Lecture 8
The Divided Self and How It Becomes Whole
The last lecture was a painful one, dealing as it did with evil as a pervasive element of the world we live in. At the close of it we were brought into full view of the contrast between the two ways of looking at life which are characteristic respectively of what we called the healthy-minded, who need to be born only once, and of the sick souls, who must be twice-born in order to be happy. The result is two different conceptions of the universe of our experience. In the religion of the once-born the world is a sort of rectilinear or one-storied affair, whose accounts are kept in one denomination, whose parts have just the values which naturally they appear to have, and of which a simple algebraic sum of pluses and minuses will give the total worth. Happiness and religious peace consist in living on the plus side of the account. In the religion of the twice-born, on the other hand, the world is a double-storied mystery. Peace cannot be reached by the simple addition of pluses and elimination of minuses from life. Natural good is not simply insufficient in amount and transient, there lurks a falsity in its very being. Cancelled as it all is by death if not by earlier enemies, it gives no final balance, and can never be the thing intended for our lasting worship. It keeps us from our real good, rather; and renunciation and despair of it are our first step in the direction of the truth. There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and we must lose the one before we can participate in the other.
The last lecture was painful because it dealt with evil as a pervasive part of the world we live in. At its close, we saw clearly the contrast between two ways of looking at life. One belongs to those we called healthy-minded, who need to be born only once. The other belongs to sick souls, who must be twice-born to be happy. These two ways of looking at life lead to different conceptions of the universe we experience. In the religion of the once-born, the world is a simple, one-story affair. Its accounts are kept in a single currency, and its parts have the values they naturally appear to have. A simple sum of pluses and minuses gives its total worth. Happiness and religious peace consist in living on the plus side of the account. In the religion of the twice-born, on the other hand, the world is a two-story mystery. Peace cannot be reached simply by adding the pluses and removing the minuses from life. Natural good is not merely limited in amount and short-lived. There is something false in its very nature. Death cancels all natural good, if earlier enemies do not. So natural good leaves no final balance and can never be what we are meant to worship forever. Instead, it keeps us from our real good. Giving it up and despairing of it are our first step toward the truth. There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual. We must lose the natural life before we can take part in the spiritual one.
In their extreme forms, of pure naturalism and pure salvationism, the two types are violently contrasted; though here as in most other current classifications, the radical extremes are somewhat ideal abstractions, and the concrete human beings whom we oftenest meet are intermediate varieties and mixtures. Practically, however, you all recognize the difference: you understand, for example, the disdain of the methodist convert for the mere sky-blue healthy-minded moralist; and you likewise enter into the aversion of the latter to what seems to him the diseased subjectivism of the Methodist, dying to live, as he calls it, and making of paradox and the inversion of natural appearances the essence of God's truth.
In their extreme forms, pure naturalism and pure salvationism stand in violent contrast. Yet, as with most current classifications, the radical extremes are somewhat ideal abstractions. The people we most often meet fall somewhere in between or combine elements of both. In practice, however, you all recognize the difference. For example, you understand why a Methodist convert looks down on a merely sky-blue, healthy-minded moralist. You also understand why the moralist dislikes what seems to him the Methodist's unhealthy focus on inner experience. The Methodist, as the moralist sees it, is dying to live. He makes paradox and the reversal of natural appearances the essence of God's truth.
E.g., “Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestination, and the like. These never presented a practical difficulty to any man, never darkened across any man's road, who did not go out of his way to seek them. These are the soul's mumps, and measles, and whooping-coughs,” etc. Emerson: “Spiritual Laws.”
The psychological basis of the twice-born character seems to be a certain discordancy or heterogeneity in the native temperament of the subject, an incompletely unified moral and intellectual constitution.
The twice-born character seems to have a psychological basis in a person’s natural temperament. The person’s moral and intellectual makeup is not fully unified. It contains conflicting or different elements.
“Homo duplex, homo duplex!” writes Alphonse Daudet. “The first time that I perceived that I was two was at the death of my brother Henri, when my father cried out so dramatically, ‘He is dead, he is dead!’ While my first self wept, my second self thought, ‘How truly given was that cry, how fine it would be at the theatre.’ I was then fourteen years old.
“Homo duplex, homo duplex!” writes Alphonse Daudet. “I first realized that I was two people when my brother Henri died. My father cried out dramatically, ‘He is dead, he is dead!’ While my first self wept, my second self thought, ‘How genuine that cry sounded, how well it would work onstage.’ I was fourteen years old then.
“This horrible duality has often given me matter for reflection. Oh, this terrible second me, always seated whilst the other is on foot, acting, living, suffering, bestirring itself. This second me that I have never been able to intoxicate, to make shed tears, or put to sleep. And how it sees into things, and how it mocks!”
“This horrible split has often given me something to think about. Oh, this terrible second self, always sitting while the other is up and about, acting, living, suffering, keeping busy. I have never been able to get this second self drunk, make it cry, or put it to sleep. And how it sees through things, and how it mocks!”
Notes sur la Vie, p. 1.
Recent works on the psychology of character have had much to say upon this point. Some persons are born with an inner constitution which is harmonious and well balanced from the outset. Their impulses are consistent with one another, their will follows without trouble the guidance of their intellect, their passions are not excessive, and their lives are little haunted by regrets. Others are oppositely constituted; and are so in degrees which may vary from something so slight as to result in a merely odd or whimsical inconsistency, to a discordancy of which the consequences may be inconvenient in the extreme. Of the more innocent kinds of heterogeneity I find a good example in Mrs. Annie Besant's autobiography.
Recent works on the psychology of character have had much to say about this point. Some people are born with a harmonious, well-balanced inner nature. Their impulses are consistent with one another, and their will follows their intellect without difficulty. Their passions are not excessive, and regrets rarely haunt their lives. Others have the opposite nature, to varying degrees. Their inconsistency may be slight, making them merely odd or whimsical. Or their inner conflict may have extremely inconvenient consequences. Mrs. Annie Besant's autobiography offers a good example of the more harmless kinds of inner inconsistency.
See, for example, F. Paulhan’s Les Caractères, 1894. He contrasts several psychological types: les Equilibrés and les Unifiés with les Inquiets, les Contrariants, les Incohérents, and les Emiettés.
“I have ever been the queerest mixture of weakness and strength, and have paid heavily for the weakness. As a child I used to suffer tortures of shyness, and if my shoe-lace was untied would feel shamefacedly that every eye was fixed on the unlucky string; as a girl I would shrink away from strangers and think myself unwanted and unliked, so that I was full of eager gratitude to any one who noticed me kindly; as the young mistress of a house I was afraid of my servants, and would let careless work pass rather than bear the pain of reproving the ill-doer; when I have been lecturing and debating with no lack of spirit on the platform, I have preferred to go without what I wanted at the hotel rather than to ring and make the waiter fetch it. Combative on the platform in defense of any cause I cared for, I shrink from quarrel or disapproval in the house, and am a coward at heart in private while a good fighter in public. How often have I passed unhappy quarters of an hour screwing up my courage to find fault with some subordinate whom my duty compelled me to reprove, and how often have I jeered at myself for a fraud as the doughty platform combatant, when shrinking from blaming some lad or lass for doing their work badly. An unkind look or word has availed to make me shrink into myself as a snail into its shell, while, on the platform, opposition makes me speak my best.”
“I have always been a strange mixture of weakness and strength, and I have paid heavily for the weakness. As a child, I suffered agonies of shyness. If my shoelace came untied, I felt embarrassed, as though everyone were staring at the unfortunate string. As a girl, I shrank from strangers and thought myself unwanted and disliked. So I felt eagerly grateful to anyone who showed me kindness. As a young woman running a household, I was afraid of my servants. I would let careless work go rather than suffer the pain of scolding the person responsible. Even when I had been lecturing and debating spiritedly on stage, I preferred to go without what I wanted at my hotel rather than ring for a waiter to bring it. On stage, I am ready to fight for any cause I care about. But at home I shrink from arguments or disapproval. At heart, I am a coward in private, though a good fighter in public. How often I have spent a miserable fifteen minutes gathering the courage to criticize a subordinate whom duty required me to reprimand. And how often I have mocked myself as a fraud for fighting so boldly on stage while shrinking from criticizing a boy or girl for doing their work badly. An unkind look or word can make me retreat into myself like a snail into its shell. Yet on stage, opposition brings out my best speaking.”
