The Sacred in the Mud: On Downward Transcendence in Religious and Spiritual Experience

Abstract

Although there has been an increasing focus on religious and spiritual experience in literary studies within the context of post-critical and post-secular movements, much of the research is framed around the idea of “upward transcendence” in redemption narratives. This focus tends to overlook the negative aspects of life, such as absurdity, meaninglessness, and existential anxiety. Furthermore, it frequently resonates with capitalist ideals that champion a “seamless existence” while dismissing the unrefined essence of materiality. This article engages in two main tasks: First, it emphasizes the negative dimensions of religious and spiritual experience, drawing on Slavoj Žižek’s interpretation of theological and non-theological literature. Second, it expands the definition and scope of religious and spiritual experience, proposing an alternative paradigm based on absurdity and meaninglessness. This paradigm, “downward transcendence,” rejects the redemptive promise of “ascension” and redefines the sacred by engaging with the disruptive and unsettling fabric of existence, reconstructing the coordinates of the sacred within the fissures of reality. Through the case study of Sartre’s Nausea, the article explores how existential absurdity and meaninglessness can reconfigure the sacred, particularly through marginality and the transformative potential of negative experiences. It ultimately proposes downward transcendence as a radical reimagining of spiritual and existential freedom.

1. The Sacred Revisited: Religious and Spiritual Experience in Contemporary Literary Studies and Its Challenges

As J. Hillis Miller notes in the preface to the 2000 edition of The Disappearance of God, “it is a severe limitation of literary and cultural study today that a good bit of it tends not to interest itself much in what might be called the religious or ontological dimension.” (Miller 2000, p. xi). This issue is, in fact, a continuation of the Enlightenment project of disenchantment. Just as Nietzsche proclaimed that “God is dead,” literary criticism similarly began to dissect transcendent experiences in texts, reducing them to symptoms of power dynamics or historical constructs.

Today, this once-dominant mode of reading is facing strong resistance from advocates of post-critique, who increasingly regard it as a conventional, predictable approach—one that “no longer tells us what we do not know” and “singularly fails to surprise” (Felski 2015, p. 116). Against this backdrop, religious and spiritual experience is being reexamined in new ways within literary studies. Scholars argue that “it is through the literary performance that experience and belief are on display in their ever-complicated dances” (Smith and Spencer 2022, p. 6). Similarly, spiritual experience is also gaining attention in literary studies as literature is increasingly viewed as “the instrument of a spiritual odyssey” (Wickman 2022, p. 25) with the potential to “cultivate our sensitivity to spiritual things, opening us to new ways of thinking and feeling” (Wickman 2022, p. 62). While religion typically relies on institutions and spirituality on personal experience, both ultimately seek the sacred. In an increasingly secularized world, their boundaries have become more fluid. This article, therefore, addresses them together rather than making a strict distinction. Many scholars now advocate for viewing literature as a channel through which religious and spiritual experiences are expressed, exploring how literature shapes these concepts and, in turn, how they influence literary texts. These experiences are considered integral to various aspects of “belief, praxis, faith, community, love, justice, ethics, and hope” (Gustafson and Gardner 2016, p. 155). This shift encompasses two key dimensions: first, a return to traditional religious themes such as mysticism, the sublime, revelation, and Enlightenment; and second, a fundamental change in reading methodology—from the pathological dissection of texts to a phenomenological, immersive experience. As Rita Felski puts it, this approach is “a reinvigorated phenomenology of reading that elucidates, in rich and fascinating detail, its immersive and affective dimensions” (Felski 2012).

The “return of the sacred” is not merely a phenomenon emerging within literary studies; rather, it reflects a deeper shift—the post-secular subject’s resistance to a world stripped of enchantment and dominated by pure reason. When Enlightenment rationality fails to alleviate existential anxiety, the suppressed desire for transcendence inevitably resurfaces in distorted forms within the cultural sphere. As Charles Taylor points out in A Secular Age, even for the unbeliever, “there is something he aspires to beyond where he’s at” (Taylor 2007a, p. 7). Despite the dominance of secular modernity, the human longing for transcendence persists, with individuals continuing to seek meaning through the sacred. Ian McEwan’s The Children Act offers a compelling narrative illustration of this tension. Adam, a teenage leukemia patient who initially refuses a blood transfusion due to his Jehovah’s Witness faith, is drawn to Judge Fiona’s intellectual prowess. Under her influence, he briefly distances himself from the constraints of his religious upbringing, viewing this secular figure as a new spiritual guide. However, in a deeply ironic turn, after multiple failed attempts to connect with Fiona, Adam ultimately chooses to return to his faith community. Fiona’s reluctance to engage with Adam, I believe, stems from her spiritual crisis. While she embodies modern rationality and holds authority in the courtroom, she cannot escape a deeper existential void that reveals the fragility of her carefully constructed intellectual framework. As she sorrowfully asks, when she is “weak and desolate,” “Where was her protective judge?” (McEwan 2014, p. 9). Her refusal to continue guiding Adam toward a secular choice ultimately exposes the fundamental dilemma of Enlightenment rationality: she cannot provide answers to the ultimate existential questions Adam might ask, such as “What is the purpose of suffering?” or “What is the meaning of existence?” This inability to address life’s deepest uncertainties further highlights a larger paradox—rather than eliminating the need for transcendence, secularization leaves an even greater void, intensifying the crisis of meaning in a world stripped of spiritual certainty.

