Other Characteristics

We have wound our way back, after our excursion through mysticism and philosophy, to where we were before: the uses of religion, its uses to the individual who has it, and the uses of the individual himself to the world, are the best arguments that truth is in it. We return to the empirical philosophy: the true is what works well, even though the qualification “on the whole” may always have to be added. In this lecture we must revert to description again, and finish our picture of the religious consciousness by a word about some of its other characteristic elements. Then, in a final lecture, we shall be free to make a general review and draw our independent conclusions.

After our journey through mysticism and philosophy, we have returned to where we started. The best arguments for religion’s truth are its benefits to the individual believer and the believer’s benefits to the world. We return to empirical philosophy: what is true is what works well, though we may always have to add “on the whole.” In this lecture, we must return to description. We will complete our picture of religious consciousness by discussing some of its other characteristic elements. Then, in a final lecture, we will be free to review the subject as a whole and draw our own conclusions.

The first point I will speak of is the part which the æsthetic life plays in determining one's choice of a religion. Men, I said awhile ago, involuntarily intellectualize their religious experience. They need formulas, just as they need fellowship in worship. I spoke, therefore, too contemptuously of the pragmatic uselessness of the famous scholastic list of attributes of the deity, for they have one use which I neglected to consider. The eloquent passage in which Newman enumerates them²⁹⁹ puts us on the track of it. Intoning them as he would intone a cathedral service, he shows how high is their æsthetic value. It enriches our bare piety to carry these exalted and mysterious verbal additions just as it enriches a church to have an organ and old brasses, marbles and frescoes and stained windows. Epithets lend an atmosphere and overtones to our devotion. They are like a hymn of praise and service of glory, and may sound the more sublime for being incomprehensible. Minds like Newman's³⁰⁰ grow as jealous of their credit as heathen priests are of that of the jewelry and ornaments that blaze upon their idols.

The first point I will discuss is the role that aesthetic life plays in choosing a religion. As I said earlier, people instinctively turn their religious experience into ideas. They need formulas, just as they need fellowship in worship. So I was too dismissive when I said the famous scholastic list of God's attributes had no practical use. Those attributes have one use I neglected to consider. Newman's eloquent passage listing them²⁹⁹ gives us a clue. He recites them as he would chant a cathedral service, showing how great their aesthetic value is. These lofty and mysterious words enrich our simple piety. In the same way, an organ, old brass ornaments, marble, frescoes, and stained glass enrich a church. Such descriptive words give our devotion an atmosphere and deeper resonance. They are like a hymn of praise and a service of glory. They may sound all the more sublime because they are incomprehensible. Minds like Newman's³⁰⁰ become as protective of the standing of these words as heathen priests are of the jewelry and ornaments that blaze upon their idols.

Among the buildings-out of religion which the mind spontaneously indulges in, the æsthetic motive must never be forgotten. I promised to say nothing of ecclesiastical systems in these lectures. I may be allowed, however, to put in a word at this point on the way in which their satisfaction of certain æsthetic needs contributes to their hold on human nature. Although some persons aim most at intellectual purity and simplification, for others richness is the supreme imaginative requirement.³⁰¹ When one's mind is strongly of this type, an individual religion will hardly serve the purpose. The inner need is rather of something institutional and complex, majestic in the hierarchic interrelatedness of its parts, with authority descending from stage to stage, and at every stage objects for adjectives of mystery and splendor, derived in the last resort from the Godhead who is the fountain and culmination of the system. One feels then as if in presence of some vast incrusted work of jewelry or architecture; one hears the multitudinous liturgical appeal; one gets the honorific vibration coming from every quarter. Compared with such a noble complexity, in which ascending and descending movements seem in no way to jar upon stability, in which no single item, however humble, is insignificant, because so many august institutions hold it in its place, how flat does evangelical Protestantism appear, how bare the atmosphere of those isolated religious lives whose boast it is that “man in the bush with God may meet.”³⁰² What a pulverization and leveling of what a gloriously piled-up structure! To an imagination used to the perspectives of dignity and glory, the naked gospel scheme seems to offer an almshouse for a palace.

Among the ways the mind naturally expands religion, we must never forget the desire for beauty. I promised to say nothing about church systems in these lectures. But I hope I may say a word here about how they meet certain aesthetic needs. Meeting those needs helps them hold their power over human nature. Although some people prize intellectual purity and simplicity above all, for others richness is the highest imaginative need.³⁰¹ When a person's mind is strongly inclined toward richness, an individual religion will hardly serve. Instead, the person needs something institutional and complex. It must be majestic in the hierarchical relationship among its parts, with authority descending from one level to the next. At every level, there must be things to describe as mysterious and splendid. All these qualities ultimately come from the Godhead, the source and culmination of the system. One then feels as if facing some vast, richly ornamented work of jewelry or architecture. One hears the many appeals of the liturgy and feels reverence coming from every direction. Such noble complexity seems stable despite all its ascending and descending movements. No single item, however humble, is insignificant, because so many august institutions hold it in its place. Compared with such complexity, how flat evangelical Protestantism appears. How bare is the atmosphere of those isolated religious lives whose boast is that “man in the bush with God may meet.”³⁰² What a glorious structure has been broken apart and leveled! To an imagination used to such views of dignity and glory, the bare gospel plan seems to offer a poorhouse instead of a palace.

