Religion and Neurology

It is with no small amount of trepidation that I take my place behind this desk, and face this learned audience. To us Americans, the experience of receiving instruction from the living voice, as well as from the books, of European scholars, is very familiar. At my own University of Harvard, not a winter passes without its harvest, large or small, of lectures from Scottish, English, French, or German representatives of the science or literature of their respective countries whom we have either induced to cross the ocean to address us, or captured on the wing as they were visiting our land. It seems the natural thing for us to listen whilst the Europeans talk. The contrary habit, of talking whilst the Europeans listen, we have not yet acquired; and in him who first makes the adventure it begets a certain sense of apology being due for so presumptuous an act. Particularly must this be the case on a soil as sacred to the American imagination as that of Edinburgh. The glories of the philosophic chair of this university were deeply impressed on my imagination in boyhood. Professor Fraser's Essays in Philosophy, then just published, was the first philosophic book I ever looked into, and I well remember the awe-struck feeling I received from the account of Sir William Hamilton's class-room therein contained. Hamilton's own lectures were the first philosophic writings I ever forced myself to study, and after that I was immersed in Dugald Stewart and Thomas Brown. Such juvenile emotions of reverence never get outgrown; and I confess that to find my humble self promoted from my native wilderness to be actually for the time an official here, and transmuted into a colleague of these illustrious names, carries with it a sense of dreamland quite as much as of reality.

I take my place behind this desk and face this learned audience with considerable trepidation. We Americans are very familiar with learning from European scholars, both through their books and by hearing them speak. At my own university, Harvard, every winter brings a harvest of lectures, large or small. The lecturers are Scottish, English, French, or German representatives of their countries’ science or literature. We have either persuaded them to cross the ocean to speak to us or caught them in passing while they were visiting our country. It seems natural for us to listen while Europeans talk. We have not yet acquired the opposite habit, talking while Europeans listen. The first person to try it feels that he owes an apology for such a presumptuous act. That feeling must be especially strong on ground as sacred to the American imagination as Edinburgh. As a boy, I was deeply impressed by the distinction of this university’s chair of philosophy. Professor Fraser’s Essays in Philosophy had just been published, and it was the first philosophy book I ever opened. I still remember the awe I felt when I read its account of Sir William Hamilton’s classroom. Hamilton’s own lectures were the first philosophical writings I ever forced myself to study. After that, I immersed myself in Dugald Stewart and Thomas Brown. We never outgrow such youthful feelings of reverence. So I confess that my promotion from my native wilderness to an actual, if temporary, official position here feels like a dream as much as reality. I, of all people, have been transformed into a colleague of these illustrious figures.

But since I have received the honor of this appointment I have felt that it would never do to decline. The academic career also has its heroic obligations, so I stand here without further deprecatory words. Let me say only this, that now that the current, here and at Aberdeen, has begun to run from west to east, I hope it may continue to do so. As the years go by, I hope that many of my countrymen may be asked to lecture in the Scottish universities, changing places with Scotsmen lecturing in the United States; I hope that our people may become in all these higher matters even as one people; and that the peculiar philosophic temperament, as well as the peculiar political temperament, that goes with our English speech may more and more pervade and influence the world.

But since I have been honored with this appointment, I have felt that I could not decline it. An academic career has its heroic duties too, so I stand here without further apologies. I will say only this: now that the current here at Aberdeen has begun to flow from west to east, I hope it continues. As the years go by, I hope many of my fellow Americans will be invited to lecture at Scottish universities. I hope they will exchange places with Scots who lecture in the United States. I hope our peoples will become like one people in all these higher matters. And I hope the distinctive philosophical temperament, as well as the distinctive political temperament, associated with our English language will increasingly spread throughout the world and influence it.

As regards the manner in which I shall have to administer this lectureship, I am neither a theologian, nor a scholar learned in the history of religions, nor an anthropologist. Psychology is the only branch of learning in which I am particularly versed. To the psychologist the religious propensities of man must be at least as interesting as any other of the facts pertaining to his mental constitution. It would seem, therefore, that, as a psychologist, the natural thing for me would be to invite you to a descriptive survey of those religious propensities.

As for how I will conduct these lectures, I am not a theologian, a scholar of religious history, or an anthropologist. Psychology is the only field in which I have particular expertise. For a psychologist, human religious tendencies must be at least as interesting as any other aspect of the human mind. So, as a psychologist, the natural thing would seem to be to invite you to explore these religious tendencies with me.

If the inquiry be psychological, not religious institutions, but rather religious feelings and religious impulses must be its subject, and I must confine myself to those more developed subjective phenomena recorded in literature produced by articulate and fully self-conscious men, in works of piety and autobiography. Interesting as the origins and early stages of a subject always are, yet when one seeks earnestly for its full significance, one must always look to its more completely evolved and perfect forms. It follows from this that the documents that will most concern us will be those of the men who were most accomplished in the religious life and best able to give an intelligible account of their ideas and motives. These men, of course, are either comparatively modern writers, or else such earlier ones as have become religious classics. The documents humains which we shall find most instructive need not then be sought for in the haunts of special erudition—they lie along the beaten highway; and this circumstance, which flows so naturally from the character of our problem, suits admirably also your lecturer's lack of special theological learning. I may take my citations, my sentences and paragraphs of personal confession, from books that most of you at some time will have had already in your hands, and yet this will be no detriment to the value of my conclusions. It is true that some more adventurous reader and investigator, lecturing here in future, may unearth from the shelves of libraries documents that will make a more delectable and curious entertainment to listen to than mine. Yet I doubt whether he will necessarily, by his control of so much more out-of-the-way material, get much closer to the essence of the matter in hand.

If our inquiry is psychological, its subject must be religious feelings and impulses, not religious institutions. I must focus on the more developed personal experiences recorded in devotional writings and autobiographies by articulate, fully self-aware men. The origins and early stages of a subject are always interesting. But when we seriously seek its full significance, we must always look to its more fully developed and perfect forms. It follows that the documents most important to us will come from men most accomplished in the religious life. They will also be men best able to give a clear account of their ideas and motives. Of course, these men are either relatively modern writers or earlier writers whose works have become religious classics. We need not search in obscure scholarly places for the most instructive human documents. They lie along a well-traveled road. This follows naturally from the nature of our inquiry, and it also suits your lecturer's lack of specialized theological learning. I can take my quotations, my sentences and paragraphs of personal confession, from books most of you will have read at some time. Yet doing so will not diminish the value of my conclusions. It is true that some more adventurous reader and investigator may lecture here in the future. He may uncover library documents that make for a more delightful and curious entertainment than mine. Yet I doubt that his command of so much more obscure material will necessarily bring him much closer to the essence of the matter at hand.

