Conversion

To be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion, to gain an assurance, are so many phrases which denote the process, gradual or sudden, by which a self hitherto divided, and consciously wrong inferior and unhappy, becomes unified and consciously right superior and happy, in consequence of its firmer hold upon religious realities. This at least is what conversion signifies in general terms, whether or not we believe that a direct divine operation is needed to bring such a moral change about.

To be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion, and to gain assurance are different names for the same process. It can happen gradually or suddenly. A person who was divided and felt wrong, inferior, and unhappy becomes unified and feels right, superior, and happy. This happens because the person has a firmer grasp of religious realities. That, at least, is what conversion means in general. It means this whether or not we believe that direct divine action is needed to bring about such a moral change.

Before entering upon a minuter study of the process, let me enliven our understanding of the definition by a concrete example. I choose the quaint case of an unlettered man, Stephen H. Bradley, whose experience is related in a scarce American pamphlet.⁹⁸

Before examining the process more closely, let me bring the definition to life with a concrete example. I choose the curious case of Stephen H. Bradley, an uneducated man whose experience is described in a rare American pamphlet.⁹⁸

I select this case because it shows how in these inner alterations one may find one unsuspected depth below another, as if the possibilities of character lay disposed in a series of layers or shells, of whose existence we have no premonitory knowledge.

I chose this case because it shows how inner changes may reveal one unsuspected depth beneath another. It is as if the possibilities of character lie in layers or shells whose existence we never suspected.

Bradley thought that he had been already fully converted at the age of fourteen.

Bradley thought he had already been fully converted at age fourteen.

So much for Mr. Bradley and his conversion, of the effect of which upon his later life we gain no information. Now for a minuter survey of the constituent elements of the conversion process.

That concludes the account of Mr. Bradley and his conversion. We have no information about how the conversion affected his later life. Now let us examine the elements of the conversion process more closely.

If you open the chapter on Association, of any treatise on Psychology, you will read that a man's ideas, aims, and objects form diverse internal groups and systems, relatively independent of one another. Each “aim” which he follows awakens a certain specific kind of interested excitement, and gathers a certain group of ideas together in subordination to it as its associates; and if the aims and excitements are distinct in kind, their groups of ideas may have little in common. When one group is present and engrosses the interest, all the ideas connected with other groups may be excluded from the mental field. The President of the United States when, with paddle, gun, and fishing-rod, he goes camping in the wilderness for a vacation, changes his system of ideas from top to bottom. The presidential anxieties have lapsed into the background entirely; the official habits are replaced by the habits of a son of nature, and those who knew the man only as the strenuous magistrate would not “know him for the same person” if they saw him as the camper.

If you open the chapter on Association in any psychology textbook, you will read about a person’s ideas, aims, and objects. These form different internal groups and systems that are relatively independent of one another. Each “aim” a person pursues arouses a particular kind of interested excitement. It also gathers a certain group of related ideas around itself. If the aims and excitements differ in kind, their groups of ideas may have little in common. When one group is present and absorbs a person’s interest, all ideas connected with other groups may be excluded from the mind. Consider the President of the United States on a camping vacation in the wilderness, with paddle, gun, and fishing rod. His whole system of ideas changes from top to bottom. His presidential worries have faded entirely into the background. His official habits have given way to those of a son of nature. People who knew him only as the hard-working head of state would not “know him for the same person” if they saw him camping.

If now he should never go back, and never again suffer political interests to gain dominion over him, he would be for practical intents and purposes a permanently transformed being. Our ordinary alterations of character, as we pass from one of our aims to another, are not commonly called transformations, because each of them is so rapidly succeeded by another in the reverse direction; but whenever one aim grows so stable as to expel definitively its previous rivals from the individual's life, we tend to speak of the phenomenon, and perhaps to wonder at it, as a “transformation.”

If he never went back and never again let political interests take control of him, he would be permanently transformed for all practical purposes. As we move from one aim to another, our character ordinarily changes. We do not usually call these changes transformations, because each one is so quickly followed by a change in the opposite direction. But sometimes one aim becomes so firmly established that it permanently drives its former rivals out of a person’s life. Then we tend to call the change a “transformation,” and perhaps wonder at it.

These alternations are the completest of the ways in which a self may be divided. A less complete way is the simultaneous coexistence of two or more different groups of aims, of which one practically holds the right of way and instigates activity, whilst the others are only pious wishes, and never practically come to anything. Saint Augustine's aspirations to a purer life, in our last lecture, were for a while an example. Another would be the President in his full pride of office, wondering whether it were not all vanity, and whether the life of a wood-chopper were not the wholesomer destiny. Such fleeting aspirations are mere velleitates, whimsies. They exist on the remoter outskirts of the mind, and the real self of the man, the centre of his energies, is occupied with an entirely different system. As life goes on, there is a constant change of our interests, and a consequent change of place in our systems of ideas, from more central to more peripheral, and from more peripheral to more central parts of consciousness. I remember, for instance, that one evening when I was a youth, my father read aloud from a Boston newspaper that part of Lord Gifford's will which founded these four lectureships. At that time I did not think of being a teacher of philosophy: and what I listened to was as remote from my own life as if it related to the planet Mars. Yet here I am, with the Gifford system part and parcel of my very self, and all my energies, for the time being, devoted to successfully identifying myself with it. My soul stands now planted in what once was for it a practically unreal object, and speaks from it as from its proper habitat and centre.