It is much like the patriotic sentiment of those brought up in ancient empires. How many emotions must be frustrated of their object, when one gives up the titles of dignity, the crimson lights and blare of brass, the gold embroidery, the plumed troops, the fear and trembling, and puts up with a president in a black coat who shakes hands with you, and comes, it may be, from a “home” upon a veldt or prairie with one sitting-room and a Bible on its centre-table. It pauperizes the monarchical imagination!

It is much like the patriotic feeling of people raised in ancient empires. So many emotions must go unsatisfied when people give up titles of dignity, crimson lights, and blaring brass. They give up gold embroidery, feather-plumed troops, and the fear and trembling these things inspire. Instead, they put up with a president in a black coat who shakes hands with them. He may even come from a “home” on a veldt or prairie, with one sitting room and a Bible on its center table. It leaves the monarchist imagination impoverished!

The strength of these æsthetic sentiments makes it rigorously impossible, it seems to me, that Protestantism, however superior in spiritual profundity it may be to Catholicism, should at the present day succeed in making many converts from the more venerable ecclesiasticism. The latter offers a so much richer pasturage and shade to the fancy, has so many cells with so many different kinds of honey, is so indulgent in its multiform appeals to human nature, that Protestantism will always show to Catholic eyes the almshouse physiognomy. The bitter negativity of it is to the Catholic mind incomprehensible. To intellectual Catholics many of the antiquated beliefs and practices to which the Church gives countenance are, if taken literally, as childish as they are to Protestants. But they are childish in the pleasing sense of “childlike”—innocent and amiable, and worthy to be smiled on in consideration of the undeveloped condition of the dear people's intellects. To the Protestant, on the contrary, they are childish in the sense of being idiotic falsehoods. He must stamp out their delicate and lovable redundancy, leaving the Catholic to shudder at his literalness. He appears to the latter as morose as if he were some hard-eyed, numb, monotonous kind of reptile. The two will never understand each other—their centres of emotional energy are too different. Rigorous truth and human nature's intricacies are always in need of a mutual interpreter.³⁰³ So much for the æsthetic diversities in the religious consciousness.

The strength of these aesthetic feelings makes it strictly impossible, it seems to me, for Protestantism to win many converts today from the older, more venerable Catholic Church. This is true however much deeper Protestantism may be spiritually than Catholicism. Catholicism offers the imagination much richer pasture and shade, and has so many cells with so many kinds of honey. It appeals so freely to human nature in so many ways that Protestantism will always look like a poorhouse to Catholic eyes. To the Catholic mind, Protestantism's bitter rejection of so much is incomprehensible. To intellectual Catholics, many old beliefs and practices that the Church accepts are just as childish, taken literally, as they are to Protestants. But for these Catholics, they are childish in the pleasing sense of “childlike”: innocent and lovable. They deserve a smile, given the undeveloped state of the dear people's minds. To the Protestant, on the other hand, they are childish in the sense of being idiotic falsehoods. He must stamp out their delicate and lovable abundance, leaving the Catholic to shudder at his literal-mindedness. To the Catholic, he seems as gloomy as some hard-eyed, numb, monotonous kind of reptile. The two will never understand each other. The sources of their emotional energy are too different. Strict truth and the complexities of human nature always need someone to interpret each to the other.³⁰³ So much for the aesthetic differences in religious consciousness.

In most books on religion, three things are represented as its most essential elements. These are Sacrifice, Confession, and Prayer. I must say a word in turn of each of these elements, though briefly. First of Sacrifice.

Most books on religion present three things as its most essential elements: sacrifice, confession, and prayer. I must briefly discuss each of these in turn. First, sacrifice.

Sacrifices to gods are omnipresent in primeval worship; but, as cults have grown refined, burnt offerings and the blood of he-goats have been superseded by sacrifices more spiritual in their nature. Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism get along without ritual sacrifice; so does Christianity, save in so far as the notion is preserved in transfigured form in the mystery of Christ's atonement. These religions substitute offerings of the heart, renunciations of the inner self, for all those vain oblations. In the ascetic practices which Islam, Buddhism, and the older Christianity encourage we see how indestructible is the idea that sacrifice of some sort is a religious exercise. In lecturing on asceticism I spoke of its significance as symbolic of the sacrifices which life, whenever it is taken strenuously, calls for.³⁰⁴ But, as I said my say about those, and as these lectures expressly avoid earlier religious usages and questions of derivation, I will pass from the subject of Sacrifice altogether and turn to that of Confession.

Sacrifices to gods are found everywhere in early worship. But as religious practices have grown more refined, spiritual sacrifices have replaced burnt offerings and the blood of male goats. Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism do without ritual sacrifice. So does Christianity, except insofar as the idea survives in transformed form in the mystery of Christ's atonement. In place of all those useless offerings, these religions offer sacrifices of the heart and acts of inner self-denial. Islam, Buddhism, and older forms of Christianity encourage ascetic practices. These show how enduring the idea is that sacrifice of some kind is a religious exercise. In my lecture on asceticism, I discussed how it symbolizes the sacrifices that life demands whenever we live it strenuously.³⁰⁴ But I have said what I wanted to say about those sacrifices. And these lectures deliberately avoid earlier religious practices and questions about their origins. So I will leave the subject of Sacrifice altogether and turn to Confession.

