Conversion: Conclusion

In this lecture we have to finish the subject of Conversion, considering at first those striking instantaneous instances of which Saint Paul's is the most eminent, and in which, often amid tremendous emotional excitement or perturbation of the senses, a complete division is established in the twinkling of an eye between the old life and the new. Conversion of this type is an important phase of religious experience, owing to the part which it has played in Protestant theology, and it behooves us to study it conscientiously on that account.

In this lecture, we must finish our discussion of Conversion. We will begin with striking cases of instantaneous conversion, the most famous of which is Saint Paul's. In these cases, a complete division between the old life and the new occurs in an instant. This often happens amid intense emotional excitement or disturbances of the senses. Conversion of this kind is an important part of religious experience because of its role in Protestant theology. For that reason, we should study it carefully.

I think I had better cite two or three of these cases before proceeding to a more generalized account. One must know concrete instances first; for, as Professor Agassiz used to say, one can see no farther into a generalization than just so far as one's previous acquaintance with particulars enables one to take it in. I will go back, then, to the case of our friend Henry Alline, and quote his report of the 26th of March, 1775, on which his poor divided mind became unified for good.

I think I should cite two or three of these cases before giving a more general account. We must first know specific examples. As Professor Agassiz used to say, we can understand a generalization only as far as our previous knowledge of particular cases allows. So I will return to the case of our friend Henry Alline. I will quote his account of March 26, 1775, the day his poor divided mind became unified for good.

Young Mr. Alline, after the briefest of delays, and with no book-learning but his Bible, and no teaching save that of his own experience, became a Christian minister, and thenceforward his life was fit to rank, for its austerity and single-mindedness, with that of the most devoted saints. But happy as he became in his strenuous way, he never got his taste for even the most innocent carnal pleasures back. We must class him, like Bunyan and Tolstoy, amongst those upon whose soul the iron of melancholy left a permanent imprint. His redemption was into another universe than this mere natural world, and life remained for him a sad and patient trial. Years later we can find him making such an entry as this in his diary: “On Wednesday the 12th I preached at a wedding, and had the happiness thereby to be the means of excluding carnal mirth.”

Young Mr. Alline became a Christian minister after only a brief delay. He had no book learning except from his Bible and no teaching except from his own experience. From then on, his life was as austere and single-minded as the lives of the most devoted saints. But though he became happy in his demanding way of life, he never regained his taste for even the most innocent physical pleasures. Like Bunyan and Tolstoy, he belonged among those whose souls were permanently marked by melancholy. His redemption brought him into a different universe from this merely natural world. For him, life remained a sad trial to be endured patiently. Years later, he wrote in his diary: “On Wednesday the 12th I preached at a wedding, and had the happiness of being the means of excluding worldly merriment.”

The next case I will give is that of a correspondent of Professor Leuba, printed in the latter's article, already cited, in vol. vi. of the American Journal of Psychology. This subject was an Oxford graduate, the son of a clergyman, and the story resembles in many points the classic case of Colonel Gardiner, which everybody may be supposed to know. Here it is, somewhat abridged:—

The next case comes from someone who corresponded with Professor Leuba. It appeared in Leuba’s article, already cited, in volume 6 of the American Journal of Psychology. The subject was an Oxford graduate and the son of a clergyman. His story resembles the classic case of Colonel Gardiner in many ways. Everyone may be assumed to know that case. Here is the story, somewhat shortened:

So much for our graduate of Oxford, in whom you notice the complete abolition of an ancient appetite as one of the conversion's fruits.

That concludes the story of our Oxford graduate. Notice that his conversion completely ended a long-standing appetite.

The most curious record of sudden conversion with which I am acquainted is that of M. Alphonse Ratisbonne, a freethinking French Jew, to Catholicism, at Rome in 1842. In a letter to a clerical friend, written a few months later, the convert gives a palpitating account of the circumstances.¹²¹ The predisposing conditions appear to have been slight. He had an elder brother who had been converted and was a Catholic priest. He was himself irreligious, and nourished an antipathy to the apostate brother and generally to his “cloth.” Finding himself at Rome in his twenty-ninth year, he fell in with a French gentleman who tried to make a proselyte of him, but who succeeded no farther after two or three conversations than to get him to hang (half jocosely) a religious medal round his neck, and to accept and read a copy of a short prayer to the Virgin. M. Ratisbonne represents his own part in the conversations as having been of a light and chaffing order; but he notes the fact that for some days he was unable to banish the words of the prayer from his mind, and that the night before the crisis he had a sort of nightmare, in the imagery of which a black cross with no Christ upon it figured. Nevertheless, until noon of the next day he was free in mind and spent the time in trivial conversations. I now give his own words.

The most curious account of sudden conversion I know is that of M. Alphonse Ratisbonne, a freethinking French Jew who converted to Catholicism in Rome in 1842. A few months later, he gave a vivid account of the circumstances in a letter to a friend who was a clergyman.¹²¹ There seems to have been little to prepare him for conversion. His elder brother had converted and become a Catholic priest. Ratisbonne himself was irreligious. He disliked his brother for abandoning his faith and generally disliked his brother’s “cloth,” the clergy. When he was twenty-nine, Ratisbonne found himself in Rome, where he met a French gentleman who tried to convert him. After two or three conversations, the gentleman had only persuaded him to hang a religious medal around his neck, half in jest, and to accept and read a copy of a short prayer to the Virgin. M. Ratisbonne says he treated the conversations lightly and teasingly. But he notes that for several days he could not get the words of the prayer out of his mind. On the night before the crisis, he had a kind of nightmare that included a black cross with no Christ on it. Nevertheless, until noon the next day, his mind was untroubled, and he spent the time in trivial conversations. I now give his own words.

I might multiply cases almost indefinitely, but these will suffice to show you how real, definite, and memorable an event a sudden conversion may be to him who has the experience. Throughout the height of it he undoubtedly seems to himself a passive spectator or undergoer of an astounding process performed upon him from above. There is too much evidence of this for any doubt of it to be possible. Theology, combining this fact with the doctrines of election and grace, has concluded that the spirit of God is with us at these dramatic moments in a peculiarly miraculous way, unlike what happens at any other juncture of our lives. At that moment, it believes, an absolutely new nature is breathed into us, and we become partakers of the very substance of the Deity.

I could give almost endless examples, but these are enough to show how real, definite, and memorable a sudden conversion can be for the person who experiences it. At its peak, the person undoubtedly feels like a passive witness or recipient of an astounding process performed upon them from above. There is too much evidence of this to leave any room for doubt. Theology combines this fact with the doctrines of election and grace. It concludes that the spirit of God is with us at these dramatic moments in a uniquely miraculous way, unlike anything that happens at any other point in our lives. Theology holds that, at that moment, an entirely new nature is breathed into us, and we share in the very substance of God.

That the conversion should be instantaneous seems called for on this view, and the Moravian Protestants appear to have been the first to see this logical consequence. The Methodists soon followed suit, practically if not dogmatically, and a short time ere his death, John Wesley wrote:—

This view seems to require conversion to happen instantly. The Moravian Protestants appear to have been the first to see this logical consequence. The Methodists soon followed their example in practice, if not in doctrine. Shortly before his death, John Wesley wrote:

All this while the more usual sects of Protestantism have set no such store by instantaneous conversion. For them as for the Catholic Church, Christ's blood, the sacraments, and the individual's ordinary religious duties are practically supposed to suffice to his salvation, even though no acute crisis of self-despair and surrender followed by relief should be experienced. For Methodism, on the contrary, unless there have been a crisis of this sort, salvation is only offered, not effectively received, and Christ's sacrifice in so far forth is incomplete. Methodism surely here follows, if not the healthier-minded, yet on the whole the profounder spiritual instinct. The individual models which it has set up as typical and worthy of imitation are not only the more interesting dramatically, but psychologically they have been the more complete.