These alternations are the most complete ways in which a self can be divided. A less complete division occurs when two or more different sets of aims exist at the same time. One set takes priority and drives action, while the others are only pious wishes that never lead to anything. For a while, Saint Augustine’s desire for a purer life, discussed in our last lecture, was an example. Another example would be a President, at the height of his pride in office, wondering whether it was all vanity. He might wonder whether a wood-chopper’s life would be a healthier fate. Such passing desires are mere velleitates, or whims. They exist on the distant edges of the mind. The man’s real self, the center of his energies, is occupied with an entirely different set of aims. As life goes on, our interests constantly change. As a result, ideas shift in our consciousness, some moving from the center to the edges, others from the edges to the center. For example, I remember an evening when I was young. My father read aloud from a Boston newspaper the part of Lord Gifford’s will that established these four lectureships. At the time, I had no thought of becoming a teacher of philosophy. What I heard seemed as far removed from my life as if it concerned the planet Mars. Yet here I am, with the Gifford system an integral part of my very self. For the time being, all my energies are devoted to successfully identifying myself with it. My soul is now planted in something that once had practically no reality for it. From there, it speaks as if from its proper home and center.

When I say “Soul,” you need not take me in the ontological sense unless you prefer to; for although ontological language is instinctive in such matters, yet Buddhists or Humians can perfectly well describe the facts in the phenomenal terms which are their favorites. For them the soul is only a succession of fields of consciousness: yet there is found in each field a part, or sub-field, which figures as focal and contains the excitement, and from which, as from a centre, the aim seems to be taken. Talking of this part, we involuntarily apply words of perspective to distinguish it from the rest, words like “here,” “this,” “now,” “mine,” or “me”; and we ascribe to the other parts the positions “there,” “then,” “that,” “his” or “thine,” “it,” “not me.” But a “here” can change to a “there,” and a “there” become a “here,” and what was “mine” and what was “not mine” change their places.

When I say “Soul,” you need not understand it as a claim about what exists, unless you prefer to. Although such language comes naturally in these matters, Buddhists or Humians can describe the facts perfectly well in terms of experience, as they prefer. For them, the soul is only a succession of fields of consciousness. Yet each field has a part, or sub-field, that serves as its focus and contains the excitement. It seems to be the center from which we take aim. When speaking of this part, we instinctively use words of perspective to distinguish it from the rest. We use words like “here,” “this,” “now,” “mine,” or “me.” We assign the other parts the positions “there,” “then,” “that,” “his” or “yours,” “it,” “not me.” But a “here” can change to a “there,” and a “there” can become a “here.” What was “mine” and what was “not mine” can also change places.

What brings such changes about is the way in which emotional excitement alters. Things hot and vital to us to-day are cold to-morrow. It is as if seen from the hot parts of the field that the other parts appear to us, and from these hot parts personal desire and volition make their sallies. They are in short the centres of our dynamic energy, whereas the cold parts leave us indifferent and passive in proportion to their coldness.

These changes happen because our emotional excitement shifts. Things that feel hot and vital to us today feel cold tomorrow. It is as if we see the rest of the field from its hot parts. Our personal desires and acts of will also spring from these hot parts. In short, they are the centers of our active energy. The cold parts leave us indifferent and passive, in proportion to how cold they are.

Whether such language be rigorously exact is for the present of no importance. It is exact enough, if you recognize from your own experience the facts which I seek to designate by it.

For now, it does not matter whether this language is strictly precise. It is precise enough if you recognize from your own experience the facts I am trying to describe.

Now there may be great oscillation in the emotional interest, and the hot places may shift before one almost as rapidly as the sparks that run through burnt-up paper. Then we have the wavering and divided self we heard so much of in the previous lecture. Or the focus of excitement and heat, the point of view from which the aim is taken, may come to lie permanently within a certain system; and then, if the change be a religious one, we call it a conversion, especially if it be by crisis, or sudden.

Emotional interest may fluctuate greatly. Its hot spots may shift almost as quickly as sparks racing through burnt paper. Then we have the wavering and divided self we heard so much about in the previous lecture. Or the focus of excitement and heat, the point of view from which a person takes aim, may settle permanently within a particular system. If this change is religious, we call it a conversion, especially if it comes through a crisis or happens suddenly.

Let us hereafter, in speaking of the hot place in a man's consciousness, the group of ideas to which he devotes himself, and from which he works, call it the habitual centre of his personal energy. It makes a great difference to a man whether one set of his ideas, or another, be the centre of his energy; and it makes a great difference, as regards any set of ideas which he may possess, whether they become central or remain peripheral in him. To say that a man is “converted” means, in these terms, that religious ideas, previously peripheral in his consciousness, now take a central place, and that religious aims form the habitual centre of his energy.

From now on, let us call the “hot spot” in a man's consciousness the habitual centre of his personal energy. By this, I mean the group of ideas he devotes himself to and acts from. It makes a great difference which set of ideas forms the centre of a man's energy. It also makes a great difference whether any set of ideas he holds becomes central or remains on the margins. In these terms, to say that a man is “converted” means that religious ideas, once on the margins of his consciousness, now take a central place. Religious aims become the habitual centre of his energy.

Now if you ask of psychology just how the excitement shifts in a man's mental system, and why aims that were peripheral become at a certain moment central, psychology has to reply that although she can give a general description of what happens, she is unable in a given case to account accurately for all the single forces at work. Neither an outside observer nor the Subject who undergoes the process can explain fully how particular experiences are able to change one's centre of energy so decisively, or why they so often have to bide their hour to do so. We have a thought, or we perform an act, repeatedly, but on a certain day the real meaning of the thought peals through us for the first time, or the act has suddenly turned into a moral impossibility. All we know is that there are dead feelings, dead ideas, and cold beliefs, and there are hot and live ones; and when one grows hot and alive within us, everything has to re-crystallize about it. We may say that the heat and liveliness mean only the “motor efficacy,” long deferred but now operative, of the idea; but such talk itself is only circumlocution, for whence the sudden motor efficacy? And our explanations then get so vague and general that one realizes all the more the intense individuality of the whole phenomenon.