In regard to Confession I will also be most brief, saying my word about it psychologically, not historically. Not nearly as widespread as sacrifice, it corresponds to a more inward and moral stage of sentiment. It is part of the general system of purgation and cleansing which one feels one's self in need of, in order to be in right relations to one's deity. For him who confesses, shams are over and realities have begun; he has exteriorized his rottenness. If he has not actually got rid of it, he at least no longer smears it over with a hypocritical show of virtue—he lives at least upon a basis of veracity. The complete decay of the practice of confession in Anglo-Saxon communities is a little hard to account for. Reaction against popery is of course the historic explanation, for in popery confession went with penances and absolution, and other inadmissible practices. But on the side of the sinner himself it seems as if the need ought to have been too great to accept so summary a refusal of its satisfaction. One would think that in more men the shell of secrecy would have had to open, the pent-in abscess to burst and gain relief, even though the ear that heard the confession were unworthy. The Catholic church, for obvious utilitarian reasons, has substituted auricular confession to one priest for the more radical act of public confession. We English-speaking Protestants, in the general self-reliance and unsociability of our nature, seem to find it enough if we take God alone into our confidence.³⁰⁵

I will also be brief about confession, discussing it psychologically rather than historically. Confession is not nearly as widespread as sacrifice. It belongs to a more inward and moral stage of feeling. It is part of the general process of purification and cleansing that people feel they need to be in right relations with their deity. For the person who confesses, pretense is over and reality has begun. He has brought his inner corruption into the open. If he has not actually rid himself of it, he at least no longer covers it with a hypocritical show of virtue. At least he lives on a basis of honesty. The complete decline of confession in Anglo-Saxon communities is a little hard to explain. Of course, the historical explanation is a reaction against Catholicism. In Catholicism, confession came with penance, absolution, and other unacceptable practices. But for the sinner himself, the need to confess would seem too great to accept such an abrupt denial of relief. One would think that more men would have had to break through their shell of secrecy. The trapped abscess would have had to burst and find relief, even if the person listening to the confession were unworthy. For obvious practical reasons, the Catholic church has replaced the more radical act of public confession with private confession to one priest. We English-speaking Protestants, with our general self-reliance and unsociable nature, seem to find it enough to confide in God alone.³⁰⁵

The next topic on which I must comment is Prayer,—and this time it must be less briefly. We have heard much talk of late against prayer, especially against prayers for better weather and for the recovery of sick people. As regards prayers for the sick, if any medical fact can be considered to stand firm, it is that in certain environments prayer may contribute to recovery, and should be encouraged as a therapeutic measure. Being a normal factor of moral health in the person, its omission would be deleterious. The case of the weather is different. Notwithstanding the recency of the opposite belief,³⁰⁶ every one now knows that droughts and storms follow from physical antecedents, and that moral appeals cannot avert them. But petitional prayer is only one department of prayer; and if we take the word in the wider sense as meaning every kind of inward communion or conversation with the power recognized as divine, we can easily see that scientific criticism leaves it untouched.

The next topic I must discuss is prayer. This time, I must discuss it at greater length. Lately, we have heard much criticism of prayer, especially prayers for better weather and for sick people to recover. If any medical fact can be considered firmly established, it is that prayer may help sick people recover in certain environments. In those environments, prayer should be encouraged as a form of treatment. Prayer is a normal part of a person's moral health, so leaving it out would be harmful. The case of the weather is different. Although the opposite belief was held until recently,³⁰⁶ everyone now knows that droughts and storms have physical causes. Everyone also knows that moral appeals cannot prevent them. But asking for things is only one kind of prayer. In a broader sense, prayer means any kind of inward communion or conversation with the power recognized as divine. In that sense, we can easily see that scientific criticism leaves prayer untouched.

Prayer in this wide sense is the very soul and essence of religion. “Religion,” says a liberal French theologian, “is an intercourse, a conscious and voluntary relation, entered into by a soul in distress with the mysterious power upon which it feels itself to depend, and upon which its fate is contingent. This intercourse with God is realized by prayer. Prayer is religion in act; that is, prayer is real religion. It is prayer that distinguishes the religious phenomenon from such similar or neighboring phenomena as purely moral or æsthetic sentiment. Religion is nothing if it be not the vital act by which the entire mind seeks to save itself by clinging to the principle from which it draws its life. This act is prayer, by which term I understand no vain exercise of words, no mere repetition of certain sacred formulæ, but the very movement itself of the soul, putting itself in a personal relation of contact with the mysterious power of which it feels the presence,—it may be even before it has a name by which to call it. Wherever this interior prayer is lacking, there is no religion; wherever, on the other hand, this prayer rises and stirs the soul, even in the absence of forms or of doctrines, we have living religion. One sees from this why ‘natural religion,’ so-called, is not properly a religion. It cuts man off from prayer. It leaves him and God in mutual remoteness, with no intimate commerce, no interior dialogue, no interchange, no action of God in man, no return of man to God. At bottom this pretended religion is only a philosophy. Born at epochs of rationalism, of critical investigations, it never was anything but an abstraction. An artificial and dead creation, it reveals to its examiner hardly one of the characters proper to religion.”³⁰⁷

