Defining the Topic

Most books on the philosophy of religion try to begin with a precise definition of what its essence consists of. Some of these would-be definitions may possibly come before us in later portions of this course, and I shall not be pedantic enough to enumerate any of them to you now. Meanwhile the very fact that they are so many and so different from one another is enough to prove that the word “religion” cannot stand for any single principle or essence, but is rather a collective name. The theorizing mind tends always to the over-simplification of its materials. This is the root of all that absolutism and one-sided dogmatism by which both philosophy and religion have been infested. Let us not fall immediately into a one-sided view of our subject, but let us rather admit freely at the outset that we may very likely find no one essence, but many characters which may alternately be equally important in religion. If we should inquire for the essence of “government,” for example, one man might tell us it was authority, another submission, another police, another an army, another an assembly, another a system of laws; yet all the while it would be true that no concrete government can exist without all these things, one of which is more important at one moment and others at another. The man who knows governments most completely is he who troubles himself least about a definition which shall give their essence. Enjoying an intimate acquaintance with all their particularities in turn, he would naturally regard an abstract conception in which these were unified as a thing more misleading than enlightening. And why may not religion be a conception equally complex?⁹

Most books on the philosophy of religion try to begin with a precise definition of its essence. Some of these attempted definitions may come up later in this course. I will not be so pedantic as to list any of them now. Meanwhile, the sheer number and variety of definitions is enough to prove something. The word “religion” cannot stand for any single principle or essence. Instead, it is a collective name. The theorizing mind always tends to oversimplify its material. This tendency is the root of all the absolutism and one-sided dogmatism that have infested both philosophy and religion. Let us not immediately take a one-sided view of our subject. Instead, let us freely admit from the start that we may well find no single essence. We may find many features that can be equally important in religion at different times. Suppose, for example, we asked what the essence of “government” is. One person might say authority, another submission, another the police, another an army, another an assembly, and another a system of laws. Yet no actual government can exist without all these things. One is more important at one moment, and others at another. The person who knows governments most completely is the one least concerned with defining their essence. Such a person knows all the particular features of governments intimately. So they would naturally regard an abstract concept that united those features as more misleading than enlightening. And why might religion not be an equally complex concept?⁹

Consider also the “religious sentiment” which we see referred to in so many books, as if it were a single sort of mental entity.

Consider also the “religious sentiment” mentioned in so many books, as if it were a single kind of mental state.

In the psychologies and in the philosophies of religion, we find the authors attempting to specify just what entity it is. One man allies it to the feeling of dependence; one makes it a derivative from fear; others connect it with the sexual life; others still identify it with the feeling of the infinite; and so on. Such different ways of conceiving it ought of themselves to arouse doubt as to whether it possibly can be one specific thing; and the moment we are willing to treat the term “religious sentiment” as a collective name for the many sentiments which religious objects may arouse in alternation, we see that it probably contains nothing whatever of a psychologically specific nature. There is religious fear, religious love, religious awe, religious joy, and so forth. But religious love is only man's natural emotion of love directed to a religious object; religious fear is only the ordinary fear of commerce, so to speak, the common quaking of the human breast, in so far as the notion of divine retribution may arouse it; religious awe is the same organic thrill which we feel in a forest at twilight, or in a mountain gorge; only this time it comes over us at the thought of our supernatural relations; and similarly of all the various sentiments which may be called into play in the lives of religious persons. As concrete states of mind, made up of a feeling plus a specific sort of object, religious emotions of course are psychic entities distinguishable from other concrete emotions; but there is no ground for assuming a simple abstract “religious emotion” to exist as a distinct elementary mental affection by itself, present in every religious experience without exception.

In psychology and philosophy of religion, authors try to identify exactly what religious sentiment is. One links it to a feeling of dependence. Another sees it as arising from fear. Others connect it with sexual life, while still others identify it with a feeling of the infinite, and so on. These different views should themselves make us doubt whether religious sentiment can be one specific thing. Instead, we can treat “religious sentiment” as a collective name for the many feelings that religious objects may arouse in turn. Once we do, we see that it probably contains nothing psychologically distinctive at all. There is religious fear, religious love, religious awe, religious joy, and so on. But religious love is simply the natural human emotion of love directed toward a religious object. Religious fear is simply ordinary, everyday fear, so to speak, the common trembling of the human heart. It is that fear as aroused by the idea of divine punishment. Religious awe is the same physical thrill we feel in a forest at twilight or in a mountain gorge. Only this time, it comes over us at the thought of our supernatural relations. The same is true of all the various feelings that may come into play in religious people’s lives. Religious emotions are concrete states of mind, made up of a feeling plus a specific kind of object. As such, they are of course mental experiences distinguishable from other concrete emotions. But there is no reason to assume that a simple, abstract “religious emotion” exists as a distinct, basic feeling in its own right, present in every religious experience without exception.

As there thus seems to be no one elementary religious emotion, but only a common storehouse of emotions upon which religious objects may draw, so there might conceivably also prove to be no one specific and essential kind of religious object, and no one specific and essential kind of religious act.

There seems to be no single basic religious emotion. Instead, religious objects can draw on a common store of emotions. Similarly, there might also be no single, essential kind of religious object or religious act.

The field of religion being as wide as this, it is manifestly impossible that I should pretend to cover it. My lectures must be limited to a fraction of the subject. And, although it would indeed be foolish to set up an abstract definition of religion's essence, and then proceed to defend that definition against all comers, yet this need not prevent me from taking my own narrow view of what religion shall consist in for the purpose of these lectures, or, out of the many meanings of the word, from choosing the one meaning in which I wish to interest you particularly, and proclaiming arbitrarily that when I say “religion” I mean that. This, in fact, is what I must do, and I will now preliminarily seek to mark out the field I choose.

The field of religion is so broad that I clearly cannot claim to cover it all. My lectures must be limited to one part of the subject. It would indeed be foolish to propose an abstract definition of the essence of religion and defend it against everyone who challenges it. But that need not stop me from taking a narrow view of what religion means for the purpose of these lectures. The word has many meanings, and I can choose the one I particularly want to explore with you. I can declare, by my own choice, that when I say “religion” I mean that. In fact, I must make such a choice. I will begin by outlining the field I have chosen.

One way to mark it out easily is to say what aspects of the subject we leave out. At the outset we are struck by one great partition which divides the religious field. On the one side of it lies institutional, on the other personal religion. As M. P. Sabatier says, one branch of religion keeps the divinity, another keeps man most in view. Worship and sacrifice, procedures for working on the dispositions of the deity, theology and ceremony and ecclesiastical organization, are the essentials of religion in the institutional branch. Were we to limit our view to it, we should have to define religion as an external art, the art of winning the favor of the gods. In the more personal branch of religion it is on the contrary the inner dispositions of man himself which form the centre of interest, his conscience, his deserts, his helplessness, his incompleteness. And although the favor of the God, as forfeited or gained, is still an essential feature of the story, and theology plays a vital part therein, yet the acts to which this sort of religion prompts are personal not ritual acts, the individual transacts the business by himself alone, and the ecclesiastical organization, with its priests and sacraments and other go-betweens, sinks to an altogether secondary place. The relation goes direct from heart to heart, from soul to soul, between man and his maker.