Now suppose you ask psychology exactly how the excitement shifts within a man's mind. You also ask why aims that were once peripheral become central at a particular moment. Psychology must reply that it can describe the process in general. But in any given case, it cannot accurately account for all the individual forces at work. Neither an outside observer nor the person undergoing the process can fully explain it. Neither can explain how particular experiences can so decisively shift a person's center of energy. Nor can either explain why those experiences so often have to wait for their moment to do so. We may think a thought or perform an act repeatedly. But one day, the thought's real meaning rings through us for the first time. Or the act suddenly becomes morally impossible. All we know is that some feelings, ideas, and beliefs are dead or cold, while others are hot and alive. And when one grows hot and alive within us, everything has to reorganize around it. We may say that this heat and liveliness mean only the idea's “motor efficacy”. That is, the idea's power to move us has been delayed but is now taking effect. But this is only a roundabout way of putting it. Where does the sudden power to move us come from? Our explanations become so vague and general that we realize even more how intensely individual the whole phenomenon is.

In the end we fall back on the hackneyed symbolism of a mechanical equilibrium. A mind is a system of ideas, each with the excitement it arouses, and with tendencies impulsive and inhibitive, which mutually check or reinforce one another. The collection of ideas alters by subtraction or by addition in the course of experience, and the tendencies alter as the organism gets more aged. A mental system may be undermined or weakened by this interstitial alteration just as a building is, and yet for a time keep upright by dead habit. But a new perception, a sudden emotional shock, or an occasion which lays bare the organic alteration, will make the whole fabric fall together; and then the centre of gravity sinks into an attitude more stable, for the new ideas that reach the centre in the rearrangement seem now to be locked there, and the new structure remains permanent.

In the end, we fall back on the familiar metaphor of mechanical balance. A mind is a system of ideas. Each idea stirs excitement and has tendencies that prompt or restrain action. These tendencies hold one another in check or reinforce one another. As we gain experience, ideas are added or lost, and our tendencies change as we age. These gradual internal changes may undermine or weaken a mental system, just as they may weaken a building. Yet the system may remain standing for a time through mere habit. But a new perception, a sudden emotional shock, or an occasion that reveals the underlying physical change will bring the whole structure down. The center of gravity then settles into a more stable position. For the new ideas that reach the center during the rearrangement now seem locked there, and the new structure remains permanent.

Formed associations of ideas and habits are usually factors of retardation in such changes of equilibrium. New information, however acquired, plays an accelerating part in the changes; and the slow mutation of our instincts and propensities, under the “unimaginable touch of time” has an enormous influence. Moreover, all these influences may work subconsciously or half unconsciously.⁹⁹ And when you get a Subject in whom the subconscious life—of which I must speak more fully soon—is largely developed, and in whom motives habitually ripen in silence, you get a case of which you can never give a full account, and in which, both to the Subject and the onlookers, there may appear an element of marvel. Emotional occasions, especially violent ones, are extremely potent in precipitating mental rearrangements. The sudden and explosive ways in which love, jealousy, guilt, fear, remorse, or anger can seize upon one are known to everybody.¹⁰⁰ Hope, happiness, security, resolve, emotions characteristic of conversion, can be equally explosive. And emotions that come in this explosive way seldom leave things as they found them.

Established associations of ideas and habits usually slow down such changes in mental balance. New information, however it is acquired, speeds the changes up. Our instincts and tendencies also change slowly under the “unimaginable touch of time,” and this has an enormous influence. Moreover, all these influences may work subconsciously or partly unconsciously.⁹⁹ Some people have a highly developed subconscious life, and their motives habitually take shape silently. I must say more about the subconscious life soon. You can never fully explain such a person’s experience. Both the person and observers may find something marvelous in it. Emotional events, especially violent ones, are extremely powerful in bringing about mental rearrangements. Everyone knows how suddenly and explosively love, jealousy, guilt, fear, remorse, or anger can take hold of a person.¹⁰⁰ Hope, happiness, security, and resolve, emotions characteristic of conversion, can be equally explosive. And emotions that arrive so explosively seldom leave things as they found them.

In his recent work on the Psychology of Religion, Professor Starbuck of California has shown by a statistical inquiry how closely parallel in its manifestations the ordinary “conversion” which occurs in young people brought up in evangelical circles is to that growth into a larger spiritual life which is a normal phase of adolescence in every class of human beings. The age is the same, falling usually between fourteen and seventeen. The symptoms are the same,—sense of incompleteness and imperfection; brooding, depression, morbid introspection, and sense of sin; anxiety about the hereafter; distress over doubts, and the like. And the result is the same,—a happy relief and objectivity, as the confidence in self gets greater through the adjustment of the faculties to the wider outlook. In spontaneous religious awakening, apart from revivalistic examples, and in the ordinary storm and stress and moulting-time of adolescence, we also may meet with mystical experiences, astonishing the subjects by their suddenness, just as in revivalistic conversion. The analogy, in fact, is complete; and Starbuck's conclusion as to these ordinary youthful conversions would seem to be the only sound one: Conversion is in its essence a normal adolescent phenomenon, incidental to the passage from the child's small universe to the wider intellectual and spiritual life of maturity.

