationship, and what might be lost when highlighting the similarity?

Cottingham: That’s a great question, particularly regarding Iris Murdoch. Yes, there’s an interesting dialogue between classical Greek conceptions, largely inspired by Plato, and the Christian perspective. St. Augustine was a Platonist before becoming Christian. Iris Murdoch seems drawn to a kind of Platonism. In her book Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, she writes, “The good is the reality of which God is the dream.” A beautiful phrase. I think she means the Platonic Form of the Good makes philosophical sense, whereas the personal God of Christianity is perhaps a dream, fantasy, or crude conception.

Actually, I think they’re closer than she suggests. The way she discusses the Good — as an active power capable of transforming lives, commanding response, demanding allegiance — narrows the gap between Platonism and Christianity. You’re no longer talking about just an abstract Form of the Good (definitional, conceptual, or even a real Form), but about something with active power to cause change, something we’re drawn to as a source of meaning. Put that way, even if not expressed in dogmatic Christian terms, it gets much closer to a theistic view: there’s an ultimate source of goodness, and humans, though often erring, are configured to respond to the Good and recognize its pull — what philosophers call normativity, the authoritative nature of the good.

Tiago: Yes, that was great. It’s interesting how perspectives differ. I understand the commonality and the emphasis on normativity, which is very important. But I think that sometimes leaves out what makes Christianity distinct compared to the Greek conception of the good, connecting to morality.

Maybe let me sidetrack: I find it interesting you often connect religion to the source of all things, the Creator. That connection is complex but frequent in your points. For me, it’s less central. You emphasize morality’s connection to religion, which is huge and drew me to Christianity. But as I delved deeper into the tradition and experienced it more, I developed an intuition that morality isn’t the main thing. Framing it in Platonic terms can be misleading. The Good makes sense within Christianity’s context; Christianity directs you towards the world in a certain way, revealing and allowing recognition of the Good. That’s why abstraction alone feels insufficient; you lose something. It’s helpful as a conversion mechanism — “Look how we can phrase this, religion is trying to say something meaningful” — but much is lost in translation.

Cottingham: Yes, that’s really the core question. Very interesting. You’re right to diagnose that I place the idea of the Good centrally. To me, it’s crucial. In religious terms, the goodness of God is primary and fundamental. Without it, worship would be superstition — kowtowing to a powerful force to get what we want. The goodness of God gives meaning and value to the religious life.

But it’s not the only thing. A philosopher of religion (whose name escapes me) pointed out that religion does two things: it says how things are (cosmology) and what things matter (theory of value/goodness). The religious perspective brings these together. God is both the source of goodness and the source of the cosmos, of reality.

This enables affirming something like Iris Murdoch’s phrase, “the sovereignty of the good.” It’s vital for her that the good isn’t just one value among others but is somehow sovereign. This connection between cosmology and morality allows Judaism, Christianity, and Islam to affirm the sovereignty of the good. This doesn’t imply crude triumphalism, that God magically intervenes to fix everything. Rather, it means there’s an ultimate value to goodness, which is key to how we should live and find meaning.

Tiago: Amazing, thank you. To add context, part of the problem I just articulated stemmed from a question I asked myself for years: once you recognize the theological implications and normativity of the Good (in a Platonic sense), why not just worship the Good? Why need God(s), an embodied ideal, any of it? Recently, it occurred to me that perhaps the great affinity between the Platonic Good and the Christian Good exists in theory but less so in practice precisely because abstraction isn’t enough. Only through ritual, through story, does one attempt to reach the Good, perhaps seeing, capturing, or embodying it differently than through abstraction alone. I’m curious how you see this distinction. What surplus does Christianity offer, and what’s the mechanism?

Cottingham: Yes, that’s very nicely put. The crucial dimension here is praxis — practical engagement in forms of worship, as you imply. I’ve used the phrase “the primacy of praxis” in my work. In The Humane Perspective, the final chapter is “Engagement, Immersion and Enactment.” The idea is that in worship, we don’t just affirm our allegiance to the good; we somehow enact it. The American philosopher Robert Adams talked about “being for the good.” Liturgy is a way people enact that “being for the good,” incorporating it into their daily or weekly spiritual routines.