The question, What are the religious propensities? and the question, What is their philosophic significance? are two entirely different orders of question from the logical point of view; and, as a failure to recognize this fact distinctly may breed confusion, I wish to insist upon the point a little before we enter into the documents and materials to which I have referred.

The questions “What are religious tendencies?” and “What is their philosophical significance?” are logically two entirely different kinds of question. Failing to recognize this distinction clearly may cause confusion. So I want to emphasize it before we examine the documents and materials I have mentioned.

In recent books on logic, distinction is made between two orders of inquiry concerning anything. First, what is the nature of it? how did it come about? what is its constitution, origin, and history? And second, What is its importance, meaning, or significance, now that it is once here? The answer to the one question is given in an existential judgment or proposition. The answer to the other is a proposition of value, what the Germans call a Werthurtheil, or what we may, if we like, denominate a spiritual judgment. Neither judgment can be deduced immediately from the other. They proceed from diverse intellectual preoccupations, and the mind combines them only by making them first separately, and then adding them together.

Recent books on logic distinguish between two kinds of inquiry about anything. First, what is its nature? How did it come about? What are its makeup, origin, and history? Second, what is its importance, meaning, or significance, now that it exists? The answer to the first question is an existential judgment or proposition. The answer to the second is a proposition of value, what the Germans call a Werthurtheil. We may also call it a spiritual judgment, if we like. Neither judgment can be directly deduced from the other. They arise from different intellectual concerns. The mind combines them only by first making each judgment separately and then adding them together.

In the matter of religions it is particularly easy to distinguish the two orders of question. Every religious phenomenon has its history and its derivation from natural antecedents. What is nowadays called the higher criticism of the Bible is only a study of the Bible from this existential point of view, neglected too much by the earlier church. Under just what biographic conditions did the sacred writers bring forth their various contributions to the holy volume? And what had they exactly in their several individual minds, when they delivered their utterances? These are manifestly questions of historical fact, and one does not see how the answer to them can decide offhand the still further question: of what use should such a volume, with its manner of coming into existence so defined, be to us as a guide to life and a revelation? To answer this other question we must have already in our mind some sort of a general theory as to what the peculiarities in a thing should be which give it value for purposes of revelation; and this theory itself would be what I just called a spiritual judgment. Combining it with our existential judgment, we might indeed deduce another spiritual judgment as to the Bible's worth. Thus if our theory of revelation-value were to affirm that any book, to possess it, must have been composed automatically or not by the free caprice of the writer, or that it must exhibit no scientific and historic errors and express no local or personal passions, the Bible would probably fare ill at our hands. But if, on the other hand, our theory should allow that a book may well be a revelation in spite of errors and passions and deliberate human composition, if only it be a true record of the inner experiences of great-souled persons wrestling with the crises of their fate, then the verdict would be much more favorable. You see that the existential facts by themselves are insufficient for determining the value; and the best adepts of the higher criticism accordingly never confound the existential with the spiritual problem. With the same conclusions of fact before them, some take one view, and some another, of the Bible's value as a revelation, according as their spiritual judgment as to the foundation of values differs.

In religion, it is especially easy to distinguish these two kinds of questions. Every religious phenomenon has a history and arises from natural causes. What is now called the higher criticism of the Bible simply studies the Bible from this existential point of view. The earlier church neglected this approach too much. Under exactly what circumstances in their lives did the sacred writers produce their various contributions to the holy volume? And what exactly was in each writer’s mind when they made their statements? These are clearly questions of historical fact. Their answers cannot immediately decide a further question: how useful should such a volume be to us as a guide to life and a revelation, given how it came into existence? To answer this further question, we must already have some general theory about what qualities give something value as a revelation. This theory would itself be what I just called a spiritual judgment. Combined with our existential judgment, it might indeed lead us to another spiritual judgment about the Bible’s worth. Suppose, for example, our theory holds that a book can have value as a revelation only if it was composed automatically, not by the writer’s free choice. Or suppose it holds that the book must contain no scientific or historical errors and express no local or personal passions. By those standards, the Bible would probably fare poorly at our hands. On the other hand, suppose our theory allows that a book may be a revelation despite errors, passions, and deliberate human composition. It need only be a true record of the inner experiences of great-souled people struggling with the crises of their fate. Then our verdict would be much more favorable. You can see that existential facts alone are not enough to determine value. Accordingly, the best practitioners of higher criticism never confuse the existential question with the spiritual one. They may agree on the facts but take different views of the Bible’s value as a revelation. Their views depend on their different spiritual judgments about the foundations of value.

I make these general remarks about the two sorts of judgment, because there are many religious persons—some of you now present, possibly, are among them—who do not yet make a working use of the distinction, and who may therefore feel at first a little startled at the purely existential point of view from which in the following lectures the phenomena of religious experience must be considered. When I handle them biologically and psychologically as if they were mere curious facts of individual history, some of you may think it a degradation of so sublime a subject, and may even suspect me, until my purpose gets more fully expressed, of deliberately seeking to discredit the religious side of life.

I make these general remarks about the two kinds of judgment because many religious people do not yet use the distinction in practice. Some of you here today may be among them. As a result, you may at first be a little startled by the purely factual point of view I must take toward religious experiences in the following lectures. I will treat these experiences biologically and psychologically, as if they were merely curious facts in individual lives. Some of you may think that this degrades such a sublime subject. Until I explain my purpose more fully, you may even suspect me of deliberately trying to discredit the religious side of life.

Such a result is of course absolutely alien to my intention; and since such a prejudice on your part would seriously obstruct the due effect of much of what I have to relate, I will devote a few more words to the point.

Of course, such a result is absolutely not what I intend. Such a prejudice on your part would seriously prevent much of what I have to say from having its intended effect. So I will say a little more about it.

There can be no doubt that as a matter of fact a religious life, exclusively pursued, does tend to make the person exceptional and eccentric. I speak not now of your ordinary religious believer, who follows the conventional observances of his country, whether it be Buddhist, Christian, or Mohammedan. His religion has been made for him by others, communicated to him by tradition, determined to fixed forms by imitation, and retained by habit. It would profit us little to study this second-hand religious life. We must make search rather for the original experiences which were the pattern-setters to all this mass of suggested feeling and imitated conduct. These experiences we can only find in individuals for whom religion exists not as a dull habit, but as an acute fever rather. But such individuals are “geniuses” in the religious line; and like many other geniuses who have brought forth fruits effective enough for commemoration in the pages of biography, such religious geniuses have often shown symptoms of nervous instability. Even more perhaps than other kinds of genius, religious leaders have been subject to abnormal psychical visitations. Invariably they have been creatures of exalted emotional sensibility. Often they have led a discordant inner life, and had melancholy during a part of their career. They have known no measure, been liable to obsessions and fixed ideas; and frequently they have fallen into trances, heard voices, seen visions, and presented all sorts of peculiarities which are ordinarily classed as pathological. Often, moreover, these pathological features in their career have helped to give them their religious authority and influence.

