The Reality of the Unseen

Were one asked to characterize the life of religion in the broadest and most general terms possible, one might say that it consists of the belief that there is an unseen order, and that our supreme good lies in harmoniously adjusting ourselves thereto. This belief and this adjustment are the religious attitude in the soul. I wish during this hour to call your attention to some of the psychological peculiarities of such an attitude as this, of belief in an object which we cannot see. All our attitudes, moral, practical, or emotional, as well as religious, are due to the “objects” of our consciousness, the things which we believe to exist, whether really or ideally, along with ourselves. Such objects may be present to our senses, or they may be present only to our thought. In either case they elicit from us a reaction; and the reaction due to things of thought is notoriously in many cases as strong as that due to sensible presences. It may be even stronger. The memory of an insult may make us angrier than the insult did when we received it. We are frequently more ashamed of our blunders afterwards than we were at the moment of making them; and in general our whole higher prudential and moral life is based on the fact that material sensations actually present may have a weaker influence on our action than ideas of remoter facts.

If asked to describe religious life in the broadest possible terms, one might put it this way: religion consists of believing that an unseen order exists and that our greatest good lies in living in harmony with it. This belief and this adjustment together make up the religious attitude of the soul. During this hour, I want to draw your attention to some psychological features of this attitude. It is an attitude of belief in something we cannot see. All our attitudes, moral, practical, emotional, and religious, arise from the “objects” of our consciousness. These are the things we believe exist alongside us, whether in reality or as ideals. Our senses may perceive these objects, or they may be present only in our thoughts. In either case, they draw a reaction from us. As we know, our reactions to things we think about are often as strong as our reactions to things present to our senses. They may be even stronger. The memory of an insult may make us angrier than the insult did when we received it. We are often more ashamed of our mistakes afterward than we were when we made them. More generally, our entire higher life of prudence and morality rests on a fact: physical sensations we feel at the moment may influence our actions less than ideas about more distant facts.

The more concrete objects of most men's religion, the deities whom they worship, are known to them only in idea. It has been vouchsafed, for example, to very few Christian believers to have had a sensible vision of their Saviour; though enough appearances of this sort are on record, by way of miraculous exception, to merit our attention later. The whole force of the Christian religion, therefore, so far as belief in the divine personages determines the prevalent attitude of the believer, is in general exerted by the instrumentality of pure ideas, of which nothing in the individual's past experience directly serves as a model.

Most people know the more concrete objects of their religion, the deities they worship, only as ideas. For example, very few Christian believers have been granted a vision of their Saviour. Yet enough such visions have been recorded as miraculous exceptions to deserve our attention later. The Christian religion often shapes a believer's general attitude through belief in divine persons. To that extent, its whole force usually works through ideas alone. Nothing in the believer's past experience serves directly as a model for those ideas.

But in addition to these ideas of the more concrete religious objects, religion is full of abstract objects which prove to have an equal power. God's attributes as such, his holiness, his justice, his mercy, his absoluteness, his infinity, his omniscience, his tri-unity, the various mysteries of the redemptive process, the operation of the sacraments, etc., have proved fertile wells of inspiring meditation for Christian believers.²² We shall see later that the absence of definite sensible images is positively insisted on by the mystical authorities in all religions as the sine qua non of a successful orison, or contemplation of the higher divine truths. Such contemplations are expected (and abundantly verify the expectation, as we shall also see) to influence the believer's subsequent attitude very powerfully for good.

But religion also contains abstract objects that can be just as powerful as ideas of more concrete religious objects. God's attributes include his holiness, justice, mercy, absoluteness, infinity, omniscience, and tri-unity. His attributes, the various mysteries of redemption, and the operation of the sacraments have inspired much meditation among Christian believers.²² Later, we shall see that mystical authorities in all religions insist on the absence of clear sensory images. They regard this absence as essential to successful prayer or contemplation of higher divine truths. Such contemplation is expected to have a powerful, beneficial influence on the believer's later attitude. As we shall also see, experience amply confirms this expectation.

Immanuel Kant held a curious doctrine about such objects of belief as God, the design of creation, the soul, its freedom, and the life hereafter. These things, he said, are properly not objects of knowledge at all. Our conceptions always require a sense-content to work with, and as the words “soul,” “God,” “immortality,” cover no distinctive sense-content whatever, it follows that theoretically speaking they are words devoid of any significance. Yet strangely enough they have a definite meaning for our practice. We can act as if there were a God; feel as if we were free; consider Nature as if she were full of special designs; lay plans as if we were to be immortal; and we find then that these words do make a genuine difference in our moral life. Our faith that these unintelligible objects actually exist proves thus to be a full equivalent in praktischer Hinsicht, as Kant calls it, or from the point of view of our action, for a knowledge of what they might be, in case we were permitted positively to conceive them. So we have the strange phenomenon, as Kant assures us, of a mind believing with all its strength in the real presence of a set of things of no one of which it can form any notion whatsoever.