Many philosophers — I hesitate to criticize colleagues — are very ‘left-hemisphere’ thinkers, wanting to consider things detachedly and abstractly. The point about worship is engagement not just by affirming doctrine, but by enacting it through movement, song, solidarity with others, through liturgy (a stylized service connecting us to tradition). These physical, emotional dimensions, the whole structure of worship, are very important. Perhaps certain individuals could live by just affirming the sovereignty of the good philosophically and abstractly. But Iris Murdoch’s novels show the pitfalls of thinking life’s problems can be solved merely intellectually. Her novels feature clever philosopher characters often out of touch with their deep feelings. Philosophers excel at rationalizing and can be very unself-aware. Self-awareness is fostered not just by discussion or theory, but by praxis as well. Sorry, that was a rather long-winded answer, but I think it’s relevant.

Tiago: No, absolutely. I really appreciate it; very insightful. I haven’t read her novels yet; I need to start. That was fantastic.

A somewhat random jump, but a question I wanted to ask: I think we’re witnessing, to some degree, a revival of religion. I’ve heard you argue the opposite slightly, so there’s room for debate. But at least there seems to be an ongoing re-evaluation of religion’s meaning, which I think might eventually lead to growth. One contributor, simplifying perhaps, could be psychedelics, given the current psychedelic renaissance. I haven’t seen you discuss this much. I think psychedelics contribute because they force a confrontation with spirituality; it’s hard to reject or ignore, bringing the topic to the surface. How do you view psychedelics and their fit within philosophy of religion? Also, given the original psychedelic revolution was in the 60s, you experienced it culturally. Does that personal experience affect how you see the subject now as it re-enters mainstream culture?

Cottingham: Yes, I suppose it does, in a way. There are complications with psychedelics. When I was growing up and in my early adulthood (60s, 70s), they were often associated with a very fluid sense of life — just going with the flow. That felt liberating compared to the rather gray, constrained post-war 50s. But it also led to considerable trouble, with people trying to live without structures often coming to grief.

What do I think about it now? This connects to spirituality: what is spiritual practice about? It seems crucial to authentic spirituality, in my view, that spiritual experience is a response to something beyond us, not purely endogenous. When we respond to nature’s beauty, great art’s wonder, or the moral imperative (the normative dimension you mentioned), we feel a response called forth by something other than ourselves.

Many who extol psychedelics, including contemporary atheist thinkers like Sam Harris, seem to view spiritual experience as endogenous — generated by internal feelings. He might suggest you can get it via fasting or drugs; the generation method is somewhat irrelevant. It’s seen as an internal state making you say “Wow!” (to use a 60s term). If these are just strange, quirky experiences triggered by brain chemistry, they lack real significance. They might feel good temporarily, up and down, but have no ultimate meaning — just psychological or brain states, on a strict atheist materialist view.

Yet, these kinds of experiences have traditionally been characterized (in literature, music, religion) as having profound significance for understanding ourselves and our place in the world. So, there seems to be a divide here between religious or quasi-religious forms of spirituality and the cultivation of internal states within a purely materialist framework. Perhaps I haven’t expressed that perfectly, but there’s a broad contrast. If ‘psychedelic’ refers only to the latter — endogenous states triggered by LSD, etc. — then I don’t see how they can have the transcendent significance I would ascribe to genuine spiritual experiences.

Tiago: Yes, it’s tricky. First, I’m not sure that’s exactly Sam Harris’s position. My understanding (though I’m not a fan) is more that these states are accessible through various mechanisms, and he considers the states themselves valid or ‘true’ based on his metaphysics (even if he claims not to have one). Slightly different, but I understand your point.