There is no doubt that a life devoted exclusively to religion does tend to make a person unusual and eccentric. I am not speaking of ordinary religious believers who follow their country’s customary practices, whether Buddhist, Christian, or Muslim. Their religion has been made for them by others and passed down through tradition. It has taken fixed forms through imitation and is maintained by habit. Studying this secondhand religious life would teach us little. Instead, we must look for the original experiences that set the pattern for all this suggested feeling and imitated behavior. We can find these experiences only in people for whom religion is not a dull habit, but an intense fever. Such people are “geniuses” in the religious field. Like many other geniuses whose achievements have earned them a place in biographies, they have often shown signs of nervous instability. Perhaps even more than other kinds of genius, religious leaders have been subject to unusual mental experiences. They have always been exceptionally sensitive emotionally. Often they have had troubled inner lives and suffered from melancholy for part of their lives. They have known no moderation and have been prone to obsessions and fixed ideas. They have frequently fallen into trances, heard voices, seen visions, and shown all sorts of traits usually considered pathological. Often, moreover, these pathological features of their lives have helped give them religious authority and influence.

If you ask for a concrete example, there can be no better one than is furnished by the person of George Fox. The Quaker religion which he founded is something which it is impossible to overpraise. In a day of shams, it was a religion of veracity rooted in spiritual inwardness, and a return to something more like the original gospel truth than men had ever known in England. So far as our Christian sects to-day are evolving into liberality, they are simply reverting in essence to the position which Fox and the early Quakers so long ago assumed. No one can pretend for a moment that in point of spiritual sagacity and capacity, Fox's mind was unsound. Every one who confronted him personally, from Oliver Cromwell down to county magistrates and jailers, seems to have acknowledged his superior power. Yet from the point of view of his nervous constitution, Fox was a psychopath or détraqué of the deepest dye. His Journal abounds in entries of this sort:—

If you want a concrete example, there is none better than George Fox. It is impossible to praise the Quaker religion he founded too highly. In an age of pretense, it was a religion of honesty, rooted in an inward spiritual life. It returned to something closer to the original truth of the gospel than people in England had ever known. As Christian sects today become more liberal, they are simply returning in essence to the position Fox and the early Quakers took so long ago. No one can seriously claim that Fox’s mind was unsound in its spiritual wisdom or ability. Everyone who met him personally, from Oliver Cromwell to county magistrates and jailers, seems to have recognized his superior power. Yet, judging by his nervous constitution, Fox was a psychopath or détraqué of the most extreme kind. His Journal is full of entries like this:

Bent as we are on studying religion's existential conditions, we cannot possibly ignore these pathological aspects of the subject. We must describe and name them just as if they occurred in non-religious men. It is true that we instinctively recoil from seeing an object to which our emotions and affections are committed handled by the intellect as any other object is handled. The first thing the intellect does with an object is to class it along with something else. But any object that is infinitely important to us and awakens our devotion feels to us also as if it must be sui generis and unique. Probably a crab would be filled with a sense of personal outrage if it could hear us class it without ado or apology as a crustacean, and thus dispose of it. “I am no such thing,” it would say; “I am myself, myself alone.”

Since we are studying the conditions of religious life, we cannot ignore its pathological aspects. We must describe and name them just as we would if they occurred in nonreligious people. It is true that we instinctively recoil when the intellect treats something we care about like any other object. The first thing the intellect does with an object is to group it with something else. But anything infinitely important to us, anything that inspires our devotion, also feels as though it must be one of a kind. A crab would probably feel personally outraged if it could hear us casually class it as a crustacean. We would do this without hesitation or apology, and consider the matter settled. “I am no such thing,” it would say; “I am myself, myself alone.”

The next thing the intellect does is to lay bare the causes in which the thing originates. Spinoza says: “I will analyze the actions and appetites of men as if it were a question of lines, of planes, and of solids.” And elsewhere he remarks that he will consider our passions and their properties with the same eye with which he looks on all other natural things, since the consequences of our affections flow from their nature with the same necessity as it results from the nature of a triangle that its three angles should be equal to two right angles. Similarly M. Taine, in the introduction to his history of English literature, has written: “Whether facts be moral or physical, it makes no matter. They always have their causes. There are causes for ambition, courage, veracity, just as there are for digestion, muscular movement, animal heat. Vice and virtue are products like vitriol and sugar.” When we read such proclamations of the intellect bent on showing the existential conditions of absolutely everything, we feel—quite apart from our legitimate impatience at the somewhat ridiculous swagger of the program, in view of what the authors are actually able to perform—menaced and negated in the springs of our innermost life. Such cold-blooded assimilations threaten, we think, to undo our soul's vital secrets, as if the same breath which should succeed in explaining their origin would simultaneously explain away their significance, and make them appear of no more preciousness, either, than the useful groceries of which M. Taine speaks.

The next thing the intellect does is uncover the causes of a thing. Spinoza says: “I will analyze human actions and desires as if they were lines, planes, and solids.” Elsewhere, he says he will look at our passions and their qualities as he looks at everything else in nature. The effects of our emotions follow necessarily from their nature. In the same way, the three angles of a triangle must equal two right angles. Similarly, M. Taine wrote in the introduction to his history of English literature: “Whether facts are moral or physical makes no difference. They always have causes. Ambition, courage, and truthfulness have causes, just as digestion, muscle movement, and animal heat do. Vice and virtue are products, like vitriol and sugar.” In such declarations, the intellect sets out to show the conditions that give rise to absolutely everything. When we read them, we may rightly grow impatient with the somewhat ridiculous swagger of the program. After all, the authors can actually accomplish much less than they promise. But apart from that, we feel threatened and denied at the very source of our inner lives. These cold-blooded comparisons seem to threaten the vital secrets of our souls. We feel as if explaining their origins would also explain away their significance. They would then seem no more precious than the useful groceries M. Taine mentions.