Immanuel Kant held a curious view about objects of belief such as God, the design of creation, the soul, its freedom, and life after death. He said that these things are not properly objects of knowledge at all. Our concepts always need sensory content to work with. The words “soul,” “God,” and “immortality” refer to no distinctive sensory content at all. So, in theory, these words have no meaning. Yet, strangely enough, they have a definite meaning for our practice. We can act as if there were a God. We can feel as if we were free. We can consider Nature as if she were full of special designs. We can make plans as if we were immortal. When we do, we find that these words make a genuine difference in our moral life. So our faith that these incomprehensible things actually exist is fully equivalent, in praktischer Hinsicht, as Kant calls it, to knowledge of what they might be. That is, it is equivalent from the point of view of our actions, if we were allowed to conceive of them in positive terms. As Kant assures us, we are left with a strange phenomenon. The mind believes with all its strength that a set of things is really present, yet it cannot form any idea whatsoever of a single one of them.

My object in thus recalling Kant's doctrine to your mind is not to express any opinion as to the accuracy of this particularly uncouth part of his philosophy, but only to illustrate the characteristic of human nature which we are considering, by an example so classical in its exaggeration. The sentiment of reality can indeed attach itself so strongly to our object of belief that our whole life is polarized through and through, so to speak, by its sense of the existence of the thing believed in, and yet that thing, for purpose of definite description, can hardly be said to be present to our mind at all. It is as if a bar of iron, without touch or sight, with no representative faculty whatever, might nevertheless be strongly endowed with an inner capacity for magnetic feeling; and as if, through the various arousals of its magnetism by magnets coming and going in its neighborhood, it might be consciously determined to different attitudes and tendencies. Such a bar of iron could never give you an outward description of the agencies that had the power of stirring it so strongly; yet of their presence, and of their significance for its life, it would be intensely aware through every fibre of its being.

I have recalled Kant's doctrine not to judge the accuracy of this particularly awkward part of his philosophy. My purpose is only to illustrate the trait of human nature we are considering, using a classic example of its exaggeration. Our sense that something we believe in is real can be very strong. The sense of its existence can shape our whole life, so to speak. Yet we may hardly be able to describe the thing itself as being present in our minds at all. Imagine a bar of iron with no sense of touch or sight and no ability to form mental images. Yet suppose that the bar had a strong inner capacity to feel magnetism. As magnets came and went nearby, they would stir its magnetism in different ways. In response, the bar might consciously adopt different attitudes and tendencies. Such a bar of iron could never describe the outward appearance of the forces that stirred it so strongly. Yet it would be intensely aware of their presence and their importance to its life, through every fiber of its being.

It is not only the Ideas of pure Reason, as Kant styled them, that have this power of making us vitally feel presences that we are impotent articulately to describe. All sorts of higher abstractions bring with them the same kind of impalpable appeal. Remember those passages from Emerson which I read at my last lecture. The whole universe of concrete objects, as we know them, swims, not only for such a transcendentalist writer, but for all of us, in a wider and higher universe of abstract ideas, that lend it its significance. As time, space, and the ether soak through all things, so (we feel) do abstract and essential goodness, beauty, strength, significance, justice, soak through all things good, strong, significant, and just.

Kant called them the Ideas of pure Reason. But these are not the only ideas that make us vividly feel presences we cannot clearly describe. All kinds of higher abstractions have the same intangible appeal. Remember the passages from Emerson that I read at my last lecture. As we know it, the whole universe of concrete objects floats within a wider and higher universe of abstract ideas. This is true not only for a transcendentalist writer like Emerson, but for all of us. These abstract ideas give the concrete universe its significance. Time, space, and the ether pass through all things. In the same way, we feel that abstract and essential goodness, beauty, strength, significance, and justice pass through all things that are good, strong, significant, and just.

Such ideas, and others equally abstract, form the background for all our facts, the fountain-head of all the possibilities we conceive of. They give its “nature,” as we call it, to every special thing. Everything we know is “what” it is by sharing in the nature of one of these abstractions. We can never look directly at them, for they are bodiless and featureless and footless, but we grasp all other things by their means, and in handling the real world we should be stricken with helplessness in just so far forth as we might lose these mental objects, these adjectives and adverbs and predicates and heads of classification and conception.

Such ideas, and others equally abstract, form the background for all the facts we know. They are the source of all the possibilities we can imagine. They give each particular thing its “nature,” as we call it. Everything we know is “what” it is because it shares in the nature of one of these abstractions. We can never look directly at these abstractions, because they have no bodies, features, or feet. But we understand all other things through them. Without these mental objects, we would be helpless in dealing with the real world. We would be helpless to the extent that we lost these adjectives, adverbs, predicates, and categories of classification and thought.