Regarding the internal experience versus reaching for something beyond: I feel that dichotomy might be hurting us and is perhaps itself part of a modernist interpretation. Tradition often viewed the macrocosm reflected in the microcosm. Perhaps the inner experience and reaching for the transcendent are two ways of describing the same thing, from different perspectives. But I understand your point and agree about the dangers of dissolving structure, as witnessed culturally in the 60s. I think we might be in a better place to handle that now for various reasons. That was very insightful, thank you.

Cottingham: There’s a volume coming out shortly on this area — a dialogue between atheists and religious adherents regarding spiritual experience. I don’t have the full title details yet but can perhaps email them to you if you want the reference. It’s been an interesting dialogue. I wouldn’t want to dismiss Sam Harris; he’s an eloquent writer and clearly believes these experiences are important. But for me, there’s a lack of the vehicle religion provides — a spiritual vehicle, a framework of meaning connecting these experiences with our understanding of reality and our human responsibilities.

Tiago: Yes, very much so. I completely agree. I know we’re over time, so just one final question, if you don’t mind. Be as concise as you like. You’ve had a very long career in philosophy. Looking back at your life, primarily through a philosophical lens (but feel free to connect to other things), considering everything you’ve learned and achieved in philosophy: What would you say is most important to you? And what might be one of your biggest mistakes?

Cottingham: Yes, I think since retiring from full-time teaching about 10 years ago, I’ve become increasingly interested in philosophy of religion, meeting many theologians and philosophers, which opened new doors. The most rewarding aspect is that philosophy ceased being purely academic, a way to earn a living — which I’m grateful for, as we all need to support ourselves. But it’s a great privilege to connect one’s work with the deepest questions about life’s value and meaning. There’s an integration there.

I suppose the hardest lesson, for philosophers and people generally, is integrity: connecting the different parts of life, avoiding compartmentalization, moving towards a coherent goal. Aristotle, in the Eudemian Ethics, said not having one’s life planned towards some end is a sign of great folly. If you ask about mistakes, looking back at my earlier life, perhaps it was too ad hoc, focused on solving particular issues without an integrated sense of goals.

I believe we are teleological beings, configured towards an end. That’s part of what I try to articulate in my philosophical work now: a teleological, purposive vision where one’s intellectual, emotional, and personal life make sense together. Perhaps that sounds pompous. Clearly, I’m articulating an ideal I don’t claim to fully live up to — few of us do. But having that ideal present, I’ve come to think, is very precious, both in work and in life.

Tiago: Amazing. That was a great answer, super helpful to hear, especially in relation to your work and this articulation. Maybe something you’d like to hear: As I’ve engaged more deeply with religion over the years, my partner, who isn’t religious at all, doesn’t get it. I try to nudge her sometimes. Once she asked, “You read so many books, Tiago. Just give me one book that helps me understand why this worldview makes sense.” Surprisingly difficult question! Everything depends on something else; it felt like needing to recommend 300 books. But thinking about it, your book In Search of the Soul is actually a really good candidate for that answer. It discusses things with true depth while remaining accessible. So I think your work is very important and greatly benefits current culture.

Cottingham: Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you so much. It’s been a great pleasure talking, and thank you for your most interesting questions. I’ll look forward to seeing the link when this is up on your podcast.

Tiago: Yes, will do. Thank you for coming. It was an absolute great pleasure talking to you.

Cottingham: Yes, great conversation.

Tiago: Is there anything you’d like to plug? Your work? Are you writing another book?

Cottingham: I don’t think so. You mentioned recommending a book to your partner. There’s a much smaller one than In Search of the Soul, almost a pamphlet, called How Can I Believe? It’s a digest of two separate books, How to Believe and Why Believe?, both defenses of the religious framework in terms we’ve discussed today. I’d be happy if people found those helpful. The other one I mentioned, The Humane Perspective, though a slim hardback, is unfortunately priced exorbitantly by Oxford University Press — £70, I think, which is too expensive for most people. But many of the papers from which that material was developed are available on my website. There’s quite a lot there people might find helpful. But thank you so much for your questions. Been great talking to you.