Perhaps the commonest expression of this assumption that spiritual value is undone if lowly origin be asserted is seen in those comments which unsentimental people so often pass on their more sentimental acquaintances. Alfred believes in immortality so strongly because his temperament is so emotional. Fanny's extraordinary conscientiousness is merely a matter of over-instigated nerves. William's melancholy about the universe is due to bad digestion—probably his liver is torpid. Eliza's delight in her church is a symptom of her hysterical constitution. Peter would be less troubled about his soul if he would take more exercise in the open air, etc. A more fully developed example of the same kind of reasoning is the fashion, quite common nowadays among certain writers, of criticising the religious emotions by showing a connection between them and the sexual life. Conversion is a crisis of puberty and adolescence. The macerations of saints, and the devotion of missionaries, are only instances of the parental instinct of self-sacrifice gone astray. For the hysterical nun, starving for natural life, Christ is but an imaginary substitute for a more earthly object of affection. And the like.¹

Perhaps the most common expression of the assumption that a lowly origin destroys spiritual value appears in everyday comments. Unsentimental people often make such comments about their more sentimental acquaintances. Alfred believes so strongly in immortality because he is so emotional. Fanny’s extraordinary conscientiousness is merely a matter of overstimulated nerves. William’s gloom about the universe is due to bad digestion. His liver is probably sluggish. Eliza’s delight in her church is a symptom of her hysterical constitution. Peter would worry less about his soul if he exercised more outdoors, and so on. A more developed example of the same reasoning is common among certain writers today. They criticize religious emotions by showing a connection between those emotions and sexual life. Conversion is a crisis of puberty and adolescence. The saints’ harsh treatment of their bodies and the missionaries’ devotion are only examples of the parental instinct for self-sacrifice gone astray. For the hysterical nun, starved of natural life, Christ is merely an imaginary substitute for a more earthly object of affection. And so on.¹

We are surely all familiar in a general way with this method of discrediting states of mind for which we have an antipathy. We all use it to some degree in criticising persons whose states of mind we regard as overstrained. But when other people criticise our own more exalted soul-flights by calling them “nothing but” expressions of our organic disposition, we feel outraged and hurt, for we know that, whatever be our organism's peculiarities, our mental states have their substantive value as revelations of the living truth; and we wish that all this medical materialism could be made to hold its tongue.

Surely we are all generally familiar with this way of discrediting states of mind we dislike. We all use it to some degree when criticizing people whose states of mind we consider excessive. But others sometimes criticize our own more exalted flights of the soul. They call them “nothing but” expressions of our physical makeup. When they do, we feel outraged and hurt. We know that, whatever the peculiarities of our bodies, our mental states have real value as revelations of living truth. And we wish all this medical materialism would just hold its tongue.

Medical materialism seems indeed a good appellation for the too simple-minded system of thought which we are considering. Medical materialism finishes up Saint Paul by calling his vision on the road to Damascus a discharging lesion of the occipital cortex, he being an epileptic. It snuffs out Saint Teresa as an hysteric, Saint Francis of Assisi as an hereditary degenerate. George Fox's discontent with the shams of his age, and his pining for spiritual veracity, it treats as a symptom of a disordered colon. Carlyle's organ-tones of misery it accounts for by a gastro-duodenal catarrh. All such mental over-tensions, it says, are, when you come to the bottom of the matter, mere affairs of diathesis (auto-intoxications most probably), due to the perverted action of various glands which physiology will yet discover.

Medical materialism seems a good name for the overly simplistic way of thinking we are considering. Medical materialism dismisses Saint Paul by calling his vision on the road to Damascus an electrical discharge from a lesion in his occipital cortex, since he was epileptic. It writes off Saint Teresa as hysterical and Saint Francis of Assisi as a hereditary degenerate. It treats George Fox's discontent with the falsehoods of his age and his longing for spiritual truth as symptoms of a disordered colon. It explains Carlyle's deep, resonant expressions of misery as inflammation of his stomach and duodenum. According to medical materialism, all such mental strains are, at bottom, merely matters of physical predisposition (most likely self-poisoning). They result from the abnormal action of various glands that physiology has yet to discover.

And medical materialism then thinks that the spiritual authority of all such personages is successfully undermined.²

And medical materialism then believes it has successfully undermined the spiritual authority of all such people.²

Let us ourselves look at the matter in the largest possible way. Modern psychology, finding definite psycho-physical connections to hold good, assumes as a convenient hypothesis that the dependence of mental states upon bodily conditions must be thorough-going and complete. If we adopt the assumption, then of course what medical materialism insists on must be true in a general way, if not in every detail: Saint Paul certainly had once an epileptoid, if not an epileptic seizure; George Fox was an hereditary degenerate; Carlyle was undoubtedly auto-intoxicated by some organ or other, no matter which,—and the rest. But now, I ask you, how can such an existential account of facts of mental history decide in one way or another upon their spiritual significance? According to the general postulate of psychology just referred to, there is not a single one of our states of mind, high or low, healthy or morbid, that has not some organic process as its condition. Scientific theories are organically conditioned just as much as religious emotions are; and if we only knew the facts intimately enough, we should doubtless see “the liver” determining the dicta of the sturdy atheist as decisively as it does those of the Methodist under conviction anxious about his soul. When it alters in one way the blood that percolates it, we get the methodist, when in another way, we get the atheist form of mind. So of all our raptures and our drynesses, our longings and pantings, our questions and beliefs. They are equally organically founded, be they of religious or of non-religious content.

Let us look at the matter as broadly as possible. Modern psychology finds that certain connections between mind and body hold true. It therefore assumes, as a convenient hypothesis, that mental states depend entirely on bodily conditions. If we accept this assumption, then what medical materialism insists on must be true in general, if not in every detail. Saint Paul certainly had a seizure resembling an epileptic one, if not an actual epileptic seizure. George Fox was a hereditary degenerate. Carlyle was undoubtedly poisoned by his own body, whether by one organ or another. And so on. But I ask you, how can such an account of the physical causes of mental events decide their spiritual significance? According to the general assumption of psychology just mentioned, every state of mind depends on some bodily process. This is true whether the state is high or low, healthy or unhealthy. Scientific theories depend on bodily processes just as much as religious emotions do. If we knew the facts closely enough, we would no doubt see “the liver” shaping the statements of the firm atheist. It would shape them just as decisively as it shapes those of the Methodist who feels convicted of sin and fears for his soul. When the liver changes the blood flowing through it in one way, we get the Methodist. When the liver changes the blood in another way, we get the atheist’s state of mind. The same is true of all our ecstasies and our dry spells, our longings and yearnings, our questions and beliefs. They all have bodily foundations, whether their content is religious or not.

To plead the organic causation of a religious state of mind, then, in refutation of its claim to possess superior spiritual value, is quite illogical and arbitrary, unless one have already worked out in advance some psycho-physical theory connecting spiritual values in general with determinate sorts of physiological change. Otherwise none of our thoughts and feelings, not even our scientific doctrines, not even our dis-beliefs, could retain any value as revelations of the truth, for every one of them without exception flows from the state of their possessor's body at the time.

It is illogical and arbitrary, then, to argue that a religious state of mind has no superior spiritual value simply because it has a physical cause. That argument only makes sense if you have already developed a theory connecting spiritual values in general with particular kinds of physical change. Otherwise, none of our thoughts and feelings could have any value as revelations of truth. That includes even our scientific doctrines and our _dis_beliefs. Every one of them, without exception, arises from the state of the person's body at the time.