Meanwhile, the more common Protestant denominations have placed no such importance on sudden conversion. For them, as for the Catholic Church, Christ's blood, the sacraments, and a person's ordinary religious duties are generally considered enough for salvation. They are considered enough even if the person never experiences a painful crisis of despair and surrender, followed by relief. Methodism, by contrast, holds that without such a crisis, salvation is only offered, not truly received. To that extent, Christ's sacrifice remains incomplete. Methodism surely follows the deeper spiritual instinct here, even if it is not the more healthy-minded one. The people it has presented as typical examples worthy of imitation are not only more dramatically interesting. Psychologically, they have also been more complete.

In the fully evolved Revivalism of Great Britain and America we have, so to speak, the codified and stereotyped procedure to which this way of thinking has led. In spite of the unquestionable fact that saints of the once-born type exist, that there may be a gradual growth in holiness without a cataclysm; in spite of the obvious leakage (as one may say) of much mere natural goodness into the scheme of salvation; revivalism has always assumed that only its own type of religious experience can be perfect; you must first be nailed on the cross of natural despair and agony, and then in the twinkling of an eye be miraculously released.

In the fully developed revivalism of Great Britain and America, we find the fixed, standard procedure that this way of thinking has produced. There are unquestionably saints of the once-born type, and holiness can grow gradually without a sudden upheaval. Much ordinary natural goodness has also, so to speak, found its way into the scheme of salvation. Despite these facts, revivalism has always assumed that only its own type of religious experience can be perfect. You must first be nailed to the cross of natural despair and agony. Then, in the blink of an eye, you must be miraculously released.

It is natural that those who personally have traversed such an experience should carry away a feeling of its being a miracle rather than a natural process. Voices are often heard, lights seen, or visions witnessed; automatic motor phenomena occur; and it always seems, after the surrender of the personal will, as if an extraneous higher power had flooded in and taken possession. Moreover the sense of renovation, safety, cleanness, rightness, can be so marvelous and jubilant as well to warrant one's belief in a radically new substantial nature.

It is natural for people who have gone through such an experience to feel that it was a miracle rather than a natural process. They often hear voices, see lights, or witness visions. Their bodies move involuntarily. And after they surrender their personal will, it always seems as if a higher power from outside has flooded in and taken possession. Moreover, the sense of renewal, safety, cleanness, and rightness can be so wonderful and joyful that it fully justifies their belief that they have a fundamentally new nature.

And that such a glorious transformation as this ought of necessity to be preceded by despair is shown by Edwards in another passage.

And Edwards shows in another passage that despair must come before such a glorious transformation.

Such quotations express sufficiently well for our purpose the doctrinal interpretation of these changes. Whatever part suggestion and imitation may have played in producing them in men and women in excited assemblies, they have at any rate been in countless individual instances an original and unborrowed experience. Were we writing the story of the mind from the purely natural-history point of view, with no religious interest whatever, we should still have to write down man's liability to sudden and complete conversion as one of his most curious peculiarities.

These quotations explain the doctrinal interpretation of these changes well enough for our purpose. Suggestion and imitation may have helped produce these changes in men and women at excited gatherings. But in countless individual cases, the experience has been original and not borrowed from others. Suppose we were writing the story of the mind purely as a matter of natural history, without any religious interest. We would still have to record the human tendency toward sudden and complete conversion as one of our most curious traits.

What, now, must we ourselves think of this question? Is an instantaneous conversion a miracle in which God is present as he is present in no change of heart less strikingly abrupt? Are there two classes of human beings, even among the apparently regenerate, of which the one class really partakes of Christ's nature while the other merely seems to do so? Or, on the contrary, may the whole phenomenon of regeneration, even in these startling instantaneous examples, possibly be a strictly natural process, divine in its fruits, of course, but in one case more and in another less so, and neither more nor less divine in its mere causation and mechanism than any other process, high or low, of man's interior life?

What should we ourselves think about this question? Is an instant conversion a miracle in which God is present in a way he is not in less abrupt changes of heart? Are there two classes of people, even among those who seem spiritually renewed? Does one class really share in Christ's nature, while the other only seems to? Or could the whole phenomenon of spiritual renewal be a purely natural process, even in these startling instant conversions? Its fruits would, of course, be divine, more so in some cases than in others. But could its causes and workings be no more or less divine than those of any other process in human inner life, whether high or low?

Before proceeding to answer this question, I must ask you to listen to some more psychological remarks. At our last lecture, I explained the shifting of men's centres of personal energy within them and the lighting up of new crises of emotion. I explained the phenomena as partly due to explicitly conscious processes of thought and will, but as due largely also to the subconscious incubation and maturing of motives deposited by the experiences of life. When ripe, the results hatch out, or burst into flower. I have now to speak of the subconscious region, in which such processes of flowering may occur, in a somewhat less vague way. I only regret that my limits of time here force me to be so short.

Before answering this question, I must ask you to listen to some more remarks about psychology. In the last lecture, I explained how the centers of people’s personal energy shift within them. I also explained how new emotional crises flare up. I said these phenomena were partly due to conscious thought and will. But I said they were also largely due to motives planted by life experiences, which develop and mature subconsciously. When they are ripe, the results hatch or burst into flower. I must now speak less vaguely about the subconscious region where such flowering may occur. I only regret that my limited time here forces me to be so brief.

The expression “field of consciousness” has but recently come into vogue in the psychology books. Until quite lately the unit of mental life which figured most was the single “idea” supposed to be a definitely outlined thing. But at present psychologists are tending, first, to admit that the actual unit is more probably the total mental state, the entire wave of consciousness or field of objects present to the thought at any time; and, second, to see that it is impossible to outline this wave, this field, with any definiteness.

The expression “field of consciousness” has only recently become common in psychology books. Until recently, the most prominent unit of mental life was the single “idea,” thought to have a definite outline. But psychologists now tend to see the total mental state as the more likely unit. This means the whole wave of consciousness, or the field of objects present to thought at any given time. They also tend to see that it is impossible to define the boundaries of this wave or field with any precision.

As our mental fields succeed one another, each has its centre of interest, around which the objects of which we are less and less attentively conscious fade to a margin so faint that its limits are unassignable. Some fields are narrow fields and some are wide fields. Usually when we have a wide field we rejoice, for we then see masses of truth together, and often get glimpses of relations which we divine rather than see, for they shoot beyond the field into still remoter regions of objectivity, regions which we seem rather to be about to perceive than to perceive actually. At other times, of drowsiness, illness, or fatigue, our fields may narrow almost to a point, and we find ourselves correspondingly oppressed and contracted.

As one field of awareness follows another, each has its own center of interest. Around that center, the things we notice less and less fade toward the edges. These edges are so faint that their limits cannot be defined. Some fields are narrow, and some are wide. Usually, we are glad when our field is wide, because we can see many truths together. We also often glimpse relationships that we sense rather than see. These relationships extend beyond our field into still more distant regions of objective reality. We seem to be on the verge of perceiving those regions rather than actually perceiving them. At other times, when we are drowsy, ill, or tired, our fields may narrow almost to a point. We feel correspondingly oppressed and constricted.