However, the novel does not simply endorse religious redemption as its value. At the second leukemia relapse, Adam, now an adult, returns to his faith community and ultimately refuses a blood transfusion, leading to his death. While religion offers comfort in the face of death, this novel also highlights its restrictive consequences, as it denies Adam the right to struggle for survival in a world devoid of inherent meaning. This tension between religious meaning and secular reality underscores a broader existential dilemma: how to confront suffering and death in a disenchanted world. Lacking an embrace and understanding of negative experiences, modern individuals find themselves at an impasse, caught between theological justifications for suffering (such as “death is God’s test”) and secular reason’s inability to provide solace in the face of adversity.

This underlying tension underscores a broader issue in literary studies on religious and spiritual experience, where discussions often frame them in idealized terms such as “elevation,” “wholeness,” and “fullness.” In many cases, religious and spiritual journeys are depicted as movements from imperfection or limitation toward ultimate fulfillment or unity. This framework envisions an upward path of transcendence—a journey from the “City of Man,” representing the flawed and earthly world, to the “City of God,” a realm of divine perfection. This concept of upward transcendence is deeply embedded in various religious, philosophical, and theological traditions. In Christianity, particularly within Protestant traditions, the idea of salvation through faith and the hope of attaining heaven reflects this vision of upward transcendence, encouraging believers to strive for spiritual perfection and eternal unity with God. Similarly, Neoplatonic philosophy describes the soul’s journey as a mystical return to the “One,” the transcendent source beyond all existence, achieved through intellectual, moral, and spiritual purification. In Hinduism, particularly within the Advaita Vedanta tradition, moksha refers to liberation from the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth (samsara), attained by realizing one’s identity with Brahman, the supreme, non-dual reality. In Buddhism, particularly within the Theravāda tradition, nirvana refers to the cessation of suffering, achieved by extinguishing desires, attachments, and ignorance, and realizing the ultimate nature of reality. Each of these traditions, while unique in its practices and beliefs, shares a common vision of the importance of spiritual elevation, viewing it as a journey from imperfection to ultimate fulfillment. As Žižek notes, “in our standard ideological tradition, the approach to spirit is perceived as elevation, as getting rid of the burden of weight, of the gravitational force which binds us to earth, as cutting links with material inertia and starting to ‘float freely.’” (Žižek 2001, p. 102). However, in McEwan’s portrayal, Adam’s tragic death exposes the violence inherent in the concept of upward transcendence: when religious experience is reduced to an ascent from imperfection to fulfillment, it fundamentally oversimplifies the complexity of life and denies the individual’s right to struggle with existential suffering, ultimately turning the spiritual path into a form of escapism that disregards the raw realities of existence. As Matthew Wickman would suggest, “‘gaps’ will remain part of our mortal existence” (Sowell 2023, p. 177). To overcome the dilemma of simplistic transcendence, it is necessary to reconstruct the locus of the sacred—not by ascending to an idealized temple, but by descending into the very cracks of existence. This shift in perspective redefines negative experiences—such as absurdity and existential anxiety—not as barriers to salvation, but as fertile ground for the emergence of the sacred.

Beyond stripping individuals of the capacity to coexist with life’s negative aspects, the promise of upward transcendence as salvation can lead to the outsourcing of their quest for meaning to external authorities—whether religious communities or self-help gurus—a dynamic that subtly reinforces the ideology of late capitalism. Neoliberalism can co-opt spiritual experiences into its “occult economies” (Comaroff and Comaroff 2001, p. 19) that profit by commodifying transcendental or spiritual symbols. Practices like astrology and tarot, as well as other elements of the occult economies, have become quick-fix solutions for people marginalized by the promises of economic prosperity, offering them a temporary escape from their sense of powerlessness. Mark Fisher, in Capitalist Realism, offers a critical framework for understanding this phenomenon. According to Fisher, a key aspect of capitalist realism is the commodification of everything, where capitalism consumes all previous history and beliefs and transforms them into artifacts and aesthetic objects (Fisher 2009, p. 10). This process extends to spirituality, where genuine meaning is often hollowed out as spiritual practices are repackaged and sold as commodities. Fisher identifies mental health as another key area where “capitalist realism insists on treating mental health as if it were a natural fact,” (Fisher 2009, p. 19), framing personal distress as an individual problem rather than a consequence of systemic dysfunction. In this context, spiritual practices not only become commodities but also serve as individualized self-care solutions, obscuring the social and economic roots of distress and reinforcing a false sense of agency. This dynamic prevents collective action and discourages a class-conscious understanding of systemic inequalities.