It is needless to say that medical materialism draws in point of fact no such sweeping skeptical conclusion. It is sure, just as every simple man is sure, that some states of mind are inwardly superior to others, and reveal to us more truth, and in this it simply makes use of an ordinary spiritual judgment. It has no physiological theory of the production of these its favorite states, by which it may accredit them; and its attempt to discredit the states which it dislikes, by vaguely associating them with nerves and liver, and connecting them with names connoting bodily affliction, is altogether illogical and inconsistent.

Needless to say, medical materialism does not, in fact, draw such a sweeping skeptical conclusion. Like any ordinary person, it is sure that some states of mind are inherently better than others. It is also sure that some reveal more truth to us. In making these judgments, it simply relies on ordinary spiritual judgment. Medical materialism has no physiological theory of how its favored states are produced that would establish their credibility. Yet it tries to discredit the states it dislikes by vaguely associating them with nerves and the liver. It also links them to names that suggest bodily illness. This attempt is entirely illogical and inconsistent.

Let us play fair in this whole matter, and be quite candid with ourselves and with the facts. When we think certain states of mind superior to others, is it ever because of what we know concerning their organic antecedents? No! it is always for two entirely different reasons. It is either because we take an immediate delight in them; or else it is because we believe them to bring us good consequential fruits for life. When we speak disparagingly of “feverish fancies,” surely the fever-process as such is not the ground of our disesteem—for aught we know to the contrary, 103° or 104° Fahrenheit might be a much more favorable temperature for truths to germinate and sprout in, than the more ordinary blood-heat of 97 or 98 degrees. It is either the disagreeableness itself of the fancies, or their inability to bear the criticisms of the convalescent hour. When we praise the thoughts which health brings, health's peculiar chemical metabolisms have nothing to do with determining our judgment. We know in fact almost nothing about these metabolisms. It is the character of inner happiness in the thoughts which stamps them as good, or else their consistency with our other opinions and their serviceability for our needs, which make them pass for true in our esteem.

Let us be fair about the whole matter and be honest with ourselves and with the facts. When we consider some states of mind better than others, is it ever because of what we know about their physical origins? No! It is always for two entirely different reasons. Either we take immediate pleasure in them, or we believe they bring good results in life. When we dismiss “feverish fancies,” surely the fever itself is not why we look down on them. For all we know, a temperature of 103° or 104° Fahrenheit might be much better for truth to take root and grow than the more usual body temperature of 97 or 98 degrees. We dismiss the fancies either because they are unpleasant or because they cannot withstand criticism once we recover. When we praise the thoughts that come with health, the chemical processes unique to health have nothing to do with our judgment. In fact, we know almost nothing about those processes. We judge the thoughts good because of the inner happiness they bring. Or we consider them true because they agree with our other beliefs and serve our needs.

Now the more intrinsic and the more remote of these criteria do not always hang together. Inner happiness and serviceability do not always agree. What immediately feels most “good” is not always most “true,” when measured by the verdict of the rest of experience. The difference between Philip drunk and Philip sober is the classic instance in corroboration. If merely “feeling good” could decide, drunkenness would be the supremely valid human experience. But its revelations, however acutely satisfying at the moment, are inserted into an environment which refuses to bear them out for any length of time. The consequence of this discrepancy of the two criteria is the uncertainty which still prevails over so many of our spiritual judgments. There are moments of sentimental and mystical experience—we shall hereafter hear much of them—that carry an enormous sense of inner authority and illumination with them when they come. But they come seldom, and they do not come to every one; and the rest of life makes either no connection with them, or tends to contradict them more than it confirms them. Some persons follow more the voice of the moment in these cases, some prefer to be guided by the average results. Hence the sad discordancy of so many of the spiritual judgments of human beings; a discordancy which will be brought home to us acutely enough before these lectures end.

Now, the more immediate and the more distant of these criteria do not always agree. Inner happiness and usefulness do not always go together. What feels most “good” at the moment is not always most “true” when judged against the rest of experience. The difference between Philip drunk and Philip sober is the classic example. If merely “feeling good” could settle the question, drunkenness would be the most valid human experience. But however intensely satisfying its revelations may be at the moment, the surrounding world soon fails to confirm them. This conflict between the two criteria leaves many of our spiritual judgments uncertain. There are moments of emotional and mystical experience that bring an enormous sense of inner authority and illumination. We shall hear much about them later. But these moments are rare, and not everyone has them. The rest of life either has no connection with them or tends to contradict them more than it confirms them. In such cases, some people listen more to the voice of the moment. Others prefer to be guided by the results of experience as a whole. This is why so many human spiritual judgments sadly disagree. We will feel this disagreement keenly enough before these lectures end.

It is, however, a discordancy that can never be resolved by any merely medical test. A good example of the impossibility of holding strictly to the medical tests is seen in the theory of the pathological causation of genius promulgated by recent authors. “Genius,” said Dr. Moreau, “is but one of the many branches of the neuropathic tree.” “Genius,” says Dr. Lombroso, “is a symptom of hereditary degeneration of the epileptoid variety, and is allied to moral insanity.” “Whenever a man's life,” writes Mr. Nisbet, “is at once sufficiently illustrious and recorded with sufficient fullness to be a subject of profitable study, he inevitably falls into the morbid category.... And it is worthy of remark that, as a rule, the greater the genius, the greater the unsoundness.”³

However, this disagreement can never be settled by medical tests alone. Recent authors’ theory that genius has pathological causes shows why we cannot rely strictly on medical tests. “Genius,” said Dr. Moreau, “is just one of the many branches of the neuropathic tree.” “Genius,” says Dr. Lombroso, “is a symptom of hereditary degeneration of the epileptoid variety, and is related to moral insanity.” “Whenever a man’s life is both famous enough and recorded in enough detail to make it worth studying,” writes Mr. Nisbet, “he inevitably falls into the category of the diseased.... And it is worth noting that, as a rule, the greater the genius, the greater the unsoundness.”³

Now do these authors, after having succeeded in establishing to their own satisfaction that the works of genius are fruits of disease, consistently proceed thereupon to impugn the value of the fruits? Do they deduce a new spiritual judgment from their new doctrine of existential conditions? Do they frankly forbid us to admire the productions of genius from now onwards? and say outright that no neuropath can ever be a revealer of new truth?

Now, these authors have convinced themselves that works of genius are products of disease. Do they then consistently question the value of those works? Do they draw a new spiritual judgment from their new theory about the conditions in which genius arises? Do they openly forbid us to admire works of genius from now on? Do they say outright that no person with a nervous disorder can ever reveal a new truth?