Annie Besant: an Autobiography, p. 82.
This amount of inconsistency will only count as amiable weakness; but a stronger degree of heterogeneity may make havoc of the subject's life. There are persons whose existence is little more than a series of zigzags, as now one tendency and now another gets the upper hand. Their spirit wars with their flesh, they wish for incompatibles, wayward impulses interrupt their most deliberate plans, and their lives are one long drama of repentance and of effort to repair misdemeanors and mistakes.
This degree of inconsistency will be seen only as a likable weakness. But a greater degree of inner conflict may make a mess of a person's life. Some people's lives are little more than a series of zigzags, as one tendency and then another takes control. Their spirit fights against their flesh, and they want things that cannot exist together. Unpredictable impulses interrupt their most carefully made plans. Their lives are one long drama of regret and efforts to repair their wrongdoings and mistakes.
Heterogeneous personality has been explained as the result of inheritance—the traits of character of incompatible and antagonistic ancestors are supposed to be preserved alongside of each other. This explanation may pass for what it is worth—it certainly needs corroboration. But whatever the cause of heterogeneous personality may be, we find the extreme examples of it in the psychopathic temperament, of which I spoke in my first lecture. All writers about that temperament make the inner heterogeneity prominent in their descriptions. Frequently, indeed, it is only this trait that leads us to ascribe that temperament to a man at all. A “dégénéré supérieur” is simply a man of sensibility in many directions, who finds more difficulty than is common in keeping his spiritual house in order and running his furrow straight, because his feelings and impulses are too keen and too discrepant mutually. In the haunting and insistent ideas, in the irrational impulses, the morbid scruples, dreads, and inhibitions which beset the psychopathic temperament when it is thoroughly pronounced, we have exquisite examples of heterogeneous personality. Bunyan had an obsession of the words, “Sell Christ for this, sell him for that, sell him, sell him!” which would run through his mind a hundred times together, until one day out of breath with retorting, “I will not, I will not,” he impulsively said, “Let him go if he will,” and this loss of the battle kept him in despair for over a year. The lives of the saints are full of such blasphemous obsessions, ascribed invariably to the direct agency of Satan. The phenomenon connects itself with the life of the subconscious self, so-called, of which we must ere-long speak more directly.
Some have explained a divided personality as the result of inheritance. They suppose that the character traits of incompatible and opposing ancestors survive side by side. This explanation may be accepted for what it is worth. It certainly needs supporting evidence. But whatever causes a divided personality, its most extreme examples occur in the psychopathic temperament I discussed in my first lecture. All writers who describe that temperament emphasize its inner divisions. Often, this trait alone leads us to say that a person has a psychopathic temperament. A “dégénéré supérieur” is simply a person who is sensitive in many ways. He finds it unusually difficult to keep his inner life in order and stay on a steady course. This is because his feelings and impulses are too intense and too much at odds with one another. In a fully developed psychopathic temperament, we see striking examples of a divided personality. These include haunting, persistent ideas, irrational impulses, morbid scruples, fears, and inhibitions. Bunyan was obsessed by the words, “Sell Christ for this, sell him for that, sell him, sell him!” They would run through his mind a hundred times in succession. One day, exhausted from answering, “I will not, I will not,” he impulsively said, “Let him go if he will.” Losing this battle kept him in despair for more than a year. The lives of the saints are full of such blasphemous obsessions, which are always attributed to Satan’s direct intervention. This phenomenon is connected with the life of the so-called subconscious self, which we will soon discuss more directly.
Smith Baker, in Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, September, 1893.
Now in all of us, however constituted, but to a degree the greater in proportion as we are intense and sensitive and subject to diversified temptations, and to the greatest possible degree if we are decidedly psychopathic, does the normal evolution of character chiefly consist in the straightening out and unifying of the inner self. The higher and the lower feelings, the useful and the erring impulses, begin by being a comparative chaos within us—they must end by forming a stable system of functions in right subordination. Unhappiness is apt to characterize the period of order-making and struggle. If the individual be of tender conscience and religiously quickened, the unhappiness will take the form of moral remorse and compunction, of feeling inwardly vile and wrong, and of standing in false relations to the author of one's being and appointer of one's spiritual fate. This is the religious melancholy and “conviction of sin” that have played so large a part in the history of Protestant Christianity. The man's interior is a battle-ground for what he feels to be two deadly hostile selves, one actual, the other ideal. As Victor Hugo makes his Mahomet say:—
In all of us, whatever our makeup, the normal development of character chiefly involves bringing order and unity to our inner selves. This process is more important the more intense and sensitive we are, and the more varied the temptations we face. It is most important if we are decidedly psychopathic. At first, our higher and lower feelings, and our useful and misguided impulses, form a kind of chaos within us. They must eventually form a stable system, with each part in its proper place. The period of struggle to establish this order is often unhappy. If a person has a sensitive conscience and is spiritually awakened, this unhappiness will take the form of moral remorse and guilt. The person will feel inwardly vile and wrong, and wrongly related to the author of their being and the one who determines their spiritual fate. This is the religious melancholy and “conviction of sin” that have played such a large part in the history of Protestant Christianity. The person's inner life is a battlefield between what they feel to be two deadly enemies: one self that is real, and another that is ideal. As Victor Hugo makes his Mahomet say:
“Je suis le champ vil des sublimes combats: Tantôt l'homme d'en haut, et tantôt l'homme d'en bas; Et le mal dans ma bouche avec le bien alterne, Comme dans le désert le sable et la citerne.”
“I am the lowly battleground for lofty struggles. Sometimes the higher man prevails, sometimes the lower man. Good and evil take turns in my mouth, like sand and a well in the desert.”
Wrong living, impotent aspirations; “What I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I,” as Saint Paul says; self-loathing, self-despair; an unintelligible and intolerable burden to which one is mysteriously the heir.
Living wrongly, unable to fulfill one’s aspirations. As Saint Paul says, “I do not do what I want, but I do what I hate.” Self-loathing and despair over oneself. A burden one has mysteriously inherited, impossible to understand or bear.
Let me quote from some typical cases of discordant personality, with melancholy in the form of self-condemnation and sense of sin. Saint Augustine's case is a classic example. You all remember his half-pagan, half-Christian bringing up at Carthage, his emigration to Rome and Milan, his adoption of Manicheism and subsequent skepticism, and his restless search for truth and purity of life; and finally how, distracted by the struggle between the two souls in his breast, and ashamed of his own weakness of will, when so many others whom he knew and knew of had thrown off the shackles of sensuality and dedicated themselves to chastity and the higher life, he heard a voice in the garden say, “Sume, lege” (take and read), and opening the Bible at random, saw the text, “not in chambering and wantonness,” etc., which seemed directly sent to his address, and laid the inner storm to rest forever. Augustine's psychological genius has given an account of the trouble of having a divided self which has never been surpassed.
Let me quote some typical cases of divided personality, marked by melancholy in the form of self-condemnation and a sense of sin. Saint Augustine's case is a classic example. You all remember his upbringing in Carthage, which was half pagan and half Christian. You remember his move to Rome and Milan, his adoption of Manicheism and his later skepticism. You also remember his restless search for truth and purity of life. Finally, he was torn by the struggle between the two souls within him and ashamed of his own weak will. So many others he knew or knew of had freed themselves from sensuality and dedicated themselves to chastity and a higher life. Then he heard a voice in the garden say, “Sume, lege” (take and read). He opened the Bible at random and saw the words, “not in chambering and wantonness,” etc. The passage seemed to be addressed directly to him, and it quieted his inner storm forever. Augustine's psychological genius gave us an account of the trouble of having a divided self that has never been surpassed.
Louis Gourdon (Essai sur la Conversion de Saint Augustine, Paris, Fischbacher, 1900) has analyzed Augustine's writings from immediately after his conversion (a. d. 386). Gourdon shows that the account Augustine gives in the Confessions is premature. The crisis in the garden marked a definitive break from Augustine's former life. But his conversion was to neo-platonic spiritualism, only a halfway stage toward Christianity. He appears not to have fully and radically embraced Christianity until four years later.