One easy way to define our subject is to say what we will leave out. At the outset, we see one major division in the field of religion. On one side is institutional religion. On the other is personal religion. As M. P. Sabatier says, one branch of religion focuses mainly on the divine, the other on humanity. In institutional religion, the essentials are worship and sacrifice, practices meant to influence the deity, theology, ceremony, and church organization. If we limited our view to institutional religion, we would have to define religion as an external art: the art of winning the favor of the gods. In the more personal branch of religion, by contrast, the focus is on a person's inner state. This includes conscience, what a person deserves, helplessness, and incompleteness. God's favor, whether lost or gained, is still essential to the story, and theology plays a vital part in it. Yet this kind of religion leads people to personal acts, not ritual acts. The individual deals with these matters alone. Church organization, with its priests, sacraments, and other intermediaries, becomes entirely secondary. The relationship goes directly from heart to heart, from soul to soul, between a person and their maker.

Now in these lectures I propose to ignore the institutional branch entirely, to say nothing of the ecclesiastical organization, to consider as little as possible the systematic theology and the ideas about the gods themselves, and to confine myself as far as I can to personal religion pure and simple. To some of you personal religion, thus nakedly considered, will no doubt seem too incomplete a thing to wear the general name. “It is a part of religion,” you will say, “but only its unorganized rudiment; if we are to name it by itself, we had better call it man's conscience or morality than his religion. The name ‘religion’ should be reserved for the fully organized system of feeling, thought, and institution, for the Church, in short, of which this personal religion, so called, is but a fractional element.”

In these lectures, I intend to ignore the institutional side of religion entirely. I will say nothing about church organization and as little as possible about systematic theology and ideas about the gods themselves. As far as I can, I will focus on personal religion alone. Some of you will no doubt feel that personal religion, considered so plainly on its own, is too incomplete to deserve the general name. “It is part of religion,” you will say, “but only its unorganized beginning. If we are to name it on its own, we had better call it human conscience or morality rather than religion. The name ‘religion’ should be reserved for the fully organized system of feeling, thought, and institution. In short, it should be reserved for the Church, of which this so-called personal religion is only a small part.”

But if you say this, it will only show the more plainly how much the question of definition tends to become a dispute about names. Rather than prolong such a dispute, I am willing to accept almost any name for the personal religion of which I propose to treat. Call it conscience or morality, if you yourselves prefer, and not religion—under either name it will be equally worthy of our study. As for myself, I think it will prove to contain some elements which morality pure and simple does not contain, and these elements I shall soon seek to point out; so I will myself continue to apply the word “religion” to it; and in the last lecture of all, I will bring in the theologies and the ecclesiasticisms, and say something of its relation to them.

But if you say this, you will only make it clearer how much a question of definition can become a dispute over names. Rather than prolong that dispute, I am willing to accept almost any name for the personal religion I plan to discuss. Call it conscience or morality rather than religion, if you prefer. Under either name, it will be equally worthy of study. For my part, I think it will prove to contain some elements that morality alone does not contain. I will soon try to point out those elements, so I will continue to call it “religion”. In the final lecture, I will bring in theology and church practices and say something about their relationship to personal religion.

In one sense at least the personal religion will prove itself more fundamental than either theology or ecclesiasticism. Churches, when once established, live at second-hand upon tradition; but the founders of every church owed their power originally to the fact of their direct personal communion with the divine. Not only the superhuman founders, the Christ, the Buddha, Mahomet, but all the originators of Christian sects have been in this case;—so personal religion should still seem the primordial thing, even to those who continue to esteem it incomplete.

In at least one sense, personal religion will prove more fundamental than either theology or organized religion. Once churches are established, they live secondhand on tradition. But the founders of every church originally drew their power from direct personal communion with the divine. This was true not only of the superhuman founders, Christ, Buddha, and Mahomet. It was also true of all the founders of Christian sects. So personal religion should still seem to come first, even to those who continue to consider it incomplete.

There are, it is true, other things in religion chronologically more primordial than personal devoutness in the moral sense. Fetishism and magic seem to have preceded inward piety historically—at least our records of inward piety do not reach back so far. And if fetishism and magic be regarded as stages of religion, one may say that personal religion in the inward sense and the genuinely spiritual ecclesiasticisms which it founds are phenomena of secondary or even tertiary order. But, quite apart from the fact that many anthropologists—for instance, Jevons and Frazer—expressly oppose “religion” and “magic” to each other, it is certain that the whole system of thought which leads to magic, fetishism, and the lower superstitions may just as well be called primitive science as called primitive religion. The question thus becomes a verbal one again; and our knowledge of all these early stages of thought and feeling is in any case so conjectural and imperfect that farther discussion would not be worth while.

It is true that other aspects of religion came before personal devotion in the moral sense. Fetishism and magic seem to have preceded inward piety historically. At least, our records of inward piety do not go back as far. If fetishism and magic are considered stages of religion, personal religion in the inward sense may be considered secondary or even tertiary. The same may be said of the genuinely spiritual religious institutions that personal religion establishes. But many anthropologists, including Jevons and Frazer, explicitly contrast “religion” with “magic.” And the whole way of thinking that leads to magic, fetishism, and more primitive superstitions could certainly be called primitive science just as well as primitive religion. So the question becomes one of terminology again. In any case, our knowledge of these early stages of thought and feeling is so speculative and incomplete that further discussion would not be worthwhile.

Religion, therefore, as I now ask you arbitrarily to take it, shall mean for us the feelings, acts, and experiences of individual men in their solitude, so far as they apprehend themselves to stand in relation to whatever they may consider the divine. Since the relation may be either moral, physical, or ritual, it is evident that out of religion in the sense in which we take it, theologies, philosophies, and ecclesiastical organizations may secondarily grow. In these lectures, however, as I have already said, the immediate personal experiences will amply fill our time, and we shall hardly consider theology or ecclesiasticism at all.

For our purposes, then, I ask you to accept this arbitrary definition of religion: the feelings, actions, and experiences of individuals in solitude, insofar as they understand themselves to be in relation to whatever they consider divine. This relation may be moral, physical, or ritual. So theologies, philosophies, and church organizations may grow out of religion as we define it here. In these lectures, however, as I have already said, immediate personal experiences will give us more than enough to discuss. We will hardly consider theology or church organization at all.

We escape much controversial matter by this arbitrary definition of our field. But, still, a chance of controversy comes up over the word “divine” if we take it in the definition in too narrow a sense. There are systems of thought which the world usually calls religious, and yet which do not positively assume a God. Buddhism is in this case. Popularly, of course, the Buddha himself stands in place of a God; but in strictness the Buddhistic system is atheistic. Modern transcendental idealism, Emersonianism, for instance, also seems to let God evaporate into abstract Ideality. Not a deity in concreto, not a superhuman person, but the immanent divinity in things, the essentially spiritual structure of the universe, is the object of the transcendentalist cult. In that address to the graduating class at Divinity College in 1838 which made Emerson famous, the frank expression of this worship of mere abstract laws was what made the scandal of the performance.