Prayer, in this broad sense, is the very soul and essence of religion. A liberal French theologian says: “Religion is a relationship. It is a conscious and voluntary connection between a soul in distress and the mysterious power on which it feels dependent. The soul also feels that its fate depends on this power. This relationship with God takes form through prayer. Prayer is religion in action. In other words, prayer is real religion. Prayer distinguishes religion from similar or related experiences, such as purely moral or aesthetic feelings. Religion is nothing unless it is the vital act by which the whole mind seeks to save itself. It does this by clinging to the source of its life. This act is prayer. By prayer, I mean no empty exercise of words or mere repetition of sacred formulas. I mean the very movement of the soul as it makes personal contact with the mysterious power whose presence it feels. The soul may do this even before it has a name for that power. “Wherever this inner prayer is absent, there is no religion. On the other hand, wherever prayer rises and stirs the soul, we have living religion, even without forms or doctrines. This shows why so-called ‘natural religion’ is not properly a religion. It cuts people off from prayer. It leaves them and God distant from one another. There is no intimate contact, no inner dialogue, no exchange, no action of God in people, and no return of people to God. At bottom, this supposed religion is only a philosophy. Born in ages of rationalism and critical inquiry, it has never been anything but an abstraction. It is an artificial and dead creation. Anyone who examines it will find hardly any of the features proper to religion.”³⁰⁷

It seems to me that the entire series of our lectures proves the truth of M. Sabatier's contention. The religious phenomenon, studied as an inner fact, and apart from ecclesiastical or theological complications, has shown itself to consist everywhere, and at all its stages, in the consciousness which individuals have of an intercourse between themselves and higher powers with which they feel themselves to be related. This intercourse is realized at the time as being both active and mutual. If it be not effective; if it be not a give and take relation; if nothing be really transacted while it lasts; if the world is in no whit different for its having taken place; then prayer, taken in this wide meaning of a sense that something is transacting, is of course a feeling of what is illusory, and religion must on the whole be classed, not simply as containing elements of delusion,—these undoubtedly everywhere exist,—but as being rooted in delusion altogether, just as materialists and atheists have always said it was. At most there might remain, when the direct experiences of prayer were ruled out as false witnesses, some inferential belief that the whole order of existence must have a divine cause. But this way of contemplating nature, pleasing as it would doubtless be to persons of a pious taste, would leave to them but the spectators' part at a play, whereas in experimental religion and the prayerful life, we seem ourselves to be actors, and not in a play, but in a very serious reality.

It seems to me that our entire series of lectures proves M. Sabatier's claim. We have studied religion as an inner experience, apart from the complications of churches and theology. Everywhere and at every stage, religion has proved to consist in people's awareness of contact with higher powers. People feel connected to these powers. At the time, they experience this contact as both active and mutual. But suppose this contact has no effect. Suppose it is not a relationship of give and take. Suppose nothing really happens during it, and the world is no different because it took place. Then prayer, in this broad sense of feeling that something is happening, is of course a feeling based on illusion. And religion must then be seen not merely as containing elements of delusion, which undoubtedly exist everywhere. It must be seen as rooted entirely in delusion, just as materialists and atheists have always said. If the direct experiences of prayer were ruled out as false witnesses, one belief might still remain. At most, we might infer that the whole order of existence must have a divine cause. This way of looking at nature would no doubt please people with a pious taste. But it would leave them as spectators at a play. In religion as we experience it and in a life of prayer, we seem to be actors ourselves. And we seem to be acting not in a play, but in a very serious reality.

The genuineness of religion is thus indissolubly bound up with the question whether the prayerful consciousness be or be not deceitful. The conviction that something is genuinely transacted in this consciousness is the very core of living religion. As to what is transacted, great differences of opinion have prevailed. The unseen powers have been supposed, and are yet supposed, to do things which no enlightened man can nowadays believe in. It may well prove that the sphere of influence in prayer is subjective exclusively, and that what is immediately changed is only the mind of the praying person. But however our opinion of prayer's effects may come to be limited by criticism, religion, in the vital sense in which these lectures study it, must stand or fall by the persuasion that effects of some sort genuinely do occur. Through prayer, religion insists, things which cannot be realized in any other manner come about: energy which but for prayer would be bound is by prayer set free and operates in some part, be it objective or subjective, of the world of facts.

Whether religion is genuine is inseparable from whether the experience of prayer is deceptive. The conviction that something real happens in prayer is at the heart of living religion. People have held very different opinions about what happens. People have believed, and still believe, that unseen powers do things no enlightened person could believe today. It may turn out that prayer has an effect only within the person praying. If so, the only immediate change is in that person's mind. But critics may limit what we can reasonably believe about prayer's effects. Even so, religion, in the living sense studied in these lectures, depends on the belief that some effects really occur. Religion insists that prayer brings about things that cannot happen in any other way. Prayer releases energy that would otherwise remain bound. That energy then acts somewhere in the world of facts, whether in the mind or beyond it.