No! their immediate spiritual instincts are too strong for them here, and hold their own against inferences which, in mere love of logical consistency, medical materialism ought to be only too glad to draw. One disciple of the school, indeed, has striven to impugn the value of works of genius in a wholesale way (such works of contemporary art, namely, as he himself is unable to enjoy, and they are many) by using medical arguments.⁴ But for the most part the masterpieces are left unchallenged; and the medical line of attack either confines itself to such secular productions as every one admits to be intrinsically eccentric, or else addresses itself exclusively to religious manifestations. And then it is because the religious manifestations have been already condemned because the critic dislikes them on internal or spiritual grounds.

No! Their immediate spiritual instincts are too strong here. Those instincts resist conclusions that medical materialism ought to be only too happy to draw for the sake of logical consistency. One follower of the school has, in fact, tried to use medical arguments to discredit works of genius wholesale (namely, those works of contemporary art he cannot enjoy, and there are many).⁴ But for the most part, the masterpieces go unchallenged. Medical attacks either focus on secular works that everyone agrees are inherently eccentric or turn exclusively to religious expressions. And in the latter case, the critic has already condemned those religious expressions because they are spiritually objectionable to him in themselves.

In the natural sciences and industrial arts it never occurs to any one to try to refute opinions by showing up their author's neurotic constitution. Opinions here are invariably tested by logic and by experiment, no matter what may be their author's neurological type. It should be no otherwise with religious opinions. Their value can only be ascertained by spiritual judgments directly passed upon them, judgments based on our own immediate feeling primarily; and secondarily on what we can ascertain of their experiential relations to our moral needs and to the rest of what we hold as true.

In the natural sciences and industrial arts, no one tries to disprove opinions by pointing out that their author has a neurotic constitution. In these fields, opinions are always tested by logic and experiment, whatever the author’s neurological type. Religious opinions should be treated no differently. Their value can only be determined by making spiritual judgments about them directly. These judgments depend primarily on our own immediate feelings. Secondarily, they depend on what experience tells us about how these opinions relate to our moral needs and everything else we hold to be true.

Immediate luminousness, in short, philosophical reasonableness, and moral helpfulness are the only available criteria. Saint Teresa might have had the nervous system of the placidest cow, and it would not now save her theology, if the trial of the theology by these other tests should show it to be contemptible. And conversely if her theology can stand these other tests, it will make no difference how hysterical or nervously off her balance Saint Teresa may have been when she was with us here below.

Immediate clarity, in short, philosophical reasonableness, and moral usefulness are the only available tests. Saint Teresa might have had the nervous system of the calmest cow. But that would not save her theology now if these other tests showed it to be contemptible. Conversely, if her theology can stand these other tests, her nervous condition will make no difference. It will not matter how hysterical or nervous and unbalanced Saint Teresa may have been during her life on earth.

You see that at bottom we are thrown back upon the general principles by which the empirical philosophy has always contended that we must be guided in our search for truth. Dogmatic philosophies have sought for tests for truth which might dispense us from appealing to the future. Some direct mark, by noting which we can be protected immediately and absolutely, now and forever, against all mistake—such has been the darling dream of philosophic dogmatists. It is clear that the origin of the truth would be an admirable criterion of this sort, if only the various origins could be discriminated from one another from this point of view, and the history of dogmatic opinion shows that origin has always been a favorite test. Origin in immediate intuition; origin in pontifical authority; origin in supernatural revelation, as by vision, hearing, or unaccountable impression; origin in direct possession by a higher spirit, expressing itself in prophecy and warning; origin in automatic utterance generally,—these origins have been stock warrants for the truth of one opinion after another which we find represented in religious history. The medical materialists are therefore only so many belated dogmatists, neatly turning the tables on their predecessors by using the criterion of origin in a destructive instead of an accreditive way.

You see that, in the end, we must return to the general principles of empirical philosophy. Empirical philosophy has always held that these principles must guide our search for truth. Dogmatic philosophies have sought tests of truth that would spare us from having to appeal to the future. Philosophical dogmatists have cherished the dream of some direct sign of truth. By recognizing that sign, we could be protected immediately and absolutely against all error, now and forever. Clearly, the origin of a truth would be an admirable test of this kind. But it would work only if we could distinguish the various origins from one another for this purpose. The history of dogmatic opinion shows that origin has always been a favorite test. In religious history, one opinion after another has been accepted as true because of its origin. These origins include immediate intuition and papal authority. They include supernatural revelation through a vision, a voice, or an unexplained impression. They include direct possession by a higher spirit, expressing itself in prophecy and warnings. They also include automatic speech in general. Medical materialists are therefore just a group of latecoming dogmatists. They neatly turn the tables on their predecessors by using origin as a test to discredit opinions rather than support them.

They are effective with their talk of pathological origin only so long as supernatural origin is pleaded by the other side, and nothing but the argument from origin is under discussion. But the argument from origin has seldom been used alone, for it is too obviously insufficient. Dr. Maudsley is perhaps the cleverest of the rebutters of supernatural religion on grounds of origin. Yet he finds himself forced to write:—

Their claims about pathological origins are effective only as long as the other side argues for a supernatural origin. And they are effective only when the argument concerns origins alone. But the argument from origin has seldom been used alone, because it is too obviously insufficient. Dr. Maudsley is perhaps the cleverest critic of supernatural religion on the grounds of its origin. Yet he finds himself forced to write:

“What right have we to believe Nature under any obligation to do her work by means of complete minds only? She may find an incomplete mind a more suitable instrument for a particular purpose. It is the work that is done, and the quality in the worker by which it was done, that is alone of moment; and it may be no great matter from a cosmical standpoint, if in other qualities of character he was singularly defective—if indeed he were hypocrite, adulterer, eccentric, or lunatic.... Home we come again, then, to the old and last resort of certitude,—namely the common assent of mankind, or of the competent by instruction and training among mankind.”⁵

“What right do we have to believe that Nature must work only through complete minds? She may find an incomplete mind better suited to a particular purpose. All that matters is the work done and the quality in the worker that made it possible. From a cosmic standpoint, other serious flaws in his character may not matter much. He may even have been a hypocrite, adulterer, eccentric, or lunatic.... So we return to the old, final source of certainty: the common agreement of humanity, or of those made competent by instruction and training.”⁵

In other words, not its origin, but the way in which it works on the whole, is Dr. Maudsley's final test of a belief. This is our own empiricist criterion; and this criterion the stoutest insisters on supernatural origin have also been forced to use in the end. Among the visions and messages some have always been too patently silly, among the trances and convulsive seizures some have been too fruitless for conduct and character, to pass themselves off as significant, still less as divine. In the history of Christian mysticism the problem how to discriminate between such messages and experiences as were really divine miracles, and such others as the demon in his malice was able to counterfeit, thus making the religious person twofold more the child of hell he was before, has always been a difficult one to solve, needing all the sagacity and experience of the best directors of conscience. In the end it had to come to our empiricist criterion: By their fruits ye shall know them, not by their roots, Jonathan Edwards's Treatise on Religious Affections is an elaborate working out of this thesis. The roots of a man's virtue are inaccessible to us. No appearances whatever are infallible proofs of grace. Our practice is the only sure evidence, even to ourselves, that we are genuinely Christians.