This absolute determinability of our mind by abstractions is one of the cardinal facts in our human constitution. Polarizing and magnetizing us as they do, we turn towards them and from them, we seek them, hold them, hate them, bless them, just as if they were so many concrete beings. And beings they are, beings as real in the realm which they inhabit as the changing things of sense are in the realm of space.

The fact that abstractions can completely determine our minds is one of the central facts of human nature. Abstractions polarize and draw us. We turn toward them and away from them, seek them, hold them, hate them, and bless them, as if they were concrete beings. And they are beings, just as real in their own realm as the changing things we sense are in the realm of space.

Plato gave so brilliant and impressive a defense of this common human feeling, that the doctrine of the reality of abstract objects has been known as the platonic theory of ideas ever since. Abstract Beauty, for example, is for Plato a perfectly definite individual being, of which the intellect is aware as of something additional to all the perishing beauties of the earth. “The true order of going,” he says, in the often quoted passage in his “Banquet,” “is to use the beauties of earth as steps along which one mounts upwards for the sake of that other Beauty, going from one to two, and from two to all fair forms, and from fair forms to fair actions, and from fair actions to fair notions, until from fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute Beauty, and at last knows what the essence of Beauty is.”²³ In our last lecture we had a glimpse of the way in which a platonizing writer like Emerson may treat the abstract divineness of things, the moral structure of the universe, as a fact worthy of worship. In those various churches without a God which to-day are spreading through the world under the name of ethical societies, we have a similar worship of the abstract divine, the moral law believed in as an ultimate object. “Science” in many minds is genuinely taking the place of a religion. Where this is so, the scientist treats the “Laws of Nature” as objective facts to be revered. A brilliant school of interpretation of Greek mythology would have it that in their origin the Greek gods were only half-metaphoric personifications of those great spheres of abstract law and order into which the natural world falls apart—the sky-sphere, the ocean-sphere, the earth-sphere, and the like; just as even now we may speak of the smile of the morning, the kiss of the breeze, or the bite of the cold, without really meaning that these phenomena of nature actually wear a human face.²⁴

Plato defended this common human feeling so brilliantly and impressively that the doctrine of the reality of abstract objects has been known ever since as the Platonic theory of ideas. For Plato, abstract Beauty, for example, is a perfectly definite individual being. The intellect is aware of it as something beyond all the fading beauties of the earth. In a frequently quoted passage from his “Banquet,” he says: “The true way to proceed is to use the beauties of earth as steps. We climb them for the sake of that other Beauty, going from one beautiful form to two, and from two to all beautiful forms. From beautiful forms we go to beautiful actions, and from beautiful actions to beautiful ideas. Finally, from beautiful ideas we arrive at the idea of absolute Beauty, and at last know what the essence of Beauty is.”²³ In our last lecture, we glimpsed how a writer influenced by Plato, like Emerson, may treat the abstract divinity of things as a fact worthy of worship. For Emerson, this divinity is the moral structure of the universe. We see a similar worship of the abstract divine in the various churches without a God. These churches are now spreading throughout the world under the name of ethical societies. They believe in the moral law as an ultimate object of worship. In many minds, “Science” is genuinely taking the place of a religion. Where that happens, the scientist treats the “Laws of Nature” as objective facts to be revered. A brilliant school of interpretation of Greek mythology holds that the Greek gods originally were only partly metaphorical personifications of the great spheres of abstract law and order into which the natural world falls. These include the sky, the ocean, the earth, and the like. Just as even now we may speak of the smile of the morning, the kiss of the breeze, or the bite of the cold, without really meaning that these natural phenomena have human faces.²⁴

As regards the origin of the Greek gods, we need not at present seek an opinion. But the whole array of our instances leads to a conclusion something like this: It is as if there were in the human consciousness a sense of reality, a feeling of objective presence, a perception of what we may call “something there,” more deep and more general than any of the special and particular “senses” by which the current psychology supposes existent realities to be originally revealed. If this were so, we might suppose the senses to waken our attitudes and conduct as they so habitually do, by first exciting this sense of reality; but anything else, any idea, for example, that might similarly excite it, would have that same prerogative of appearing real which objects of sense normally possess. So far as religious conceptions were able to touch this reality-feeling, they would be believed in in spite of criticism, even though they might be so vague and remote as to be almost unimaginable, even though they might be such non-entities in point of whatness, as Kant makes the objects of his moral theology to be.

We need not decide for now how the Greek gods originated. But all our examples point toward a conclusion like this: It is as if human consciousness contains a sense of reality, a feeling of objective presence, a perception of what we might call “something there.” This sense is deeper and more general than any of the particular “senses” through which current psychology assumes we first become aware of existing things. If this were so, we might suppose that the senses first awaken this sense of reality. In this way, they might arouse our attitudes and guide our conduct, as they so often do. But anything else that similarly awakened this sense, an idea, for example, would also appear real, just as objects of the senses normally do. To the extent that religious ideas could touch this feeling of reality, they would be believed despite criticism. This would be true even if the ideas were so vague and remote as to be almost impossible to imagine. It would hold even if the ideas were about things with so little whatness as the objects of Kant’s moral theology.