By defining our field this way, we avoid much debate. But controversy can still arise over the word “divine” if we define it too narrowly. Some systems of thought are usually called religious, yet do not explicitly assume that a God exists. Buddhism is one example. Of course, in popular practice, the Buddha himself takes the place of a God. But strictly speaking, the Buddhist system is atheistic. Modern transcendental idealism, such as Emersonianism, also seems to let God evaporate into abstract Ideality. Transcendentalists do not worship a concrete deity or a superhuman person. Their object of worship is the divinity present within things, the essentially spiritual structure of the universe. In 1838, Emerson gave an address to the graduating class at Divinity College that made him famous. What caused the scandal was his frank expression of this worship of abstract laws alone.

Such is the Emersonian religion. The universe has a divine soul of order, which soul is moral, being also the soul within the soul of man. But whether this soul of the universe be a mere quality like the eye's brilliancy or the skin's softness, or whether it be a self-conscious life like the eye's seeing or the skin's feeling, is a decision that never unmistakably appears in Emerson's pages. It quivers on the boundary of these things, sometimes leaning one way, sometimes the other, to suit the literary rather than the philosophic need. Whatever it is, though, it is active. As much as if it were a God, we can trust it to protect all ideal interests and keep the world's balance straight. The sentences in which Emerson, to the very end, gave utterance to this faith are as fine as anything in literature: “If you love and serve men, you cannot by any hiding or stratagem escape the remuneration. Secret retributions are always restoring the level, when disturbed, of the divine justice. It is impossible to tilt the beam. All the tyrants and proprietors and monopolists of the world in vain set their shoulders to heave the bar. Settles forevermore the ponderous equator to its line, and man and mote, and star and sun, must range to it, or be pulverized by the recoil.”¹¹

Such is Emerson’s religion. The universe has a divine soul of order. This soul is moral, and it is also the soul within the human soul. But Emerson never makes clear what this soul of the universe is. Is it merely a quality, like the brightness of an eye or the softness of skin? Or is it a self-conscious life, like an eye’s ability to see or skin’s ability to feel? Emerson hovers between these ideas. He leans first one way, then the other, to suit literary needs rather than philosophical ones. Whatever this soul is, though, it is active. We can trust it as we would a God. It will protect all ideal interests and keep the world in balance. To the very end, Emerson expressed this faith in sentences as fine as anything in literature: “If you love and serve people, no hiding or scheme can keep you from being rewarded. Secret acts of justice always restore the balance of divine justice when it is disturbed. It is impossible to tip the scales. All the tyrants, property owners, and monopolists in the world push against the bar in vain. The great balance settles forever back to its level. Humans and specks of dust, stars and suns must all fall in line, or be crushed by its return.”¹¹

Now it would be too absurd to say that the inner experiences that underlie such expressions of faith as this and impel the writer to their utterance are quite unworthy to be called religious experiences. The sort of appeal that Emersonian optimism, on the one hand, and Buddhistic pessimism, on the other, make to the individual and the sort of response which he makes to them in his life are in fact indistinguishable from, and in many respects identical with, the best Christian appeal and response. We must therefore, from the experiential point of view, call these godless or quasi-godless creeds “religions”; and accordingly when in our definition of religion we speak of the individual's relation to “what he considers the divine,” we must interpret the term “divine” very broadly, as denoting any object that is godlike, whether it be a concrete deity or not.

It would be absurd to say that the inner experiences behind such expressions of faith do not deserve to be called religious experiences. Those experiences also move the writer to express them. Emersonian optimism and Buddhistic pessimism each appeal to the individual, and each calls for a response in how the person lives. These appeals and responses are indistinguishable from the best Christian appeal and response. In many respects, they are identical to them. From the standpoint of experience, then, we must call these godless or nearly godless creeds “religions.” So when our definition of religion speaks of an individual's relation to “what he considers the divine,” we must understand “divine” very broadly. The term must mean any object that is godlike, whether or not it is a concrete deity.

But the term “godlike,” if thus treated as a floating general quality, becomes exceedingly vague, for many gods have flourished in religious history, and their attributes have been discrepant enough. What then is that essentially godlike quality—be it embodied in a concrete deity or not—our relation to which determines our character as religious men? It will repay us to seek some answer to this question before we proceed farther.

But if we treat “godlike” as a general quality without a fixed meaning, the term becomes extremely vague. Many gods have flourished in religious history, and their qualities have differed greatly. So what is the essential quality of being godlike? It may or may not be embodied in an actual deity. What quality determines whether we are religious, depending on how we relate to it? It is worth seeking an answer to this question before we go further.

For one thing, gods are conceived to be first things in the way of being and power. They overarch and envelop, and from them there is no escape. What relates to them is the first and last word in the way of truth. Whatever then were most primal and enveloping and deeply true might at this rate be treated as godlike, and a man's religion might thus be identified with his attitude, whatever it might be, towards what he felt to be the primal truth.

For one thing, gods are understood to be first in existence and power. They stand over and surround everything, and there is no escape from them. What concerns them is the first and last word in truth. By this reasoning, whatever is most fundamental, all-encompassing, and deeply true might be treated as godlike. A person’s religion might therefore be understood as their attitude, whatever it may be, toward what they believe is the fundamental truth.

Such a definition as this would in a way be defensible. Religion, whatever it is, is a man's total reaction upon life, so why not say that any total reaction upon life is a religion? Total reactions are different from casual reactions, and total attitudes are different from usual or professional attitudes. To get at them you must go behind the foreground of existence and reach down to that curious sense of the whole residual cosmos as an everlasting presence, intimate or alien, terrible or amusing, lovable or odious, which in some degree every one possesses. This sense of the world's presence, appealing as it does to our peculiar individual temperament, makes us either strenuous or careless, devout or blasphemous, gloomy or exultant, about life at large; and our reaction, involuntary and inarticulate and often half unconscious as it is, is the completest of all our answers to the question, “What is the character of this universe in which we dwell?” It expresses our individual sense of it in the most definite way. Why then not call these reactions our religion, no matter what specific character they may have? Non-religious as some of these reactions may be, in one sense of the word “religious,” they yet belong to the general sphere of the religious life, and so should generically be classed as religious reactions. “He believes in No-God, and he worships him,” said a colleague of mine of a student who was manifesting a fine atheistic ardor; and the more fervent opponents of Christian doctrine have often enough shown a temper which, psychologically considered, is indistinguishable from religious zeal.