In his recent work on the Psychology of Religion, Professor Starbuck of California conducted a statistical study. He showed that ordinary “conversion” among young people raised in evangelical circles closely resembles a normal phase of adolescence. In that phase, young people in every class of humanity grow into a larger spiritual life. Both usually happen between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. The symptoms are the same: a sense of incompleteness and imperfection, brooding, depression, unhealthy self-examination, and a sense of sin. There is also anxiety about life after death, distress over doubts, and the like. The result is the same too: a happy sense of relief and a more objective outlook. Self-confidence grows as a person’s abilities adjust to a broader view of life. Mystical experiences may also occur in spontaneous religious awakenings outside revivals, and during the ordinary turmoil and shedding of old habits in adolescence. These experiences can surprise people by their suddenness, just as they do in revival conversions. In fact, the parallel is complete. Starbuck’s conclusion about these ordinary youthful conversions seems to be the only sound one: Conversion is essentially a normal adolescent phenomenon. It accompanies the passage from a child’s small universe into the broader intellectual and spiritual life of maturity.

“Theology,” says Dr. Starbuck, “takes the adolescent tendencies and builds upon them; it sees that the essential thing in adolescent growth is bringing the person out of childhood into the new life of maturity and personal insight. It accordingly brings those means to bear which will intensify the normal tendencies. It shortens up the period of duration of storm and stress.” The conversion phenomena of “conviction of sin” last, by this investigator's statistics, about one fifth as long as the periods of adolescent storm and stress phenomena of which he also got statistics, but they are very much more intense. Bodily accompaniments, loss of sleep and appetite, for example, are much more frequent in them. “The essential distinction appears to be that conversion intensifies but shortens the period by bringing the person to a definite crisis.”¹⁰¹

“Theology,” says Dr. Starbuck, “builds on adolescent tendencies. It recognizes that adolescent growth essentially brings a person out of childhood and into maturity and personal insight. Theology therefore uses means that intensify these normal tendencies. It shortens the period of storm and stress.” According to Starbuck’s statistics, the “conviction of sin” experienced in conversion lasts about one fifth as long as the adolescent storm and stress he also studied. But conviction of sin is much more intense. It is also much more often accompanied by physical effects, such as loss of sleep and appetite. “The essential difference seems to be that conversion intensifies but shortens the period by bringing the person to a definite crisis.”¹⁰¹

The conversions which Dr. Starbuck here has in mind are of course mainly those of very commonplace persons, kept true to a pre-appointed type by instruction, appeal, and example. The particular form which they affect is the result of suggestion and imitation.¹⁰² If they went through their growth-crisis in other faiths and other countries, although the essence of the change would be the same (since it is one in the main so inevitable), its accidents would be different. In Catholic lands, for example, and in our own Episcopalian sects, no such anxiety and conviction of sin is usual as in sects that encourage revivals. The sacraments being more relied on in these more strictly ecclesiastical bodies, the individual's personal acceptance of salvation needs less to be accentuated and led up to.

The conversions Dr. Starbuck has in mind are, of course, mainly those of very ordinary people. Instruction, persuasion, and example keep their conversions in a predetermined pattern. The particular form their conversions take results from suggestion and imitation.¹⁰² If these people went through their crisis of growth in other faiths and countries, the essence of the change would be the same. This is because the change is, for the most part, so inevitable. But its incidental features would be different. In Catholic countries, for example, and in our own Episcopalian sects, such anxiety and conviction of sin are not usual. They are usual in sects that encourage revivals. These more strictly church-centered groups rely more on the sacraments. So they have less need to emphasize and prepare the individual for a personal acceptance of salvation.

But every imitative phenomenon must once have had its original, and I propose that for the future we keep as close as may be to the more first-hand and original forms of experience. These are more likely to be found in sporadic adult cases.

But every imitation must once have had an original. So I propose that we stay as close as possible to firsthand, original experiences from now on. We are more likely to find these in isolated cases among adults.

Professor Leuba, in a valuable article on the psychology of conversion,¹⁰³ subordinates the theological aspect of the religious life almost entirely to its moral aspect. The religious sense he defines as “the feeling of un-wholeness, of moral imperfection, of sin, to use the technical word, accompanied by the yearning after the peace of unity.” “The word ‘religion,’ ” he says, “is getting more and more to signify the conglomerate of desires and emotions springing from the sense of sin and its release”; and he gives a large number of examples, in which the sin ranges from drunkenness to spiritual pride, to show that the sense of it may beset one and crave relief as urgently as does the anguish of the sickened flesh or any form of physical misery.

Professor Leuba, in a valuable article on the psychology of conversion,¹⁰³ treats the theological aspect of religious life as almost entirely secondary to its moral aspect. He defines the religious sense as “the feeling of being incomplete, of moral imperfection, of sin, to use the technical word, accompanied by a longing for the peace of unity.” “The word ‘religion,’” he says, “is coming more and more to mean the collection of desires and emotions that arise from the sense of sin and the release from it.” He gives many examples in which the sin ranges from drunkenness to spiritual pride. These examples show that the sense of sin may overwhelm a person and create an urgent need for relief. That need may be as urgent as the need for relief from the anguish of bodily illness or any other physical misery.