Different individuals present constitutional differences in this matter of width of field. Your great organizing geniuses are men with habitually vast fields of mental vision, in which a whole programme of future operations will appear dotted out at once, the rays shooting far ahead into definite directions of advance. In common people there is never this magnificent inclusive view of a topic. They stumble along, feeling their way, as it were, from point to point, and often stop entirely. In certain diseased conditions consciousness is a mere spark, without memory of the past or thought of the future, and with the present narrowed down to some one simple emotion or sensation of the body.

People naturally differ in how much they can hold in mind at once. Great organizational geniuses are men who habitually see a vast range of things in their minds. An entire plan of future operations appears before them at once, with lines reaching far ahead in definite directions. Ordinary people never have such a magnificent, all-encompassing view of a subject. They stumble along, feeling their way from point to point, and often stop altogether. In certain diseased states, consciousness is a mere spark, with no memory of the past or thought of the future. The present is narrowed to a single, simple emotion or bodily sensation.

The important fact which this “field” formula commemorates is the indetermination of the margin. Inattentively realized as is the matter which the margin contains, it is nevertheless there, and helps both to guide our behavior and to determine the next movement of our attention. It lies around us like a “magnetic field,” inside of which our centre of energy turns like a compass-needle, as the present phase of consciousness alters into its successor. Our whole past store of memories floats beyond this margin, ready at a touch to come in; and the entire mass of residual powers, impulses, and knowledges that constitute our empirical self stretches continuously beyond it. So vaguely drawn are the outlines between what is actual and what is only potential at any moment of our conscious life, that it is always hard to say of certain mental elements whether we are conscious of them or not.

The important fact captured by this “field” formula is that the margin has no definite boundaries. Although we pay little attention to what the margin contains, it is still there. It helps guide our behavior and determine where our attention moves next. The margin surrounds us like a “magnetic field.” Within it, our center of energy turns like a compass needle as one phase of consciousness gives way to the next. Our whole store of past memories floats beyond this margin, ready to enter at a touch. The entire mass of remaining powers, impulses, and knowledge that make up our empirical self also extends continuously beyond the margin. At any moment in our conscious life, the boundary between what is actual and what is only potential is so vague that we can never easily say whether we are conscious of certain mental elements or not.

The ordinary psychology, admitting fully the difficulty of tracing the marginal outline, has nevertheless taken for granted, first, that all the consciousness the person now has, be the same focal or marginal, inattentive or attentive, is there in the “field” of the moment, all dim and impossible to assign as the latter's outline may be; and, second, that what is absolutely extra-marginal is absolutely non-existent, and cannot be a fact of consciousness at all.

Ordinary psychology fully acknowledges how difficult it is to trace the outer boundary of consciousness. Nevertheless, it has taken two things for granted. First, all of a person’s current consciousness is present in the “field” of the moment. This includes what is central or at the edges, and what is attended to or unattended. It is all present, however vague or impossible to define the boundary of that field may be. Second, anything completely beyond that boundary does not exist at all and cannot be a fact of consciousness.

And having reached this point, I must now ask you to recall what I said in my last lecture about the subconscious life. I said, as you may recollect, that those who first laid stress upon these phenomena could not know the facts as we now know them. My first duty now is to tell you what I meant by such a statement.

Now that we have reached this point, please recall what I said in my last lecture about subconscious life. As you may remember, I said that those who first emphasized these phenomena could not have known the facts as we know them now. My first task is to explain what I meant by that statement.

I cannot but think that the most important step forward that has occurred in psychology since I have been a student of that science is the discovery, first made in 1886, that, in certain subjects at least, there is not only the consciousness of the ordinary field, with its usual centre and margin, but an addition thereto in the shape of a set of memories, thoughts, and feelings which are extra-marginal and outside of the primary consciousness altogether, but yet must be classed as conscious facts of some sort, able to reveal their presence by unmistakable signs. I call this the most important step forward because, unlike the other advances which psychology has made, this discovery has revealed to us an entirely unsuspected peculiarity in the constitution of human nature. No other step forward which psychology has made can proffer any such claim as this.

I cannot help thinking that the most important advance in psychology during my time as a student was a discovery first made in 1886. The discovery showed that, at least in some people, there is more than the ordinary field of consciousness, with its usual center and margin. There is also a set of memories, thoughts, and feelings beyond that margin and entirely outside primary consciousness. Yet these must be considered conscious experiences of some kind, because they can reveal their presence through unmistakable signs. I call this the most important advance because, unlike other advances in psychology, it revealed a feature of human nature that no one had suspected. No other advance in psychology can make such a claim.

In particular this discovery of a consciousness existing beyond the field, or subliminally as Mr. Myers terms it, casts light on many phenomena of religious biography. That is why I have to advert to it now, although it is naturally impossible for me in this place to give you any account of the evidence on which the admission of such a consciousness is based. You will find it set forth in many recent books, Binet's Alterations of Personality¹²² being perhaps as good a one as any to recommend.

In particular, the discovery of a consciousness beyond the field of awareness sheds light on many aspects of religious biographies. Mr. Myers calls this consciousness subliminal. That is why I must mention it now. Naturally, though, I cannot explain here the evidence supporting the existence of such a consciousness. You can find the evidence in many recent books. Binet's Alterations of Personality¹²² is perhaps as good a book as any to recommend.

The human material on which the demonstration has been made has so far been rather limited and, in part at least, eccentric, consisting of unusually suggestible hypnotic subjects, and of hysteric patients. Yet the elementary mechanisms of our life are presumably so uniform that what is shown to be true in a marked degree of some persons is probably true in some degree of all, and may in a few be true in an extraordinarily high degree.

So far, the people used in this demonstration have been a rather limited and partly unusual group. They have included unusually suggestible subjects under hypnosis and patients with hysteria. Yet the basic workings of our lives are presumably much the same for everyone. So what is shown to be true to a marked degree in some people is probably true to some degree in all. It may be true to an extraordinarily high degree in a few.

The most important consequence of having a strongly developed ultra-marginal life of this sort is that one's ordinary fields of consciousness are liable to incursions from it of which the subject does not guess the source, and which, therefore, take for him the form of unaccountable impulses to act, or inhibitions of action, of obsessive ideas, or even of hallucinations of sight or hearing. The impulses may take the direction of automatic speech or writing, the meaning of which the subject himself may not understand even while he utters it; and generalizing this phenomenon, Mr. Myers has given the name of automatism, sensory or motor, emotional or intellectual, to this whole sphere of effects, due to “uprushes” into the ordinary consciousness of energies originating in the subliminal parts of the mind.

The most important consequence of a strongly developed ultra-marginal life is that it can intrude on a person’s ordinary consciousness. The person does not recognize the source of these intrusions. They therefore appear as unexplained impulses to act, blocks to action, obsessive ideas, or even hallucinations of sight or sound. The impulses may lead to automatic speech or writing. The person may not understand its meaning even while producing it. Generalizing from this phenomenon, Mr. Myers called this whole range of effects automatism. It may be sensory or motor, emotional or intellectual. These effects result from “uprushes” into ordinary consciousness of energies originating in the subliminal parts of the mind.

