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that, whatever is happening in the NDE, there is certainly a subjective element provided by the individual concerned. If someone is indeed viewing a reality of some kind, it is a reality shaped by a particular background, conditioning and life situation. This, of course, does not automatically mean that the NDE itself can be dismissed as totally subjective. Being human, it is impossible for us to apprehend any reality in this world or the next without bringing to it whatever we ourselves are, and shaping it accordingly. It is possible intellectually to conceive of a totally objective reality in the abstract, but in practice there is no such thing as the “unobserved observer.” Even in science, allowance has to be made for the contribution we make in describing the “real” world.

      A second problem faced by Zaleski and admitted in varying degrees by even the most enthusiastic of the NDE proponents is that of defining death itself. No matter how moving some of the descriptions of journeying into this other realm may be, we have to keep reminding ourselves that the operative word in “near-death experience” is “near.” All of these visionaries were near death; they were not actually dead, because, by definition, to be dead is to be at that point from which any kind of physical return is ruled out. Zaleski quotes from an article in the British medical journal The Lancet: “Death is just beyond the point from which anyone can return to tell us anything.” As she goes on to say, the “popular appeal of return-from-death stories rests partly on the assumption that temporary absence of vital signs is equivalent to death.”¹⁴

      The difficulty here is that it is now very hard, even for ethicists and medical experts, to agree on what constitutes death. What’s more, as medical technology and skills advance and ever more amazing rescues of the dying are possible, even tentative definitions have to be constantly reexamined and updated. It should be remembered too, in this connection, that even NDE researchers themselves do not want to restrict the NDE too closely to death because they have documented so many cases where the same experience was encountered not near death but during meditation, in the face of extreme danger, while on a drug or during childbirth. Even allowing for all of this, however, I agree with Moody that while those who experience NDEs are not really dead in the full sense of the word, they have come very much closer to this ultimate experience than the rest of us. Or, as Zaleski puts it, “Whether NDEs occur in the grip of death or only in the face of death, they may still constitute a revelatory encounter with death.” These experiences are certainly not proof of a life after death, or of the other realities and entities reported. But, it is argued, they could well supply at the minimum some evidence upon which a belief in life after death could reasonably take its stand.

      The critics, as one would expect, have come up with a wide variety of natural explanations to account for what the proponents of the NDE claim is a vision of another world or plane of reality. Certainly, as both Zaleski and Moody admit—along with a host of other responsible researchers in this field—it is essential to look hard at the question of whether any sufficient, natural causes exist to explain the phenomenon before leaping to any transcendental conclusions. In The Light Beyond, Moody devotes his final chapter, “Explanations,” to a detailed refutation of a range of natural possibilities. Zaleski, too, in an even more thorough manner, considers the critical literature and explanations ranging from the effects of stress on the body to drugs or sensory deprivation. Her chapter is called “Explanations and Counterexplanations.” There is no need to repeat here everything that has been said pro and con. Instead, I propose to look at the most obvious alternative, the hallucination theory.

      Since a large majority of those who have experienced near-death were on various medications at the time of their brush with death and since altered states of consciousness can be produced by such physiological factors as an acute lack of oxygen (hypoxia or anoxia) or a sudden rush of endorphins, enkephalins or other as yet unknown chemicals secreted by the brain when stress, pain or fear occur, many skeptical scientists have argued that what we are dealing with here is some form of hallucination. As Zaleski says, as far as the debunkers are concerned, these “endogenous opiates are a neurochemical equivalent for and an answer to grace.”¹⁵

      I believe this theory deserves further consideration. There can be no doubt that the human mind is capable of quite extraordinary thoughts and visions under the right stimuli. Visionary experiences can be produced by extended fasting, by extremes of physical exhaustion or by hallucinogenic substances. As I have already made clear, I am not personally subject to mystical visions or visitations of any kind. However, I do know what it is like to hallucinate on a chemical substance.

      Let me explain. In the summer of 1962 I took a year’s leave of absence from my parish in Scarborough, Ontario, to return to Oxford, England, for some postgraduate studies in patristics, the writings of the early fathers of the Church. In February 1963, Dr. Frank Lake, a British psychiatrist from Nottingham, came to the university for a series of lectures. Lake was one of the earliest pioneers in the use of lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) in the treatment of the mentally ill. He had been a missionary doctor in India for a number of years, and had spent almost all of his time as a psychiatrist dealing with people heavily involved in organized religion. At his invitation, following one of his lectures, I joined a small group of other clergy who volunteered to assist in a research project. Lake had become discouraged by the difficulty and length of time required for traditional analysis and counselling and was experimenting with LSD as a psychiatric shortcut. (I would remind the reader that this was well before LSD appeared in North America and became part of the drug scene in any way. At this point, none of us had even heard of it before.) I hitchhiked up to Nottingham one weekend that spring and joined Lake and the others at his centre, a place called Lingwood. An Anglican priest came and, along with four other priests, one of whom had been a distinguished Spit-fire pilot in the Battle of Britain, I received Holy Communion and then was administered some LSD. Each of us had been assigned to a room of his own and the doctor dropped by frequently to monitor what was going on.

      Although it happened many years ago, the experience remains perfectly vivid in all its details. I had known nothing like it before and have never since. At first, it was like seeing Technicolor movies run at a very high speed inside my head. The speeded-up images were mainly of various family members, often doing extremely funny things. A tremendous sense of exaltation flooded me and it seemed nothing would ever be impossible—writing a world bestselling novel, rivalling the greatest artists who had ever painted, or composing music as great as Mozart’s or Beethoven’s. There were sensations of glorious light, and then visions of great beauty, both of the human form and of natural landscapes.

      Suddenly, the mood changed, and with a growing sense of dread I approached a tunnel, which was as arid and dry as dust. The sensation of drawing a fingernail over a slate blackboard is the closest I can get to describe the feeling on my skin as I was forced through. From that point on, the trip became much worse. Spider-like monsters threatened my very being. Even with my eyes open it seemed as though the room was filled with horrific presences with sinister intent. Quite frankly, it was terrifying until I felt myself growing increasingly angry and wanting to fight back. I imagined myself wielding a short, sharp sword and plunging it into the belly of the enemy creatures, much like Frodo did with Shelob in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. This was followed by a renewed sense of exaltation and awareness of a beauty I had never dreamed existed.

      All of this went on for at least two hours, and even much later, when I was able to leave the centre and go for a walk in a nearby park, the flashbacks continued. One moment I was in the park watching the children playing and some adults busy with a cricket game, the next I was back in my own inner world with its exaggerated fears and glories. I remember looking across the park at some slum-like houses in the distance. Caught in the rays of the westering sun, they seemed to stand out with a glory that utterly transformed them.

      I’m not sure what help any of us were to Dr. Lake in his research. The memory of the experience stands out much more sharply for me today than his conclusions with all of us afterwards. Although I gained no personal insights that could not have been acquired by other means, there was certainly a revelation of a kind. What was instructive was the glimpse into the incredible capacity of the brain to invent or recall suppressed material and to put it together in totally unexpected and original ways. There was, however—and this is in marked and important contrast with the NDE—no specifically religious

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