This postulate is strikingly expressed in a letter written by the late Frederic W. H. Myers to a friend, who allows me to quote from it. It shows how independent the prayer-instinct is of usual doctrinal complications. Mr. Myers writes:—

This idea is strikingly expressed in a letter that the late Frederic W. H. Myers wrote to a friend. His friend has allowed me to quote from it. The letter shows how independent the instinct to pray is of the usual complications of religious doctrine. Mr. Myers writes:

Let us reserve the question of the truth or falsehood of the belief that power is absorbed until the next lecture, when our dogmatic conclusions, if we have any, must be reached. Let this lecture still confine itself to the description of phenomena; and as a concrete example of an extreme sort, of the way in which the prayerful life may still be led, let me take a case with which most of you must be acquainted, that of George Müller of Bristol, who died in 1898. Müller's prayers were of the crassest petitional order. Early in life he resolved on taking certain Bible promises in literal sincerity, and on letting himself be fed, not by his own worldly foresight, but by the Lord's hand. He had an extraordinarily active and successful career, among the fruits of which were the distribution of over two million copies of the Scripture text, in different languages; the equipment of several hundred missionaries; the circulation of more than a hundred and eleven million of scriptural books, pamphlets, and tracts; the building of five large orphanages, and the keeping and educating of thousands of orphans; finally, the establishment of schools in which over a hundred and twenty-one thousand youthful and adult pupils were taught. In the course of this work Mr. Müller received and administered nearly a million and a half of pounds sterling, and traveled over two hundred thousand miles of sea and land.³⁰⁸ During the sixty-eight years of his ministry, he never owned any property except his clothes and furniture, and cash in hand; and he left, at the age of eighty-six, an estate worth only a hundred and sixty pounds.

Let us leave the question of whether power is absorbed through prayer until the next lecture. Then we must reach our definite conclusions, if we have any. For now, let us continue to describe the phenomena. As a concrete and extreme example of how a prayerful life can still be lived, consider George Müller of Bristol. Most of you must know of him. He died in 1898. Müller’s prayers were requests of the most blatant kind. Early in life, he decided to take certain Bible promises literally and sincerely. He would rely on the Lord’s hand to feed him, rather than on his own worldly foresight. His career was extraordinarily active and successful. Among its results were the distribution of over two million copies of the Scriptures in different languages and the equipping of several hundred missionaries. He also circulated more than 111 million scriptural books, pamphlets, and tracts. He built five large orphanages and housed and educated thousands of orphans. Finally, he established schools that taught over 121,000 children and adults. In the course of this work, Mr. Müller received and managed nearly one and a half million pounds sterling. He also traveled over 200,000 miles by sea and land.³⁰⁸ During his 68 years of ministry, he never owned any property except his clothes, furniture, and cash on hand. At the age of 86, he left an estate worth only 160 pounds.

George Müller's is a case extreme in every respect, and in no respect more so than in the extraordinary narrowness of the man's intellectual horizon. His God was, as he often said, his business partner. He seems to have been for Müller little more than a sort of supernatural clergyman interested in the congregation of tradesmen and others in Bristol who were his saints, and in the orphanages and other enterprises, but unpossessed of any of those vaster and wilder and more ideal attributes with which the human imagination elsewhere has invested him. Müller, in short, was absolutely unphilosophical. His intensely private and practical conception of his relations with the Deity continued the traditions of the most primitive human thought.³¹³ When we compare a mind like his with such a mind as, for example, Emerson's or Phillips Brooks's, we see the range which the religions consciousness covers.

George Müller’s case is extreme in every respect, but especially in the extraordinary narrowness of his intellectual outlook. As he often said, God was his business partner. For Müller, God seems to have been little more than a kind of supernatural clergyman. He was interested in the congregation of tradesmen and others in Bristol who were Müller’s saints, and in the orphanages and other enterprises. But he lacked the grander, wilder, and more ideal qualities that human imagination has given him elsewhere. In short, Müller was entirely unphilosophical. His intensely private and practical view of his relationship with God carried on the traditions of the most primitive human thought.³¹³ When we compare a mind like his with one like Emerson’s or Phillips Brooks’s, we see how wide a range religious consciousness covers.

There is an immense literature relating to answers to petitional prayer. The evangelical journals are filled with such answers, and books are devoted to the subject,³¹⁴ but for us Müller's case will suffice.

There is a vast literature about answers to prayers that ask for something. Evangelical journals are filled with such answers, and books are devoted to the subject.³¹⁴ But for our purposes, Müller's case will be enough.