At the same time, the experience of upward transcendence, stripped of discomfort and material roughness, represents a sophisticated illusion fostered by late-stage capitalism and consumerism. This illusion promotes a smooth, effortless pleasure that allows individuals to “fully participate in capitalist dynamics while retaining the appearance of mental sanity.” (Žižek 2014, p. 66). However, it is precisely here that capitalism succeeds in masking its structural flaws: by offering a version of spirituality that is sanitized—free from the disruptions and discomforts that would otherwise expose deeper societal contradictions. As Žižek describes, capitalism’s ultimate truth lies in “the dematerialisation of ‘real life’ itself,” which transforms life into “a spectral show,” (Žižek 2001, p. 106) where spiritual practices, once transformative, are commodified into luxury symbols, such as yoga on Instagram or meditation classes that reduce existential anxiety to quantifiable “stress levels.” This sanitized form of spirituality leads to the exclusion of the raw, untranslatable experiences of suffering—such as the stench of death in slums or the grueling physical labor of factory workers—relegating them to the background. Byung-Chul Han’s notion of the “world of smoothness” aptly captures this dynamic: “a culinary world, a world of pure positivity, in which there is no pain, no injury, no ruptures, also no seams.” (Han 2017, chap. The Smooth). This is not about overcoming suffering but symbolically erasing it, making it invisible and therefore politically unacknowledged.

As Žižek sharply points out, in the new global order, religion is either therapeutic, helping individuals function better within the existing system, or it is critical, highlighting the problems of that very system and serving as a space for dissenting voices (Žižek 2003, p. 3). If left unexamined, spiritual and religious experiences will lean toward the former—co-opted by neoliberalism, transforming into a therapeutic tool and ultimately becoming an ideological instrument that reinforces the status quo. To overcome this impasse, it is necessary to free spiritual experience from the one-dimensional confines of upward transcendence and reconceptualize it as a movement of what I have termed downward transcendence. While upward transcendence generally refers to elevating oneself from a mundane existence to a sacred and perfect realm, downward transcendence does not seek to escape or surpass reality’s suffering and limitations. By embracing the vulnerability and absurdity of existence, it reencounters the divine in its brokenness, allowing one to find transcendence not by escaping the material world, but by confronting it in its rawest form. Downward transcendence empowers individuals with the strength to face their fear and pain, fosters communities for those marginalized by society, and serves as a critical tool for challenging societal norms and established power structures. It is also a creative process that transforms negativity into positive energy. Building on Žižek’s theories and using Sartre’s Nausea as a case study, this paper explores the significance of downward transcendence, highlighting its potential value in contemporary society.

2. The Monstrous Divine: Žižek’s Subversion of Religious and Spiritual Experience Through Absurdity and Excess

In the foreword to the Short Circuits series, Žižek introduces his method of “short-circuiting” readings: approaching a major classic through the lens of a “minor” element to uncover insights that challenge conventional interpretations, confronting the text with its hidden assumptions and exposing its repressed truths (Žižek 2003, tit. Series Foreword). In this short circuit, Žižek anchors the divine in the remnants where the symbolic order collapses, constructing a theological framework of downward transcendence. Unlike upward transcendence, this paradigm calls for the subject to immerse themselves in the remnants that the symbolic system cannot accommodate and reconnect with the divine dimension obscured by the “world of smoothness.” In this process, Žižek reads theological texts in an anti-theological way, exposing the absurdities within these experiences and challenging our conventional understanding of religious and spiritual experiences, which are often linked to ideals of “wholeness.” Additionally, Žižek identifies absurdity and excess in Christ-like figures within non-theological literature, elevating these very qualities to the sublime. In this short circuit between absurdity and the sublime, the divine no longer depends on an idealized transcendence; instead, it is rooted in the negative fissures of reality.

Through his anti-theological readings and demystification of the divine, Žižek uncovers absurdities within theological texts, thereby dismantling the presupposition of an all-powerful God. This reading gives rise to a theology of failure, radically reconstructing Christianity as “the first religion without the sacred, a religion whose unique achievement is precisely to demystify the Sacred” (Žižek and Gunjević 2012, p. 68). As Jean-Luc Nancy notes in Dis-Enclosure: The Deconstruction of Christianity, “Christianity became, by itself, a humanism, an atheism, and a nihilism” (Nancy 2008, p. 23). While Nancy emphasizes Christianity’s self-deconstructive nature, Žižek reframes this insight by arguing that the atheistic core of Christianity lies not in the denial of God’s existence, but in exposing the fundamental division within divine authority. According to Žižek, the experience of despair, leading to a crisis of faith, is epitomized by Christ’s words, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”, wherein “Christ himself commits what is for a Christian the ultimate sin: he wavers in his Faith. While, in all other religions, there are people who do not believe in God, only in Christianity does God not believe in himself” (Žižek and Milbank 2011, pp. 48–49). Even more radically, Žižek interprets Christ’s cry as a reflection of God’s inner division, “revealing His utter impotence” (Žižek 2003, p. 126). However, when the divine descends from the heavens into the cracks of reality, God’s impotence becomes the very foundation of human freedom. Žižek argues that this experience reveals a profound truth: “It is only in this monstrosity of Christ that human freedom is grounded; and, at its most fundamental, it is neither as payment for our sins nor as legalistic ransom, but by enacting this openness that Christ’s sacrifice sets us free” (Žižek and Milbank 2011, p. 82). Christ on the cross does not offer humanity a guarantee of salvation; instead, by exposing the fragility of divine authority, it establishes freedom as a heavy burden that each individual must bear for themselves. This freedom is not an easy and happy gift but is rooted in the abyss left by the collapse of the divine order. Just as God loses His omnipotence through self-division, the subject must similarly relinquish any ultimate attachment to the symbolic order and acknowledge their fundamental predicament. By reframing Christ’s suffering as downward transcendence, Žižek redefines the sacred through confrontation with, not escape from, the abyss.