The simplest instance of an automatism is the phenomenon of post-hypnotic suggestion, so-called. You give to a hypnotized subject, adequately susceptible, an order to perform some designated act—usual or eccentric, it makes no difference—after he wakes from his hypnotic sleep. Punctually, when the signal comes or the time elapses upon which you have told him that the act must ensue, he performs it;—but in so doing he has no recollection of your suggestion, and he always trumps up an improvised pretext for his behavior if the act be of an eccentric kind. It may even be suggested to a subject to have a vision or to hear a voice at a certain interval after waking, and when the time comes the vision is seen or the voice heard, with no inkling on the subject's part of its source. In the wonderful explorations by Binet, Janet, Breuer, Freud, Mason, Prince, and others, of the subliminal consciousness of patients with hysteria, we have revealed to us whole systems of underground life, in the shape of memories of a painful sort which lead a parasitic existence, buried outside of the primary fields of consciousness, and making irruptions thereinto with hallucinations, pains, convulsions, paralyses of feeling and of motion, and the whole procession of symptoms of hysteric disease of body and of mind. Alter or abolish by suggestion these subconscious memories, and the patient immediately gets well. His symptoms were automatisms, in Mr. Myers's sense of the word. These clinical records sound like fairy-tales when one first reads them, yet it is impossible to doubt their accuracy; and, the path having been once opened by these first observers, similar observations have been made elsewhere. They throw, as I said, a wholly new light upon our natural constitution.

The simplest example of an automatism is what is called post-hypnotic suggestion. You give a sufficiently susceptible hypnotized subject an order to perform a particular act after waking from hypnotic sleep. The act may be ordinary or eccentric. It makes no difference. When the signal comes or the specified time passes, the subject performs the act. But he has no memory of your suggestion. If the act is eccentric, he always makes up an excuse for his behavior. You can even suggest that a subject see a vision or hear a voice at a certain time after waking. When the time comes, he sees the vision or hears the voice, with no idea where it came from. Binet, Janet, Breuer, Freud, Mason, Prince, and others have made remarkable explorations of subliminal consciousness in patients with hysteria. Their work reveals whole systems of hidden life. These consist of painful memories that lead a parasitic existence outside the main field of consciousness. They break into consciousness with hallucinations, pain, convulsions, loss of sensation, paralysis, and the whole range of hysterical symptoms affecting body and mind. Alter or remove these subconscious memories through suggestion, and the patient immediately gets well. His symptoms were automatisms, in Mr. Myers's sense of the word. These clinical records sound like fairy tales when one first reads them, yet their accuracy is impossible to doubt. Once these first observers opened the way, similar observations were made elsewhere. As I said, they cast a wholly new light on our natural constitution.

And it seems to me that they make a farther step inevitable. Interpreting the unknown after the analogy of the known, it seems to me that hereafter, wherever we meet with a phenomenon of automatism, be it motor impulses, or obsessive idea, or unaccountable caprice, or delusion, or hallucination, we are bound first of all to make search whether it be not an explosion, into the fields of ordinary consciousness, of ideas elaborated outside of those fields in subliminal regions of the mind. We should look, therefore, for its source in the Subject's subconscious life. In the hypnotic cases, we ourselves create the source by our suggestion, so we know it directly. In the hysteric cases, the lost memories which are the source have to be extracted from the patient's Subliminal by a number of ingenious methods, for an account of which you must consult the books. In other pathological cases, insane delusions, for example, or psychopathic obsessions, the source is yet to seek, but by analogy it also should be in subliminal regions which improvements in our methods may yet conceivably put on tap. There lies the mechanism logically to be assumed,—but the assumption involves a vast program of work to be done in the way of verification, in which the religious experiences of man must play their part.¹²³

And it seems to me that they make a further step inevitable. We interpret the unknown by analogy with the known. So, in the future, whenever we encounter a phenomenon of automatism, we must first investigate its possible source. Whether it is a motor impulse, an obsessive idea, an inexplicable whim, a delusion, or a hallucination, we must ask the same question. Could it be an eruption into ordinary consciousness of ideas formed outside it, in subliminal regions of the mind? We should therefore look for its source in the subject's subconscious life. In cases involving hypnosis, we create the source ourselves through suggestion, so we know it directly. In cases of hysteria, the source lies in lost memories. These must be drawn out from the patient's subliminal mind through a number of ingenious methods. For an account of these methods, you must consult the books. In other pathological cases, such as insane delusions or psychopathic obsessions, the source remains to be found. But by analogy, it too should lie in subliminal regions that improved methods might conceivably allow us to access. This is where we must logically assume the mechanism lies. But that assumption calls for a vast amount of work to verify it. Human religious experiences must play their part in that work.¹²³

And thus I return to our own specific subject of instantaneous conversions. You remember the cases of Alline, Bradley, Brainerd, and the graduate of Oxford converted at three in the afternoon. Similar occurrences abound, some with and some without luminous visions, all with a sense of astonished happiness, and of being wrought on by a higher control. If, abstracting altogether from the question of their value for the future spiritual life of the individual, we take them on their psychological side exclusively, so many peculiarities in them remind us of what we find outside of conversion that we are tempted to class them along with other automatisms, and to suspect that what makes the difference between a sudden and a gradual convert is not necessarily the presence of divine miracle in the case of one and of something less divine in that of the other, but rather a simple psychological peculiarity, the fact, namely, that in the recipient of the more instantaneous grace we have one of those Subjects who are in possession of a large region in which mental work can go on subliminally, and from which invasive experiences, abruptly upsetting the equilibrium of the primary consciousness, may come.

And so I return to our specific subject: instantaneous conversions. You remember the cases of Alline, Bradley, Brainerd, and the Oxford graduate converted at three in the afternoon. Similar events are common. Some involve luminous visions and some do not. All bring a sense of astonished happiness and of being acted upon by a higher power. If we set aside their value for the individual's future spiritual life and look only at their psychology, many features resemble things we find outside conversion. We are therefore tempted to group them with other automatisms. We may suspect that the difference between sudden and gradual converts is not necessarily a divine miracle in one case and something less divine in the other. Instead, the difference may be a simple psychological peculiarity. Those who receive grace more instantaneously have a large region of the mind where mental work can go on subliminally. From this region, experiences may intrude and abruptly upset the balance of their primary consciousness.

I do not see why Methodists need object to such a view. Pray go back and recollect one of the conclusions to which I sought to lead you in my very first lecture. You may remember how I there argued against the notion that the worth of a thing can be decided by its origin. Our spiritual judgment, I said, our opinion of the significance and value of a human event or condition, must be decided on empirical grounds exclusively. If the fruits for life of the state of conversion are good, we ought to idealize and venerate it, even though it be a piece of natural psychology; if not, we ought to make short work with it, no matter what supernatural being may have infused it.

I do not see why Methodists should object to this view. Please recall one of the conclusions I tried to lead you to in my first lecture. You may remember that I argued against judging the worth of something by its origin. I said that our spiritual judgment must be based entirely on experience. By that, I meant our judgment of the significance and value of a human event or condition. If the fruits for life of conversion are good, we should idealize and honor it, even if it is a matter of natural psychology. If not, we should dismiss it, regardless of what supernatural being may have brought it about.