A less sturdy beggar-like fashion of leading the prayerful life is followed by innumerable other Christians. Persistence in leaning on the Almighty for support and guidance will, such persons say, bring with it proofs, palpable but much more subtle, of his presence and active influence. The following description of a “led” life, by a German writer whom I have already quoted, would no doubt appear to countless Christians in every country as if transcribed from their own personal experience. One finds in this guided sort of life, says Dr. Hilty,—

Countless other Christians lead a life of prayer in a less robust, more beggar-like way. They say that continually relying on the Almighty for support and guidance brings proof of his presence and active influence. This proof is tangible, but much more subtle. The following description of a “led” life comes from a German writer I have quoted before. Countless Christians in every country would no doubt feel that it was taken from their own experience. In this kind of guided life, says Dr. Hilty, one finds:

Such accounts as this shade away into others where the belief is, not that particular events are tempered more towardly to us by a superintending providence, as a reward for our reliance, but that by cultivating the continuous sense of our connection with the power that made things as they are, we are tempered more towardly for their reception. The outward face of nature need not alter, but the expressions of meaning in it alter. It was dead and is alive again. It is like the difference between looking on a person without love, or upon the same person with love. In the latter case intercourse springs into new vitality. So when one's affections keep in touch with the divinity of the world's authorship, fear and egotism fall away; and in the equanimity that follows, one finds in the hours, as they succeed each other, a series of purely benignant opportunities. It is as if all doors were opened, and all paths freshly smoothed. We meet a new world when we meet the old world in the spirit which this kind of prayer infuses.

Accounts like this shade into others with a different belief. The belief is not that a guiding providence makes particular events more favorable to us as a reward for our trust. Rather, by cultivating a continuous sense of connection with the power that made things as they are, we become better prepared to receive them. Nature’s outward appearance need not change, but the meaning it expresses changes. It was dead and is alive again. The difference is like looking at someone without love, then looking at the same person with love. In the latter case, our dealings with that person come to life in a new way. So, when our affections remain connected to the divine power that created the world, fear and selfishness fall away. In the calm that follows, we find each passing hour offers purely good opportunities. It is as if all doors were opened and all paths freshly smoothed. We meet a new world when we meet the old world in the spirit that this kind of prayer gives us.

Such a spirit was that of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus.³¹⁶ It is that of mind-curers, of the transcendentalists, and of the so-called “liberal” Christians. As an expression of it, I will quote a page from one of Martineau's sermons:—

Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus had this spirit.³¹⁶ It is also the spirit of mind-curers, transcendentalists, and so-called “liberal” Christians. To show what this spirit is like, I will quote a page from one of Martineau's sermons:

When we see all things in God, and refer all things to him, we read in common matters superior expressions of meaning. The deadness with which custom invests the familiar vanishes, and existence as a whole appears transfigured. The state of a mind thus awakened from torpor is well expressed in these words, which I take from a friend's letter:—

When we see all things in God and relate all things to him, we find deeper meaning in ordinary matters. Familiar things no longer seem lifeless through habit, and all of existence appears transformed. These words from a friend’s letter express well the state of a mind awakened from such dullness:

Sometimes this realization that facts are of divine sending, instead of being habitual, is casual, like a mystical experience. Father Gratry gives this instance from his youthful melancholy period:—

Sometimes the realization that facts are sent by God is not a habit, but an occasional experience, like a mystical experience. Father Gratry gives this example from a melancholy period in his youth:

In Sénancour's novel of Obermann a similar transient lifting of the veil is recorded. In Paris streets, on a March day, he comes across a flower in bloom, a jonquil:

Sénancour's novel Obermann describes a similar brief lifting of the veil. On a March day, Obermann comes across a flower blooming in the streets of Paris, a jonquil:

We heard in previous lectures of the vivified face of the world as it may appear to converts after their awakening.³²⁰ As a rule, religious persons generally assume that whatever natural facts connect themselves in any way with their destiny are significant of the divine purposes with them. Through prayer the purpose, often far from obvious, comes home to them, and if it be “trial,” strength to endure the trial is given. Thus at all stages of the prayerful life we find the persuasion that in the process of communion energy from on high flows in to meet demand, and becomes operative within the phenomenal world. So long as this operativeness is admitted to be real, it makes no essential difference whether its immediate effects be subjective or objective. The fundamental religious point is that in prayer, spiritual energy, which otherwise would slumber, does become active, and spiritual work of some kind is effected really.

In earlier lectures, we heard how the world may appear newly alive to converts after their awakening.³²⁰ As a rule, religious people assume that any natural events connected with their destiny reveal God’s purposes for them. Through prayer, they come to understand the purpose, which is often far from obvious. If the purpose is “trial,” they are given strength to endure it. Thus, at every stage of a life of prayer, we find the belief that energy from above flows in during communion to meet a need. This energy becomes active in the observable world. As long as its action is accepted as real, it makes no essential difference whether its immediate effects are subjective or objective. The central religious point is that, through prayer, spiritual energy that would otherwise remain dormant becomes active. Some kind of spiritual work is truly accomplished.

So much for Prayer, taken in the wide sense of any kind of communion. As the core of religion, we must return to it in the next lecture.

That is enough for now about prayer, understood broadly as any kind of communion. Since prayer is at the heart of religion, we must return to it in the next lecture.

