Saintliness

The last lecture left us in a state of expectancy. What may the practical fruits for life have been, of such movingly happy conversions as those we heard of? With this question the really important part of our task opens, for you remember that we began all this empirical inquiry not merely to open a curious chapter in the natural history of human consciousness, but rather to attain a spiritual judgment as to the total value and positive meaning of all the religious trouble and happiness which we have seen. We must, therefore, first describe the fruits of the religious life, and then we must judge them. This divides our inquiry into two distinct parts. Let us without further preamble proceed to the descriptive task.

The last lecture left us waiting for an answer. What practical effects on life might those movingly happy conversions have had? With this question, we begin the most important part of our task. You will remember why we began this inquiry based on experience. We wanted not merely to explore a curious chapter in the natural history of human consciousness. We wanted to make a spiritual judgment about the overall value and positive meaning of all the religious suffering and happiness we have seen. So we must first describe the fruits of religious life, and then judge them. This divides our inquiry into two distinct parts. Let us begin the description without further introduction.

It ought to be the pleasantest portion of our business in these lectures. Some small pieces of it, it is true, may be painful, or may show human nature in a pathetic light, but it will be mainly pleasant, because the best fruits of religious experience are the best things that history has to show. They have always been esteemed so; here if anywhere is the genuinely strenuous life; and to call to mind a succession of such examples as I have lately had to wander through, though it has been only in the reading of them, is to feel encouraged and uplifted and washed in better moral air.

This should be the most enjoyable part of our work in these lectures. Some small parts, it is true, may be painful or show human nature in a pitiable light. But it will be mostly enjoyable because the best fruits of religious experience are the best things history has to show. They have always been regarded that way. Here, if anywhere, we find a truly strenuous life. I have recently explored a succession of such examples, though only by reading about them. Remembering them makes me feel encouraged and uplifted, as if I had breathed cleaner moral air.

The highest flights of charity, devotion, trust, patience, bravery to which the wings of human nature have spread themselves have been flown for religious ideals. I can do no better than quote, as to this, some remarks which Sainte-Beuve in his History of Port-Royal makes on the results of conversion or the state of grace.

The greatest heights of charity, devotion, trust, patience, and bravery that human nature has reached have been inspired by religious ideals. On this subject, I can do no better than quote some remarks by Sainte-Beuve from his History of Port-Royal. He discusses the results of conversion or the state of grace.

“Even from the purely human point of view,” Sainte-Beuve says, “the phenomenon of grace must still appear sufficiently extraordinary, eminent, and rare, both in its nature and in its effects, to deserve a closer study. For the soul arrives thereby at a certain fixed and invincible state, a state which is genuinely heroic, and from out of which the greatest deeds which it ever performs are executed. Through all the different forms of communion, and all the diversity of the means which help to produce this state, whether it be reached by a jubilee, by a general confession, by a solitary prayer and effusion, whatever in short be the place and the occasion, it is easy to recognize that it is fundamentally one state in spirit and in fruits. Penetrate a little beneath the diversity of circumstances, and it becomes evident that in Christians of different epochs it is always one and the same modification by which they are affected: there is veritably a single fundamental and identical spirit of piety and charity, common to those who have received grace; an inner state which before all things is one of love and humility, of infinite confidence in God, and of severity for one's self, accompanied with tenderness for others. The fruits peculiar to this condition of the soul have the same savor in all, under distant suns and in different surroundings, in Saint Teresa of Avila just as in any Moravian brother of Herrnhut.”¹⁴²

“Even from a purely human point of view,” Sainte-Beuve says, “grace must still appear extraordinary, remarkable, and rare enough to deserve closer study. This is true both of its nature and of its effects. Through grace, the soul reaches a firm and unconquerable state that is truly heroic. It is from this state that the soul performs its greatest deeds. Communion takes many forms, and many different means help bring about this state. It may be reached through a jubilee, a general confession, or a solitary prayer and outpouring of feeling. Whatever the place or occasion, it is easy to recognize the same underlying state in its spirit and its fruits. “Look a little beneath the different circumstances, and the same change appears in Christians of different eras. Those who have received grace truly share one fundamental spirit of devotion and charity. Above all, their inner state is one of love and humility, infinite trust in God, and strictness with themselves, accompanied by tenderness toward others. The fruits of this state of soul have the same flavor in everyone, under distant suns and in different surroundings. They are the same in Saint Teresa of Avila as in any Moravian brother of Herrnhut.”¹⁴²

Sainte-Beuve has here only the more eminent instances of regeneration in mind, and these are of course the instructive ones for us also to consider. These devotees have often laid their course so differently from other men that, judging them by worldly law, we might be tempted to call them monstrous aberrations from the path of nature. I begin, therefore, by asking a general psychological question as to what the inner conditions are which may make one human character differ so extremely from another.