In other words, Dr. Maudsley's final test of a belief is not its origin, but how it works overall. This is our own empiricist criterion. Even those who insist most strongly on a supernatural origin have ultimately been forced to use it. Some visions and messages have always been too obviously silly to pass as significant, let alone divine. Some trances and convulsive seizures have been too unproductive in their effects on conduct and character to pass as significant, let alone divine. In the history of Christian mysticism, a difficult problem has always been how to distinguish divine miracles from other messages and experiences. The demon, in his malice, could counterfeit such miracles, making the religious person twice as much a child of hell as before. Solving this problem required all the wisdom and experience of the best spiritual directors. In the end, the answer had to be our empiricist criterion: You shall know them by their fruits, not their roots. Jonathan Edwards's Treatise on Religious Affections develops this argument in detail. The roots of a person's virtue are beyond our reach. No outward signs are infallible proof of grace. Only how we act gives us sure evidence, even to ourselves, that we are truly Christians.

Catholic writers are equally emphatic. The good dispositions which a vision, or voice, or other apparent heavenly favor leave behind them are the only marks by which we may be sure they are not possible deceptions of the tempter. Says Saint Teresa:—

Catholic writers are equally emphatic. A vision, voice, or other apparent heavenly favor may leave behind good dispositions. These are the only signs that assure us the experience is not a possible deception by the tempter. Saint Teresa says:

I fear I may have made a longer excursus than was necessary, and that fewer words would have dispelled the uneasiness which may have arisen among some of you as I announced my pathological programme. At any rate you must all be ready now to judge the religious life by its results exclusively, and I shall assume that the bugaboo of morbid origin will scandalize your piety no more.

I fear I may have gone on longer than necessary. Fewer words might have eased the concerns some of you may have felt when I announced my plan to study religious experience as a form of illness. In any case, you must all be ready now to judge religious life solely by its results. I shall assume that the specter of an unhealthy origin will no longer offend your religious sensibilities.

Still, you may ask me, if its results are to be the ground of our final spiritual estimate of a religious phenomenon, why threaten us at all with so much existential study of its conditions? Why not simply leave pathological questions out?

Still, you may ask me: If we are to judge the spiritual value of a religious phenomenon by its results, why burden us with so much study of the conditions in which it exists? Why not simply leave out questions about disease?

To this I reply in two ways: First, I say, irrepressible curiosity imperiously leads one on; and I say, secondly, that it always leads to a better understanding of a thing's significance to consider its exaggerations and perversions, its equivalents and substitutes and nearest relatives elsewhere. Not that we may thereby swamp the thing in the wholesale condemnation which we pass on its inferior congeners, but rather that we may by contrast ascertain the more precisely in what its merits consist, by learning at the same time to what particular dangers of corruption it may also be exposed.

I have two replies to this. First, irresistible curiosity drives us on. Second, we always better understand something's significance by considering its exaggerations and distortions, its equivalents, substitutes, and closest relatives elsewhere. We should not condemn the thing itself along with its inferior relatives. Instead, the contrast can help us see its merits more precisely. At the same time, we can learn what particular dangers of corruption it may face.

Insane conditions have this advantage, that they isolate special factors of the mental life, and enable us to inspect them unmasked by their more usual surroundings. They play the part in mental anatomy which the scalpel and the microscope play in the anatomy of the body. To understand a thing rightly we need to see it both out of its environment and in it, and to have acquaintance with the whole range of its variations. The study of hallucinations has in this way been for psychologists the key to their comprehension of normal sensation, that of illusions has been the key to the right comprehension of perception. Morbid impulses and imperative conceptions, “fixed ideas,” so called, have thrown a flood of light on the psychology of the normal will; and obsessions and delusions have performed the same service for that of the normal faculty of belief.

Mental disorders have one advantage: they isolate particular aspects of mental life, letting us examine them without their usual surroundings. In studying the structure of the mind, they serve the same purpose as scalpels and microscopes in studying the body. To understand something properly, we need to see it both in and out of its surroundings. We also need to know its full range of variations. In this way, studying hallucinations has helped psychologists understand normal sensation. Studying illusions has likewise been the key to understanding perception correctly. Unhealthy impulses and compelling thoughts, so called “fixed ideas,” have shed a great deal of light on the psychology of normal will. Obsessions and delusions have done the same for our understanding of the normal capacity for belief.

Similarly, the nature of genius has been illuminated by the attempts, of which I already made mention, to class it with psychopathical phenomena. Borderland insanity, crankiness, insane temperament, loss of mental balance, psychopathic degeneration (to use a few of the many synonyms by which it has been called), has certain peculiarities and liabilities which, when combined with a superior quality of intellect in an individual, make it more probable that he will make his mark and affect his age, than if his temperament were less neurotic. There is of course no special affinity between crankiness as such and superior intellect,⁷ for most psychopaths have feeble intellects, and superior intellects more commonly have normal nervous systems. But the psychopathic temperament, whatever be the intellect with which it finds itself paired, often brings with it ardor and excitability of character. The cranky person has extraordinary emotional susceptibility. He is liable to fixed ideas and obsessions. His conceptions tend to pass immediately into belief and action; and when he gets a new idea, he has no rest till he proclaims it, or in some way “works it off.” “What shall I think of it?” a common person says to himself about a vexed question; but in a “cranky” mind “What must I do about it?” is the form the question tends to take. In the autobiography of that high-souled woman, Mrs. Annie Besant, I read the following passage: “Plenty of people wish well to any good cause, but very few care to exert themselves to help it, and still fewer will risk anything in its support. ‘Some one ought to do it, but why should I?’ is the ever reëchoed phrase of weak-kneed amiability. ‘Some one ought to do it, so why not I?’ is the cry of some earnest servant of man, eagerly forward springing to face some perilous duty. Between these two sentences lie whole centuries of moral evolution.” True enough! and between these two sentences lie also the different destinies of the ordinary sluggard and the psychopathic man. Thus, when a superior intellect and a psychopathic temperament coalesce—as in the endless permutations and combinations of human faculty, they are bound to coalesce often enough—in the same individual, we have the best possible condition for the kind of effective genius that gets into the biographical dictionaries. Such men do not remain mere critics and understanders with their intellect. Their ideas possess them, they inflict them, for better or worse, upon their companions or their age. It is they who get counted when Messrs Lombroso, Nisbet, and others invoke statistics to defend their paradox.