“The new will which I began to have was not yet strong enough to overcome that other will, strengthened by long indulgence. So these two wills, one old, one new, one carnal, the other spiritual, contended with each other and disturbed my soul. I understood by my own experience what I had read, ‘flesh lusteth against spirit, and spirit against flesh.’ It was myself indeed in both the wills, yet more myself in that which I approved in myself than in that which I disapproved in myself. Yet it was through myself that habit had attained so fierce a mastery over me, because I had willingly come whither I willed not. Still bound to earth, I refused, O God, to fight on thy side, as much afraid to be freed from all bonds, as I ought to have feared being trammeled by them.
“My new will was not yet strong enough to overcome my old will, which long indulgence had strengthened. So these two wills fought each other and troubled my soul. One was old and the other new, one concerned with the body and the other with the spirit. My own experience taught me the meaning of what I had read: ‘The flesh desires what is against the spirit, and the spirit desires what is against the flesh.’ Both wills were mine. Yet I was more truly myself in the will I approved of than in the will I disapproved of. Still, habit had gained such a fierce hold over me through my own actions. I had willingly come to a place I did not want to be. Still bound to the earth, I refused, O God, to fight on your side. I was as afraid of being freed from all bonds as I should have been of being held back by them.
“Thus the thoughts by which I meditated upon thee were like the efforts of one who would awake, but being overpowered with sleepiness is soon asleep again. Often does a man when heavy sleepiness is on his limbs defer to shake it off, and though not approving it, encourage it; even so I was sure it was better to surrender to thy love than to yield to my own lusts, yet, though the former course convinced me, the latter pleased and held me bound. There was naught in me to answer thy call, ‘Awake, thou sleeper,’ but only drawling, drowsy words, ‘Presently; yes, presently; wait a little while.’ But the ‘presently’ had no ‘present,’ and the ‘little while’ grew long.... For I was afraid thou wouldst hear me too soon, and heal me at once of my disease of lust, which I wished to satiate rather than to see extinguished. With what lashes of words did I not scourge my own soul. Yet it shrank back; it refused, though it had no excuse to offer.... I said within myself: ‘Come, let it be done now,’and as I said it, I was on the point of the resolve. I all but did it, yet I did not do it. And I made another effort, and almost succeeded, yet I did not reach it, and did not grasp it, hesitating to die to death, and live to life; and the evil to which I was so wonted held me more than the better life I had not tried.”
“So my thoughts of you were like the efforts of someone trying to wake up. Overcome by sleepiness, he soon falls asleep again. Often, when a person’s limbs are heavy with sleep, he puts off shaking it off. Though he does not approve of his sleepiness, he encourages it. In the same way, I was sure it was better to surrender to your love than to yield to my own lusts. Yet, though I was convinced that surrendering to your love was better, my lusts pleased me and held me captive. I had nothing to say in answer to your call, ‘Wake up, you sleeper,’ except these slow, drowsy words: ‘Soon. Yes, soon. Wait a little while.’ But ‘soon’ never became ‘now,’ and the ‘little while’ grew long.... For I was afraid you would hear me too soon and heal me at once of my disease of lust. I wanted to satisfy that lust rather than see it extinguished. How fiercely I whipped my own soul with words! Yet my soul shrank back and refused, though it had no excuse to offer.... I said to myself: ‘Come, let it be done now.’ As I said it, I was on the verge of deciding. I almost did it, yet I did not. I tried again and almost succeeded, yet I did not reach the decision or grasp it. I hesitated to die to death and live to life. The evil I was so used to held me more strongly than the better life I had not tried.”
Confessions, Book VIII, chapters v, vii, xi, abridged.
There could be no more perfect description of the divided will, when the higher wishes lack just that last acuteness, that touch of explosive intensity, of dynamogenic quality (to use the slang of the psychologists), that enables them to burst their shell, and make irruption efficaciously into life and quell the lower tendencies forever. In a later lecture we shall have much to say about this higher excitability.
This could not be a more perfect description of a divided will. The higher wishes lack that final sharpness, that touch of explosive intensity, that gives them the power to act. Psychologists call this power the “dynamogenic quality.” Without it, the higher wishes cannot burst out, take effective hold in life, and suppress the lower tendencies forever. In a later lecture, we will have much to say about this heightened capacity for excitement.
I find another good description of the divided will in the autobiography of Henry Alline, the Nova Scotian evangelist, of whose melancholy I read a brief account in my last lecture. The poor youth's sins were, as you will see, of the most harmless order, yet they interfered with what proved to be his truest vocation, so they gave him great distress.
I find another good description of a divided will in the autobiography of Henry Alline, the Nova Scotian evangelist. In my last lecture, I read a brief account of his melancholy. As you will see, the poor young man's sins were quite harmless. Yet they interfered with what proved to be his truest calling, so they caused him great distress.
“I was now very moral in my life, but found no rest of conscience. I now began to be esteemed in young company, who knew nothing of my mind all this while, and their esteem began to be a snare to my soul, for I soon began to be fond of carnal mirth, though I still flattered myself that if I did not get drunk, nor curse, nor swear, there would be no sin in frolicking and carnal mirth, and I thought God would indulge young people with some (what I called simple or civil) recreation. I still kept a round of duties, and would not suffer myself to run into any open vices, and so got along very well in time of health and prosperity, but when I was distressed or threatened by sickness, death, or heavy storms of thunder, my religion would not do, and I found there was something wanting, and would begin to repent my going so much to frolics, but when the distress was over, the devil and my own wicked heart, with the solicitations of my associates, and my fondness for young company, were such strong allurements, I would again give way, and thus I got to be very wild and rude, at the same time kept up my rounds of secret prayer and reading; but God, not willing I should destroy myself, still followed me with his calls, and moved with such power upon my conscience, that I could not satisfy myself with my diversions, and in the midst of my mirth sometimes would have such a sense of my lost and undone condition, that I would wish myself from the company, and after it was over, when I went home, would make many promises that I would attend no more on these frolics, and would beg forgiveness for hours and hours; but when I came to have the temptation again, I would give way: no sooner would I hear the music and drink a glass of wine, but I would find my mind elevated and soon proceed to any sort of merriment or diversion, that I thought was not debauched or openly vicious; but when I returned from my carnal mirth I felt as guilty as ever, and could sometimes not close my eyes for some hours after I had gone to my bed. I was one of the most unhappy creatures on earth.
“I was now living a very moral life, but my conscience still troubled me. Young people began to think highly of me, though they knew nothing of what was going on in my mind. Their admiration began to become a trap for my soul, because I soon grew fond of worldly pleasures. Still, I comforted myself with the thought that such fun was not sinful if I did not get drunk, curse, or swear. I thought God would allow young people some recreation, which I called simple or respectable. I continued my regular religious duties and would not let myself commit any open vices. So I got along very well when I was healthy and prosperous. But when I was distressed or threatened by sickness, death, or violent thunderstorms, my religion did not help me. I found that something was missing, and I would begin to regret going to so many parties. But when the distress passed, I would give in again. The devil and my own wicked heart were powerful temptations, as were my companions’ urging and my fondness for young company. In this way I became very wild and unruly, while still keeping up my regular private prayers and reading. But God did not want me to destroy myself, so he kept calling me back. He stirred my conscience so powerfully that I could not be satisfied with my amusements. Sometimes, even in the middle of my fun, I felt so lost and ruined that I wished I were away from the others. Afterward, when I went home, I would make many promises not to go to such parties again. I would beg forgiveness for hours and hours. But when I faced the temptation again, I would give in. As soon as I heard the music and drank a glass of wine, my spirits would rise. I would soon take part in any kind of fun or amusement that I did not consider immoral or openly wicked. But when I came home from my worldly pleasures, I felt as guilty as ever. Sometimes I could not close my eyes for hours after going to bed. I was one of the most unhappy creatures on earth.