Sainte-Beuve has in mind only the most prominent cases of regeneration. Of course, these are also the most instructive cases for us to consider. These devotees have often led lives so different from those of other people that we might judge them by worldly standards as monstrous departures from nature’s path. I begin, therefore, with a general psychological question. What inner conditions may cause one person’s character to differ so greatly from another’s?

I reply at once that where the character, as something distinguished from the intellect, is concerned, the causes of human diversity lie chiefly in our differing susceptibilities of emotional excitement, and in the different impulses and inhibitions which these bring in their train. Let me make this more clear.

I answer at once that character is different from intellect. As for character, human differences arise chiefly from how easily our emotions are aroused and from the different impulses and inhibitions that follow. Let me explain this more clearly.

Speaking generally, our moral and practical attitude, at any given time, is always a resultant of two sets of forces within us, impulses pushing us one way and obstructions and inhibitions holding us back. “Yes! yes!” say the impulses; “No! no!” say the inhibitions. Few people who have not expressly reflected on the matter realize how constantly this factor of inhibition is upon us, how it contains and moulds us by its restrictive pressure almost as if we were fluids pent within the cavity of a jar. The influence is so incessant that it becomes subconscious. All of you, for example, sit here with a certain constraint at this moment, and entirely without express consciousness of the fact, because of the influence of the occasion. If left alone in the room, each of you would probably involuntarily rearrange himself, and make his attitude more “free and easy.” But proprieties and their inhibitions snap like cobwebs if any great emotional excitement supervenes. I have seen a dandy appear in the street with his face covered with shaving-lather because a house across the way was on fire; and a woman will run among strangers in her nightgown if it be a question of saving her baby's life or her own. Take a self-indulgent woman's life in general. She will yield to every inhibition set by her disagreeable sensations, lie late in bed, live upon tea or bromides, keep indoors from the cold. Every difficulty finds her obedient to its “no.” But make a mother of her, and what have you? Possessed by maternal excitement, she now confronts wakefulness, weariness, and toil without an instant of hesitation or a word of complaint. The inhibitive power of pain over her is extinguished wherever the baby's interests are at stake. The inconveniences which this creature occasions have become, as James Hinton says, the glowing heart of a great joy, and indeed are now the very conditions whereby the joy becomes most deep.

Generally speaking, our moral and practical attitude at any moment results from two sets of forces within us. Impulses push us one way, while obstacles and inhibitions hold us back. “Yes! yes!” say the impulses. “No! no!” say the inhibitions. Few people who have not thought about the matter realize how constantly inhibition affects us. Its restricting pressure contains and shapes us, almost as if we were liquids confined inside a jar. Its influence is so constant that it becomes subconscious. For example, all of you are sitting here with some restraint right now. Because of the occasion, you are entirely unaware of that restraint. If left alone in the room, each of you would probably shift position involuntarily and become more “free and easy.” But when strong emotion takes over, social rules and their inhibitions snap like cobwebs. I have seen a dandy appear in the street with shaving lather covering his face because a house across the street was on fire. And a woman will run among strangers in her nightgown if she must save her baby's life or her own. Consider the life of a self-indulgent woman in general. She will give in to every inhibition caused by unpleasant feelings. She will stay in bed late, live on tea or bromides, and stay indoors to avoid the cold. She obeys the “no” of every difficulty. But make her a mother, and what do you find? Driven by the excitement of motherhood, she now faces sleeplessness, weariness, and hard work without a moment's hesitation or a word of complaint. Pain no longer has the power to hold her back whenever her baby's interests are at stake. As James Hinton says, the inconveniences caused by this little creature have become the glowing heart of a great joy. Indeed, they are now the very conditions that make the joy deepest.