The most curious proofs of the existence of such an undifferentiated sense of reality as this are found in experiences of hallucination. It often happens that an hallucination is imperfectly developed: the person affected will feel a “presence” in the room, definitely localized, facing in one particular way, real in the most emphatic sense of the word, often coming suddenly, and as suddenly gone; and yet neither seen, heard, touched, nor cognized in any of the usual “sensible” ways. Let me give you an example of this, before I pass to the objects with whose presence religion is more peculiarly concerned.

Some of the most curious evidence for this undifferentiated sense of reality comes from experiences of hallucination. A hallucination is often not fully developed. A person may feel a “presence” in the room, located in a definite spot and facing a particular way. The presence feels real in the strongest sense of the word. It often comes suddenly and disappears just as suddenly. Yet the person does not see, hear, or touch it, or perceive it through any of the usual senses. Let me give an example before I turn to the things whose presence is more especially the concern of religion.

An intimate friend of mine, one of the keenest intellects I know, has had several experiences of this sort. He writes as follows in response to my inquiries:—

A close friend of mine, one of the sharpest minds I know, has had several experiences like this. He wrote the following in response to my questions:

Of course such an experience as this does not connect itself with the religious sphere. Yet it may upon occasion do so; and the same correspondent informs me that at more than one other conjuncture he had the sense of presence developed with equal intensity and abruptness, only then it was filled with a quality of joy.

Of course, an experience like this is not religious. Yet it can be religious on occasion. The same correspondent tells me that he felt a presence on more than one other occasion. The feeling came just as suddenly and intensely, but on those occasions it was filled with joy.

My friend, as it oddly happens, does not interpret these latter experiences theistically, as signifying the presence of God. But it would clearly not have been unnatural to interpret them as a revelation of the deity's existence. When we reach the subject of mysticism, we shall have much more to say upon this head.

Oddly enough, my friend does not interpret these later experiences as signs of God’s presence. But it would clearly have been natural to see them as a revelation of God’s existence. We will have much more to say about this when we discuss mysticism.

Lest the oddity of these phenomena should disconcert you, I will venture to read you a couple of similar narratives, much shorter, merely to show that we are dealing with a well-marked natural kind of fact. In the first case, which I take from the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, the sense of presence developed in a few moments into a distinctly visualized hallucination,—but I leave that part of the story out.

So that the strangeness of these phenomena does not unsettle you, I will read you two much shorter accounts. They show that we are dealing with a clearly recognizable kind of natural phenomenon. I take the first case from the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research. In this case, the sense of a presence developed within moments into a distinctly visual hallucination. But I leave that part of the story out.

Another informant writes:—

Another person writes:

Professor Flournoy of Geneva gives me the following testimony of a friend of his, a lady, who has the gift of automatic or involuntary writing:—

Professor Flournoy of Geneva shares the following account from a female friend who has the gift of automatic or involuntary writing:

In an earlier book of mine I have cited at full length a curious case of presence felt by a blind man. The presence was that of the figure of a gray-bearded man dressed in a pepper and salt suit, squeezing himself under the crack of the door and moving across the floor of the room towards a sofa. The blind subject of this quasi-hallucination is an exceptionally intelligent reporter. He is entirely without internal visual imagery and cannot represent light or colors to himself, and is positive that his other senses, hearing, etc., were not involved in this false perception. It seems to have been an abstract conception rather, with the feelings of reality and spatial outwardness directly attached to it—in other words, a fully objectified and exteriorized idea.

In an earlier book, I quoted in full a curious case of a blind man who felt a presence. The presence was a gray-bearded man in a speckled gray suit. He squeezed through the crack under the door and moved across the floor toward a sofa. The blind man who experienced this near-hallucination is an exceptionally intelligent observer. He has no mental images and cannot picture light or colors. He is certain that his other senses, such as hearing, played no part in this false perception. It seems to have been an abstract concept with feelings of reality and external space directly attached to it. In other words, it was an idea experienced as a real object in the external world.

Such cases, taken along with others which would be too tedious for quotation, seem sufficiently to prove the existence in our mental machinery of a sense of present reality more diffused and general than that which our special senses yield. For the psychologists the tracing of the organic seat of such a feeling would form a pretty problem—nothing could be more natural than to connect it with the muscular sense, with the feeling that our muscles were innervating themselves for action. Whatsoever thus innervated our activity, or “made our flesh creep,”—our senses are what do so oftenest,—might then appear real and present, even though it were but an abstract idea. But with such vague conjectures we have no concern at present, for our interest lies with the faculty rather than with its organic seat.