Well, how is it with these fruits? If we except the class of preëminent saints of whom the names illumine history, and consider only the usual run of “saints,” the shopkeeping church-members and ordinary youthful or middle-aged recipients of instantaneous conversion, whether at revivals or in the spontaneous course of methodistic growth, you will probably agree that no splendor worthy of a wholly supernatural creature fulgurates from them, or sets them apart from the mortals who have never experienced that favor. Were it true that a suddenly converted man as such is, as Edwards says,¹²⁴ of an entirely different kind from a natural man, partaking as he does directly of Christ's substance, there surely ought to be some exquisite class-mark, some distinctive radiance attaching even to the lowliest specimen of this genus, to which no one of us could remain insensible, and which, so far as it went, would prove him more excellent than ever the most highly gifted among mere natural men. But notoriously there is no such radiance. Converted men as a class are indistinguishable from natural men; some natural men even excel some converted men in their fruits; and no one ignorant of doctrinal theology could guess by mere every-day inspection of the “accidents” of the two groups of persons before him, that their substance differed as much as divine differs from human substance.

Well, what about these fruits? Let us set aside the most outstanding saints, whose names light up history, and consider only the usual sort of “saints.” These include shopkeeping church members and ordinary young or middle-aged people who experience instant conversion. Their conversion may occur at revivals or in the spontaneous course of methodistic religious growth. You will probably agree that no splendor worthy of a wholly supernatural creature shines from them. Nor does any splendor set them apart from mortals who have never experienced that favor. Edwards says¹²⁴ that a suddenly converted man is, by virtue of his conversion, entirely different from a natural man, because he shares directly in Christ's substance. If that were true, even the humblest member of this class should surely have some exquisite distinguishing mark, some special radiance. None of us could fail to notice it. And to the extent that it shone, it would prove him superior to even the most gifted of mere natural men. But, as everyone knows, there is no such radiance. Converted men as a class are indistinguishable from natural men. Some natural men even surpass some converted men in their fruits. And no one unfamiliar with doctrinal theology could guess from everyday observation of the “accidents,” or outward qualities, of the two groups that their substance differed as much as divine substance differs from human substance.

The believers in the non-natural character of sudden conversion have had practically to admit that there is no unmistakable class-mark distinctive of all true converts. The super-normal incidents, such as voices and visions and overpowering impressions of the meaning of suddenly presented scripture texts, the melting emotions and tumultuous affections connected with the crisis of change, may all come by way of nature, or worse still, be counterfeited by Satan. The real witness of the spirit to the second birth is to be found only in the disposition of the genuine child of God, the permanently patient heart, the love of self eradicated. And this, it has to be admitted, is also found in those who pass no crisis, and may even be found outside of Christianity altogether.

Those who believe sudden conversion is supernatural have had to admit that no unmistakable sign distinguishes all true converts. Extraordinary experiences may include voices, visions, and overwhelming impressions of the meaning of scripture passages that suddenly come to mind. They may also include tender feelings and powerful emotions during the crisis of change. But all these experiences may arise naturally or, worse still, be counterfeited by Satan. The true evidence of the spirit's work in a person's second birth is found only in their character as a genuine child of God: a heart that remains patient and is free of self-love. And it must be admitted that this character is also found in people who experience no crisis. It may even be found outside Christianity altogether.

Throughout Jonathan Edwards's admirably rich and delicate description of the supernaturally infused condition, in his Treatise on Religious Affections, there is not one decisive trait, not one mark, that unmistakably parts it off from what may possibly be only an exceptionally high degree of natural goodness. In fact, one could hardly read a clearer argument than this book unwittingly offers in favor of the thesis that no chasm exists between the orders of human excellence, but that here as elsewhere, nature shows continuous differences, and generation and regeneration are matters of degree.

In his Treatise on Religious Affections, Jonathan Edwards describes the condition supernaturally infused into a person with admirable richness and subtlety. Yet his description contains no decisive feature that clearly distinguishes this condition from what may be only an exceptionally high degree of natural goodness. In fact, the book unwittingly offers one of the clearest arguments for a different view. It suggests that there is no gulf between levels of human excellence. Here, as elsewhere, nature shows a continuous range of differences, and generation and regeneration are matters of degree.

All which denial of two objective classes of human beings separated by a chasm must not leave us blind to the extraordinary momentousness of the fact of his conversion to the individual himself who gets converted. There are higher and lower limits of possibility set to each personal life. If a flood but goes above one's head, its absolute elevation becomes a matter of small importance; and when we touch our own upper limit and live in our own highest centre of energy, we may call ourselves saved, no matter how much higher some one else's centre may be. A small man's salvation will always be a great salvation and the greatest of all facts for him, and we should remember this when the fruits of our ordinary evangelicism look discouraging. Who knows how much less ideal still the lives of these spiritual grubs and earthworms, these Crumps and Stigginses, might have been, if such poor grace as they have received had never touched them at all?¹²⁵

But denying that humanity falls into two objective classes separated by a gulf must not blind us to something else. Conversion is extraordinarily important to the person who experiences it. Every individual life has upper and lower limits to what is possible. If a flood rises above your head, its absolute height matters little. Likewise, when we reach our own upper limit and live at our own highest level of energy, we may call ourselves saved. This is true no matter how much higher someone else's level may be. A small man's salvation will always be a great salvation, and the greatest of all facts for him. We should remember this when the results of ordinary evangelism look discouraging. Who knows how much less ideal the lives of these spiritual grubs and earthworms, these Crumps and Stigginses, might have been? Their lives might have been worse still if even the meager grace they received had never touched them.¹²⁵

If we roughly arrange human beings in classes, each class standing for a grade of spiritual excellence, I believe we shall find natural men and converts both sudden and gradual in all the classes. The forms which regenerative change effects have, then, no general spiritual significance, but only a psychological significance. We have seen how Starbuck's laborious statistical studies tend to assimilate conversion to ordinary spiritual growth. Another American psychologist, Prof. George A. Coe,¹²⁶ has analyzed the cases of seventy-seven converts or ex-candidates for conversion, known to him, and the results strikingly confirm the view that sudden conversion is connected with the possession of an active subliminal self. Examining his subjects with reference to their hypnotic sensibility and to such automatisms as hypnagogic hallucinations, odd impulses, religious dreams about the time of their conversion, etc., he found these relatively much more frequent in the group of converts whose transformation had been “striking,” “striking” transformation being defined as a change which, though not necessarily instantaneous, seems to the subject of it to be distinctly different from a process of growth, however rapid.¹²⁷ Candidates for conversion at revivals are, as you know, often disappointed: they experience nothing striking. Professor Coe had a number of persons of this class among his seventy-seven subjects, and they almost all, when tested by hypnotism, proved to belong to a subclass which he calls “spontaneous,” that is, fertile in self-suggestions, as distinguished from a “passive” subclass, to which most of the subjects of striking transformation belonged. His inference is that self-suggestion of impossibility had prevented the influence upon these persons of an environment which, on the more “passive” subjects, had easily brought forth the effects they looked for. Sharp distinctions are difficult in these regions, and Professor Coe's numbers are small. But his methods were careful, and the results tally with what one might expect; and they seem, on the whole, to justify his practical conclusion, which is that if you should expose to a converting influence a subject in whom three factors unite: first, pronounced emotional sensibility; second, tendency to automatisms; and third, suggestibility of the passive type; you might then safely predict the result: there would be a sudden conversion, a transformation of the striking kind.