This is an example of what you have already heard of as the “expulsive power of a higher affection.” But be the affection high or low, it makes no difference, so long as the excitement it brings be strong enough. In one of Henry Drummond's discourses he tells of an inundation in India where an eminence with a bungalow upon it remained unsubmerged, and became the refuge of a number of wild animals and reptiles in addition to the human beings who were there. At a certain moment a royal Bengal tiger appeared swimming towards it, reached it, and lay panting like a dog upon the ground in the midst of the people, still possessed by such an agony of terror that one of the Englishmen could calmly step up with a rifle and blow out its brains. The tiger's habitual ferocity was temporarily quelled by the emotion of fear, which became sovereign, and formed a new centre for his character.

This is an example of what you have already heard called the “expulsive power of a higher affection.” But it makes no difference whether the affection is high or low, as long as the excitement it brings is strong enough. In one of his talks, Henry Drummond tells of a flood in India. A hill with a bungalow on it remained above water. A number of wild animals and reptiles took refuge there, alongside the people already on the hill. At one point, a royal Bengal tiger appeared, swimming toward the hill. It reached the hill and lay on the ground among the people, panting like a dog. The tiger was still so overcome with terror that one of the Englishmen could calmly step forward with a rifle and blow its brains out. The tiger’s usual ferocity was temporarily subdued by fear. Fear had taken control and formed a new center for the tiger’s character.

Sometimes no emotional state is sovereign, but many contrary ones are mixed together. In that case one hears both “yeses” and “noes,” and the “will” is called on then to solve the conflict. Take a soldier, for example, with his dread of cowardice impelling him to advance, his fears impelling him to run, and his propensities to imitation pushing him towards various courses if his comrades offer various examples. His person becomes the seat of a mass of interferences; and he may for a time simply waver, because no one emotion prevails. There is a pitch of intensity, though, which, if any emotion reach it, enthrones that one as alone effective and sweeps its antagonists and all their inhibitions away. The fury of his comrades' charge, once entered on, will give this pitch of courage to the soldier; the panic of their rout will give this pitch of fear. In these sovereign excitements, things ordinarily impossible grow natural because the inhibitions are annulled. Their “no! no!” not only is not heard, it does not exist. Obstacles are then like tissue-paper hoops to the circus rider—no impediment; the flood is higher than the dam they make. “Lass sie betteln gehn wenn sie hungrig sind!” cries the grenadier, frantic over his Emperor's capture, when his wife and babes are suggested; and men pent into a burning theatre have been known to cut their way through the crowd with knives.¹⁴³

Sometimes no single emotional state dominates. Instead, many opposing emotions are mixed together. In that case, one hears both “yeses” and “noes,” and the “will” is called on to resolve the conflict. Take a soldier, for example. His dread of cowardice urges him forward, while his fears urge him to run. His tendency to imitate others also pushes him in different directions if his comrades set different examples. Conflicting impulses fill him, and he may simply waver for a time because no one emotion prevails. Yet any emotion can reach a pitch of intensity that makes it the only effective force. It then sweeps away its opponents and all their restraints. Once his comrades begin a furious charge, they can raise the soldier's courage to that pitch. Their panic in a rout can raise his fear to the same pitch. In such overpowering excitement, things ordinarily impossible become natural because the restraints disappear. Their “no! no!” is not merely unheard. It does not exist. Obstacles then offer no more resistance than tissue-paper hoops to a circus rider. The flood has risen higher than the dam they form. “Lass sie betteln gehn wenn sie hungrig sind!” cries the grenadier, frantic over his Emperor's capture, when someone mentions his wife and children. And men trapped in a burning theatre have been known to cut their way through the crowd with knives.¹⁴³