“Sometimes I would leave the company (often speaking to the fiddler to cease from playing, as if I was tired), and go out and walk about crying and praying, as if my very heart would break, and beseeching God that he would not cut me off, nor give me up to hardness of heart. Oh, what unhappy hours and nights I thus wore away! When I met sometimes with merry companions, and my heart was ready to sink, I would labor to put on as cheerful a countenance as possible, that they might not distrust anything, and sometimes would begin some discourse with young men or young women on purpose, or propose a merry song, lest the distress of my soul would be discovered, or mistrusted, when at the same time I would then rather have been in a wilderness in exile, than with them or any of their pleasures or enjoyments. Thus for many months when I was in company, I would act the hypocrite and feign a merry heart, but at the same time would endeavor as much as I could to shun their company, oh wretched and unhappy mortal that I was! Everything I did, and wherever I went, I was still in a storm, and yet I continued to be the chief contriver and ringleader of the frolics for many months after; though it was a toil and torment to attend them; but the devil and my own wicked heart drove me about like a slave, telling me that I must do this and do that, and bear this and bear that, and turn here and turn there, to keep my credit up, and retain the esteem of my associates: and all this while I continued as strict as possible in my duties, and left no stone unturned to pacify my conscience, watching even against my thoughts, and praying continually wherever I went: for I did not think there was any sin in my conduct, when I was among carnal company, because I did not take any satisfaction there, but only followed it, I thought, for sufficient reasons.
“Sometimes I would leave the group. I would often ask the fiddler to stop playing, as if I were tired. Then I would go outside and walk about, crying and praying as if my heart would break. I begged God not to cut me off or let my heart grow hard. Oh, what unhappy hours and nights I spent this way! Sometimes I met cheerful companions when my heart was ready to sink. I would try to look as cheerful as possible so they would not suspect anything. Sometimes I would deliberately start a conversation with young men or women, or suggest a cheerful song. I did this so they would not discover or suspect the distress in my soul. Yet at the same time, I would rather have been exiled in a wilderness than with them, sharing their pleasures or enjoyments. For many months, I acted like a hypocrite in company, pretending to be cheerful. Yet at the same time, I tried as much as I could to avoid their company. Oh, what a wretched and unhappy mortal I was! Whatever I did and wherever I went, I was still caught in a storm. Yet for many months afterward, I continued to be the main planner and ringleader of the merrymaking, though attending was a burden and a torment. But the devil and my own wicked heart drove me around like a slave. They told me I had to do this and that, endure this and that, and turn here and there. I had to do all this to protect my reputation and keep the respect of my companions. All the while, I continued to be as strict as possible in my duties. I did everything I could to calm my conscience, even guarding against my own thoughts and praying continually wherever I went. For I did not think I was sinning when I kept company with worldly people. I took no pleasure in their company, but sought it only for what I thought were sufficient reasons.
“But still, all that I did or could do, conscience would roar night and day.”
“But still, despite everything I did or could do, my conscience roared night and day.”
Saint Augustine and Alline both emerged into the smooth waters of inner unity and peace, and I shall next ask you to consider more closely some of the peculiarities of the process of unification, when it occurs. It may come gradually, or it may occur abruptly; it may come through altered feelings, or through altered powers of action; or it may come through new intellectual insights, or through experiences which we shall later have to designate as “mystical.” However it come, it brings a characteristic sort of relief; and never such extreme relief as when it is cast into the religious mould. Happiness! happiness! religion is only one of the ways in which men gain that gift. Easily, permanently, and successfully, it often transforms the most intolerable misery into the profoundest and most enduring happiness.
Saint Augustine and Alline both reached the calm waters of inner unity and peace. Next, I ask you to look more closely at some features of this process of unification. It may happen gradually or suddenly. It may come through changes in feelings or in the ability to act. It may come through new intellectual insights or through experiences we will later call “mystical.” However it happens, unification brings a characteristic kind of relief. That relief is never so great as when it takes a religious form. Happiness! Happiness! Religion is only one of the ways people gain that gift. It often transforms the most unbearable misery into the deepest and most lasting happiness, easily, permanently, and successfully.
But to find religion is only one out of many ways of reaching unity; and the process of remedying inner incompleteness and reducing inner discord is a general psychological process, which may take place with any sort of mental material, and need not necessarily assume the religious form. In judging of the religious types of regeneration which we are about to study, it is important to recognize that they are only one species of a genus that contains other types as well. For example, the new birth may be away from religion into incredulity; or it may be from moral scrupulosity into freedom and license; or it may be produced by the irruption into the individual's life of some new stimulus or passion, such as love, ambition, cupidity, revenge, or patriotic devotion. In all these instances we have precisely the same psychological form of event,—a firmness, stability, and equilibrium succeeding a period of storm and stress and inconsistency. In these non-religious cases the new man may also be born either gradually or suddenly.
But finding religion is only one of many ways to achieve inner unity. Overcoming a sense of inner incompleteness and reducing inner conflict is a general psychological process. The process can involve any kind of mental material and does not necessarily take a religious form. As we consider the religious types of renewal we are about to study, an important point must be recognized. These types are only one kind within a broader category that includes other types as well. For example, a person may be born again by turning away from religion toward disbelief. Or a person may move from excessive concern about right and wrong to freedom and license. A new birth may also be brought about by the sudden entry of a new influence or passion into a person’s life. Such passions include love, ambition, greed, revenge, and patriotic devotion. In all these cases, the psychological event has exactly the same form. A period of turmoil, strain, and inconsistency is followed by firmness, stability, and balance. In these nonreligious cases, too, the new person may be born either gradually or suddenly.
The French philosopher Jouffroy has left an eloquent memorial of his own “counter-conversion,” as the transition from orthodoxy to infidelity has been well styled by Mr. Starbuck. Jouffroy's doubts had long harassed him; but he dates his final crisis from a certain night when his disbelief grew fixed and stable, and where the immediate result was sadness at the illusions he had lost.
The French philosopher Jouffroy left an eloquent account of his own “counter-conversion.” Mr. Starbuck aptly used that term for the shift from orthodox belief to disbelief. Doubts had troubled Jouffroy for a long time. But he traced his final crisis to a particular night, when his disbelief became firm and settled. At first, he felt sadness over the illusions he had lost.
“I shall never forget that night of December,” writes Jouffroy, “in which the veil that concealed from me my own incredulity was torn. I hear again my steps in that narrow naked chamber where long after the hour of sleep had come I had the habit of walking up and down. I see again that moon, half-veiled by clouds, which now and again illuminated the frigid window-panes. The hours of the night flowed on and I did not note their passage. Anxiously I followed my thoughts, as from layer to layer they descended towards the foundation of my consciousness, and, scattering one by one all the illusions which until then had screened its windings from my view, made them every moment more clearly visible.
“I will never forget that December night,” writes Jouffroy, “when the veil hiding my own disbelief from me was torn away. I can still hear my footsteps in that narrow, bare room. I used to pace there long after bedtime. I can still see the moon, half hidden by clouds, occasionally lighting up the icy windowpanes. The night hours passed, and I did not notice them. I anxiously followed my thoughts as they descended, layer by layer, toward the foundation of my consciousness. One by one, they scattered all the illusions that had kept me from seeing its twists and turns. With every moment, those twists and turns became clearer.
“Vainly I clung to these last beliefs as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the fragments of his vessel; vainly, frightened at the unknown void in which I was about to float, I turned with them towards my childhood, my family, my country, all that was dear and sacred to me: the inflexible current of my thought was too strong,—parents, family, memory, beliefs, it forced me to let go of everything. The investigation went on more obstinate and more severe as it drew near its term, and did not stop until the end was reached. I knew then that in the depth of my mind nothing was left that stood erect.
“In vain, I clung to these last beliefs, like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to the remains of his ship. Frightened by the unknown void into which I was about to drift, I turned with these beliefs toward my childhood, my family, my country, and all that was dear and sacred to me. But this too was in vain. The relentless current of my thoughts was too strong. It forced me to let go of everything: parents, family, memories, and beliefs. The investigation grew more stubborn and severe as it neared its end. It did not stop until the end was reached. Then I knew that, deep in my mind, nothing was left standing.
“This moment was a frightful one; and when towards morning I threw myself exhausted on my bed, I seemed to feel my earlier life, so smiling and so full, go out like a fire, and before me another life opened, sombre and unpeopled, where in future I must live alone, alone with my fatal thought which had exiled me thither, and which I was tempted to curse. The days which followed this discovery were the saddest of my life.”
“This was a terrifying moment. Toward morning, I threw myself onto my bed, exhausted. I seemed to feel my earlier life, so bright and full, go out like a fire. Before me, another life opened up, dark and empty of people. From then on, I would have to live there alone, alone with the fatal thought that had exiled me there. I was tempted to curse that thought. The days that followed this discovery were the saddest of my life.”
Th. Jouffroy: Nouveaux Mélanges philosophiques, 2me édition, p. 83. I add two other cases of counter-conversion that occurred at a particular moment. The first is from Professor Starbuck's manuscript collection. The narrator is a woman.