These cases, along with others too tedious to quote, seem to prove something about how our minds work. They suggest that we have a sense of present reality that is broader and more general than our individual senses provide. For psychologists, finding the physical source of this feeling would be an interesting problem. Nothing could be more natural than to connect it with our muscular sense, the feeling that our muscles are preparing for action. Anything that prepared us for action or “made our flesh creep” might then seem real and present, even if it were only an abstract idea. Our senses are what most often produce this response. But we need not concern ourselves with such vague guesses now. Our interest is in the ability itself, rather than its physical source.

Like all positive affections of consciousness, the sense of reality has its negative counterpart in the shape of a feeling of unreality by which persons may be haunted, and of which one sometimes hears complaint:—

Like all positive feelings in consciousness, the sense of reality has a negative counterpart: a feeling of unreality. People may be haunted by this feeling, and one sometimes hears them complain about it:

In another lecture we shall see how in morbid melancholy this sense of the unreality of things may become a carking pain, and even lead to suicide.

In another lecture, we shall see how, in severe depression, this sense that things are unreal may become painfully distressing and even lead to suicide.

We may now lay it down as certain that in the distinctively religious sphere of experience, many persons (how many we cannot tell) possess the objects of their belief, not in the form of mere conceptions which their intellect accepts as true, but rather in the form of quasi-sensible realities directly apprehended. As his sense of the real presence of these objects fluctuates, so the believer alternates between warmth and coldness in his faith. Other examples will bring this home to one better than abstract description, so I proceed immediately to cite some. The first example is a negative one, deploring the loss of the sense in question. I have extracted it from an account given me by a scientific man of my acquaintance, of his religious life. It seems to me to show clearly that the feeling of reality may be something more like a sensation than an intellectual operation properly so-called.

We can now say with certainty that, in distinctly religious experience, many people perceive the objects of their belief as almost tangible realities. We cannot say how many people do this. They experience these objects directly, rather than merely accepting them as true ideas. As their sense of the real presence of these objects changes, their faith alternates between warmth and coldness. Examples will make this clearer than an abstract description, so I will turn to them at once. The first is a negative example, lamenting the loss of this sense of reality. It comes from an account of his religious life given to me by a scientist I know. To me, the account shows clearly that the feeling of reality may be more like a sensation than a mental process properly so called.

Nothing is more common in the pages of religious biography than the way in which seasons of lively and of difficult faith are described as alternating. Probably every religious person has the recollection of particular crises in which a directer vision of the truth, a direct perception, perhaps, of a living God's existence, swept in and overwhelmed the languor of the more ordinary belief. In James Russell Lowell's correspondence there is a brief memorandum of an experience of this kind:—

Religious biographies often describe periods of strong faith alternating with periods when faith is difficult. Probably every religious person remembers particular crises when a more direct vision of the truth swept in. Perhaps it was a direct perception that a living God exists. This vision overwhelmed the dullness of their more ordinary belief. James Russell Lowell’s correspondence includes a brief note about an experience of this kind:

Here is a longer and more developed experience from a manuscript communication by a clergyman,—I take it from Starbuck's manuscript collection:—

Here is a longer, more fully described experience from a clergyman's written account. I have taken it from Starbuck's manuscript collection:

Here is another document, even more definite in character, which, the writer being a Swiss, I translate from the French original.²⁹

Here is another document, even more definite in character. Since its writer is Swiss, I translate it from the original French.²⁹

The adjective “mystical” is technically applied, most often, to states that are of brief duration. Of course such hours of rapture as the last two persons describe are mystical experiences, of which in a later lecture I shall have much to say. Meanwhile here is the abridged record of another mystical or semi-mystical experience, in a mind evidently framed by nature for ardent piety. I owe it to Starbuck's collection. The lady who gives the account is the daughter of a man well known in his time as a writer against Christianity. The suddenness of her conversion shows well how native the sense of God's presence must be to certain minds. She relates that she was brought up in entire ignorance of Christian doctrine, but, when in Germany, after being talked to by Christian friends, she read the Bible and prayed, and finally the plan of salvation flashed upon her like a stream of light.

The adjective “mystical” is most often used technically for states that last only a short time. Of course, the hours of rapture described by the last two people are mystical experiences. I will have much to say about such experiences in a later lecture. For now, here is an abridged account of another mystical or semi-mystical experience. The person who had it was evidently naturally inclined to intense religious devotion. I found the account in Starbuck's collection. The woman who tells the story is the daughter of a man once well known for writing against Christianity. Her sudden conversion shows how natural the sense of God's presence must be to certain minds. She says she was raised with no knowledge of Christian doctrine. But while in Germany, she spoke with Christian friends, read the Bible, and prayed. Finally, the plan of salvation flashed upon her like a stream of light.

Here is still another case, the writer being a man aged twenty-seven, in which the experience, probably almost as characteristic, is less vividly described:—

Here is another case, written by a twenty-seven-year-old man. The experience is probably almost as characteristic, though it is described less vividly:

Of the more habitual and so to speak chronic sense of God's presence the following sample from Professor Starbuck's manuscript collection may serve to give an idea. It is from a man aged forty-nine,—probably thousands of unpretending Christians would write an almost identical account.