A definition like this could be defended in one way. Whatever religion is, it is a person's overall response to life. So why not say that any overall response to life is a religion? Overall responses differ from casual ones, just as overall attitudes differ from everyday or professional attitudes. To understand them, you must look beneath the surface of existence. You must reach down to a curious sense that everyone has to some degree. It is a sense of the whole cosmos beyond our immediate experience as an everlasting presence. That presence may feel intimate or alien, terrible or amusing, lovable or hateful. This sense of the world's presence touches each person's individual temperament. It makes us earnest or careless, devout or blasphemous, gloomy or joyful about life as a whole. Our response is involuntary, unspoken, and often partly unconscious. Yet it is the most complete of all our answers to the question, “What is the character of this universe in which we live?” It expresses our individual sense of the universe in the clearest way. So why not call these responses our religion, whatever their particular character? Some of these responses may be nonreligious in one sense of the word “religious.” Yet they belong to the general sphere of the religious life, so they should be broadly classified as religious responses. “He believes in No-God, and he worships him,” a colleague of mine said of a student who was showing a fine atheistic fervor. And the more fervent opponents of Christian doctrine have often shown an attitude that is psychologically indistinguishable from religious zeal.

But so very broad a use of the word “religion” would be inconvenient, however defensible it might remain on logical grounds. There are trifling, sneering attitudes even towards the whole of life; and in some men these attitudes are final and systematic. It would strain the ordinary use of language too much to call such attitudes religious, even though, from the point of view of an unbiased critical philosophy, they might conceivably be perfectly reasonable ways of looking upon life. Voltaire, for example, writes thus to a friend, at the age of seventy-three: “As for myself,” he says, “weak as I am, I carry on the war to the last moment, I get a hundred pike-thrusts, I return two hundred, and I laugh. I see near my door Geneva on fire with quarrels over nothing, and I laugh again; and, thank God, I can look upon the world as a farce even when it becomes as tragic as it sometimes does. All comes out even at the end of the day, and all comes out still more even when all the days are over.”

But using the word “religion” so broadly would be inconvenient, however defensible it might be on logical grounds. Some people take a dismissive, sneering attitude even toward life as a whole. For them, this attitude is settled and systematic. It would stretch ordinary language too far to call such attitudes religious. Yet an unbiased critical philosophy might regard them as perfectly reasonable ways of looking at life. For example, at the age of seventy-three, Voltaire wrote to a friend: “As for myself, weak as I am, I carry on the war to the last moment. I receive a hundred thrusts from a pike, return two hundred, and laugh. Near my door, I see Geneva aflame with quarrels over nothing, and I laugh again. And, thank God, I can see the world as a farce even when it sometimes becomes tragic. Everything comes out even at the end of the day, and even more so when all the days are over.”

Much as we may admire such a robust old gamecock spirit in a valetudinarian, to call it a religious spirit would be odd. Yet it is for the moment Voltaire's reaction on the whole of life. Je m'en fiche is the vulgar French equivalent for our English ejaculation “Who cares?” And the happy term je m'en fichisme recently has been invented to designate the systematic determination not to take anything in life too solemnly. “All is vanity” is the relieving word in all difficult crises for this mode of thought, which that exquisite literary genius Renan took pleasure, in his later days of sweet decay, in putting into coquettishly sacrilegious forms which remain to us as excellent expressions of the “all is vanity” state of mind. Take the following passage, for example,—we must hold to duty, even against the evidence, Renan says,—but he then goes on:—

Much as we may admire such a feisty old fighting spirit in a chronic invalid, calling it religious would be odd. Yet for the moment, it is Voltaire's response to life as a whole. Je m'en fiche is the vulgar French equivalent of our English exclamation “Who cares?” And the happy term je m'en fichisme was recently invented to describe the deliberate practice of not taking anything in life too seriously. “All is vanity” is the comforting phrase in every difficult crisis for people who think this way. In his later days of sweet decay, the exquisite literary genius Renan enjoyed expressing this outlook in playfully sacrilegious forms. They remain excellent expressions of the “all is vanity” state of mind. Take the following passage, for example. Renan says we must hold to duty, even against the evidence, but then he goes on:

Surely all the usual associations of the word “religion” would have to be stripped away if such a systematic parti pris of irony were also to be denoted by the name. For common men “religion,” whatever more special meanings it may have, signifies always a serious state of mind. If any one phrase could gather its universal message, that phrase would be, “All is not vanity in this Universe, whatever the appearances may suggest.” If it can stop anything, religion as commonly apprehended can stop just such chaffing talk as Renan's. It favors gravity, not pertness; it says “hush” to all vain chatter and smart wit.

Surely we would have to strip away all the usual associations of the word “religion” to call such a systematic commitment to irony by that name. For ordinary people, “religion” always means a serious state of mind, whatever more specific meanings it may have. If one phrase could sum up its universal message, it would be: “All is not meaningless in this Universe, whatever appearances may suggest.” If religion, as commonly understood, can put a stop to anything, it can stop just such mocking talk as Renan's. It favors seriousness, not flippancy. It says “hush” to all empty chatter and clever wit.

But if hostile to light irony, religion is equally hostile to heavy grumbling and complaint. The world appears tragic enough in some religions, but the tragedy is realized as purging, and a way of deliverance is held to exist. We shall see enough of the religious melancholy in a future lecture; but melancholy, according to our ordinary use of language, forfeits all title to be called religious when, in Marcus Aurelius's racy words, the sufferer simply lies kicking and screaming after the fashion of a sacrificed pig. The mood of a Schopenhauer or a Nietzsche,—and in a less degree one may sometimes say the same of our own sad Carlyle,—though often an ennobling sadness, is almost as often only peevishness running away with the bit between its teeth. The sallies of the two German authors remind one, half the time, of the sick shriekings of two dying rats. They lack the purgatorial note which religious sadness gives forth.

But if religion is hostile to light irony, it is equally hostile to heavy grumbling and complaint. In some religions, the world seems tragic enough. But the tragedy is seen as cleansing, and a way of escape is believed to exist. We will see plenty of religious melancholy in a later lecture. But in the ordinary sense of the word, melancholy loses all right to be called religious when the sufferer simply lies kicking and screaming like a sacrificed pig, as Marcus Aurelius vividly puts it. The mood of a Schopenhauer or a Nietzsche is often a sadness that makes one nobler. But almost as often it is merely bad temper running completely out of control. The same may sometimes be said, to a lesser degree, of our own sad Carlyle. Half the time, the outbursts of the two German authors bring to mind the sickly shrieks of two dying rats. They lack the cleansing note that religious sadness sounds.

There must be something solemn, serious, and tender about any attitude which we denominate religious. If glad, it must not grin or snicker; if sad, it must not scream or curse. It is precisely as being solemn experiences that I wish to interest you in religious experiences. So I propose—arbitrarily again, if you please—to narrow our definition once more by saying that the word “divine,” as employed therein, shall mean for us not merely the primal and enveloping and real, for that meaning if taken without restriction might well prove too broad. The divine shall mean for us only such a primal reality as the individual feels impelled to respond to solemnly and gravely, and neither by a curse nor a jest.

Any attitude we call religious must have something solemn, serious, and tender about it. If joyful, it must not grin or snicker. If sad, it must not scream or curse. It is because religious experiences are solemn that I want to interest you in them. So I propose to narrow our definition once more. You may call this arbitrary again, if you like. In our definition, “divine” will mean more than what is fundamental, all-encompassing, and real. Without further limits, that meaning might well be too broad. For us, the divine will mean only a fundamental reality that a person feels compelled to respond to solemnly and seriously, with neither a curse nor a joke.