If we roughly divide people into classes according to their degree of spiritual excellence, I believe we will find unconverted people and converts in every class, whether their conversions were sudden or gradual. The forms that spiritual renewal takes, then, have no general spiritual significance. They have only psychological significance. We have seen how Starbuck's painstaking statistical studies tend to show that conversion resembles ordinary spiritual growth. Another American psychologist, Prof. George A. Coe,¹²⁶ studied seventy-seven people he knew who had converted or had once sought conversion. His results strongly support the view that sudden conversion is connected with an active subliminal self. He examined his subjects for sensitivity to hypnosis and for automatisms. These included hallucinations while falling asleep, odd impulses, and religious dreams around the time of conversion. He found these relatively much more often among converts whose transformation had been “striking.” A “striking” transformation was one that seemed clearly different from a process of growth, however rapid. It did not have to be instantaneous.¹²⁷ As you know, people seeking conversion at revivals are often disappointed. They experience nothing striking. Professor Coe included a number of such people among his seventy-seven subjects. When tested by hypnosis, almost all proved to belong to a subgroup he calls “spontaneous.” These people readily produced suggestions of their own. By contrast, most subjects who had experienced a striking transformation belonged to a “passive” subgroup. Coe concluded that the “spontaneous” subjects had suggested to themselves that conversion was impossible. This had prevented their surroundings from influencing them. The same surroundings had easily produced the expected effects in the more “passive” subjects. Clear distinctions are difficult in these areas, and Professor Coe's sample was small. But his methods were careful, and the results agree with what one might expect. On the whole, they seem to justify his practical conclusion. Suppose you expose a person to a converting influence, and that person has three traits. The first is pronounced emotional sensitivity. The second is a tendency toward automatisms. The third is suggestibility of the passive type. You could then safely predict the result: a sudden conversion, a transformation of the striking kind.

Does this temperamental origin diminish the significance of the sudden conversion when it has occurred? Not in the least, as Professor Coe well says; for “the ultimate test of religious values is nothing psychological, nothing definable in terms of how it happens, but something ethical, definable only in terms of what is attained.”¹²⁸

Does the fact that a sudden conversion comes from a person's temperament make it less significant? Not at all, as Professor Coe rightly says. For “the ultimate test of religious value is not psychological. It cannot be defined in terms of how it happens. Instead, it is ethical and can only be defined in terms of what is attained.”¹²⁸

As we proceed farther in our inquiry we shall see that what is attained is often an altogether new level of spiritual vitality, a relatively heroic level, in which impossible things have become possible, and new energies and endurances are shown. The personality is changed, the man is born anew, whether or not his psychological idiosyncrasies are what give the particular shape to his metamorphosis. “Sanctification” is the technical name of this result; and erelong examples of it shall be brought before you. In this lecture I have still only to add a few remarks on the assurance and peace which fill the hour of change itself.

As we continue our inquiry, we shall see that what is attained is often an entirely new level of spiritual vitality. It is a relatively heroic level, where impossible things become possible, and new energy and endurance appear. The personality changes, and the person is born anew. This happens whether or not the person’s psychological peculiarities give the transformation its particular shape. “Sanctification” is the technical name for this result, and I shall soon give you examples of it. In this lecture, I need only add a few remarks about the assurance and peace that fill the moment of change itself.

One word more, though, before proceeding to that point, lest the final purpose of my explanation of suddenness by subliminal activity be misunderstood. I do indeed believe that if the Subject have no liability to such subconscious activity, or if his conscious fields have a hard rind of a margin that resists incursions from beyond it, his conversion must be gradual if it occur, and must resemble any simple growth into new habits. His possession of a developed subliminal self, and of a leaky or pervious margin, is thus a conditio sine qua non of the Subject's becoming converted in the instantaneous way. But if you, being orthodox Christians, ask me as a psychologist whether the reference of a phenomenon to a subliminal self does not exclude the notion of the direct presence of the Deity altogether, I have to say frankly that as a psychologist I do not see why it necessarily should. The lower manifestations of the Subliminal, indeed, fall within the resources of the personal subject: his ordinary sense-material, inattentively taken in and subconsciously remembered and combined, will account for all his usual automatisms. But just as our primary wide-awake consciousness throws open our senses to the touch of things material, so it is logically conceivable that if there be higher spiritual agencies that can directly touch us, the psychological condition of their doing so might be our possession of a subconscious region which alone should yield access to them. The hubbub of the waking life might close a door which in the dreamy Subliminal might remain ajar or open.

One more word before I proceed to that point. I do not want the ultimate purpose of my explanation of suddenness through subliminal activity to be misunderstood. I do believe that a person's conversion must be gradual if they are not prone to such subconscious activity. The same is true if the edges of their conscious awareness form a hard shell that resists anything entering from beyond it. In either case, if conversion occurs, it must resemble any simple growth into new habits. Thus, a developed subliminal self and a permeable boundary around conscious awareness are necessary for a person to experience instantaneous conversion. But suppose you are an orthodox Christian and ask me, as a psychologist, whether explaining a phenomenon through the subliminal self rules out the direct presence of God altogether. I must say frankly that, as a psychologist, I do not see why it necessarily should. The lower manifestations of the Subliminal do indeed come from the person's own resources. Ordinary sensory material, taken in without attention and remembered and combined subconsciously, will account for all their usual automatic actions. But our fully awake consciousness opens our senses to contact with material things. In the same way, if there are higher spiritual powers that can touch us directly, it is logically conceivable that our subconscious region might be the only part of us through which they can reach us. The bustle of waking life might close a door that remains partly or fully open in the dreamy Subliminal.

Thus that perception of external control which is so essential a feature in conversion might, in some cases at any rate, be interpreted as the orthodox interpret it: forces transcending the finite individual might impress him, on condition of his being what we may call a subliminal human specimen. But in any case the value of these forces would have to be determined by their effects, and the mere fact of their transcendency would of itself establish no presumption that they were more divine than diabolical.

The sense of being controlled by an external power is essential to conversion. In some cases, this sense might be interpreted as orthodox believers interpret it. Forces beyond the limited individual might affect a person, provided that person is what we might call a subliminal human specimen. But in any case, the value of these forces would have to be judged by their effects. The mere fact that the forces go beyond the individual would not, by itself, give us reason to presume they were more divine than diabolical.

I confess that this is the way in which I should rather see the topic left lying in your minds until I come to a much later lecture, when I hope once more to gather these dropped threads together into more definitive conclusions. The notion of a subconscious self certainly ought not at this point of our inquiry to be held to exclude all notion of a higher penetration. If there be higher powers able to impress us, they may get access to us only through the subliminal door. (See below, p. 515 ff.)

I confess that I would prefer to leave the topic in your minds this way until a much later lecture. Then I hope to gather these loose threads together again and reach more definite conclusions. At this point in our inquiry, the idea of a subconscious self certainly should not be taken to exclude all possibility of influence from a higher power. If higher powers can affect us, they may be able to reach us only through the subliminal door. (See below, p. 515 ff.)

Let us turn now to the feelings which immediately fill the hour of the conversion experience. The first one to be noted is just this sense of higher control. It is not always, but it is very often present. We saw examples of it in Alline, Bradley, Brainerd, and elsewhere. The need of such a higher controlling agency is well expressed in the short reference which the eminent French Protestant Adolphe Monod makes to the crisis of his own conversion. It was at Naples in his early manhood, in the summer of 1827.

Let us now turn to the feelings that arise during the conversion experience itself. The first to note is a sense of being controlled by a higher power. This feeling is not always present, but it very often is. We saw examples of it in Alline, Bradley, Brainerd, and elsewhere. The eminent French Protestant Adolphe Monod expressed the need for such a higher controlling power well in a brief account of his own conversion crisis. His conversion took place in Naples in the summer of 1827, when he was a young man.

