Can the truth of spiritual experience ever be known?
“He who knows does not speak; he who speaks does not know.” — Lao Tzu
“Silence is God’s first language.” — Rumi
What exactly is the Tao Te Ching? Is it philosophy? Scripture? Poetry? It doesn’t offer definitions or present coherent arguments. The “Tao” (道, the Way) refuses to be boxed in—it lacks propositional clarity and defies logical categorization. Its verses are riddled with contradictions, elliptical insights, and metaphors that seem designed to confound rather than explain.
And yet, it moves us. Like Rumi’s ecstatic poetry, it speaks to something wordless within. It reminds us that not all understanding comes through reason, and not everything that is real can be proven.
Philosopher Alan Watts suggested that the Tao isn’t meant to be known in the ordinary sense of the word, but rather directly intuited—felt rather than defined. But how can we “know” something that cannot be said? Can such knowledge be trusted? And if so, in what sense is it even knowledge?
This leads us to a larger question: can mystical traditions—Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism, Advaita Vedanta—make legitimate claims to truth? Can there be such a thing as spiritual truth?
Three Windows to Reality
Centuries ago, the theologian Bonaventure introduced the idea that there are three ways of knowing:
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The eye of the body, through which we perceive the material world.
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The eye of the mind, through which we grasp ideas and abstractions.
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The eye of the soul, through which we contemplate that which is beyond both body and thought.
Though couched in religious language, this tripartite view of knowledge resonates across time and cultures. Contemporary thinkers like Bernardo Kastrup also argue for different “layers” of truth—subjective, rational, and mystical—though in a secular register. The insight is the same: not all truths arrive in the same shape, nor through the same method.
The first eye, or sensory perception, gives us facts: the empirical world of matter, space, and causality. Through this lens, science operates—observation, measurement, hypothesis, experiment. It is through this eye that we know the boiling point of water or the speed of light.
The second eye, the eye of intellect, leads us into the realm of thoughts, symbols, numbers, and meaning. Here we explore mathematics, ethics, language, and abstract ideas. This is the eye through which we understand Shakespeare—not by analyzing ink and paper, but through interpretation. A mathematical equation doesn’t require sensory proof; its truth is rooted in logic.
The third eye, however, gazes inward. It does not describe the outer world or even the symbolic structures of thought, but rather opens into direct awareness—the unmediated experience of being. It asks not “what is out there?” but “what am I, truly?”
This is the realm explored by contemplatives, mystics, yogis, and monks. Practices like meditation, silent prayer, or direct inquiry belong here—not to accumulate knowledge, but to strip away illusion and perceive the real.
That Which Cannot Be Measured
Modern science can measure brainwaves, map neurological states, and observe biochemical changes during mystical experiences. But does that prove anything about the meaning of those experiences? Scanning a monk’s brain while he meditates does not tell us what samadhi feels like, any more than studying Einstein’s brain tells us how he grasped relativity.
This is a critical distinction. Measurement can record activity, but not meaning. No machine can tell you what it feels like to dissolve the sense of self or merge with the divine. Only the experiencer can testify to that—and even then, their words may fall short.
Nor does mystical knowledge grant power in the scientific realm. A sage might realize deep truths about impermanence or interconnection, but they won’t use that to build a rocket or decode DNA. These are different games with different rules.
This is why it’s a mistake to try and “prove” spiritual insight using empirical tools—or vice versa. It’s a category error, like trying to taste music or weigh an emotion. Every domain of knowing must be judged on its own terms.
Reason’s Borders
Western philosophy has long wrestled with these issues. Immanuel Kant famously argued that human reason is confined to appearances—what he called “phenomena.” We can know how things seem to us, but not how they are in themselves (“noumena”).
For Kant, metaphysical claims about God, the soul, or free will cannot be conclusively proved or disproved. Reason runs aground when it tries to grasp the infinite.
Long before Kant, Buddhist thinker Nāgārjuna reached a similar conclusion. His goal, however, wasn’t to create space for faith—it was to cut through all conceptual constructs entirely. In his view, ultimate truth is not a “thing” that can be named or known, but a direct seeing into the empty, interconnected nature of all existence—a seeing that lies beyond logic.
In both cases, we’re reminded: the most important things may not be things at all. And they may not be provable.
Three Ways of Verification
Still, how do we know if any of this is “real”? In science, truth is verified through experiment. In philosophy, through coherence and argument. Is there an equivalent in the spiritual realm?
Yes—though it looks different.
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Practice — There must be a method: meditation, contemplation, self-inquiry.
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Experience — The practitioner must undergo a transformation or insight.
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Community — Others who have walked the path must recognize the result.
This mirrors how science works, in a way. There is a technique, a result, and peer review. The difference is that spiritual insight is internal, subtle, and often wordless. It’s not public knowledge, but shared recognition among those trained to see.
Think of it like poetry or music. If someone has no ear, they may dismiss Beethoven’s Ninth as noise. But to the trained musician, its beauty is undeniable—even if it cannot be “proven.”
Mystical paths are not about belief in dogma. They are practices aimed at transformation. A Zen master doesn't ask you to believe in enlightenment; they ask you to sit, observe, and see for yourself. Like all meaningful paths, the invitation is simple: try it.
A Wordless Knowing
To the skeptical mind, this all may seem like a clever sidestep—a refusal to engage with the hard questions of evidence and argument. But perhaps the deeper issue is that we have misunderstood what it means to know.
There is a kind of knowing that does not divide the knower from the known. It does not dissect reality, but enters into it. It does not stand at a distance, but participates. This knowing is not acquired, but uncovered. It is what mystics have called gnosis, what Zen calls kensho, what the Upanishads describe as Tat Tvam Asi—“Thou art That.”
This kind of knowledge is not about mastery, but intimacy. It is not a conquest of the world, but a surrender to what already is. And in that surrender, something opens—a silence that is not empty, but alive. A presence that cannot be grasped, only welcomed.
To demand proof of such a thing is to ask for the sun to shine only after it has been lit by a match. It is to insist that love be charted, or beauty be dissected. But not all truth can be proven. Some must be lived.
The mystic does not say, “Believe me.”
They say, “Look within.”
Not to escape the world, but to meet it more deeply.
Not to reject reason, but to see where it ends.
And to discover that just beyond its edge,
there is something vast, still, and luminous—
a truth not spoken, but known in the marrow.