The last aspect of the religious life which remains for me to touch upon is the fact that its manifestations so frequently connect themselves with the subconscious part of our existence. You may remember what I said in my opening lecture³²¹ about the prevalence of the psychopathic temperament in religious biography. You will in point of fact hardly find a religious leader of any kind in whose life there is no record of automatisms. I speak not merely of savage priests and prophets, whose followers regard automatic utterance and action as by itself tantamount to inspiration, I speak of leaders of thought and subjects of intellectualized experience. Saint Paul had his visions, his ecstasies, his gift of tongues, small as was the importance he attached to the latter. The whole array of Christian saints and heresiarchs, including the greatest, the Bernards, the Loyolas, the Luthers, the Foxes, the Wesleys, had their visions, voices, rapt conditions, guiding impressions, and “openings.” They had these things, because they had exalted sensibility, and to such things persons of exalted sensibility are liable. In such liability there lie, however, consequences for theology. Beliefs are strengthened wherever automatisms corroborate them. Incursions from beyond the transmarginal region have a peculiar power to increase conviction. The inchoate sense of presence is infinitely stronger than conception, but strong as it may be, it is seldom equal to the evidence of hallucination. Saints who actually see or hear their Saviour reach the acme of assurance. Motor automatisms, though rarer, are, if possible, even more convincing than sensations. The subjects here actually feel themselves played upon by powers beyond their will. The evidence is dynamic; the God or spirit moves the very organs of their body.³²²

The last aspect of religious life I need to discuss is how often its manifestations are connected with the subconscious part of our existence. You may remember what I said in my opening lecture³²¹ about how common the psychopathic temperament is in religious biography. In fact, you will hardly find a religious leader of any kind whose life contains no record of automatisms, or involuntary actions and utterances. I am not speaking only of tribal priests and prophets. Their followers regard automatic speech and action as equivalent to inspiration in themselves. I am also speaking of leaders of thought and people whose experiences are shaped by intellect. Saint Paul had his visions, his ecstasies, and his gift of tongues, though he attached little importance to the last. The whole array of Christian saints and founders of heresies had their visions, voices, states of rapture, guiding impressions, and “openings.” These included the greatest, the Bernards, the Loyolas, the Luthers, the Foxes, and the Wesleys. They had these experiences because they had heightened sensitivity, and people with heightened sensitivity are prone to them. This tendency, however, has consequences for theology. Beliefs grow stronger whenever automatisms support them. Experiences that break through from beyond the margins of consciousness have a peculiar power to strengthen conviction. A vague sense of a presence is infinitely stronger than an idea of one. But strong as that sense may be, it seldom equals the evidence of a hallucination. Saints who actually see or hear their Saviour reach the highest degree of assurance. Motor automatisms, though rarer, are, if possible, even more convincing than sensations. People who experience them actually feel that powers beyond their will are acting upon them. The evidence is dynamic: the God or spirit moves the very organs of their body.³²²

The great field for this sense of being the instrument of a higher power is of course “inspiration.” It is easy to discriminate between the religious leaders who have been habitually subject to inspiration and those who have not. In the teachings of the Buddha, of Jesus, of Saint Paul (apart from his gift of tongues), of Saint Augustine, of Huss, of Luther, of Wesley, automatic or semi-automatic composition appears to have been only occasional. In the Hebrew prophets, on the contrary, in Mohammed, in some of the Alexandrians, in many minor Catholic saints, in Fox, in Joseph Smith, something like it appears to have been frequent, sometimes habitual. We have distinct professions of being under the direction of a foreign power, and serving as its mouthpiece. As regards the Hebrew prophets, it is extraordinary, writes an author who has made a careful study of them, to see—

The main field for this sense of being an instrument of a higher power is, of course, “inspiration.” It is easy to distinguish religious leaders who have regularly experienced inspiration from those who have not. In the teachings of the Buddha, Jesus, Saint Paul, Saint Augustine, Huss, Luther, and Wesley, automatic or semi-automatic composition seems to have occurred only occasionally. Saint Paul’s gift of tongues is an exception. By contrast, something like automatic or semi-automatic composition seems to have been frequent, sometimes habitual, among the Hebrew prophets, Mohammed, some of the Alexandrians, many minor Catholic saints, Fox, and Joseph Smith. They explicitly declare that they are directed by an outside power and serve as its mouthpiece. An author who has carefully studied the Hebrew prophets writes that it is extraordinary to see:

Here, to take another Jewish case, is the way in which Philo of Alexandria describes his inspiration:—

Here is another Jewish example. Philo of Alexandria describes his inspiration this way:

If we turn to Islam, we find that Mohammed's revelations all came from the subconscious sphere. To the question in what way he got them,—

If we turn to Islam, we find that all of Mohammed's revelations came from his subconscious. As for how he received them,

In none of these cases is the revelation distinctly motor. In the case of Joseph Smith (who had prophetic revelations innumerable in addition to the revealed translation of the gold plates which resulted in the Book of Mormon), although there may have been a motor element, the inspiration seems to have been predominantly sensorial. He began his translation by the aid of the “peep-stones” which he found, or thought or said that he found, with the gold plates,—apparently a case of “crystal gazing.” For some of the other revelations he used the peep-stones, but seems generally to have asked the Lord for more direct instruction.³²⁷