But solemnity, and gravity, and all such emotional attributes, admit of various shades; and, do what we will with our defining, the truth must at last be confronted that we are dealing with a field of experience where there is not a single conception that can be sharply drawn. The pretension, under such conditions, to be rigorously “scientific” or “exact” in our terms would only stamp us as lacking in understanding of our task. Things are more or less divine, states of mind are more or less religious, reactions are more or less total, but the boundaries are always misty, and it is everywhere a question of amount and degree. Nevertheless, at their extreme of development, there can never be any question as to what experiences are religious. The divinity of the object and the solemnity of the reaction are too well marked for doubt. Hesitation as to whether a state of mind is “religious,” or “irreligious,” or “moral,” or “philosophical,” is only likely to arise when the state of mind is weakly characterized, but in that case it will be hardly worthy of our study at all. With states that can only by courtesy be called religious we need have nothing to do, our only profitable business being with what nobody can possibly feel tempted to call anything else. I said in my former lecture that we learn most about a thing when we view it under a microscope, as it were, or in its most exaggerated form. This is as true of religious phenomena as of any other kind of fact. The only cases likely to be profitable enough to repay our attention will therefore be cases where the religious spirit is unmistakable and extreme. Its fainter manifestations we may tranquilly pass by. Here, for example, is the total reaction upon life of Frederick Locker Lampson, whose autobiography, entitled “Confidences,” proves him to have been a most amiable man.

But solemnity, gravity, and similar emotions come in varying shades. No matter how carefully we define our terms, we must finally face the truth. We are dealing with a field of experience in which no single concept can be sharply defined. Under these conditions, any claim to use rigorously “scientific” or “exact” terms would only show that we misunderstand our task. Things are more or less divine, states of mind are more or less religious, and reactions are more or less total. But the boundaries are always hazy, and everywhere it is a question of amount and degree. Nevertheless, when religious experiences are fully developed, there can be no doubt about what they are. The object is so clearly divine, and the reaction so clearly solemn, that there is no room for doubt. We are likely to hesitate over whether a state of mind is “religious,” “irreligious,” “moral,” or “philosophical” only when its character is weak. But in that case, the state of mind will hardly be worth studying at all. We need not concern ourselves with states that can only be called religious as a courtesy. Our only profitable task is to study experiences that nobody could possibly be tempted to call anything else. In my previous lecture, I said that we learn most about something when we view it, as if under a microscope, in its most exaggerated form. This is as true of religious phenomena as of any other kind of fact. The only cases likely to repay our attention, then, are those in which the religious spirit is unmistakable and extreme. We may calmly pass over its fainter manifestations. Here, for example, is Frederick Locker Lampson's total reaction to life. His autobiography, entitled “Confidences,” shows that he was a most amiable man.

This is a complex, a tender, a submissive, and a graceful state of mind. For myself, I should have no objection to calling it on the whole a religious state of mind, although I dare say that to many of you it may seem too listless and half-hearted to merit so good a name. But what matters it in the end whether we call such a state of mind religious or not? It is too insignificant for our instruction in any case; and its very possessor wrote it down in terms which he would not have used unless he had been thinking of more energetically religious moods in others, with which he found himself unable to compete. It is with these more energetic states that our sole business lies, and we can perfectly well afford to let the minor notes and the uncertain border go.

This is a complex, tender, submissive, and graceful state of mind. Personally, I would have no objection to calling it a religious state of mind on the whole. Although I imagine many of you may find it too listless and half-hearted to deserve such a good name. But in the end, does it matter whether we call this state of mind religious? In any case, it is too insignificant to teach us much. And the person who experienced it wrote about it in terms he would not have used otherwise. He must have been thinking of more intensely religious moods in others, which he found himself unable to match. Our only concern is with these more intense states. We can easily afford to set aside the less important cases and the uncertain boundaries.

It was the extremer cases that I had in mind a little while ago when I said that personal religion, even without theology or ritual, would prove to embody some elements that morality pure and simple does not contain. You may remember that I promised shortly to point out what those elements were. In a general way I can now say what I had in mind.

I had the more extreme cases in mind when I spoke earlier about personal religion. I said that even without theology or ritual, personal religion would prove to contain some elements that morality alone does not. You may remember that I promised to identify those elements shortly. I can now say in general terms what I had in mind.

“I accept the universe” is reported to have been a favorite utterance of our New England transcendentalist, Margaret Fuller; and when some one repeated this phrase to Thomas Carlyle, his sardonic comment is said to have been: “Gad! she'd better!” At bottom the whole concern of both morality and religion is with the manner of our acceptance of the universe. Do we accept it only in part and grudgingly, or heartily and altogether? Shall our protests against certain things in it be radical and unforgiving, or shall we think that, even with evil, there are ways of living that must lead to good? If we accept the whole, shall we do so as if stunned into submission,—as Carlyle would have us—“Gad! we'd better!”—or shall we do so with enthusiastic assent? Morality pure and simple accepts the law of the whole which it finds reigning, so far as to acknowledge and obey it, but it may obey it with the heaviest and coldest heart, and never cease to feel it as a yoke. But for religion, in its strong and fully developed manifestations, the service of the highest never is felt as a yoke. Dull submission is left far behind, and a mood of welcome, which may fill any place on the scale between cheerful serenity and enthusiastic gladness, has taken its place.

“I accept the universe” is said to have been a favorite saying of Margaret Fuller, our New England transcendentalist. When someone repeated it to Thomas Carlyle, he is said to have replied sarcastically: “Gad! she'd better!” At bottom, morality and religion are both concerned with how we accept the universe. Do we accept it only partly and grudgingly, or wholeheartedly and completely? Should we protest against certain things in the universe fiercely and without forgiveness? Or should we believe that, even with evil, there are ways of living that must lead to good? If we accept the whole universe, should we do so as if stunned into submission, as Carlyle would have us? “Gad! we'd better!” Or should we accept it with enthusiasm? Morality alone accepts the law it finds governing the whole universe, at least enough to acknowledge and obey it. But morality may obey that law with the heaviest and coldest heart, never ceasing to feel it as a burden. For religion, however, in its strongest and most fully developed forms, serving the highest is never felt as a burden. Dull submission is left far behind. In its place is a welcoming spirit, ranging from cheerful serenity to enthusiastic joy.

It makes a tremendous emotional and practical difference to one whether one accept the universe in the drab discolored way of stoic resignation to necessity, or with the passionate happiness of Christian saints. The difference is as great as that between passivity and activity, as that between the defensive and the aggressive mood. Gradual as are the steps by which an individual may grow from one state into the other, many as are the intermediate stages which different individuals represent, yet when you place the typical extremes beside each other for comparison, you feel that two discontinuous psychological universes confront you, and that in passing from one to the other a “critical point” has been overcome.