In his interpretation of the Book of Job, Žižek continues to deconstruct the divine order, revealing the internal negation within the divine persona itself. For Žižek, Job’s suffering is not a test of human faith, but rather an exposure of the fundamental cracks in the divine realm. He describes God as “a God who acts like someone caught in a moment of impotence—or, at the very least, weakness—and tries to escape His predicament by empty boasting” (Žižek 2003, p. 125). Žižek reads Job’s silence in the face of God’s self-aggrandizement as a subtle recognition of divine helplessness. In this moment, Job’s silence is not simply passive resistance, but an acknowledgment that God, in his powerlessness, is undergoing a trial of his own. As Žižek explains, Job realizes that it is God who is being tested, not himself, and tragically, God fails this test (Žižek and Milbank 2011, p. 56). This realization leads to a theological awakening for Job, where his silence becomes an active form of downward transcendence. Through his meaningless suffering, Job begins to perceive the bankruptcy of the divine order, shifting the understanding of his pain. Rather than seeing it as an exceptional, redemptive trial, Job recognizes it as symptomatic of the ontological inadequacy within the divine realm. His pain is no longer an isolated burden to be overcome; it reflects the very void at the heart of the divine order. This insight marks a rupture in the traditional view of divine suffering and redemption, where Job’s suffering becomes a point of entry into a deeper, more radical spiritual truth.

In contrast to the anti-theological approach that focuses on the excess within theological texts, Žižek applies a theological reading to non-theological literature marked by excess and absurdity. He elevates the absurd to the level of the divine and the sublime. As Benjamin Noys notes, Žižek’s work exhibits Gothic features, with references to “terrifying” bodily marks and “disgusting enjoyment” (Noys 2016). However, without elevating these unsettling, grotesque images to the level of the sacred and interpreting the experiences of those pushed to the margins of human existence as a Christ-like religious experience, Žižek’s anti-humanism would lose its ethical significance. More important than the grotesque excess in his texts is Žižek’s connection of these excessive elements—such as the grotesque, absurdity, and disgust—with the sacred and sublime, elevating the “living dead,” those rejected by society, to a sacred position. A Žižekian saint is not a moderate person who conforms to mainstream ideology; rather, they are characterized by “excess,” appearing monstrous and incomprehensible. It is through their absurd sublime that their experiences acquire a Christ-like dimension, imbuing them with both ethical and divine significance.

In his analysis of Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Žižek anchors the sacredness of Sethe’s extreme act of killing her infant daughter, Beloved, in the fissures of existence, interpreting it as a form of excess. As a runaway slave, Sethe, trapped in the desperate situation of being pursued by her captors, chooses to kill her two-year-old daughter rather than allow her to fall into the horrors of slavery. In traditional ethical frameworks, this act is undeniably seen as an anti-maternal crime. However, Žižek interprets Sethe’s seemingly cruel, inhumane, twisted choice as an ethical stance, arguing that it represents “the only way open to her to act effectively as a parent, protect her children and save their dignity” (Žižek 2008, p. 143). When Sethe “fully assumed the impossible-traumatic act of taking a shot at herself, at what was most precious to herself,” (Žižek 2008, p. 144), she punctures the hypocritical veil of the slavery order with her negative violence. In a world where Black bodies are objectified as disposable property within the slave system, only through such a self-destructive, excessive action can a genuine ethical act be realized. Žižek further juxtaposes Sethe’s action with the core narrative of Christianity, revealing their structural homology. Just as God exposes the fundamental lack in the divine order by sacrificing His only Son, Sethe’s act of infanticide similarly thrusts motherhood into the abyss of impossibility.