Undoubtedly this conception covers an immense number of cases. A good one to use as an example is that of Mr. S. H. Hadley, who after his conversion became an active and useful rescuer of drunkards in New York. His experience runs as follows:—

This idea undoubtedly applies to a great many cases. A good example is Mr. S. H. Hadley. After his conversion, he actively and effectively helped alcoholics in New York. He describes his experience as follows:

Dr. Leuba rightly remarks that there is little doctrinal theology in such an experience, which starts with the absolute need of a higher helper, and ends with the sense that he has helped us. He gives other cases of drunkards' conversions which are purely ethical, containing, as recorded, no theological beliefs whatever. John B. Gough's case, for instance, is practically, says Dr. Leuba, the conversion of an atheist—neither God nor Jesus being mentioned.¹⁰⁵ But in spite of the importance of this type of regeneration, with little or no intellectual readjustment, this writer surely makes it too exclusive. It corresponds to the subjectively centred form of morbid melancholy, of which Bunyan and Alline were examples. But we saw in our seventh lecture that there are objective forms of melancholy also, in which the lack of rational meaning of the universe, and of life anyhow, is the burden that weighs upon one—you remember Tolstoy's case.¹⁰⁶ So there are distinct elements in conversion, and their relations to individual lives deserve to be discriminated.¹⁰⁷

Dr. Leuba rightly notes that such an experience contains little doctrinal theology. It begins with an absolute need for a higher helper and ends with the feeling that he has helped us. Leuba gives other examples of alcoholics’ conversions that are purely ethical. As recorded, they contain no theological beliefs at all. For example, Dr. Leuba says that John B. Gough’s case is practically the conversion of an atheist. Neither God nor Jesus is mentioned.¹⁰⁵ But despite the importance of this kind of regeneration, which involves little or no change in beliefs, Leuba surely treats it too exclusively. It corresponds to the self-centered form of morbid melancholy, of which Bunyan and Alline were examples. But in our seventh lecture, we saw that there are also outwardly focused forms of melancholy. In these, the burden is the lack of rational meaning in the universe and in life itself. You may remember Tolstoy’s case.¹⁰⁶ So conversion has distinct elements, and we should distinguish how they relate to individual lives.¹⁰⁷

Some persons, for instance, never are, and possibly never under any circumstances could be, converted. Religious ideas cannot become the centre of their spiritual energy. They may be excellent persons, servants of God in practical ways, but they are not children of his kingdom. They are either incapable of imagining the invisible; or else, in the language of devotion, they are life-long subjects of “barrenness” and “dryness.” Such inaptitude for religious faith may in some cases be intellectual in its origin. Their religious faculties may be checked in their natural tendency to expand, by beliefs about the world that are inhibitive, the pessimistic and materialistic beliefs, for example, within which so many good souls, who in former times would have freely indulged their religious propensities, find themselves nowadays, as it were, frozen; or the agnostic vetoes upon faith as something weak and shameful, under which so many of us to-day lie cowering, afraid to use our instincts. In many persons such inhibitions are never overcome. To the end of their days they refuse to believe, their personal energy never gets to its religious centre, and the latter remains inactive in perpetuity.

Some people, for example, are never converted and perhaps could not be converted under any circumstances. Religious ideas cannot become the center of their spiritual energy. They may be excellent people who serve God in practical ways, but they are not children of his kingdom. Either they cannot imagine what is invisible, or, in devotional language, they suffer lifelong “barrenness” and “dryness.” In some cases, this inability to have religious faith may have an intellectual cause. Their beliefs about the world may prevent their religious faculties from developing naturally. For example, many good souls today find themselves, as it were, frozen within pessimistic and materialistic beliefs. In earlier times, they would have freely followed their religious inclinations. Or their religious faculties may be held back by agnostic objections that condemn faith as weak and shameful. Today, many of us cower under those objections, afraid to follow our instincts. Many people never overcome such restraints. They refuse to believe until the end of their days. Their personal energy never reaches its religious center, which remains inactive forever.

In other persons the trouble is profounder. There are men anæsthetic on the religious side, deficient in that category of sensibility. Just as a bloodless organism can never, in spite of all its goodwill, attain to the reckless “animal spirits” enjoyed by those of sanguine temperament; so the nature which is spiritually barren may admire and envy faith in others, but can never compass the enthusiasm and peace which those who are temperamentally qualified for faith enjoy. All this may, however, turn out eventually to have been a matter of temporary inhibition. Even late in life some thaw, some release may take place, some bolt be shot back in the barrenest breast, and the man's hard heart may soften and break into religious feeling. Such cases more than any others suggest the idea that sudden conversion is by miracle. So long as they exist, we must not imagine ourselves to deal with irretrievably fixed classes.

In other people, the trouble is deeper. Some men are numb to religion and lack that kind of sensitivity. A person without vigor can never, however willing, achieve the carefree “animal spirits” of those with a naturally lively temperament. In the same way, a spiritually barren person may admire and envy faith in others. But he can never achieve the enthusiasm and peace enjoyed by those whose temperament makes them capable of faith. All this, however, may eventually prove to have been a temporary hindrance. Even late in life, a thaw or release may occur. A bolt may slide back in the most barren heart, and the man's hard heart may soften and fill with religious feeling. More than any others, such cases suggest that sudden conversion is a miracle. As long as such cases exist, we must not imagine that we are dealing with permanently fixed groups.

Now there are two forms of mental occurrence in human beings, which lead to a striking difference in the conversion process, a difference to which Professor Starbuck has called attention. You know how it is when you try to recollect a forgotten name. Usually you help the recall by working for it, by mentally running over the places, persons, and things with which the word was connected. But sometimes this effort fails: you feel then as if the harder you tried the less hope there would be, as though the name were jammed, and pressure in its direction only kept it all the more from rising. And then the opposite expedient often succeeds. Give up the effort entirely; think of something altogether different, and in half an hour the lost name comes sauntering into your mind, as Emerson says, as carelessly as if it had never been invited. Some hidden process was started in you by the effort, which went on after the effort ceased, and made the result come as if it came spontaneously. A certain music teacher, says Dr. Starbuck, says to her pupils after the thing to be done has been clearly pointed out, and unsuccessfully attempted: “Stop trying and it will do itself!”¹⁰⁸