“Away down in the bottom of my heart, I believe I was always more or less skeptical about ‘God;’ skepticism grew as an undercurrent, all through my early youth, but it was controlled and covered by the emotional elements in my religious growth. When I was sixteen I joined the church and was asked if I loved God. I replied ‘Yes,’ as was customary and expected. But instantly with a flash something spoke within me, ‘No, you do not.’ I was haunted for a long time with shame and remorse for my falsehood and for my wickedness in not loving God, mingled with fear that there might be an avenging God who would punish me in some terrible way.... At nineteen, I had an attack of tonsilitis. Before I had quite recovered, I heard told a story of a brute who had kicked his wife downstairs, and then continued the operation until she became insensible. I felt the horror of the thing keenly. Instantly this thought flashed through my mind: ‘I have no use for a God who permits such things.’ This experience was followed by months of stoical indifference to the God of my previous life, mingled with feelings of positive dislike and a somewhat proud defiance of him. I still thought there might be a God. If so he would probably damn me, but I should have to stand it. I felt very little fear and no desire to propitiate him. I have never had any personal relations with him since this painful experience.”
The second case shows how little extra stimulus it takes to tip the mind into a new state of equilibrium. The process of preparation and incubation must have gone far enough. It is like the proverbial last straw added to the camel's burden. It is also like the touch of a needle that makes salt suddenly crystallize in a supersaturated fluid. Tolstoy writes:
“S., a frank and intelligent man, told me as follows how he ceased to believe:
“He was twenty-six years old when one day on a hunting expedition, the time for sleep having come, he set himself to pray according to the custom he had held from childhood.
“His brother, who was hunting with him, lay upon the hay and looked at him. When S. had finished his prayer and was turning to sleep, the brother said, ‘Do you still keep up that thing?’ Nothing more was said. But since that day, now more than thirty years ago, S. has never prayed again; he never takes communion, and does not go to church. All this, not because he became acquainted with convictions of his brother which he then and there adopted; not because he made any new resolution in his soul, but merely because the words spoken by his brother were like the light push of a finger against a leaning wall already about to tumble by its own weight. These words but showed him that the place wherein he supposed religion dwelt in him had long been empty, and that the sentences he uttered, the crosses and bows which he made during his prayer, were actions with no inner sense. Having once seized their absurdity, he could no longer keep them up.” My Confession, p. 8.
In John Foster's Essay on Decision of Character, there is an account of a case of sudden conversion to avarice, which is illustrative enough to quote:—
In John Foster's Essay on Decision of Character, there is an account of someone suddenly becoming greedy. The case is illustrative enough to quote:
A young man, it appears, “wasted, in two or three years, a large patrimony in profligate revels with a number of worthless associates who called themselves his friends, and who, when his last means were exhausted, treated him of course with neglect or contempt. Reduced to absolute want, he one day went out of the house with an intention to put an end to his life; but wandering awhile almost unconsciously, he came to the brow of an eminence which overlooked what were lately his estates. Here he sat down, and remained fixed in thought a number of hours, at the end of which he sprang from the ground with a vehement, exulting emotion. He had formed his resolution, which was, that all these estates should be his again; he had formed his plan, too, which he instantly began to execute. He walked hastily forward, determined to seize the first opportunity, of however humble a kind, to gain any money, though it were ever so despicable a trifle, and resolved absolutely not to spend, if he could help it, a farthing of whatever he might obtain. The first thing that drew his attention was a heap of coals shot out of carts on the pavement before a house. He offered himself to shovel or wheel them into the place where they were to be laid, and was employed. He received a few pence for the labor; and then, in pursuance of the saving part of his plan, requested some small gratuity of meat and drink, which was given him. He then looked out for the next thing that might chance; and went, with indefatigable industry, through a succession of servile employments in different places, of longer and shorter duration, still scrupulous in avoiding, as far as possible, the expense of a penny. He promptly seized every opportunity which could advance his design, without regarding the meanness of occupation or appearance. By this method he had gained, after a considerable time, money enough to purchase in order to sell again a few cattle, of which he had taken pains to understand the value. He speedily but cautiously turned his first gains into second advantages; retained without a single deviation his extreme parsimony; and thus advanced by degrees into larger transactions and incipient wealth. I did not hear, or have forgotten, the continued course of his life, but the final result was, that he more than recovered his lost possessions, and died an inveterate miser, worth £60,000.”
A young man, it seems, “spent a large inheritance in two or three years. He squandered it on wild parties with worthless companions who called themselves his friends. When his last resources were gone, they naturally neglected or scorned him. Left with absolutely nothing, he went out one day intending to kill himself. But after wandering almost unconsciously for a while, he came to the edge of a hill overlooking his former estates. He sat there deep in thought for several hours. Then he sprang up, overcome with fierce joy. He had resolved to regain all his estates, and he had a plan, which he immediately began to carry out. He walked quickly onward, determined to take the first opportunity to earn money, however humble the work or however tiny the sum. He also resolved not to spend a penny of whatever he earned, if he could help it. The first thing he noticed was a heap of coal dumped from carts onto the pavement outside a house. He offered to shovel or wheel it into the place where it was to be stored, and he was hired. He received a few pennies for the work. Then, in keeping with his plan to save, he asked for a little food and drink, which he was given. He looked for the next opportunity and worked tirelessly at one menial job after another, in different places and for varying lengths of time. He remained careful to avoid spending a penny whenever possible. He seized every opportunity to advance his plan, regardless of how lowly the work or how poor he appeared. After a considerable time, he had saved enough to buy a few cattle for resale. He had taken care to learn their value. He quickly but cautiously used his first profits to gain more. He never once abandoned his extreme thrift, and so gradually moved on to larger deals and began to build wealth. I did not hear, or have forgotten, the rest of his life story. But in the end, he more than regained his lost possessions and died a hardened miser, worth £60,000.”
Op. cit., Letter III., abridged. I add another document that has come into my possession. It vividly shows what is probably a very common kind of conversion, if falling out of love can be called a conversion. Falling in love often follows this pattern too. A hidden process of unconscious preparation often precedes a sudden realization that the mischief is irretrievably done. The casual, easy tone of this account gives it a sincerity that speaks for itself.
“For two years of this time I went through a very bad experience, which almost drove me mad. I had fallen violently in love with a girl who, young as she was, had a spirit of coquetry like a cat. As I look back on her now, I hate her, and wonder how I could ever have fallen so low as to be worked upon to such an extent by her attractions. Nevertheless, I fell into a regular fever, could think of nothing else; whenever I was alone, I pictured her attractions, and spent most of the time when I should have been working, in recalling our previous interviews, and imagining future conversations. She was very pretty, good humored, and jolly to the last degree, and intensely pleased with my admiration. Would give me no decided answer yes or no, and the queer thing about it was that whilst pursuing her for her hand, I secretly knew all along that she was unfit to be a wife for me, and that she never would say yes. Although for a year we took our meals at the same boarding-house, so that I saw her continually and familiarly, our closer relations had to be largely on the sly, and this fact, together with my jealousy of another one of her male admirers, and my own conscience despising me for my uncontrollable weakness, made me so nervous and sleepless that I really thought I should become insane. I understand well those young men murdering their sweethearts, which appear so often in the papers. Nevertheless I did love her passionately, and in some ways she did deserve it.
“The queer thing was the sudden and unexpected way in which it all stopped. I was going to my work after breakfast one morning, thinking as usual of her and of my misery, when, just as if some outside power laid hold of me, I found myself turning round and almost running to my room, where I immediately got out all the relics of her which I possessed, including some hair, all her notes and letters, and ambrotypes on glass. The former I made a fire of, the latter I actually crushed beneath my heel, in a sort of fierce joy of revenge and punishment. I now loathed and despised her altogether, and as for myself I felt as if a load of disease had suddenly been removed from me. That was the end. I never spoke to her or wrote to her again in all the subsequent years, and I have never had a single moment of loving thought towards one who for so many months entirely filled my heart. In fact, I have always rather hated her memory, though now I can see that I had gone unnecessarily far in that direction. At any rate, from that happy morning onward I regained possession of my own proper soul, and have never since fallen into any similar trap.”