The following example from Professor Starbuck's manuscript collection may give an idea of a more habitual, almost constant sense of God's presence. It comes from a man aged forty-nine. Probably thousands of ordinary Christians would give an almost identical account.

I subjoin some more examples from writers of different ages and sexes. They are also from Professor Starbuck's collection, and their number might be greatly multiplied. The first is from a man twenty-seven years old:—

I include some more examples from writers of different ages and sexes. These examples also come from Professor Starbuck's collection, and many more could be added. The first is from a twenty-seven-year-old man:

Another statement (none the less valuable psychologically for being so decidedly childish) is that of a boy of seventeen:—

Another account comes from a seventeen-year-old boy. It is distinctly childish, but no less valuable psychologically for that:

I let a few other cases follow at random:—

Here are a few more cases, chosen at random:

Such is the human ontological imagination, and such is the convincingness of what it brings to birth. Unpicturable beings are realized, and realized with an intensity almost like that of an hallucination. They determine our vital attitude as decisively as the vital attitude of lovers is determined by the habitual sense, by which each is haunted, of the other being in the world. A lover has notoriously this sense of the continuous being of his idol, even when his attention is addressed to other matters and he no longer represents her features. He cannot forget her; she uninterruptedly affects him through and through.

Such is the human imagination when it comes to what exists, and such is the convincing power of what it creates. Beings we cannot picture become real to us, with an intensity almost like that of a hallucination. They shape our attitude toward life as decisively as lovers' attitudes are shaped by their constant awareness of each other's existence. A lover is known to have this sense that his beloved is always there in the world. He feels it even when his attention is on other things and he no longer pictures her face. He cannot forget her. She affects him completely and without interruption.

I spoke of the convincingness of these feelings of reality, and I must dwell a moment longer on that point. They are as convincing to those who have them as any direct sensible experiences can be, and they are, as a rule, much more convincing than results established by mere logic ever are. One may indeed be entirely without them; probably more than one of you here present is without them in any marked degree; but if you do have them, and have them at all strongly, the probability is that you cannot help regarding them as genuine perceptions of truth, as revelations of a kind of reality which no adverse argument, however unanswerable by you in words, can expel from your belief. The opinion opposed to mysticism in philosophy is sometimes spoken of as rationalism. Rationalism insists that all our beliefs ought ultimately to find for themselves articulate grounds. Such grounds, for rationalism, must consist of four things: (1) definitely statable abstract principles; (2) definite facts of sensation; (3) definite hypotheses based on such facts; and (4) definite inferences logically drawn. Vague impressions of something indefinable have no place in the rationalistic system, which on its positive side is surely a splendid intellectual tendency, for not only are all our philosophies fruits of it, but physical science (amongst other good things) is its result.

I spoke of how convincing these feelings of reality are, and I must spend another moment on that point. To those who experience them, these feelings are as convincing as any direct sensory experience can be. As a rule, they are much more convincing than conclusions reached by logic alone. A person may have no such feelings at all. Probably more than one of you here has no strong feelings of this kind. But if you do have them, and feel them strongly, you will probably have to regard them as genuine perceptions of truth. You will see them as revelations of a kind of reality. No opposing argument can drive that reality from your belief, however unable you are to answer the argument in words. The philosophical view opposed to mysticism is sometimes called rationalism. Rationalism insists that all our beliefs should ultimately have grounds we can put into words. For rationalism, these grounds must consist of four things: (1) abstract principles that can be clearly stated, (2) definite facts of sensation, (3) definite hypotheses based on such facts, and (4) definite conclusions drawn logically. Vague impressions of something indefinable have no place in the rationalist system. But rationalism is surely a splendid intellectual tendency in its positive aspects. All our philosophies are products of rationalism, and so is physical science, among other good things.

Nevertheless, if we look on man's whole mental life as it exists, on the life of men that lies in them apart from their learning and science, and that they inwardly and privately follow, we have to confess that the part of it of which rationalism can give an account is relatively superficial. It is the part that has the prestige undoubtedly, for it has the loquacity, it can challenge you for proofs, and chop logic, and put you down with words. But it will fail to convince or convert you all the same, if your dumb intuitions are opposed to its conclusions. If you have intuitions at all, they come from a deeper level of your nature than the loquacious level which rationalism inhabits. Your whole subconscious life, your impulses, your faiths, your needs, your divinations, have prepared the premises, of which your consciousness now feels the weight of the result; and something in you absolutely knows that that result must be truer than any logic-chopping rationalistic talk, however clever, that may contradict it. This inferiority of the rationalistic level in founding belief is just as manifest when rationalism argues for religion as when it argues against it. That vast literature of proofs of God's existence drawn from the order of nature, which a century ago seemed so overwhelmingly convincing, to-day does little more than gather dust in libraries, for the simple reason that our generation has ceased to believe in the kind of God it argued for. Whatever sort of a being God may be, we know to-day that he is nevermore that mere external inventor of “contrivances” intended to make manifest his “glory” in which our great-grandfathers took such satisfaction, though just how we know this we cannot possibly make clear by words either to others or to ourselves. I defy any of you here fully to account for your persuasion that if a God exist he must be a more cosmic and tragic personage than that Being.