It makes a tremendous emotional and practical difference how you accept the universe. You may accept it in the drab, colorless manner of stoic resignation to necessity. Or you may accept it with the passionate happiness of Christian saints. The difference is as great as the difference between passivity and activity, or between a defensive and an aggressive mood. A person may move gradually from one state to the other. And different people may represent many stages in between. Yet when you compare the typical extremes, you feel that you are facing two separate psychological universes. You feel that a “critical point” has been crossed in passing from one to the other.

If we compare stoic with Christian ejaculations we see much more than a difference of doctrine; rather is it a difference of emotional mood that parts them. When Marcus Aurelius reflects on the eternal reason that has ordered things, there is a frosty chill about his words which you rarely find in a Jewish, and never in a Christian piece of religious writing. The universe is “accepted” by all these writers; but how devoid of passion or exultation the spirit of the Roman Emperor is! Compare his fine sentence: “If gods care not for me or my children, here is a reason for it,” with Job's cry: “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him!” and you immediately see the difference I mean. The anima mundi, to whose disposal of his own personal destiny the Stoic consents, is there to be respected and submitted to, but the Christian God is there to be loved; and the difference of emotional atmosphere is like that between an arctic climate and the tropics, though the outcome in the way of accepting actual conditions uncomplainingly may seem in abstract terms to be much the same.

If we compare Stoic and Christian religious exclamations, we see much more than a difference in doctrine. What separates them is a difference in emotional mood. When Marcus Aurelius reflects on the eternal reason that has ordered things, his words have a frosty chill. You rarely find that chill in Jewish religious writing, and never in Christian religious writing. All these writers “accept” the universe. But the Roman Emperor’s spirit is so lacking in passion or joy! Compare his fine sentence, “If gods care not for me or my children, here is a reason for it,” with Job’s cry, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him!” You immediately see the difference I mean. The Stoic accepts how the anima mundi, or world soul, determines his personal destiny. The Stoic respects and submits to the anima mundi, but the Christian loves God. The difference in emotional atmosphere is like the difference between an arctic climate and the tropics. Yet in abstract terms, the outcome may seem much the same. Both accept actual conditions without complaint.

Compare now this mood with that of the old Christian author of the Theologia Germanica:—

Now compare this mood with that of the early Christian author of the Theologia Germanica:

How much more active and positive the impulse of the Christian writer to accept his place in the universe is! Marcus Aurelius agrees to the scheme—the German theologian agrees with it. He literally abounds in agreement, he runs out to embrace the divine decrees.

How much more active and positive is the Christian writer’s desire to accept his place in the universe! Marcus Aurelius agrees to the plan. The German theologian agrees with it. He literally overflows with agreement. He rushes to embrace God’s decrees.

Occasionally, it is true, the Stoic rises to something like a Christian warmth of sentiment, as in the often quoted passage of Marcus Aurelius:—

Sometimes, it is true, a Stoic expresses something like Christian warmth, as in this often-quoted passage from Marcus Aurelius:

But compare even as devout a passage as this with a genuine Christian outpouring, and it seems a little cold. Turn, for instance, to the Imitation of Christ:—

But even a devout passage like this seems a little cold when compared with a genuine Christian outpouring. Consider, for example, the Imitation of Christ:

It is a good rule in physiology, when we are studying the meaning of an organ, to ask after its most peculiar and characteristic sort of performance, and to seek its office in that one of its functions which no other organ can possibly exert. Surely the same maxim holds good in our present quest. The essence of religious experiences, the thing by which we finally must judge them, must be that element or quality in them which we can meet nowhere else. And such a quality will be of course most prominent and easy to notice in those religious experiences which are most one-sided, exaggerated, and intense.

In physiology, a good way to understand an organ is to ask what it does most distinctively. We should look for its purpose in the function that no other organ can perform. Surely the same rule applies to our present inquiry. The essence of religious experiences must be the element or quality found nowhere else. That is what we must ultimately judge them by. And of course, this quality will be most prominent and easiest to notice in religious experiences that are most one-sided, exaggerated, and intense.

Now when we compare these intenser experiences with the experiences of tamer minds, so cool and reasonable that we are tempted to call them philosophical rather than religious, we find a character that is perfectly distinct. That character, it seems to me, should be regarded as the practically important differentia of religion for our purpose; and just what it is can easily be brought out by comparing the mind of an abstractly conceived Christian with that of a moralist similarly conceived.

Now compare these more intense experiences with those of people with milder minds. They are so cool and reasonable that we are tempted to call them philosophical rather than religious. We find a distinct characteristic in the more intense experiences. It seems to me that, for our purposes, this characteristic is the practically important feature that distinguishes religion. We can easily show what it is by comparing an abstract idea of a Christian with a similarly abstract idea of a moralist.

A life is manly, stoical, moral, or philosophical, we say, in proportion as it is less swayed by paltry personal considerations and more by objective ends that call for energy, even though that energy bring personal loss and pain. This is the good side of war, in so far as it calls for “volunteers.” And for morality life is a war, and the service of the highest is a sort of cosmic patriotism which also calls for volunteers. Even a sick man, unable to be militant outwardly, can carry on the moral warfare. He can willfully turn his attention away from his own future, whether in this world or the next. He can train himself to indifference to his present drawbacks and immerse himself in whatever objective interests still remain accessible. He can follow public news, and sympathize with other people's affairs. He can cultivate cheerful manners, and be silent about his miseries. He can contemplate whatever ideal aspects of existence his philosophy is able to present to him, and practice whatever duties, such as patience, resignation, trust, his ethical system requires. Such a man lives on his loftiest, largest plane. He is a high-hearted freeman and no pining slave. And yet he lacks something which the Christian par excellence, the mystic and ascetic saint, for example, has in abundant measure, and which makes of him a human being of an altogether different denomination.

We call a life manly, stoical, moral, or philosophical when it is less influenced by petty personal concerns. It is instead guided more by goals beyond the self that demand effort, even when that effort brings personal loss and pain. This is the good side of war, insofar as it calls for “volunteers.” For morality, life is a war. Serving the highest good is a kind of cosmic patriotism that also calls for volunteers. Even a sick man, unable to fight outwardly, can carry on the moral struggle. He can deliberately turn his attention away from his own future, whether in this world or the next. He can train himself not to mind his present limitations and immerse himself in whatever interests beyond himself remain open to him. He can follow public news and care about other people's affairs. He can cultivate cheerful manners and keep silent about his troubles. He can contemplate whatever ideal aspects of existence his philosophy presents to him. He can also practice whatever duties his ethical system requires, such as patience, resignation, and trust. Such a man lives at his highest and fullest level. He is a brave, free man, not a slave who longs for what he lacks. And yet he lacks something that the Christian par excellence, such as the mystic and ascetic saint, has in abundance. This quality makes that Christian a human being of an altogether different kind.