This seems to me an unusually clear example of two different levels of personality. They gave conflicting directions, yet were so evenly balanced that they filled his life with discord and dissatisfaction for a long time. At last, the unstable balance was resolved, not gradually, but in a sudden crisis. It happened so unexpectedly that it was as if, in the writer's words, “some outside power laid hold.”
Professor Starbuck gives a similar case in his Psychology of Religion, p. 141. He also gives the opposite case, in which hatred suddenly turned into love. Compare the other highly curious examples he gives on pp. 137-144 of sudden, non-religious changes in habit or character. He seems right to think that all such sudden changes result from particular brain functions developing unconsciously. They develop until they are ready to take control, then burst into conscious life. When I discuss sudden “conversion,” I shall make as much use as I can of this hypothesis of subconscious incubation.
Let me turn now to the kind of case, the religious case, namely, that immediately concerns us. Here is one of the simplest possible type, an account of the conversion to the systematic religion of healthy-mindedness of a man who must already have been naturally of the healthy-minded type. It shows how, when the fruit is ripe, a touch will make it fall.
Let me turn now to the kind of case that directly concerns us: the religious case. Here is one of the simplest examples. It describes a man’s conversion to the systematic religion of healthy-mindedness. He must already have been naturally healthy-minded. The example shows how, when fruit is ripe, a touch will make it fall.
Mr. Horace Fletcher, in his little book called Menticulture, relates that a friend with whom he was talking of the self-control attained by the Japanese through their practice of the Buddhist discipline said:—
In his short book Menticulture, Mr. Horace Fletcher recounts a conversation with a friend. They were discussing the self-control Japanese people achieved through Buddhist discipline. His friend said:
“ ‘You must first get rid of anger and worry.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘is that possible?’ ‘Yes,’ replied he; ‘it is possible to the Japanese, and ought to be possible to us.’
“ ‘First, you must get rid of anger and worry.’ ‘But is that possible?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The Japanese can do it, and we should be able to do it too.’ ”
“On my way back I could think of nothing else but the words ‘get rid, get rid’; and the idea must have continued to possess me during my sleeping hours, for the first consciousness in the morning brought back the same thought, with the revelation of a discovery, which framed itself into the reasoning, ‘If it is possible to get rid of anger and worry, why is it necessary to have them at all?’ I felt the strength of the argument, and at once accepted the reasoning. The baby had discovered that it could walk. It would scorn to creep any longer.
“On my way back, I could think of nothing but the words ‘get rid, get rid’. The idea must have stayed with me while I slept. As soon as I woke up, the same thought returned, along with a new discovery. I reasoned, ‘If it is possible to get rid of anger and worry, why do I need them at all?’ I felt the force of this argument and accepted it at once. The baby had discovered that it could walk. It would look down on crawling any longer.”
“From the instant I realized that these cancer spots of worry and anger were removable, they left me. With the discovery of their weakness they were exorcised. From that time life has had an entirely different aspect.
“The moment I realized these cancer spots of worry and anger could be removed, they left me. Discovering how weak they were drove them away. Since then, life has looked entirely different.
“Although from that moment the possibility and desirability of freedom from the depressing passions has been a reality to me, it took me some months to feel absolute security in my new position; but, as the usual occasions for worry and anger have presented themselves over and over again, and I have been unable to feel them in the slightest degree, I no longer dread or guard against them, and I am amazed at my increased energy and vigor of mind; at my strength to meet situations of all kinds, and at my disposition to love and appreciate everything.
“From that moment, I knew it was possible and desirable to be free from depressing emotions. But it took me some months to feel completely secure in this new state. The usual causes of worry and anger have come up again and again, yet I have been unable to feel either emotion at all. So I no longer fear or guard against them. I am amazed at my increased mental energy and vigor, my strength to face all kinds of situations, and my tendency to love and appreciate everything.
“I have had occasion to travel more than ten thousand miles by rail since that morning. The same Pullman porter, conductor, hotel-waiter, peddler, book-agent, cabman, and others who were formerly a source of annoyance and irritation have been met, but I am not conscious of a single incivility. All at once the whole world has turned good to me. I have become, as it were, sensitive only to the rays of good.
“Since that morning, I have traveled more than ten thousand miles by train. I have encountered the same Pullman porters, conductors, hotel waiters, peddlers, book agents, cab drivers, and others who used to annoy and irritate me. But I am not aware of a single act of rudeness. All at once, the whole world has become good to me. It is as if I have become sensitive only to rays of good.
“I could recount many experiences which prove a brand-new condition of mind, but one will be sufficient. Without the slightest feeling of annoyance or impatience, I have seen a train that I had planned to take with a good deal of interested and pleasurable anticipation move out of the station without me, because my baggage did not arrive. The porter from the hotel came running and panting into the station just as the train pulled out of sight. When he saw me, he looked as if he feared a scolding, and began to tell of being blocked in a crowded street and unable to get out. When he had finished, I said to him: ‘It doesn't matter at all, you couldn't help it, so we will try again to-morrow. Here is your fee, I am sorry you had all this trouble in earning it.’ The look of surprise that came over his face was so filled with pleasure that I was repaid on the spot for the delay in my departure. Next day he would not accept a cent for the service, and he and I are friends for life.
“I could tell of many experiences that show a completely new state of mind, but one will be enough. I had been looking forward to taking a train. But my luggage did not arrive, and I watched the train leave without me. I felt no annoyance or impatience at all. The hotel porter came running and panting into the station just as the train disappeared from view. When he saw me, he looked as if he feared a scolding. He began to explain that he had been stuck in a crowded street and could not get out. When he finished, I said to him: ‘It doesn't matter at all. You couldn't help it, so we will try again tomorrow. Here is your fee. I'm sorry you had so much trouble earning it.’ The surprise on his face was filled with such pleasure that it made up for my delayed departure right then. The next day, he would not accept a cent for his service, and he and I are friends for life.
“During the first weeks of my experience I was on guard only against worry and anger; but, in the mean time, having noticed the absence of the other depressing and dwarfing passions, I began to trace a relationship, until I was convinced that they are all growths from the two roots I have specified. I have felt the freedom now for so long a time that I am sure of my relation toward it; and I could no more harbor any of the thieving and depressing influences that once I nursed as a heritage of humanity than a fop would voluntarily wallow in a filthy gutter.
“For the first few weeks of my experience, I guarded only against worry and anger. But I also noticed that the other passions that depressed and diminished me were absent. I began to see a connection, until I became convinced that they all grow from those two roots. I have felt this freedom for so long now that I am sure of my relationship to it. I once nurtured those robbing and depressing influences as part of my human inheritance. But I could no more harbor them now than a dandy would willingly wallow in a filthy gutter.
“There is no doubt in my mind that pure Christianity and pure Buddhism, and the Mental Sciences and all Religions, fundamentally teach what has been a discovery to me; but none of them have presented it in the light of a simple and easy process of elimination. At one time I wondered if the elimination would not yield to indifference and sloth. In my experience, the contrary is the result. I feel such an increased desire to do something useful that it seems as if I were a boy again and the energy for play had returned. I could fight as readily as (and better than) ever, if there were occasion for it. It does not make one a coward. It can't, since fear is one of the things eliminated. I notice the absence of timidity in the presence of any audience. When a boy, I was standing under a tree which was struck by lightning, and received a shock from the effects of which I never knew exemption until I had dissolved partnership with worry. Since then, lightning and thunder have been encountered under conditions which would formerly have caused great depression and discomfort, without [my] experiencing a trace of either. Surprise is also greatly modified, and one is less liable to become startled by unexpected sights or noises.
“I have no doubt that pure Christianity, pure Buddhism, the Mental Sciences, and all Religions fundamentally teach what I have discovered. But none of them has presented it as a simple and easy process of elimination. I once wondered whether this elimination would lead to indifference and laziness. In my experience, the opposite happens. I feel such a greater desire to do something useful that I feel like a boy again, with my old energy for play. If there were a reason to fight, I could do so as readily as ever, and better. This process does not make a person a coward. It cannot, because fear is one of the things eliminated. I notice that I am no longer timid in front of any audience. When I was a boy, I was standing under a tree that was struck by lightning. I received a shock, and I never escaped its effects until I parted company with worry. Since then, I have encountered lightning and thunder under conditions that would once have caused me great depression and discomfort. But I felt no trace of either. Surprise is also greatly reduced, and a person is less likely to be startled by unexpected sights or sounds.