It is needless to remind you once more of the admirable congruity of Protestant theology with the structure of the mind as shown in such experiences. In the extreme of melancholy the self that consciously is can do absolutely nothing. It is completely bankrupt and without resource, and no works it can accomplish will avail. Redemption from such subjective conditions must be a free gift or nothing, and grace through Christ's accomplished sacrifice is such a gift.

I need not remind you again how well Protestant theology fits the structure of the mind revealed in such experiences. In the depths of melancholy, the self that consciously is can do absolutely nothing. It is completely bankrupt and has no resources, and nothing it does will help. Release from such states of mind must be a free gift or nothing at all. Grace through Christ's completed sacrifice is such a gift.

That is, the more literally lost you are, the more literally you are the very being whom Christ's sacrifice has already saved. Nothing in Catholic theology, I imagine, has ever spoken to sick souls as straight as this message from Luther's personal experience. As Protestants are not all sick souls, of course reliance on what Luther exults in calling the dung of one's merits, the filthy puddle of one's own righteousness, has come to the front again in their religion; but the adequacy of his view of Christianity to the deeper parts of our human mental structure is shown by its wildfire contagiousness when it was a new and quickening thing.

In other words, the more literally lost you are, the more surely you are the very person Christ's sacrifice has already saved. I imagine that nothing in Catholic theology has ever spoken to troubled souls as directly as this message from Luther's personal experience. Of course, not all Protestants have troubled souls. So reliance on what Luther exults in calling the dung of one's merits, the filthy puddle of one's own righteousness, has become prominent again in their religion. But Luther's view of Christianity speaks to the deeper parts of the human mind. We can see how well it does so from the way it spread like wildfire when it was new and life-giving.

Faith that Christ has genuinely done his work was part of what Luther meant by faith, which so far is faith in a fact intellectually conceived of. But this is only one part of Luther's faith, the other part being far more vital. This other part is something not intellectual but immediate and intuitive, the assurance, namely, that I, this individual I, just as I stand, without one plea, etc., am saved now and forever.¹³¹

Part of what Luther meant by faith was the belief that Christ had truly done his work. So far, this is faith in a fact understood by the mind. But this is only one part of Luther's faith. The other part is far more vital. It is not intellectual, but immediate and intuitive. It is the assurance that I, this individual, just as I am, without one plea, etc., am saved now and forever.¹³¹

Professor Leuba is undoubtedly right in contending that the conceptual belief about Christ's work, although so often efficacious and antecedent, is really accessory and non-essential, and that the “joyous conviction” can also come by far other channels than this conception. It is to the joyous conviction itself, the assurance that all is well with one, that he would give the name of faith par excellence.

Professor Leuba is undoubtedly right about belief in Christ's work. Although this belief often comes first and has an effect, it is really secondary and non-essential. The “joyous conviction” can also come through very different paths. Leuba would call the joyous conviction itself faith in the fullest sense: the assurance that all is well with oneself.

The characteristics of the affective experience which, to avoid ambiguity, should, I think, be called the state of assurance rather than the faith-state, can be easily enumerated, though it is probably difficult to realize their intensity, unless one have been through the experience one's self.

I think this emotional experience should be called the state of assurance rather than the faith-state, to avoid ambiguity. Its characteristics are easy to list. But their intensity is probably hard to grasp unless you have experienced the state of assurance yourself.

The central one is the loss of all the worry, the sense that all is ultimately well with one, the peace, the harmony, the willingness to be, even though the outer conditions should remain the same. The certainty of God's “grace,” of “justification,” “salvation,” is an objective belief that usually accompanies the change in Christians; but this may be entirely lacking and yet the affective peace remain the same—you will recollect the case of the Oxford graduate: and many might be given where the assurance of personal salvation was only a later result. A passion of willingness, of acquiescence, of admiration, is the glowing centre of this state of mind.

The central feature is the loss of all worry. There is a sense that all is ultimately well with oneself, a sense of peace, harmony, and willingness to be, even if outward conditions remain the same. Among Christians, the change usually comes with a firm belief in God's “grace,” in “justification,” and in “salvation.” But these beliefs may be entirely absent while the emotional peace remains the same. You will remember the case of the Oxford graduate. Many other cases could be given in which the assurance of personal salvation came only later. A passion of willingness, acceptance, and admiration is the glowing center of this state of mind.

The second feature is the sense of perceiving truths not known before. The mysteries of life become lucid, as Professor Leuba says; and often, nay usually, the solution is more or less unutterable in words. But these more intellectual phenomena may be postponed until we treat of mysticism.

The second feature is the sense of seeing truths that were not known before. As Professor Leuba says, the mysteries of life become clear. And often, indeed usually, the solution is more or less impossible to put into words. But we can leave these more intellectual experiences until we discuss mysticism.

A third peculiarity of the assurance state is the objective change which the world often appears to undergo. “An appearance of newness beautifies every object,” the precise opposite of that other sort of newness, that dreadful unreality and strangeness in the appearance of the world, which is experienced by melancholy patients, and of which you may recall my relating some examples.¹³⁴ This sense of clean and beautiful newness within and without is one of the commonest entries in conversion records. Jonathan Edwards thus describes it in himself:—

A third feature of the state of assurance is the change that the world itself often seems to undergo. “An appearance of newness beautifies every object.” This is the exact opposite of the other kind of newness experienced by patients with melancholy. For them, the world looks frighteningly unreal and strange. You may recall some examples I described.¹³⁴ This sense of a clean and beautiful newness, both within oneself and in the world, is very common in accounts of conversion. Jonathan Edwards describes his own experience this way:

Billy Bray, an excellent little illiterate English evangelist, records his sense of newness thus:—

Billy Bray, a wonderful little English evangelist who could not read or write, describes his sense of newness this way:

Starbuck and Leuba both illustrate this sense of newness by quotations. I take the two following from Starbuck's manuscript collection. One, a woman, says:—

Starbuck and Leuba both use quotations to illustrate this sense of newness. I take the following two examples from Starbuck's manuscript collection. One woman says:

The next case is that of a man:—

The next case is a man’s:

This man's case introduces the feature of automatisms, which in suggestible subjects have been so startling a feature at revivals since, in Edwards's, Wesley's, and Whitfield's time, these became a regular means of gospel propagation. They were at first supposed to be semi-miraculous proofs of “power” on the part of the Holy Ghost; but great divergence of opinion quickly arose concerning them. Edwards, in his Thoughts on the Revival of Religion in New England, has to defend them against their critics; and their value has long been matter of debate even within the revivalistic denominations.¹³⁷ They undoubtedly have no essential spiritual significance, and although their presence makes his conversion more memorable to the convert, it has never been proved that converts who show them are more persevering or fertile in good fruits than those whose change of heart has had less violent accompaniments. On the whole, unconsciousness, convulsions, visions, involuntary vocal utterances, and suffocation, must be simply ascribed to the subject's having a large subliminal region, involving nervous instability. This is often the subject's own view of the matter afterwards. One of Starbuck's correspondents writes, for instance:—