The commonality between these two acts lies in the way both give up the most precious thing to themselves, effectively detonating the existing symbolic system. This extreme choice, seemingly anti-human, in Žižek’s interpretation, becomes “the properly modern ethical act” (Žižek 2008, p. 144). Sethe’s infanticide represents a downward transcendence within the context of slavery. While the upward transcendence paradigm may treat the suffering of Black mothers as a divine test of faith (akin to how the death of Adam is endowed with meaning by the religious community), her extreme choice disrupts this model, pushing motherhood into the excremental channel of the symbolic system. In this sense, Sethe’s act becomes a radical break from the moral frameworks that normalize Black suffering. The religious community tends to elevate suffering into a form of spiritual redemption, yet Sethe’s choice rejects this transcendence, instead confronting the abyss of slavery’s dehumanization. Through this rejection, Sethe not only ruptures the traditional symbolic order but also redefines what it means to act ethically in the face of systemic oppression. The act itself is not a simple rejection of motherhood, but rather a profound statement that challenges the very conditions under which maternal love and sacrifice have been historically framed and exploited. By exiling herself beyond the confines of ethical convention, Sethe opens the possibility of a new theological dimension—an alternative sacred space grounded in the traumatic truth shaped by negation. In this space, religious and spiritual experience, in its downward transcendence, is no longer about reconciling with transcendence but instead emerges as a radical confrontation with the impossibility.

Žižek’s interpretation of the death of Sygne de Coufontaine in Paul Claudel’s play The Hostage extends this logic of pursuing divinity through excess and the bizarre. In the climax of the play, Sygne throws herself in front of the bullet intended for her husband, Turelure. However, as she nears death, she spasms and refuses to offer any interpretation of her actions. The subversive nature of this scene lies in the fact that, while traditional criticism attempts to fit her sacrifice into a sacrificial economy—whether for atonement, strategic compromise, or moral elevation—Žižek argues that her action is precisely a total rejection of symbolic appropriation, a refusal to assign any deeper sacrificial meaning to her act of suicide. He highlights Sygne’s “hysteric twitch of the lips, a tic which no longer belongs to the face,” and her “grimace whose insistence disintegrates the unity of a face.” (Žižek 2016, p. xv). By deliberately comparing Sygne to Antigone, Žižek underscores her radicalism. While Antigone’s sacrifice can still be integrated into the framework of tragic sublimity, framed as an example of upward transcendence, Sygne’s “No” represents a phenomenological gesture of downward transcendence. Deprived of “all inner ethical grandeur,” she is reduced to “a disgusting excremental stain of humanity, a living shelf deprived of life” (Žižek 2024, p. 154). This violent rejection of the symbolic order is, for Žižek, the core of the Christian tragedy. Just as Christ on the cross is not “a sublime apparition” but rather “an embarrassing monstrosity,” (Žižek 2016, p. xvi), Sygne’s death, marked by a grotesque grimace, reveals the fundamental paradox of the sacred: it is neither located in the realm of transcendence nor within the domain of humanity, but manifests as a traumatic remainder at the point of collapse in the symbolic system. The significance of Žižek’s analysis lies not just in the parallel between Sygne and Christ, but in the very inversion of theological and ethical norms. While traditional religious narratives frame sacrifice as a noble, upward transcendence that reaffirms divine order, Sygne’s act resists any such moral framework. Her refusal to provide a higher meaning for her act subverts the expectations of sacrifice. In this way, Žižek completes a theological phenomenological inversion: the “living dead,” excluded by the community, expose the negative core of the divine dimension through their monstrous, meaningless act. The sacred is not found within idealized transcendence, but rather in the grotesque, the violent, and the excluded. Sygne’s act, therefore, becomes a moment of radical rupture, a refusal to reconcile suffering with meaning, and a devastating rejection of the symbolic systems that have historically sought to contain the sacred.

In Žižek’s revised theological paradigm, grounded in negation, the traditional image of God as an all-powerful and perfect being is replaced by a failed God who unveils divinity through His incapacity. This notion of inherent divine contradiction echoes Caputo’s observation that theology is “a house divided against itself,” (Caputo 2006, pp. 7–8), constantly struggling to reconcile its pronouncements with the realities of suffering and imperfection. This notion of a deity grappling with its limitations also resonates deeply with Sartre’s existentialism. Just as Žižek’s God is not an all-powerful guarantor of meaning, Sartre depicts a world devoid of inherent purpose or order in Nausea. The experience of nausea is not simply a personal affliction but a manifestation of the same fundamental absurdity that Žižek identifies within the divine.

3. From Nausea to the Sacred: Downward Transcendence in Sartre’s Nausea

While Žižek’s theological framework provides a theoretical foundation for downward transcendence, Sartre’s Nausea offers a literary exploration of this concept through the existential experience of its protagonist, Roquentin, who confronts the nauseating realization of the inherent meaninglessness and contingency of existence. Through this existential experience, he is forced to face the absurdity of life without the comfort of higher meaning or transcendence. This compels the subject to reconfigure the coordinates of the sacred within the ruptures of the symbolic order. The novel suggests that true sanctity can only emerge from a negative experience—specifically, through nausea. While Roquentin briefly experiences a sense of detachment from the mundane through music, the narrative remains rooted in the phenomenology of existence’s nausea, which, in its intensity, is often more acutely perceived by marginalized individuals. It is through this very negative experience that the subject can break free from the anesthetizing mechanisms of conventional meaning production. This very experience brings forth a new event, one that emerges from the confrontation with the abyss. Roquentin’s confrontation with the raw, chaotic reality of existence exemplifies downward transcendence, as he finds liberation not by escaping the absurdity of life, but by fully embracing it.