The Christian also spurns the pinched and mumping sick-room attitude, and the lives of saints are full of a kind of callousness to diseased conditions of body which probably no other human records show. But whereas the merely moralistic spurning takes an effort of volition, the Christian spurning is the result of the excitement of a higher kind of emotion, in the presence of which no exertion of volition is required. The moralist must hold his breath and keep his muscles tense; and so long as this athletic attitude is possible all goes well—morality suffices. But the athletic attitude tends ever to break down, and it inevitably does break down even in the most stalwart when the organism begins to decay, or when morbid fears invade the mind. To suggest personal will and effort to one all sicklied o'er with the sense of irremediable impotence is to suggest the most impossible of things. What he craves is to be consoled in his very powerlessness, to feel that the spirit of the universe recognizes and secures him, all decaying and failing as he is. Well, we are all such helpless failures in the last resort. The sanest and best of us are of one clay with lunatics and prison inmates, and death finally runs the robustest of us down. And whenever we feel this, such a sense of the vanity and provisionality of our voluntary career comes over us that all our morality appears but as a plaster hiding a sore it can never cure, and all our well-doing as the hollowest substitute for that well-being that our lives ought to be grounded in, but, alas! are not.

The Christian also rejects the cramped, complaining attitude of the sickroom. The lives of saints are full of a kind of indifference to bodily illness that probably no other human records show. But the moralist must make an effort of will to reject that attitude. The Christian rejects it because a higher kind of emotion has been stirred, leaving no need for an effort of will. The moralist must hold his breath and keep his muscles tense. As long as this athletic stance is possible, all goes well. Morality is enough. But this athletic stance tends to give way. It inevitably breaks down, even in the strongest people, when the body begins to decay or morbid fears invade the mind. To suggest personal will and effort to someone overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness beyond cure is to suggest the most impossible of things. What he craves is comfort in his very powerlessness. He wants to feel that the spirit of the universe recognizes and protects him, even as he decays and fails. Well, in the end, we are all such helpless failures. The sanest and best of us are made of the same clay as people in asylums and prisons. And death finally overtakes even the strongest among us. Whenever we feel this, we are struck by how futile and temporary our life of willed effort is. All our morality then seems like a bandage hiding a sore it can never cure. And all our good deeds seem the hollowest substitute for the well-being our lives ought to be grounded in, but, sadly, are not.

And here religion comes to our rescue and takes our fate into her hands. There is a state of mind, known to religious men, but to no others, in which the will to assert ourselves and hold our own has been displaced by a willingness to close our mouths and be as nothing in the floods and waterspouts of God. In this state of mind, what we most dreaded has become the habitation of our safety, and the hour of our moral death has turned into our spiritual birthday. The time for tension in our soul is over, and that of happy relaxation, of calm deep breathing, of an eternal present, with no discordant future to be anxious about, has arrived. Fear is not held in abeyance as it is by mere morality, it is positively expunged and washed away.

And here religion comes to our rescue and takes our fate into her hands. There is a state of mind known only to religious people. In this state, the desire to assert ourselves and hold our own gives way to a willingness to fall silent. We are willing to be nothing amid the floods and waterspouts of God. What we most feared has become our place of safety. The hour of our moral death has become our spiritual birthday. The time for tension in our souls is over. Now comes a time of happy relaxation and calm, deep breathing. We live in an eternal present, with no troubling future to worry about. Mere morality holds fear at bay, but religion wipes it out and washes it away.

We shall see abundant examples of this happy state of mind in later lectures of this course. We shall see how infinitely passionate a thing religion at its highest flights can be. Like love, like wrath, like hope, ambition, jealousy, like every other instinctive eagerness and impulse, it adds to life an enchantment which is not rationally or logically deducible from anything else. This enchantment, coming as a gift when it does come,—a gift of our organism, the physiologists will tell us, a gift of God's grace, the theologians say,—is either there or not there for us, and there are persons who can no more become possessed by it than they can fall in love with a given woman by mere word of command. Religious feeling is thus an absolute addition to the Subject's range of life. It gives him a new sphere of power. When the outward battle is lost, and the outer world disowns him, it redeems and vivifies an interior world which otherwise would be an empty waste.

We will see many examples of this happy state of mind in later lectures. We will see how infinitely passionate religion can be at its heights. Like love, anger, hope, ambition, jealousy, and every other instinctive desire and impulse, religion adds an enchantment to life. That enchantment cannot be rationally or logically deduced from anything else. When it comes, it comes as a gift. Physiologists will call it a gift of our bodies, while theologians will call it a gift of God's grace. Either we have this enchantment or we do not. Some people can no more be possessed by it than they can fall in love with a particular woman on command. Religious feeling thus adds something entirely new to a person's experience of life. It gives that person a new sphere of power. When the outward battle is lost and the outer world rejects a person, religious feeling saves and brings to life an inner world that would otherwise be an empty wasteland.

If religion is to mean anything definite for us, it seems to me that we ought to take it as meaning this added dimension of emotion, this enthusiastic temper of espousal, in regions where morality strictly so called can at best but bow its head and acquiesce. It ought to mean nothing short of this new reach of freedom for us, with the struggle over, the keynote of the universe sounding in our ears, and everlasting possession spread before our eyes.¹⁹

If religion is to mean anything definite to us, I think it should mean this added dimension of emotion. It should mean an enthusiastic embrace of things that morality alone can, at best, bow to and accept. Religion should mean nothing less than this new freedom for us. The struggle is over, the universe’s keynote sounds in our ears, and everlasting possession lies before our eyes.¹⁹

This sort of happiness in the absolute and everlasting is what we find nowhere but in religion. It is parted off from all mere animal happiness, all mere enjoyment of the present, by that element of solemnity of which I have already made so much account. Solemnity is a hard thing to define abstractly, but certain of its marks are patent enough. A solemn state of mind is never crude or simple—it seems to contain a certain measure of its own opposite in solution. A solemn joy preserves a sort of bitter in its sweetness; a solemn sorrow is one to which we intimately consent. But there are writers who, realizing that happiness of a supreme sort is the prerogative of religion, forget this complication, and call all happiness, as such, religious. Mr. Havelock Ellis, for example, identifies religion with the entire field of the soul's liberation from oppressive moods.

This kind of happiness in what is absolute and everlasting is found only in religion. It differs from mere animal happiness and mere enjoyment of the present because of its solemnity. I have already placed great importance on this quality. Solemnity is hard to define in the abstract, but some of its signs are clear enough. A solemn state of mind is never crude or simple. It seems to contain some measure of its own opposite. A solemn joy keeps a hint of bitterness in its sweetness. A solemn sorrow is one we deeply accept. But some writers recognize that a supreme kind of happiness belongs to religion, yet forget this complexity. They call all happiness religious simply because it is happiness. Mr. Havelock Ellis, for example, equates religion with the whole range of the soul’s freedom from oppressive moods.