Nevertheless, consider the whole of human mental life as it actually exists. Consider the inner lives people lead privately, apart from their learning and science. We must admit that the part rationalism can explain is relatively superficial. That part undoubtedly has prestige, because it has plenty to say. It can challenge you for proof, split logical hairs, and put you down with words. But it will still fail to convince or convert you if your unspoken intuitions oppose its conclusions. If you have intuitions at all, they come from a deeper level of your nature than the talkative level rationalism occupies. Your whole subconscious life has prepared the premises. So have your impulses, your beliefs, your needs, and your hunches. Your conscious mind now feels the weight of the conclusion that follows. And something in you absolutely knows that this conclusion must be truer than any clever rationalistic argument that contradicts it. Rationalism is just as limited in establishing belief when it argues for religion as when it argues against it. A century ago, a vast literature offered seemingly overwhelming proofs of God's existence based on the order of nature. Today, those books do little more than gather dust in libraries. The simple reason is that our generation has stopped believing in the kind of God those arguments supported. Whatever sort of being God may be, we know today that he is no longer the mere external inventor of “contrivances” meant to display his “glory.” Our great-grandfathers took such satisfaction in that God. Yet we cannot possibly explain in words, either to others or to ourselves, just how we know this. I challenge any of you here to explain fully why you are convinced of this: if a God exists, he must be a more cosmic and tragic figure than that Being.

The truth is that in the metaphysical and religious sphere, articulate reasons are cogent for us only when our inarticulate feelings of reality have already been impressed in favor of the same conclusion. Then, indeed, our intuitions and our reason work together, and great world-ruling systems, like that of the Buddhist or of the Catholic philosophy, may grow up. Our impulsive belief is here always what sets up the original body of truth, and our articulately verbalized philosophy is but its showy translation into formulas. The unreasoned and immediate assurance is the deep thing in us, the reasoned argument is but a surface exhibition. Instinct leads, intelligence does but follow. If a person feels the presence of a living God after the fashion shown by my quotations, your critical arguments, be they never so superior, will vainly set themselves to change his faith.

The truth is that, in matters of metaphysics and religion, clear arguments convince us only when our unspoken sense of reality already favors the same conclusion. Then our intuition and reason work together. Great systems that rule the world, like Buddhist or Catholic philosophy, may grow from this combination. Our instinctive belief always establishes the original body of truth. Our philosophy, expressed in words, is merely a showy translation of that truth into formulas. Immediate certainty without reasoning is the deeper thing in us. Reasoned argument is merely a display on the surface. Instinct leads, and intelligence only follows. If someone feels the presence of a living God in the way my quotations show, your critical arguments will try in vain to change that person's faith, no matter how superior those arguments are.

Please observe, however, that I do not yet say that it is better that the subconscious and non-rational should thus hold primacy in the religious realm. I confine myself to simply pointing out that they do so hold it as a matter of fact.

Please note, however, that I am not yet saying it is better for the subconscious and non-rational to dominate religion. I am simply pointing out that, in fact, they do.

So much for our sense of the reality of the religious objects. Let me now say a brief word more about the attitudes they characteristically awaken.

That concludes our discussion of our sense that religious objects are real. Let me now say a little more about the attitudes these objects typically awaken.

We have already agreed that they are solemn; and we have seen reason to think that the most distinctive of them is the sort of joy which may result in extreme cases from absolute self-surrender. The sense of the kind of object to which the surrender is made has much to do with determining the precise complexion of the joy; and the whole phenomenon is more complex than any simple formula allows. In the literature of the subject, sadness and gladness have each been emphasized in turn. The ancient saying that the first maker of the Gods was fear receives voluminous corroboration from every age of religious history; but none the less does religious history show the part which joy has evermore tended to play. Sometimes the joy has been primary; sometimes secondary, being the gladness of deliverance from the fear. This latter state of things, being the more complex, is also the more complete; and as we proceed, I think we shall have abundant reason for refusing to leave out either the sadness or the gladness, if we look at religion with the breadth of view which it demands. Stated in the completest possible terms, a man's religion involves both moods of contraction and moods of expansion of his being. But the quantitative mixture and order of these moods vary so much from one age of the world, from one system of thought, and from one individual to another, that you may insist either on the dread and the submission, or on the peace and the freedom as the essence of the matter, and still remain materially within the limits of the truth. The constitutionally sombre and the constitutionally sanguine onlooker are bound to emphasize opposite aspects of what lies before their eyes.