Similarly, the nature of genius has been clarified by the attempts I mentioned earlier to class it with psychopathological phenomena. It has been called borderline insanity, crankiness, an insane temperament, loss of mental balance, and psychopathic degeneration, among many other names. This condition has certain peculiarities and vulnerabilities. When combined with a superior intellect, these traits make a person more likely to make a mark and affect their age than if their temperament were less neurotic. Of course, there is no special connection between crankiness itself and superior intellect.⁷ Most psychopaths have weak intellects, and superior intellects more often have normal nervous systems. But a psychopathic temperament, whatever intellect it is paired with, often brings passion and excitability. A cranky person is extraordinarily sensitive to emotion. He is prone to fixed ideas and obsessions. His ideas tend to turn immediately into belief and action. When he gets a new idea, he cannot rest until he proclaims it or somehow “works it off.” Faced with a difficult question, an ordinary person asks himself, “What should I think of it?” But a “cranky” mind tends to ask, “What must I do about it?” In the autobiography of that noble-minded woman, Mrs. Annie Besant, I read the following passage: “Plenty of people wish well to any good cause, but very few care to exert themselves to help it, and still fewer will risk anything in its support. ‘Someone ought to do it, but why should I?’ is the constantly repeated phrase of fainthearted goodwill. ‘Someone ought to do it, so why not I?’ is the cry of an earnest servant of humanity, eagerly rushing forward to face a dangerous duty. Between these two sentences lie whole centuries of moral evolution.” True enough! And between these two sentences also lie the different destinies of the ordinary idler and the psychopathic man. A superior intellect and a psychopathic temperament are bound to come together often enough in one person, given the endless permutations and combinations of human abilities. When they do, we have the best possible conditions for the kind of effective genius that gets into biographical dictionaries. Such men do not remain mere critics and observers, using their intellect only to understand. Their ideas take hold of them, and they impose those ideas, for better or worse, on their companions or their age. They are the men who get counted when Messrs Lombroso, Nisbet, and others appeal to statistics to defend their paradox.

To pass now to religious phenomena, take the melancholy which, as we shall see, constitutes an essential moment in every complete religious evolution. Take the happiness which achieved religious belief confers. Take the trance-like states of insight into truth which all religious mystics report.⁸ These are each and all of them special cases of kinds of human experience of much wider scope. Religious melancholy, whatever peculiarities it may have quâ religious, is at any rate melancholy. Religious happiness is happiness. Religious trance is trance. And the moment we renounce the absurd notion that a thing is exploded away as soon as it is classed with others, or its origin is shown; the moment we agree to stand by experimental results and inner quality, in judging of values,—who does not see that we are likely to ascertain the distinctive significance of religious melancholy and happiness, or of religious trances, far better by comparing them as conscientiously as we can with other varieties of melancholy, happiness, and trance, than by refusing to consider their place in any more general series, and treating them as if they were outside of nature's order altogether?

Let us turn now to religious phenomena. Consider melancholy, which, as we shall see, is an essential stage in every complete religious development. Consider the happiness that comes from achieving religious belief. Consider the trance-like states of insight into truth that all religious mystics report.⁸ Each of these is a special case of a much broader kind of human experience. Religious melancholy may have features peculiar to its religious character, but it is still melancholy. Religious happiness is happiness. Religious trance is trance. We must give up the absurd notion that something is explained away by classifying it or identifying its origin. Instead, we must agree to judge its value by experimental results and its inner quality. Once we do that, who can doubt that comparison will give us a far better understanding? We can compare religious melancholy, happiness, and trances as carefully as possible with other kinds of melancholy, happiness, and trance. That will tell us more about their distinctive significance than refusing to consider their place in a broader range of experiences. It will tell us more than treating them as if they were entirely outside the natural order.

I hope that the course of these lectures will confirm us in this supposition. As regards the psychopathic origin of so many religious phenomena, that would not be in the least surprising or disconcerting, even were such phenomena certified from on high to be the most precious of human experiences. No one organism can possibly yield to its owner the whole body of truth. Few of us are not in some way infirm, or even diseased; and our very infirmities help us unexpectedly. In the psychopathic temperament we have the emotionality which is the sine quâ non of moral perception; we have the intensity and tendency to emphasis which are the essence of practical moral vigor; and we have the love of metaphysics and mysticism which carry one's interests beyond the surface of the sensible world. What, then, is more natural than that this temperament should introduce one to regions of religious truth, to corners of the universe, which your robust Philistine type of nervous system, forever offering its biceps to be felt, thumping its breast, and thanking Heaven that it hasn't a single morbid fibre in its composition, would be sure to hide forever from its self-satisfied possessors?

I hope these lectures will confirm our supposition. Many religious phenomena may have their origins in mental disorders. But that would not be surprising or troubling, even if heaven itself declared them the most precious human experiences. No single organism can possibly give its owner the whole body of truth. Almost all of us are weak or even ill in some way, and our very weaknesses help us unexpectedly. People with a tendency toward mental disorders have the emotional sensitivity essential to moral perception. They have the intensity and tendency to emphasize things that are the essence of practical moral strength. They also love metaphysics and mysticism, which carry their interests beyond the surface of the world we perceive through our senses. What could be more natural, then, than for this temperament to introduce people to regions of religious truth and corners of the universe that a robust, unimaginative nervous system would surely hide forever from its self-satisfied owners? Such people are always offering their biceps to be felt, thumping their chests, and thanking heaven that they don't have a single unhealthy fiber in their bodies.

If there were such a thing as inspiration from a higher realm, it might well be that the neurotic temperament would furnish the chief condition of the requisite receptivity. And having said thus much, I think that I may let the matter of religion and neuroticism drop.

If inspiration from a higher realm exists, a neurotic temperament might well be the main condition for receiving it. Having said this, I think I can leave the subject of religion and neuroticism.

The mass of collateral phenomena, morbid or healthy, with which the various religious phenomena must be compared in order to understand them better, forms what in the slang of pedagogics is termed “the apperceiving mass” by which we comprehend them. The only novelty that I can imagine this course of lectures to possess lies in the breadth of the apperceiving mass. I may succeed in discussing religious experiences in a wider context than has been usual in university courses.

To understand religious phenomena better, we must compare them with a wide range of related phenomena, both unhealthy and healthy. In the jargon of education, this range forms the “apperceiving mass” through which we understand religious phenomena. The only novelty I can imagine in this lecture course is the breadth of that apperceiving mass. I may succeed in discussing religious experiences in a broader context than is usual in university courses.