“As far as I am individually concerned, I am not bothering myself at present as to what the results of this emancipated condition may be. I have no doubt that the perfect health aimed at by Christian Science may be one of the possibilities, for I note a marked improvement in the way my stomach does its duty in assimilating the food I give it to handle, and I am sure it works better to the sound of a song than under the friction of a frown. Neither am I wasting any of this precious time formulating an idea of a future existence or a future Heaven. The Heaven that I have within myself is as attractive as any that has been promised or that I can imagine; and I am willing to let the growth lead where it will, as long as the anger and their brood have no part in misguiding it.”
“As for me, I am not worrying right now about what this newfound freedom may lead to. I have no doubt that the perfect health Christian Science aims for may be possible. I notice a marked improvement in how my stomach digests the food I give it. I am sure my stomach works better to the sound of a song than under the strain of a frown. Nor am I wasting any of this precious time imagining a future life or a future Heaven. The Heaven within me is as attractive as any that has been promised or that I can imagine. I am willing to let this growth lead wherever it will, as long as anger and its offspring do not lead it astray.”
H. Fletcher: Menticulture, or the A-B-C of True Living, New York and Chicago, 1899, pp. 26-36, abridged.
The older medicine used to speak of two ways, lysis and crisis, one gradual, the other abrupt, in which one might recover from a bodily disease. In the spiritual realm there are also two ways, one gradual, the other sudden, in which inner unification may occur. Tolstoy and Bunyan may again serve us as examples, examples, as it happens, of the gradual way, though it must be confessed at the outset that it is hard to follow these windings of the hearts of others, and one feels that their words do not reveal their total secret.
Older medicine described two ways of recovering from a physical illness: lysis, which was gradual, and crisis, which was sudden. In spiritual life, too, inner unity can be achieved gradually or suddenly. Tolstoy and Bunyan may again serve as examples, in this case of the gradual way. But we must admit at the outset that the twists and turns of other people’s hearts are hard to follow. We feel that their words do not reveal their full secret.
Howe'er this be, Tolstoy, pursuing his unending questioning, seemed to come to one insight after another. First he perceived that his conviction that life was meaningless took only this finite life into account. He was looking for the value of one finite term in that of another, and the whole result could only be one of those indeterminate equations in mathematics which end with 0=0. Yet this is as far as the reasoning intellect by itself can go, unless irrational sentiment or faith brings in the infinite. Believe in the infinite as common people do, and life grows possible again.
However that may be, Tolstoy kept questioning and seemed to arrive at one insight after another. First, he realized that his belief that life was meaningless took only this finite life into account. He was looking for the value of one finite term in another finite term. The result could only be like one of those indeterminate equations in mathematics that end with 0=0. Yet reason alone can go no further, unless irrational feeling or faith brings in the infinite. Believe in the infinite as ordinary people do, and life becomes possible again.
“Since mankind has existed, wherever life has been, there also has been the faith that gave the possibility of living. Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man does not destroy himself, but continues to live on. It is the force whereby we live. If Man did not believe that he must live for something, he would not live at all. The idea of an infinite God, of the divinity of the soul, of the union of men's actions with God—these are ideas elaborated in the infinite secret depths of human thought. They are ideas without which there would be no life, without which I myself,” said Tolstoy, “would not exist. I began to see that I had no right to rely on my individual reasoning and neglect these answers given by faith, for they are the only answers to the question.”
“Since humanity has existed, wherever there has been life, there has also been the faith that makes life possible. Faith gives life meaning. Because of that meaning, people do not destroy themselves but continue to live. Faith is the force that keeps us alive. If people did not believe they had something to live for, they would not live at all. The ideas of an infinite God, the divinity of the soul, and the union of human actions with God have taken shape in the infinite, hidden depths of human thought. Without these ideas, there would be no life. Without them, I myself,” said Tolstoy, “would not exist. I began to see that I had no right to rely on my own reasoning and ignore the answers faith gives. Those are the only answers to the question.”
Yet how believe as the common people believe, steeped as they are in grossest superstition? It is impossible,—but yet their life! their life! It is normal. It is happy! It is an answer to the question!
Yet how can we believe as ordinary people do, when their beliefs are steeped in the crudest superstition? It is impossible. But their lives! Their lives! They are normal. They are happy! They are an answer to the question!
Little by little, Tolstoy came to the settled conviction—he says it took him two years to arrive there—that his trouble had not been with life in general, not with the common life of common men, but with the life of the upper, intellectual, artistic classes, the life which he had personally always led, the cerebral life, the life of conventionality, artificiality, and personal ambition. He had been living wrongly and must change. To work for animal needs, to abjure lies and vanities, to relieve common wants, to be simple, to believe in God, therein lay happiness again.
Little by little, Tolstoy came to a firm conviction. He says it took him two years to reach it. His trouble had not been with life in general, or with the ordinary lives of ordinary people. It was with the life of the upper, intellectual, and artistic classes, the life he himself had always led. It was a life of the mind, of convention, artificiality, and personal ambition. He had been living wrongly and had to change. To find happiness again, he had to work to meet physical needs, reject lies and vanities, relieve ordinary people’s needs, live simply, and believe in God.
“I remember,” he says, “one day in early spring, I was alone in the forest, lending my ear to its mysterious noises. I listened, and my thought went back to what for these three years it always was busy with—the quest of God. But the idea of him, I said, how did I ever come by the idea?
“I remember,” he says, “one day in early spring, I was alone in the forest, listening to its mysterious sounds. As I listened, my thoughts returned to the search for God, which had occupied me for three years. But I asked myself, how did I ever get the idea of God?
“And again there arose in me, with this thought, glad aspirations towards life. Everything in me awoke and received a meaning.... Why do I look farther? a voice within me asked. He is there: he, without whom one cannot live. To acknowledge God and to live are one and the same thing. God is what life is. Well, then! live, seek God, and there will be no life without him....
“And once again, this thought filled me with joyful hopes for life. Everything in me woke up and found meaning.... Why do I keep looking? a voice inside me asked. He is there: he, without whom no one can live. Acknowledging God and living are one and the same thing. God is what life is. Well then! Live, seek God, and there will be no life without him....
“After this, things cleared up within me and about me better than ever, and the light has never wholly died away. I was saved from suicide. Just how or when the change took place I cannot tell. But as insensibly and gradually as the force of life had been annulled within me, and I had reached my moral death-bed, just as gradually and imperceptibly did the energy of life come back. And what was strange was that this energy that came back was nothing new. It was my ancient juvenile force of faith, the belief that the sole purpose of my life was to be better. I gave up the life of the conventional world, recognizing it to be no life, but a parody on life, which its superfluities simply keep us from comprehending,”—and Tolstoy thereupon embraced the life of the peasants, and has felt right and happy, or at least relatively so, ever since.
“After this, things became clearer within me and around me than ever before, and the light has never completely faded. I was saved from suicide. I cannot say exactly how or when the change happened. The force of life had faded within me gradually and imperceptibly, until I reached my moral deathbed. In the same gradual and imperceptible way, the energy of life returned. Strangely, the energy that returned was nothing new. It was the force of faith I had known in my youth, the belief that my life’s sole purpose was to be better. I gave up the life of conventional society. I recognized that it was no life at all, but a parody of life. Its excesses simply keep us from understanding that,” and Tolstoy then embraced the life of the peasants. He has felt right and happy, or at least relatively so, ever since.
I have shortened Tolstoy's words considerably in my translation.
As I interpret his melancholy, then, it was not merely an accidental vitiation of his humors, though it was doubtless also that. It was logically called for by the clash between his inner character and his outer activities and aims. Although a literary artist, Tolstoy was one of those primitive oaks of men to whom the superfluities and insincerities, the cupidities, complications, and cruelties of our polite civilization are profoundly unsatisfying, and for whom the eternal veracities lie with more natural and animal things. His crisis was the getting of his soul in order, the discovery of its genuine habitat and vocation, the escape from falsehoods into what for him were ways of truth. It was a case of heterogeneous personality tardily and slowly finding its unity and level. And though not many of us can imitate Tolstoy, not having enough, perhaps, of the aboriginal human marrow in our bones, most of us may at least feel as if it might be better for us if we could.