One mode of emotional excitability is exceedingly important in the composition of the energetic character, from its peculiarly destructive power over inhibitions. I mean what in its lower form is mere irascibility, susceptibility to wrath, the fighting temper; and what in subtler ways manifests itself as impatience, grimness, earnestness, severity of character. Earnestness means willingness to live with energy, though energy bring pain. The pain may be pain to other people or pain to one's self—it makes little difference; for when the strenuous mood is on one, the aim is to break something, no matter whose or what. Nothing annihilates an inhibition as irresistibly as anger does it; for, as Moltke says of war, destruction pure and simple is its essence. This is what makes it so invaluable an ally of every other passion. The sweetest delights are trampled on with a ferocious pleasure the moment they offer themselves as checks to a cause by which our higher indignations are elicited. It costs then nothing to drop friendships, to renounce long-rooted privileges and possessions, to break with social ties. Rather do we take a stern joy in the astringency and desolation; and what is called weakness of character seems in most cases to consist in the inaptitude for these sacrificial moods, of which one's own inferior self and its pet softnesses must often be the targets and the victims.¹⁴⁴

One kind of emotional excitability is extremely important in an energetic character. It has a remarkable power to destroy inhibitions. In its simpler form, I mean irritability, a tendency to anger, or a fighting spirit. In subtler forms, it appears as impatience, grimness, earnestness, or severity of character. Earnestness means being willing to live energetically, even when energy brings pain. The pain may fall on others or on oneself. That makes little difference. In a determined mood, the aim is to break something, regardless of whose it is or what it is. Nothing destroys an inhibition as irresistibly as anger does. For anger, like war in Moltke’s words, is essentially pure destruction. This makes anger an invaluable ally to every other passion. We trample on even the sweetest pleasures with fierce delight when they threaten to hinder a cause that arouses our higher indignation. Then it costs us nothing to abandon friendships, give up long-held privileges and possessions, or break social ties. Instead, we take a stern joy in the harshness and desolation. In most cases, what we call weakness of character seems to consist in an inability to enter these sacrificial moods. Our own lower selves and their cherished comforts must often be the targets and victims of these moods.¹⁴⁴

So far I have spoken of temporary alterations produced by shifting excitements in the same person. But the relatively fixed differences of character of different persons are explained in a precisely similar way. In a man with a liability to a special sort of emotion, whole ranges of inhibition habitually vanish, which in other men remain effective, and other sorts of inhibition take their place. When a person has an inborn genius for certain emotions, his life differs strangely from that of ordinary people, for none of their usual deterrents check him. Your mere aspirant to a type of character, on the contrary, only shows, when your natural lover, fighter, or reformer, with whom the passion is a gift of nature, comes along, the hopeless inferiority of voluntary to instinctive action. He has deliberately to overcome his inhibitions; the genius with the inborn passion seems not to feel them at all; he is free of all that inner friction and nervous waste. To a Fox, a Garibaldi, a General Booth, a John Brown, a Louise Michel, a Bradlaugh, the obstacles omnipotent over those around them are as if non-existent. Could the rest of us so disregard them, there might be many such heroes, for many have the wish to live for similar ideals, and only the adequate degree of inhibition-quenching fury is lacking.¹⁴⁵

So far, I have discussed temporary changes caused by shifting emotional excitements in the same person. But the relatively fixed differences in character between people are explained in exactly the same way. A person prone to a particular kind of emotion habitually loses whole ranges of inhibitions that remain effective in others. Other kinds of inhibition take their place. When a person has an inborn genius for certain emotions, his life differs strangely from that of ordinary people. None of their usual deterrents hold him back. By contrast, someone who merely aspires to a type of character reveals how hopelessly inferior voluntary action is to instinctive action. This becomes clear when a natural lover, fighter, or reformer comes along, whose passion is a gift of nature. The aspirant must deliberately overcome his inhibitions. The genius with an inborn passion seems not to feel those inhibitions at all. He is free from all that inner friction and waste of nervous energy. For a Fox, a Garibaldi, a General Booth, a John Brown, a Louise Michel, or a Bradlaugh, obstacles that completely overpower those around them might as well not exist. If the rest of us could disregard those obstacles as they do, there might be many such heroes. For many people wish to live for similar ideals. They lack only enough fury to extinguish their inhibitions.¹⁴⁵

The difference between willing and merely wishing, between having ideals that are creative and ideals that are but pinings and regrets, thus depends solely either on the amount of steam-pressure chronically driving the character in the ideal direction, or on the amount of ideal excitement transiently acquired. Given a certain amount of love, indignation, generosity, magnanimity, admiration, loyalty, or enthusiasm of self-surrender, the result is always the same. That whole raft of cowardly obstructions, which in tame persons and dull moods are sovereign impediments to action, sinks away at once. Our conventionality,¹⁴⁶ our shyness, laziness, and stinginess, our demands for precedent and permission, for guarantee and surety, our small suspicions, timidities, despairs, where are they now? Severed like cobwebs, broken like bubbles in the sun—