There are two kinds of mental processes that produce a striking difference in how people experience conversion. Professor Starbuck has called attention to this difference. You know what it is like to try to remember a forgotten name. Usually, you try to bring it back by thinking through the places, people, and things connected with it. But sometimes this effort fails. You feel as if the harder you try, the less hope you have of remembering. It is as though the name were jammed, and pressing for it only kept it from coming to mind. Then the opposite approach often succeeds. Stop trying altogether and think about something completely different. Half an hour later, the lost name comes strolling into your mind, as Emerson says, as casually as if it had never been invited. Your effort started some hidden process in you, and the process continued after you stopped trying. It brought about the result as if the result had come on its own. Dr. Starbuck describes a music teacher who tells her pupils: “Stop trying and it will do itself!” She says this after she has clearly shown them what to do and they have tried unsuccessfully to do it.¹⁰⁸

There is thus a conscious and voluntary way and an involuntary and unconscious way in which mental results may get accomplished; and we find both ways exemplified in the history of conversion, giving us two types, which Starbuck calls the volitional type and the type by self-surrender respectively.

Mental results can therefore be achieved in two ways: consciously and voluntarily, or involuntarily and unconsciously. We find both ways in the history of conversion. They give us two types, which Starbuck calls the volitional type and the type by self-surrender, respectively.

In the volitional type the regenerative change is usually gradual, and consists in the building up, piece by piece, of a new set of moral and spiritual habits. But there are always critical points here at which the movement forward seems much more rapid. This psychological fact is abundantly illustrated by Dr. Starbuck. Our education in any practical accomplishment proceeds apparently by jerks and starts, just as the growth of our physical bodies does.

In the volitional type, the change that brings renewal is usually gradual. It consists of building a new set of moral and spiritual habits, piece by piece. But there are always critical points when progress seems much faster. Dr. Starbuck gives many examples of this psychological fact. Learning any practical skill seems to proceed in fits and starts, just as our bodies grow.

We shall erelong hear still more remarkable illustrations of subconsciously maturing processes eventuating in results of which we suddenly grow conscious. Sir William Hamilton and Professor Laycock of Edinburgh were among the first to call attention to this class of effects; but Dr. Carpenter first, unless I am mistaken, introduced the term “unconscious cerebration,” which has since then been a popular phrase of explanation. The facts are now known to us far more extensively than he could know them, and the adjective “unconscious,” being for many of them almost certainly a misnomer, is better replaced by the vaguer term “subconscious” or “subliminal.”

We will soon hear even more remarkable examples of processes that develop subconsciously and produce results we suddenly become aware of. Sir William Hamilton and Professor Laycock of Edinburgh were among the first to draw attention to such effects. But Dr. Carpenter, unless I am mistaken, was the first to introduce the term “unconscious cerebration.” It has since become a popular phrase for explaining these effects. We now know far more about these facts than he could have known. For many of them, the word “unconscious” is almost certainly misleading, so it is better to use the vaguer term “subconscious” or “subliminal.”

Of the volitional type of conversion it would be easy to give examples,¹¹⁰ but they are as a rule less interesting than those of the self-surrender type, in which the subconscious effects are more abundant and often startling. I will therefore hurry to the latter, the more so because the difference between the two types is after all not radical. Even in the most voluntarily built-up sort of regeneration there are passages of partial self-surrender interposed; and in the great majority of all cases, when the will has done its uttermost towards bringing one close to the complete unification aspired after, it seems that the very last step must be left to other forces and performed without the help of its activity. In other words, self-surrender becomes then indispensable. “The personal will,” says Dr. Starbuck, “must be given up. In many cases relief persistently refuses to come until the person ceases to resist, or to make an effort in the direction he desires to go.”

It would be easy to give examples of the volitional type of conversion,¹¹⁰ but they are usually less interesting than examples of the self-surrender type. In the self-surrender type, subconscious effects are more common and often startling. I will therefore move quickly to that type, especially because the difference between the two types is not fundamental. Even in regeneration achieved through deliberate effort, there are moments of partial self-surrender. And in the great majority of all cases, the will does everything it can to bring a person close to the complete unification sought. Yet it seems that the final step must be left to other forces and taken without further effort of will. In other words, self-surrender then becomes essential. “The personal will,” says Dr. Starbuck, “must be given up. In many cases, relief simply will not come until the person stops resisting or stops trying to move in the desired direction.”

Dr. Starbuck gives an interesting, and it seems to me a true, account—so far as conceptions so schematic can claim truth at all—of the reasons why self-surrender at the last moment should be so indispensable. To begin with, there are two things in the mind of the candidate for conversion: first, the present incompleteness or wrongness, the “sin” which he is eager to escape from; and, second, the positive ideal which he longs to compass. Now with most of us the sense of our present wrongness is a far more distinct piece of our consciousness than is the imagination of any positive ideal we can aim at. In a majority of cases, indeed, the “sin” almost exclusively engrosses the attention, so that conversion is “a process of struggling away from sin rather than of striving towards righteousness.”¹¹³ A man's conscious wit and will, so far as they strain towards the ideal, are aiming at something only dimly and inaccurately imagined. Yet all the while the forces of mere organic ripening within him are going on towards their own prefigured result, and his conscious strainings are letting loose subconscious allies behind the scenes, which in their way work towards rearrangement; and the rearrangement towards which all these deeper forces tend is pretty surely definite, and definitely different from what he consciously conceives and determines. It may consequently be actually interfered with (jammed, as it were, like the lost word when we seek too energetically to recall it), by his voluntary efforts slanting from the true direction.