We have already agreed that they are solemn. We have also seen reason to think that the most distinctive is joy. In extreme cases, this joy may result from complete self-surrender. The kind of object to which a person surrenders greatly affects the precise character of the joy. The whole experience is more complex than any simple formula can express. Writers on the subject have emphasized sadness and gladness in turn. There is abundant evidence throughout religious history for the ancient saying that fear first created the Gods. Yet religious history also shows the part that joy has always tended to play. Sometimes joy has come first. At other times it has come second, as the gladness of being freed from fear. This second state is more complex and also more complete. As we proceed, I think we will find ample reason to leave out neither sadness nor gladness. That is, if we view religion as broadly as it demands. In the fullest possible terms, a person's religion involves moods of both contraction and expansion of the self. But the balance and order of these moods vary greatly. They vary from one age of the world, one system of thought, and one individual to another. So you may insist that dread and submission are the essence of religion. Or you may insist that peace and freedom are its essence. Either way, you will still be broadly within the bounds of truth. Observers who are naturally gloomy and those who are naturally optimistic are bound to emphasize opposite aspects of what they see.

The constitutionally sombre religious person makes even of his religious peace a very sober thing. Danger still hovers in the air about it. Flexion and contraction are not wholly checked. It were sparrowlike and childish after our deliverance to explode into twittering laughter and caper-cutting, and utterly to forget the imminent hawk on bough. Lie low, rather, lie low; for you are in the hands of a living God. In the Book of Job, for example, the impotence of man and the omnipotence of God is the exclusive burden of its author's mind. “It is as high as heaven; what canst thou do?—deeper than hell; what canst thou know?” There is an astringent relish about the truth of this conviction which some men can feel, and which for them is as near an approach as can be made to the feeling of religious joy.

A naturally gloomy religious person makes even religious peace a very sober thing. Danger still hangs in the air around that peace. The person has not entirely stopped shrinking and drawing inward. After being saved, it would be childish, like a sparrow, to burst into twittering laughter and dance about, completely forgetting the hawk waiting on the branch. Lie low instead, lie low, for you are in the hands of a living God. In the Book of Job, for example, the author's sole concern is human powerlessness and God's all-powerfulness. “It is as high as heaven. What can you do? Deeper than hell. What can you know?” Some people find a sharp satisfaction in the truth of this conviction. For them, that satisfaction is as close as they can come to religious joy.

If we turn to the sanguine onlooker, on the other hand, we find that deliverance is felt as incomplete unless the burden be altogether overcome and the danger forgotten. Such onlookers give us definitions that seem to the sombre minds of whom we have just been speaking to leave out all the solemnity that makes religious peace so different from merely animal joys. In the opinion of some writers an attitude might be called religious, though no touch were left in it of sacrifice or submission, no tendency to flexion, no bowing of the head. Any “habitual and regulated admiration,” says Professor J. R. Seeley,³¹ “is worthy to be called a religion”; and accordingly he thinks that our Music, our Science, and our so-called “Civilization,” as these things are now organized and admiringly believed in, form the more genuine religions of our time. Certainly the unhesitating and unreasoning way in which we feel that we must inflict our civilization upon “lower” races, by means of Hotchkiss guns, etc., reminds one of nothing so much as of the early spirit of Islam spreading its religion by the sword.

If we turn to the optimistic observer, however, we find a different view. Such observers feel that deliverance is incomplete unless the burden is entirely overcome and the danger forgotten. Their definitions seem to the somber minds just discussed to leave out all the solemnity of religious peace. That solemnity makes religious peace so different from merely animal joys. In some writers’ opinion, an attitude might be called religious even if it contained no sacrifice or submission. It need show no tendency to bend or bow the head. Professor J. R. Seeley³¹ says that any “habitual and regulated admiration” “is worthy to be called a religion.” He therefore thinks that our Music, our Science, and our so-called “Civilization” are the more genuine religions of our time. He means these things as they are now organized and believed in with admiration. Certainly, we feel we must impose our civilization on “lower” races with Hotchkiss guns and other such means. The unquestioning, unreasoning way we feel this reminds one of nothing so much as the early spirit of Islam spreading its religion by the sword.

In my last lecture I quoted to you the ultra-radical opinion of Mr. Havelock Ellis, that laughter of any sort may be considered a religious exercise, for it bears witness to the soul's emancipation. I quoted this opinion in order to deny its adequacy. But we must now settle our scores more carefully with this whole optimistic way of thinking. It is far too complex to be decided off-hand. I propose accordingly that we make of religious optimism the theme of the next two lectures.

In my last lecture, I quoted Mr. Havelock Ellis’s extremely radical opinion. He said that laughter of any kind may be considered a religious exercise because it shows that the soul has been set free. I quoted this opinion to argue that it was inadequate. But we must now examine this whole optimistic way of thinking more carefully. It is far too complex to judge quickly. So I propose to make religious optimism the subject of the next two lectures.