This man's case introduces the feature of automatisms. These involuntary responses have been a striking feature in suggestible people at revivals. This has been true since the time of Edwards, Wesley, and Whitfield, when revivals became a regular means of spreading the gospel. At first, automatisms were thought to be semi-miraculous proofs of the “power” of the Holy Ghost. But opinions about them soon differed widely. In his Thoughts on the Revival of Religion in New England, Edwards has to defend them against their critics. Their value has long been debated even within revivalist denominations.¹³⁷ They undoubtedly have no essential spiritual significance. Although their presence makes a conversion more memorable to the convert, they have never been proved to produce more steadfast converts or more good fruits than conversions accompanied by less violent experiences. On the whole, unconsciousness, convulsions, visions, involuntary vocal utterances, and suffocation must simply be attributed to the person's having a large subliminal region, involving nervous instability. This is often the person's own view afterward. One of Starbuck's correspondents writes, for instance:

There is one form of sensory automatism which possibly deserves special notice on account of its frequency. I refer to hallucinatory or pseudo-hallucinatory luminous phenomena, photisms, to use the term of the psychologists. Saint Paul's blinding heavenly vision seems to have been a phenomenon of this sort; so does Constantine's cross in the sky. The last case but one which I quoted mentions floods of light and glory. Henry Alline mentions a light, about whose externality he seems uncertain. Colonel Gardiner sees a blazing light. President Finney writes:—

One form of sensory automatism may deserve special attention because it occurs so often. I mean visions or apparent visions of light, which psychologists call photisms. Saint Paul's blinding heavenly vision seems to have been a phenomenon of this kind. So does Constantine's cross in the sky. The second-to-last case I quoted mentions floods of light and glory. Henry Alline mentions a light, though he seems unsure whether it was external. Colonel Gardiner sees a blazing light. President Finney writes:

Such reports of photisms are indeed far from uncommon. Here is another from Starbuck's collection, where the light appeared evidently external:—

Such reports of photisms are far from uncommon. Here is another from Starbuck's collection, in which the light clearly appeared to come from outside the person:

Here is another one of Starbuck's cases, involving a luminous element:—

Here is another of Starbuck's cases, involving light:

Leuba quotes the case of a Mr. Peek, where the luminous affection reminds one of the chromatic hallucinations produced by the intoxicant cactus buds called mescal by the Mexicans:—

Leuba quotes the case of a Mr. Peek. His experience of light recalls the color hallucinations produced by intoxicating cactus buds that Mexicans call mescal:

The most characteristic of all the elements of the conversion crisis, and the last one of which I shall speak, is the ecstasy of happiness produced. We have already heard several accounts of it, but I will add a couple more. President Finney's is so vivid that I give it at length:—

The most characteristic element of the conversion crisis is the ecstatic happiness it produces. It is also the last element I will discuss. We have already heard several accounts of this happiness, but I will add two more. President Finney's account is so vivid that I will quote it at length:

I just now quoted Billy Bray; I cannot do better than give his own brief account of his post-conversion feelings:—

I just quoted Billy Bray. I can do no better than give his own brief account of how he felt after his conversion:

One word, before I close this lecture, on the question of the transiency or permanence of these abrupt conversions. Some of you, I feel sure, knowing that numerous backslidings and relapses take place, make of these their apperceiving mass for interpreting the whole subject, and dismiss it with a pitying smile at so much “hysterics.” Psychologically, as well as religiously, however, this is shallow. It misses the point of serious interest, which is not so much the duration as the nature and quality of these shiftings of character to higher levels. Men lapse from every level—we need no statistics to tell us that. Love is, for instance, well known not to be irrevocable, yet, constant or inconstant, it reveals new flights and reaches of ideality while it lasts. These revelations form its significance to men and women, whatever be its duration. So with the conversion experience: that it should for even a short time show a human being what the high-water mark of his spiritual capacity is, this is what constitutes its importance,—an importance which backsliding cannot diminish, although persistence might increase it. As a matter of fact, all the more striking instances of conversion, all those, for instance, which I have quoted, have been permanent. The case of which there might be most doubt, on account of its suggesting so strongly an epileptoid seizure, was the case of M. Ratisbonne. Yet I am informed that Ratisbonne's whole future was shaped by those few minutes. He gave up his project of marriage, became a priest, founded at Jerusalem, where he went to dwell, a mission of nuns for the conversion of the Jews, showed no tendency to use for egotistic purposes the notoriety given him by the peculiar circumstances of his conversion,—which, for the rest, he could seldom refer to without tears,—and in short remained an exemplary son of the Church until he died, late in the 80's, if I remember rightly.

Before I close this lecture, a word about whether these sudden conversions are temporary or permanent. Some of you, I feel sure, know that people often backslide and relapse. You use these cases as the basis for interpreting the whole subject. You dismiss it with a pitying smile at so much “hysterics.” But this is shallow, psychologically as well as religiously. It misses the point of serious interest. That point is not so much how long these shifts of character to higher levels last, but their nature and quality. People fall back from every level. We need no statistics to tell us that. Love, for instance, is well known to be less than permanent. Yet, whether it lasts or not, it reveals new heights and possibilities of ideal feeling while it lasts. These revelations give love its meaning for men and women, however long it lasts. So it is with the experience of conversion. Even for a short time, it can show a person the high-water mark of their spiritual capacity. That is what makes conversion important. Backsliding cannot diminish that importance, although remaining converted might increase it. In fact, all the more striking instances of conversion, including all those I have quoted, have been permanent. The case that might raise the most doubt was that of M. Ratisbonne. His experience so strongly suggested an epileptic-like seizure. Yet I am told that those few minutes shaped Ratisbonne's entire future. He gave up his plans to marry and became a priest. He moved to Jerusalem and founded a mission of nuns there to convert Jews. The unusual circumstances of his conversion made him famous, but he showed no tendency to use that fame for selfish purposes. In any case, he could seldom speak of his conversion without tears. In short, he remained an exemplary son of the Church until he died, late in the 80's, if I remember rightly.

The only statistics I know of, on the subject of the duration of conversions, are those collected for Professor Starbuck by Miss Johnston. They embrace only a hundred persons, evangelical church-members, more than half being Methodists. According to the statement of the subjects themselves, there had been backsliding of some sort in nearly all the cases, 93 per cent. of the women, 77 per cent. of the men. Discussing the returns more minutely, Starbuck finds that only 6 per cent. are relapses from the religious faith which the conversion confirmed, and that the backsliding complained of is in most only a fluctuation in the ardor of sentiment. Only six of the hundred cases report a change of faith. Starbuck's conclusion is that the effect of conversion is to bring with it “a changed attitude towards life, which is fairly constant and permanent, although the feelings fluctuate.... In other words, the persons who have passed through conversion, having once taken a stand for the religious life, tend to feel themselves identified with it, no matter how much their religious enthusiasm declines.”¹⁴¹

The only statistics I know about how long conversions last were collected by Miss Johnston for Professor Starbuck. They cover only a hundred people, all members of evangelical churches. More than half were Methodists. According to the people themselves, nearly all had backslid in some way: 93 percent of the women and 77 percent of the men. Looking more closely at the responses, Starbuck finds that only 6 percent involve a loss of the religious faith their conversion had confirmed. In most cases, the reported backsliding is only a change in the intensity of religious feeling. Only six of the hundred people report a change of faith. Starbuck concludes that conversion brings “a changed attitude toward life, which is fairly steady and lasting, although feelings fluctuate.... In other words, people who have undergone conversion tend to identify with the religious life once they have chosen it, no matter how much their religious enthusiasm declines.”¹⁴¹