In Nausea, the protagonist experiences a profound disgust towards existence itself. Sartre uses the town of Bouville (derived from boue, meaning “mud”) to illustrate the material essence of existence, defined by contingency, absurdity, and inexpressible complexity. Instead of aspiring for the clean ideal of a smooth world, this port town serves as a testing ground for downward transcendence. Overgrown plants crack through stone, fog obscures vision, and the inhuman and mineral-like Boulevard Noir pointedly defies expectations, as it “doesn’t have the indecent look of bourgeois streets, which try to charm the passers-by” (Sartre 2000, p. 31). These spatial elements defy the constraints of language and civilization, exposing existence in its raw, passive, and chaotic form, vulnerable to both growth and decay. Through this, Sartre vividly lays bare the contingency and meaninglessness of life. Foucault’s concept of heterotopias can help frame Bouville as a “counter-site”, disrupting norms and revealing the absence of order (Foucault 1986, p. 24). In this heterotopic space, all illusions of harmony, order, and upward transcendence are shattered, aligning with Roquentin’s realization that “Every existent is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.” (Sartre 2000, p. 159). In the face of absurdity and meaninglessness, the traditional idea of transcendence—as an escape or ascent from the imperfections of the material world—loses its appeal. Instead of ascending to a divine or higher state, one is forced to confront the absence of meaning, making the quest for transcendence an illusion shattered by the harsh truths of existence. This awakening to existence’s contingency and the failure of upward transcendence form the root of the nausea experience.

Despite the all-encompassing presence of boue-like existence, social groups in Bouville attempt to conceal their profound existential anxiety in their ways. The elite, much like the figures immortalized (or rather, embalmed) in Bouville’s museum, sought to project an image of unshakeable virtue and accomplishment by emphasizing duty, societal contribution, and adherence to tradition. Yet, as Roquentin sharply notes of these stately but ultimately hollow figures, “when you look straight at a face ablaze with a sense of privilege, this fire dies out after a moment, and only an ashy residue remains.” (Sartre 2000, p. 107). The ashy residue here refers to the ultimate failure of their carefully constructed project of self-justification, a haunting reminder that no amount of societal recognition or good deeds can mask the fundamental contingency and lack of inherent purpose at the core of their being. Similarly, ordinary people in Bouville, seek refuge in routine and the comfort of shared illusions. Whether it is through devotion to family or commitment to their daily jobs, they attempt to give their lives a sense of purpose. They follow social conventions, seek the approval of others, and meticulously cultivate a sense of belonging.

Unlike these attempts to mask or escape the absurdity of existence, Roquentin’s journey takes a radically different path. Initially, he clings to adventure, idealizing past travels and his historical research into Monsieur de Rollebon as sources of purpose, attempting to impose order on his chaotic experience. However, as nausea intensifies, this pursuit crumbles, exposing the constructed narratives of adventure and the futility of his historical work, which devolves into subjective storytelling. Rollebon, once a fascinating figure of escape, fades into irrelevance. Yet, in relinquishing these illusions, Roquentin finds not despair but a strange liberation. He accepts nausea as the essence of his existence, a key to an unsettling yet profound understanding. This acceptance, born from the ashes of discarded ambitions, allows him to glimpse the possibility of transforming his visceral awareness into art—a creation “beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence” (Sartre 2000, p. 212) that might justify his being. To achieve this artistic breakthrough, Roquentin understands that he must descend into the heart of what he finds most repulsive, confronting the inherent absurdity and “filth” of existence. As Sartre states in What is Literature?, “to reveal is to change,” and “one can reveal only by planning to change” (Sartre 1988, p. 37). Roquentin’s enlightenment, predicated on confronting the raw, unfiltered reality often obscured by comforting lies, becomes the foundation for his resolve to create authentically, which seeks to re-sacralize the raw aspects through downward transcendence.

What endows Roquentin with the unique potential to confront and transform the absurdity of existence is his marginal status, his insistence on “the rights of vermin and dirt,” (Sartre 2000, p. 51), a deliberate embrace of that which the bourgeoisie finds disgusting or unworthy of consideration. It is through embracing this abjectness that he can perceive existence with an unvarnished clarity, unshackled by societal expectations and self-deception. As a man de trop, detached from a fixed identity and thus excluded from the symbolic system, Roquentin embodies what Rancière calls the “part des sans-part” (the part of those without part), the segment of society that experiences systematic and absolute alienation, or those who are castaways in the system and never quite make it in. This marginality is not merely a personal misfortune; it grants Roquentin access to a perspective unavailable to the self-satisfied citizens of Bouville. Epistemologically, the absence of a symbolic identity allows the marginal being a uniquely direct engagement with the world, unburdened by pre-defined narratives. Ontologically, their experience of nausea becomes a potent form of dissent, a visceral objection to the established “distribution of the sensible.” In this sense, the individual’s discomfort with existence serves as a searing critique of the societal structures that define and limit what is considered sensible or meaningful. Through creative acts, such as book writing, the marginalized being possesses the capacity to reconfigure how existence is perceived, making “heard a discourse where once there was only place for noise.” (Rancière 1999, p. 30). This profoundly negative experience allows them to implicitly construct “non-existence” as the foundation for a new, albeit unconventional, sensible community, elevating those remnants of existence deemed disgusting or undesirable by the prevailing order into vessels of an inverted sacredness.