But such a straight identification of religion with any and every form of happiness leaves the essential peculiarity of religious happiness out. The more commonplace happinesses which we get are “reliefs,” occasioned by our momentary escapes from evils either experienced or threatened. But in its most characteristic embodiments, religious happiness is no mere feeling of escape. It cares no longer to escape. It consents to the evil outwardly as a form of sacrifice—inwardly it knows it to be permanently overcome. If you ask how religion thus falls on the thorns and faces death, and in the very act annuls annihilation, I cannot explain the matter, for it is religion's secret, and to understand it you must yourself have been a religious man of the extremer type. In our future examples, even of the simplest and healthiest-minded type of religious consciousness, we shall find this complex sacrificial constitution, in which a higher happiness holds a lower unhappiness in check. In the Louvre there is a picture, by Guido Reni, of St. Michael with his foot on Satan's neck. The richness of the picture is in large part due to the fiend's figure being there. The richness of its allegorical meaning also is due to his being there—that is, the world is all the richer for having a devil in it, so long as we keep our foot upon his neck. In the religious consciousness, that is just the position in which the fiend, the negative or tragic principle, is found; and for that very reason the religious consciousness is so rich from the emotional point of view.²¹ We shall see how in certain men and women it takes on a monstrously ascetic form. There are saints who have literally fed on the negative principle, on humiliation and privation, and the thought of suffering and death,—their souls growing in happiness just in proportion as their outward state grew more intolerable. No other emotion than religious emotion can bring a man to this peculiar pass. And it is for that reason that when we ask our question about the value of religion for human life, I think we ought to look for the answer among these violenter examples rather than among those of a more moderate hue.

But simply equating religion with every form of happiness leaves out what is distinctive about religious happiness. Our more ordinary forms of happiness are “reliefs.” They come from momentarily escaping evils we have experienced or that threaten us. But in its most characteristic forms, religious happiness is not merely a feeling of escape. It no longer cares to escape. Outwardly, it accepts evil as a form of sacrifice. Inwardly, it knows that evil has been permanently overcome. If you ask how religion falls on the thorns and faces death, and in doing so cancels out annihilation, I cannot explain it. That is religion's secret. To understand it, you must yourself have been a religious person of the more extreme type. In our later examples of religious consciousness, we shall find this complex sacrificial character. We shall find it even in the simplest and healthiest-minded type. In this character, a higher happiness keeps a lower unhappiness in check. In the Louvre there is a picture by Guido Reni of St. Michael with his foot on Satan's neck. Much of the picture's richness comes from the presence of the fiend. His presence also gives the picture much of its symbolic richness. In other words, the world is all the richer for having a devil in it, as long as we keep our foot on his neck. In religious consciousness, the fiend, the negative or tragic principle, is found in just that position. For that very reason, religious consciousness is so rich in emotion.²¹ We shall see how religious consciousness takes on a monstrously ascetic form in certain men and women. There are saints who have literally fed on the negative principle, on humiliation and deprivation, and on thoughts of suffering and death. Their souls grew happier in direct proportion as their outward condition grew more unbearable. No emotion other than religious emotion can bring a person to this peculiar state. For that reason, when we ask about the value of religion for human life, I think we should look for the answer among these more extreme examples rather than more moderate ones.

Having the phenomenon of our study in its acutest possible form to start with, we can shade down as much as we please later. And if in these cases, repulsive as they are to our ordinary worldly way of judging, we find ourselves compelled to acknowledge religion's value and treat it with respect, it will have proved in some way its value for life at large. By subtracting and toning down extravagances we may thereupon proceed to trace the boundaries of its legitimate sway.

If we start with the phenomenon we are studying in its most extreme form, we can consider milder forms later. These cases are repulsive by our ordinary worldly standards. But if we feel compelled to acknowledge religion’s value and respect it in these cases, religion will have proved its value for life in general in some way. We can then set aside the excesses and moderate the extremes. From there, we can begin to trace the proper limits of religion’s influence.

To be sure, it makes our task difficult to have to deal so much with eccentricities and extremes. “How can religion on the whole be the most important of all human functions,” you may ask, “if every several manifestation of it in turn have to be corrected and sobered down and pruned away?” Such a thesis seems a paradox impossible to sustain reasonably,—yet I believe that something like it will have to be our final contention. That personal attitude which the individual finds himself impelled to take up towards what he apprehends to be the divine—and you will remember that this was our definition—will prove to be both a helpless and a sacrificial attitude. That is, we shall have to confess to at least some amount of dependence on sheer mercy, and to practice some amount of renunciation, great or small, to save our souls alive. The constitution of the world we live in requires it:—

Of course, our task is made difficult by having to deal so much with eccentricities and extremes. You may ask, “How can religion as a whole be the most important of all human functions if each of its expressions, in turn, has to be corrected, moderated, and trimmed back?” Such a claim seems like a paradox that cannot reasonably be defended. Yet I believe that something like it will have to be our final conclusion. You will remember our definition of religion as the personal attitude an individual feels compelled to take toward what they perceive as divine. That attitude will prove to be both helpless and sacrificial. In other words, we will have to admit that we depend, at least to some degree, on sheer mercy. We will also have to give up something, great or small, to keep our souls alive. The nature of the world we live in requires it:

For when all is said and done, we are in the end absolutely dependent on the universe; and into sacrifices and surrenders of some sort, deliberately looked at and accepted, we are drawn and pressed as into our only permanent positions of repose. Now in those states of mind which fall short of religion, the surrender is submitted to as an imposition of necessity, and the sacrifice is undergone at the very best without complaint. In the religious life, on the contrary, surrender and sacrifice are positively espoused: even unnecessary givings-up are added in order that the happiness may increase. Religion thus makes easy and felicitous what in any case is necessary; and if it be the only agency that can accomplish this result, its vital importance as a human faculty stands vindicated beyond dispute. It becomes an essential organ of our life, performing a function which no other portion of our nature can so successfully fulfill. From the merely biological point of view, so to call it, this is a conclusion to which, so far as I can now see, we shall inevitably be led, and led moreover by following the purely empirical method of demonstration which I sketched to you in the first lecture. Of the farther office of religion as a metaphysical revelation I will say nothing now.

For, when all is said and done, we are completely dependent on the universe. We are drawn and pressed toward sacrifices and acts of surrender of some kind. We must face and accept them as our only lasting sources of peace. In states of mind that fall short of religion, surrender is accepted as something necessity imposes. At best, sacrifice is endured without complaint. In religious life, by contrast, surrender and sacrifice are actively embraced. People even give up things they need not surrender, so that their happiness may increase. Religion thus makes easy and happy what is necessary in any case. And if religion is the only force that can do this, its vital importance as a human capacity is beyond dispute. It becomes an essential part of our lives, performing a function that no other part of our nature can perform as successfully. From what we might call a purely biological point of view, this conclusion seems inevitable to me. We will reach it by following the purely empirical method of demonstration I outlined in the first lecture. I will say nothing now about religion's further role as a metaphysical revelation.

But to foreshadow the terminus of one's investigations is one thing, and to arrive there safely is another. In the next lecture, abandoning the extreme generalities which have engrossed us hitherto, I propose that we begin our actual journey by addressing ourselves directly to the concrete facts.

But anticipating where an investigation will end is one thing. Arriving there safely is another. In the next lecture, we will leave behind the broad generalities that have occupied us so far. I propose that we begin our actual journey by looking directly at the concrete facts.