Dr. Starbuck gives an interesting account of why self-surrender at the last moment is so indispensable. It seems true to me, as far as such a simplified account can be true at all. To begin with, a person seeking conversion has two things in mind. First, there is a present sense of incompleteness or wrongness, the “sin” the person is eager to escape. Second, there is the positive ideal the person longs to achieve. For most of us, the sense of our present wrongness is much clearer than our image of any positive ideal we can aim for. In a majority of cases, “sin” almost entirely occupies our attention. As a result, conversion is “a process of struggling away from sin rather than of striving towards righteousness.”¹¹³ When a person consciously uses thought and will to pursue the ideal, the goal is only dimly and inaccurately imagined. Yet all the while, the forces of natural maturing within the person are moving toward their own predetermined result. And the person’s conscious efforts are releasing subconscious allies behind the scenes. These allies work in their own way toward a reordering of the person’s inner life. The reordering toward which all these deeper forces tend is almost certainly definite. It is also definitely different from what the person consciously imagines and chooses. As a result, the person’s voluntary efforts may actually interfere with that reordering if they lead away from the true direction. They may jam the process, as it were, like a forgotten word we try too hard to recall.

Starbuck seems to put his finger on the root of the matter when he says that to exercise the personal will is still to live in the region where the imperfect self is the thing most emphasized. Where, on the contrary, the subconscious forces take the lead, it is more probably the better self in posse which directs the operation. Instead of being clumsily and vaguely aimed at from without, it is then itself the organizing centre. What then must the person do? “He must relax,” says Dr. Starbuck,—“that is, he must fall back on the larger Power that makes for righteousness, which has been welling up in his own being, and let it finish in its own way the work it has begun.... The act of yielding, in this point of view, is giving one's self over to the new life, making it the centre of a new personality, and living, from within, the truth of it which had before been viewed objectively.”¹¹⁴

Starbuck seems to get to the heart of the matter. He says that when we exercise our personal will, we still emphasize our imperfect self above all else. But when subconscious forces take the lead, it is more likely that the potential for a better self directs the process. Instead of being a goal pursued clumsily and vaguely from the outside, that better self becomes the organizing center. What, then, must the person do? “He must relax,” says Dr. Starbuck. “That is, he must fall back on the greater Power that works for righteousness and has been welling up within him. He must let that Power finish, in its own way, the work it has begun.... From this point of view, yielding means giving oneself over to the new life. It means making that life the center of a new personality and living its truth from within, rather than viewing it from the outside as before.”¹¹⁴

“Man's extremity is God's opportunity” is the theological way of putting this fact of the need of self-surrender; whilst the physiological way of stating it would be, “Let one do all in one's power, and one's nervous system will do the rest.” Both statements acknowledge the same fact.¹¹⁵

“Human extremity is God's opportunity” is the theological way of expressing the need to surrender oneself. The physiological way would be: “Do all you can, and your nervous system will do the rest.” Both statements acknowledge the same fact.¹¹⁵

To state it in terms of our own symbolism: When the new centre of personal energy has been subconsciously incubated so long as to be just ready to open into flower, “hands off” is the only word for us, it must burst forth unaided!

To put it in terms of our own symbolism: A new center of personal energy develops in the subconscious. When it has developed long enough to be ready to bloom, we can only say, “hands off.” It must burst forth without help!

We have used the vague and abstract language of psychology. But since, in any terms, the crisis described is the throwing of our conscious selves upon the mercy of powers which, whatever they may be, are more ideal than we are actually, and make for our redemption, you see why self-surrender has been and always must be regarded as the vital turning-point of the religious life, so far as the religious life is spiritual and no affair of outer works and ritual and sacraments. One may say that the whole development of Christianity in inwardness has consisted in little more than the greater and greater emphasis attached to this crisis of self-surrender. From Catholicism to Lutheranism, and then to Calvinism; from that to Wesleyanism; and from this, outside of technical Christianity altogether, to pure “liberalism” or transcendental idealism, whether or not of the mind-cure type, taking in the mediæval mystics, the quietists, the pietists, and quakers by the way, we can trace the stages of progress towards the idea of an immediate spiritual help, experienced by the individual in his forlornness and standing in no essential need of doctrinal apparatus or propitiatory machinery.

We have used the vague and abstract language of psychology. But, however we describe it, the crisis means placing our conscious selves at the mercy of powers beyond us. Whatever those powers may be, they are more ideal than we actually are, and they work toward our redemption. You can therefore see why self-surrender has always been, and must always be, regarded as the vital turning point of religious life. This is true insofar as religious life is spiritual, rather than a matter of outward deeds, rituals, and sacraments. One may say that the whole development of Christianity toward inwardness has consisted in little more than an ever greater emphasis on this crisis of self-surrender. We can trace the stages from Catholicism to Lutheranism, then to Calvinism, and from Calvinism to Wesleyanism. From Wesleyanism, we move outside Christianity as such to pure “liberalism” or transcendental idealism, whether or not of the mind-cure type. Along the way, we also encounter the medieval mystics, the quietists, the pietists, and the quakers. In these stages, we can trace the progress toward the idea of immediate spiritual help. The individual experiences this help in a state of abandonment, and the help has no essential need for doctrines or rituals meant to win favor.

Psychology and religion are thus in perfect harmony up to this point, since both admit that there are forces seemingly outside of the conscious individual that bring redemption to his life. Nevertheless psychology, defining these forces as “subconscious,” and speaking of their effects as due to “incubation,” or “cerebration,” implies that they do not transcend the individual's personality; and herein she diverges from Christian theology, which insists that they are direct supernatural operations of the Deity. I propose to you that we do not yet consider this divergence final, but leave the question for a while in abeyance—continued inquiry may enable us to get rid of some of the apparent discord.