However, not all subjects on the margins of society can “reconfigure the map of the sensible by interfering with the functionality of gestures and rhythms” (Rancière 2013, p. 35) through a confrontation with negative experience. When they reject this negative experience of absurdity and nausea, they fail to achieve such reconfiguration. The eventual failure of Anny (Roquentin’s former lover, who seeks to escape existential chaos through rigidly orchestrated “perfect moments”) and the Self-Taught Man (an autodidact obsessed with encyclopedic knowledge as a shield against meaninglessness, later exposed as a pederast) demonstrates their limitation. Anny attempts to elevate life into a succession of perfect moments by imposing rigid codes of behavior, demanding precise words and actions for each anticipated situation. This strategy constitutes a purification mechanism on the ontological level: a rejection of reality’s messy contingencies (such as the nettles stinging her legs during a carefully orchestrated encounter), in favor of constructing a sterile, self-contained symbolic system governed by inflexible aesthetic discipline. However, when Anny inevitably confronts the reality that existence persistently deviates from her idealized framework, as symbolized by the irruption of chaos during her date, her carefully constructed mental world crumbles entirely. Similarly, the Self-Taught Man, with his naive humanism and relentless pursuit of encyclopedic knowledge, constructs a different, yet equally fragile, defense against nausea. He attempts to encompass all of humanity in a single, coherent framework of sentimental love, but his idealized vision crumbles when he is exposed as a pederast and publicly shamed, revealing the fragility of his intellectual and emotional constructs. Unlike Roquentin, who embraces nausea as a path to liberation, Anny and the Self-Taught Man fail to confront the absurdity of existence, clinging instead to rigid frameworks that ultimately collapse under the weight of reality. Their inability to engage with negative experiences underscores the necessity of downward transcendence, which requires a full acceptance of life’s chaos and meaninglessness.

The critical insight that eludes Anny and the Self-Taught Man is the immense potential for events latent within the seemingly debilitating experience of nausea. As Roquentin realizes with horror on a fog-enshrouded morning, “It is out of laziness, I suppose, that the world looks the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And in that case anything, anything could happen.” (Sartre 2000, p. 93). The sickening imagery of Roquentin’s wild imagination when he overlooks Bouville before leaving the city—sides of rotten meat crawling in the streets, children’s cheeks erupting with alien eyes, and tongues transforming into enormous, writhing centipedes—are more than mere flights of fancy; these grotesque visions lay bare the raw, unfiltered reality of existence, stripping away the comforting illusions of order and meaning. They reveal a world in which the familiar becomes alien, and the boundaries between self and other, subject and object, dissolve into a chaotic flux. It is within this terrifying landscape of boundless and absurd possibility, however, that a sliver of hope emerges. Existence’s instability, which elicits such revulsion, is simultaneously a curse and a blessing. It brings nausea, but it also unlocks the eternal potential for self-disruption, the shattering of established forms, and the birth of something new. In this way, nausea serves as both a profound dissatisfaction with the present and the fertile ground for a reimagined future. As Roquentin experiences, first, nausea enacts a rejection of the existing order, culminating in his defiant realization—“I am the one who is the soldier!” (Sartre 2000, p. 104)—a declaration made within the very halls of Bouville’s museum, a symbol of the stagnant, self-satisfied elite he vehemently rejects. His place, or rather, “a place without place,” represents the de trop individual’s rejection of the established bourgeois order. Second, it also serves as the necessary foundation for a new order. When Roquentin decides to write a book that transcends the raw contingencies of existence, he is transforming negativity itself into the core of a new sensibility, acknowledging the generative force of all that has been deemed filth.

Roquentin’s epiphany beneath the chestnut tree—“I was the root of the chestnut tree. Or rather I was all consciousness of its existence” (Sartre 2000, p. 157)—exemplifies downward transcendence, signifying not an escape from reality through ascension, but a profound immersion within its raw, chaotic depths. Just as Christ’s cry of “Father, why have you forsaken me?” reveals the internal division within the divine, Roquentin’s encounter with the chestnut tree exposes the raw, contingent nature of existence, stripped of all comforting illusions. This shift away from idealized transcendence reveals that the sacred no longer resides in pristine ideals or elevated figures, but emerges from the very body of existence, from the “filth” itself. Rather than seeking purification or transcendence toward an ideal form, Roquentin embraces the abject, where transcendence arises through fully accepting the degraded. In this process, Roquentin’s experience mirrors downward transcendence: not escaping suffering, but plunging into its heart. The sacred is redefined, not as something separate from the world, but born from its degradation. Thus, transcendence is no longer about escape, but about descending fully into the base realities of existence, seeing them as a site for reconfiguration and new creation.