In none of these cases does the revelation clearly involve movement. Joseph Smith had countless prophetic revelations, as well as the revealed translation of the gold plates that produced the Book of Mormon. Although his inspiration may have involved movement, it seems to have been mainly sensory. He began his translation with the help of the “peep-stones” he found, or thought or said he found, with the gold plates. This was apparently a case of “crystal gazing.” He used the peep-stones for some other revelations, but generally seems to have asked the Lord for more direct instruction.³²⁷

Other revelations are described as “openings”—Fox's, for example, were evidently of the kind known in spiritistic circles of to-day as “impressions.” As all effective initiators of change must needs live to some degree upon this psychopathic level of sudden perception or conviction of new truth, or of impulse to action so obsessive that it must be worked off, I will say nothing more about so very common a phenomenon.

Other revelations are described as “openings.” Fox's revelations, for example, were evidently what spiritist circles today call “impressions.” All effective initiators of change must live to some degree on this psychopathic level. They must experience sudden perceptions or convictions of new truth, or impulses to act so obsessive that they must act on them. Because this phenomenon is so common, I will say nothing more about it.

When, in addition to these phenomena of inspiration, we take religious mysticism into the account, when we recall the striking and sudden unifications of a discordant self which we saw in conversion, and when we review the extravagant obsessions of tenderness, purity, and self-severity met with in saintliness, we cannot, I think, avoid the conclusion that in religion we have a department of human nature with unusually close relations to the trans-marginal or subliminal region. If the word “subliminal” is offensive to any of you, as smelling too much of psychical research or other aberrations, call it by any other name you please, to distinguish it from the level of full sunlit consciousness. Call this latter the A-region of personality, if you care to, and call the other the B-region. The B-region, then, is obviously the larger part of each of us, for it is the abode of everything that is latent and the reservoir of everything that passes unrecorded or unobserved. It contains, for example, such things as all our momentarily inactive memories, and it harbors the springs of all our obscurely motived passions, impulses, likes, dislikes, and prejudices. Our intuitions, hypotheses, fancies, superstitions, persuasions, convictions, and in general all our non-rational operations, come from it. It is the source of our dreams, and apparently they may return to it. In it arise whatever mystical experiences we may have, and our automatisms, sensory or motor; our life in hypnotic and “hypnoid” conditions, if we are subjects to such conditions; our delusions, fixed ideas, and hysterical accidents, if we are hysteric subjects; our supra-normal cognitions, if such there be, and if we are telepathic subjects. It is also the fountain-head of much that feeds our religion. In persons deep in the religious life, as we have now abundantly seen,—and this is my conclusion,—the door into this region seems unusually wide open; at any rate, experiences making their entrance through that door have had emphatic influence in shaping religious history.

Along with these examples of inspiration, we must also consider religious mysticism. We must recall the striking, sudden unifications of a divided self that we saw in conversion. And we must review the extreme obsessions with tenderness, purity, and harsh self-discipline found in saintliness. When we do all this, I think we cannot avoid a conclusion. Religion is an area of human nature unusually closely connected to the trans-marginal or subliminal region. The word “subliminal” may offend some of you because it sounds too much like psychical research or other misguided pursuits. If so, call the region whatever you like, to distinguish it from the level of fully sunlit consciousness. If you wish, call full consciousness the A-region of personality and the other region the B-region. The B-region is clearly the larger part of each of us. It is home to everything latent and a storehouse for everything that passes unrecorded or unnoticed. For example, it contains all our memories that are inactive at any given moment. It also holds the sources of all our passions, impulses, likes, dislikes, and prejudices whose motives are unclear. Our intuitions, hypotheses, fancies, superstitions, persuasions, convictions, and, in general, all our non-rational operations come from it. It is the source of our dreams, and apparently our dreams may return to it. Our mystical experiences arise in the B-region, as do our sensory or motor automatisms. If we are subject to hypnotic and “hypnoid” conditions, our life in those conditions arises there too. If we are subject to hysteria, our delusions, fixed ideas, and hysterical episodes arise there. If supra-normal cognitions exist, and if we are telepathic subjects, those cognitions arise there as well. The B-region is also the source of much that feeds our religion. As we have now seen many times, people deeply immersed in religious life seem to have an unusually wide-open door into this region. That is my conclusion. At any rate, experiences entering through that door have had a powerful influence on religious history.

With this conclusion I turn back and close the circle which I opened in my first lecture, terminating thus the review which I then announced of inner religious phenomena as we find them in developed and articulate human individuals. I might easily, if the time allowed, multiply both my documents and my discriminations, but a broad treatment is, I believe, in itself better, and the most important characteristics of the subject lie, I think, before us already. In the next lecture, which is also the last one, we must try to draw the critical conclusions which so much material may suggest.

With this conclusion, I return to where I began in my first lecture and bring my review to a close. I have now completed the review I announced then, of inner religious experiences in fully developed people who can express them. If time allowed, I could easily add more evidence and make more distinctions. But I believe a broad treatment is better in itself, and I think we have already seen the subject’s most important features. In the next lecture, which is also the last, we must try to draw the critical conclusions this material may suggest.