As I understand Tolstoy’s melancholy, then, it was not merely an accidental disturbance of his bodily state, though it was undoubtedly that too. It followed logically from the clash between his inner character and his outward activities and goals. Although a literary artist, Tolstoy was one of those men who are like ancient oaks. For them, the excesses and insincerities, the greed, complications, and cruelties of polite civilization are deeply unsatisfying. For them, the eternal truths lie in things that are more natural and animal. His crisis was a process of putting his soul in order. He discovered where it truly belonged and what it was meant to do. He escaped from falsehoods into ways of living that were true for him. His was a personality made up of different elements, slowly and belatedly finding its unity and balance. Not many of us can imitate Tolstoy. Perhaps we do not have enough of that primal human marrow in our bones. Still, most of us may at least feel as if we might be better off if we could imitate him.
Bunyan's recovery seems to have been even slower. For years together he was alternately haunted with texts of Scripture, now up and now down, but at last with an ever growing relief in his salvation through the blood of Christ.
Bunyan's recovery seems to have been even slower. For years, passages from Scripture haunted him as his spirits rose and fell. But at last, he found growing relief in his salvation through the blood of Christ.
“My peace would be in and out twenty times a day; comfort now and trouble presently; peace now and before I could go a furlong as full of guilt and fear as ever heart could hold.”When a good text comes home to him, “This,” he writes, “gave me good encouragement for the space of two or three hours”; or “This was a good day to me, I hope I shall not forget it”; or “The glory of these words was then so weighty on me that I was ready to swoon as I sat; yet not with grief and trouble, but with solid joy and peace”; or “This made a strange seizure on my spirit; it brought light with it, and commanded a silence in my heart of all those tumultuous thoughts that before did use, like masterless hell-hounds, to roar and bellow and make a hideous noise within me. It showed me that Jesus Christ had not quite forsaken and cast off my Soul.”
“My peace came and went twenty times a day. I would feel comforted, then troubled. I would have peace, but before I could walk a furlong, my heart would be as full of guilt and fear as ever.” When a passage of scripture speaks to him, he writes, “This encouraged me for two or three hours.” Or, “This was a good day for me. I hope I will not forget it.” Or, “The glory of these words weighed so heavily on me that I nearly fainted as I sat. Yet this was not from grief and trouble, but from deep joy and peace.” Or, “This took hold of my spirit in a strange way. It brought light with it and silenced all the turbulent thoughts in my heart. Before, they had roared and howled and made a hideous noise inside me, like hell-hounds without a master. It showed me that Jesus Christ had not completely abandoned and rejected my soul.”
Such periods accumulate until he can write: “And now remained only the hinder part of the tempest, for the thunder was gone beyond me, only some drops would still remain, that now and then would fall upon me”;—and at last: “Now did my chains fall off my legs indeed; I was loosed from my afflictions and irons; my temptations also fled away; so that from that time, those dreadful Scriptures of God left off to trouble me; now went I also home rejoicing, for the grace and love of God.... Now could I see myself in Heaven and Earth at once; in Heaven by my Christ, by my Head, by my Righteousness and Life, though on Earth by my body or person.... Christ was a precious Christ to my soul that night; I could scarce lie in my bed for joy and peace and triumph through Christ.”
Such periods continue until he can write: “Now only the tail end of the storm remained. The thunder had passed beyond me, though a few drops still fell on me now and then.” At last he writes: “Now my chains really fell from my legs. I was freed from my troubles and my irons. My temptations also fled, so that from then on, those dreadful passages of Scripture no longer troubled me. Now I went home rejoicing in the grace and love of God.... Now I could see myself in Heaven and Earth at once. I was in Heaven through my Christ, my Head, my Righteousness and Life, though my body or person was on Earth.... Christ was precious to my soul that night. I could hardly lie in bed for the joy, peace, and triumph I felt through Christ.”
Bunyan became a minister of the gospel, and in spite of his neurotic constitution, and of the twelve years he lay in prison for his non-conformity, his life was turned to active use. He was a peacemaker and doer of good, and the immortal Allegory which he wrote has brought the very spirit of religious patience home to English hearts.
Bunyan became a minister of the gospel. Despite his neurotic nature and twelve years in prison for his religious nonconformity, he led a productive life. He made peace and did good. The immortal allegory he wrote has brought the very spirit of religious patience home to English hearts.
But neither Bunyan nor Tolstoy could become what we have called healthy-minded. They had drunk too deeply of the cup of bitterness ever to forget its taste, and their redemption is into a universe two stories deep. Each of them realized a good which broke the effective edge of his sadness; yet the sadness was preserved as a minor ingredient in the heart of the faith by which it was overcome. The fact of interest for us is that as a matter of fact they could and did find something welling up in the inner reaches of their consciousness, by which such extreme sadness could be overcome. Tolstoy does well to talk of it as that by which men live; for that is exactly what it is, a stimulus, an excitement, a faith, a force that re-infuses the positive willingness to live, even in full presence of the evil perceptions that erewhile made life seem unbearable. For Tolstoy's perceptions of evil appear within their sphere to have remained unmodified. His later works show him implacable to the whole system of official values: the ignobility of fashionable life; the infamies of empire; the spuriousness of the church, the vain conceit of the professions; the meannesses and cruelties that go with great success; and every other pompous crime and lying institution of this world. To all patience with such things his experience has been for him a permanent ministry of death.
But neither Bunyan nor Tolstoy could become what we have called healthy-minded. They had drunk too deeply from the cup of bitterness ever to forget its taste. Their redemption led them into a universe with two levels. Each found a good that took away the sharpest edge of his sadness. Yet sadness remained a minor part of the faith that overcame it. What interests us is that each actually found something rising from deep within his consciousness that could overcome such extreme sadness. Tolstoy is right to call it that by which men live. That is exactly what it is: a stimulus, an excitement, a faith, a force that renews the positive willingness to live. It does so even when people remain fully aware of the evils that once made life seem unbearable. For Tolstoy's perceptions of evil seem to have remained unchanged within their own sphere. His later works show that he remained unrelenting in his judgment of the whole system of official values. He condemned the baseness of fashionable life, the outrages of empire, the falseness of the church, and the empty self-importance of the professions. He condemned the meanness and cruelty that accompany great success, and every other pompous crime and dishonest institution in this world. His experience permanently destroyed any patience he might have had with such things.
Bunyan also leaves this world to the enemy.
Bunyan also leaves this world to the enemy.
“I must first pass a sentence of death,” he says, “upon everything that can properly be called a thing of this life, even to reckon myself, my wife, my children, my health, my enjoyments, and all, as dead to me, and myself as dead to them; to trust in God through Christ, as touching the world to come; and as touching this world, to count the grave my house, to make my bed in darkness, and to say to corruption, Thou art my father, and to the worm, Thou art my mother and sister.... The parting with my wife and my poor children hath often been to me as the pulling of my flesh from my bones, especially my poor blind child who lay nearer my heart than all I had besides. Poor child, thought I, what sorrow art thou like to have for thy portion in this world! Thou must be beaten, must beg, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though I cannot now endure that the wind should blow upon thee. But yet I must venture you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you.”
“I must first pass a sentence of death,” he says, “on everything that belongs to this life. I must consider myself, my wife, my children, my health, my pleasures, and everything else dead to me, and myself dead to them. I must trust in God through Christ for the life to come. And as for this world, I must consider the grave my home and make my bed in darkness. I must say to decay, ‘You are my father,’ and to the worm, ‘You are my mother and sister.’... Parting from my wife and my poor children has often felt like having my flesh pulled from my bones. This is especially true of my poor blind child, who was closer to my heart than anyone or anything else I had. Poor child, I thought, what sorrow you are likely to suffer in this world! You will be beaten, forced to beg, and made to suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities. Yet I cannot bear even to let the wind blow on you now. But still, I must entrust you all to God, though leaving you cuts me to the heart.”
In my quotations from Bunyan, I have left out some passages in between.
The “hue of resolution” is there, but the full flood of ecstatic liberation seems never to have poured over poor John Bunyan's soul.
The “hue of resolution” is there. But poor John Bunyan’s soul seems never to have felt the full flood of joyful freedom.
These examples may suffice to acquaint us in a general way with the phenomenon technically called “Conversion.” In the next lecture I shall invite you to study its peculiarities and concomitants in some detail.
These examples may be enough to give us a general understanding of the experience technically called “Conversion.” In the next lecture, I will invite you to study its distinctive features and what accompanies it in some detail.