Roquentin’s imagined figures of the Black singer and the Jewish composer further illustrate this point. The singer, whose voice bears the mark of racial oppression, and the composer, creating music amidst heat and exhaustion, embody suffering and resilience. They are not elevated figures in gilded frames but raw, visceral presences within the world. Through their suffering, they model transcendence. In them, Roquentin sees the sacred not as idealized or removed, but as born from the fissures of existence, from those who endure and embrace their base conditions. Thus, Roquentin’s downward transcendence mirrors the lives of the Black singer and Jewish composer, who, as embodiments of creative potential, transmute suffering into enduring art. Far from being discarded detritus, the marginalized and abject represent primal forces from which a new ontological order emerges. Nausea, then, is not merely revulsion but a transformative, creative force. Through embracing what is deemed nauseating, a genuine act and self-reconstruction become possible. Ultimately, this downward transcendence requires accepting the filth, chaos, and marginalization as the path to a new understanding of existence and freedom. It is precisely this “messianic remnant” that retains the radical potential for transformative action, making salvation and political change possible, as Agamben suggests (Agamben 2005, p. 57). Through downward transcendence, the forces deemed most base—filth, degradation—become, paradoxically, the springboard for radical transformation and the emergence of a new possibility for being.

4. Conclusions

In an era dominated by neoliberal capitalism and the commodification of spirituality, downward transcendence offers a radical alternative, urging individuals and communities to confront the brokenness of existence and to reimagine the sacred within its fissures. Rather than seeking the escape promised by upward transcendence, which idealizes spiritual ascent or perfection, downward transcendence engages directly with the material, the abject, and the marginalized. It shifts the locus of the sacred from an idealized, upward trajectory to the raw, often rejected aspects of life—its meaninglessness, suffering, and existential anxiety. Both Žižek and Sartre, in their distinct ways, suggest that freedom can only be found by confronting this void head-on, by embracing the failure and the nausea as integral parts of the human condition. This direct encounter with the abject, then, is not an evasion of suffering, but an active engagement that challenges the commodification of spirituality and opens the door to creative and critical events. This also means questioning the dominant stories we tell ourselves about history and progress, stories that often sanitize or ignore the suffering and marginalization inherent in the human condition.

Downward transcendence rejects the myth of linear progress, aligning with Walter Benjamin’s critique of linear historical progression. For Benjamin, history is not a trajectory of continuous ascent but a pile of ruins, as portrayed by his angel of history, who sees “one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage” (Benjamin 1968, p. 257). Roquentin’s nausea, symptoms of Žižek’s failed God, like Benjamin’s angel, disrupts the illusion of bourgeois progress and exposes the latent weak messianic power within the marginalized remnants. These “indecent” remnants—sweat, mucus, and corpses—are imbued with revolutionary potential, challenging capitalism’s sanitized and normative definitions of history. This dynamic is central to downward transcendence: it is not a passive resignation to despair, but an active resistance to the illusion of progress. Downward transcendence recognizes that true transformation can only arise from confronting the ruins of the past and present, from embracing the “wreckage” that capitalism and other systems of power seek to erase. It is through this engagement with the abject, with the marginalized and discarded remnants of society, that the sacred can be reimagined and revitalized. In rejecting idealized visions of transcendence and progress, downward transcendence insists that the sacred resides not in abstract ideals but in the fractured and often painful reality of the human condition. Thus, downward transcendence becomes not merely a personal journey but a collective call to confront the brokenness of existence and to reimagine the sacred within its fissures. It urges individuals and communities to reclaim meaning from the destruction, creating new spaces for solidarity and transformation at the margins of society.

Ultimately, embracing downward transcendence is not simply about accepting negativity; it is about harnessing the power of negativity to create a more just, compassionate, and meaningful world. As we cease to search for God in illusions of completeness or perfection, we can realize that, as Mark C. Taylor suggests, “the divine is not elsewhere but is the emergent creativity that figures, disfigures, and refigures the infinite fabric of life. A religion without God issues in ethics without absolutes to promote and preserve the creative emergence of life across the globe.” (Taylor 2007b, pp. xvii–xviii). This insight aligns with the concept of downward transcendence, which redefines the sacred not as an escape from the material world, but as an engagement with its raw, chaotic reality. It is a call to descend into the mud, to confront the brokenness of existence, and to build a new kind of sacred from the ruins. This alternative paradigm can guide our efforts to build communities, address spiritual crises, resist capitalism’s co-optation of religious and spiritual practices, and create meaningful forms of resistance against systems that perpetuate suffering. Whether in literature, art, or social activism, embracing downward transcendence allows us to engage with the messiness and contradictions of human existence, finding not only a path to personal liberation but also the potential for collective and social transformation.