So far, psychology and religion are in complete agreement. Both acknowledge that forces seemingly outside a person’s conscious self bring redemption to that person’s life. Psychology, however, calls these forces “subconscious.” It describes their effects as the result of “incubation” or “cerebration,” implying that the forces do not go beyond the individual’s personality. Here psychology differs from Christian theology, which insists that the forces are direct supernatural acts of the Deity. I suggest that we not yet regard this disagreement as final. Let us set the question aside for a while. Further inquiry may allow us to resolve some of the apparent conflict.

Revert, then, for a moment more to the psychology of self-surrender.

Let us return for a moment to the psychology of self-surrender.

When you find a man living on the ragged edge of his consciousness, pent in to his sin and want and incompleteness, and consequently inconsolable, and then simply tell him that all is well with him, that he must stop his worry, break with his discontent, and give up his anxiety, you seem to him to come with pure absurdities. The only positive consciousness he has tells him that all is not well, and the better way you offer sounds simply as if you proposed to him to assert cold-blooded falsehoods. “The will to believe” cannot be stretched as far as that. We can make ourselves more faithful to a belief of which we have the rudiments, but we cannot create a belief out of whole cloth when our perception actively assures us of its opposite. The better mind proposed to us comes in that case in the form of a pure negation of the only mind we have, and we cannot actively will a pure negation.

When you find a man living on the ragged edge of consciousness, trapped by his sin, need, and incompleteness, he is inconsolable. If you simply tell him that all is well with him, your words seem utterly absurd to him. You tell him to stop worrying, let go of his discontent, and give up his anxiety. But the only awareness he has tells him that all is not well. The better way you offer sounds as if you were asking him to make statements he knows are false. “The will to believe” cannot be stretched that far. We can make ourselves more faithful to a belief we already have the beginnings of. But we cannot create a belief from nothing when our perception actively assures us of the opposite. In that case, the better state of mind offered to us is simply a denial of our only existing state of mind. And we cannot actively will a pure denial.

There are only two ways in which it is possible to get rid of anger, worry, fear, despair, or other undesirable affections. One is that an opposite affection should overpoweringly break over us, and the other is by getting so exhausted with the struggle that we have to stop,—so we drop down, give up, and don't care any longer. Our emotional brain-centres strike work, and we lapse into a temporary apathy. Now there is documentary proof that this state of temporary exhaustion not infrequently forms part of the conversion crisis. So long as the egoistic worry of the sick soul guards the door, the expansive confidence of the soul of faith gains no presence. But let the former faint away, even but for a moment, and the latter can profit by the opportunity, and, having once acquired possession, may retain it. Carlyle's Teufelsdröckh passes from the everlasting No to the everlasting Yes through a “Centre of Indifference.”

There are only two ways to get rid of anger, worry, fear, despair, or other unwanted feelings. One is for an opposite feeling to sweep over us and overwhelm the unwanted feeling. The other is to become so exhausted by the struggle that we have to stop. We collapse, give up, and don't care any longer. The emotional centers of our brains stop working, and we fall into a temporary state of apathy. There is documented evidence that this temporary exhaustion often forms part of the conversion crisis. As long as the sick soul's self-centered worry guards the door, the expansive confidence of the soul of faith cannot enter. But if that worry fades away, even for a moment, faith's confidence can seize the opportunity. Once it has taken hold, it may stay. Carlyle's Teufelsdröckh passes from the everlasting No to the everlasting Yes through a “Centre of Indifference.”

Let me give you a good illustration of this feature in the conversion process. That genuine saint, David Brainerd, describes his own crisis in the following words:—

Let me give you a good example of this feature of conversion. David Brainerd, a genuine saint, describes his own crisis in these words:

I have italicized the passage which records the exhaustion of the anxious emotion hitherto habitual. In a large proportion, perhaps the majority, of reports, the writers speak as if the exhaustion of the lower and the entrance of the higher emotion were simultaneous,¹¹⁷ yet often again they speak as if the higher actively drove the lower out. This is undoubtedly true in a great many instances, as we shall presently see. But often there seems little doubt that both conditions—subconscious ripening of the one affection and exhaustion of the other—must simultaneously have conspired, in order to produce the result.

I have italicized the passage that describes the exhaustion of the anxious emotion that had been habitual until then. In a large proportion of accounts, perhaps the majority, writers describe the lower emotion’s exhaustion and the higher emotion’s arrival as simultaneous.¹¹⁷ Yet they also often describe the higher emotion as actively driving out the lower one. This is undoubtedly true in many cases, as we shall soon see. But often there seems little doubt that both conditions must have worked together to produce the result. The higher emotion must have been developing subconsciously while the lower one was becoming exhausted.

But beyond all question there are persons in whom, quite independently of any exhaustion in the Subject's capacity for feeling, or even in the absence of any acute previous feeling, the higher condition, having reached the due degree of energy, bursts through all barriers and sweeps in like a sudden flood. These are the most striking and memorable cases, the cases of instantaneous conversion to which the conception of divine grace has been most peculiarly attached. I have given one of them at length—the case of Mr. Bradley. But I had better reserve the other cases and my comments on the rest of the subject for the following lecture.

But there are unquestionably people in whom the higher state reaches enough strength to break through all barriers. It sweeps in like a sudden flood. This can happen without any exhaustion of the person’s capacity to feel, or even without any previous intense feeling. These are the most striking and memorable cases of instantaneous conversion. The idea of divine grace has been especially associated with them. I have described one such case at length, that of Mr. Bradley. But I should save the other cases and my comments on the rest of the subject for the next lecture.