The difference between willing and merely wishing is the same as the difference between creative ideals and ideals that are only longings and regrets. It depends solely on how much steam pressure continually drives a person toward an ideal, or how much excitement about the ideal the person temporarily feels. Given enough love, indignation, generosity, magnanimity, admiration, loyalty, or enthusiasm for self-surrender, the result is always the same. The whole mass of cowardly obstacles immediately falls away. For timid people, and in dull moods, these obstacles are powerful barriers to action. Our conventionality,¹⁴⁶ our shyness, laziness, and stinginess, our demands for precedent and permission, for guarantees and assurances, our petty suspicions, fears, and despair, where are they now? Cut apart like cobwebs, burst like bubbles in the sun.

The flood we are borne on rolls them so lightly under that their very contact is unfelt. Set free of them, we float and soar and sing. This auroral openness and uplift gives to all creative ideal levels a bright and caroling quality, which is nowhere more marked than where the controlling emotion is religious. “The true monk,” writes an Italian mystic, “takes nothing with him but his lyre.”

The flood that carries us along sweeps them under so gently that we do not even feel them touch us. Free of them, we float, soar, and sing. This dawnlike openness and uplift gives all creative, ideal states a bright, songlike quality. This quality is nowhere more striking than when religious feeling is in control. “The true monk,” writes an Italian mystic, “takes nothing with him but his lyre.”

We may now turn from these psychological generalities to those fruits of the religious state which form the special subject of our present lecture. The man who lives in his religious centre of personal energy, and is actuated by spiritual enthusiasms, differs from his previous carnal self in perfectly definite ways. The new ardor which burns in his breast consumes in its glow the lower “noes” which formerly beset him, and keeps him immune against infection from the entire groveling portion of his nature. Magnanimities once impossible are now easy; paltry conventionalities and mean incentives once tyrannical hold no sway. The stone wall inside of him has fallen, the hardness in his heart has broken down. The rest of us can, I think, imagine this by recalling our state of feeling in those temporary “melting moods” into which either the trials of real life, or the theatre, or a novel sometimes throw us. Especially if we weep! For it is then as if our tears broke through an inveterate inner dam, and let all sorts of ancient peccancies and moral stagnancies drain away, leaving us now washed and soft of heart and open to every nobler leading. With most of us the customary hardness quickly returns, but not so with saintly persons. Many saints, even as energetic ones as Teresa and Loyola, have possessed what the church traditionally reveres as a special grace, the so-called gift of tears. In these persons the melting mood seems to have held almost uninterrupted control. And as it is with tears and melting moods, so it is with other exalted affections. Their reign may come by gradual growth or by a crisis; but in either case it may have “come to stay.”

We may now turn from these general observations about psychology to the fruits of the religious state. These fruits are the special subject of our present lecture. A man who lives from the religious center of his personal energy and is driven by spiritual enthusiasm differs from his former worldly self in definite ways. The new passion burning within him consumes the lower “noes” that once troubled him. It also protects him from the influence of everything base in his nature. Generous acts that were once impossible are now easy. Petty conventions and base motives that once ruled him no longer have any power over him. The stone wall inside him has fallen, and the hardness in his heart has broken down. The rest of us can, I think, imagine this change by recalling our own temporary “melting moods.” The trials of real life, a play, or a novel sometimes bring on such moods. This is especially true if we weep! It is then as if our tears broke through a long-standing inner dam. All kinds of old faults and moral stagnation seem to drain away. We are left cleansed, tenderhearted, and open to every nobler impulse. For most of us, our usual hardness quickly returns, but not for saintly people. Many saints, even those as energetic as Teresa and Loyola, have possessed the so-called gift of tears. The church traditionally reveres this gift as a special grace. In such people, the melting mood seems to have prevailed almost without interruption. The same is true of other exalted feelings. Their rule may come through gradual growth or through a crisis. But in either case, it may have “come to stay.”

At the end of the last lecture we saw this permanence to be true of the general paramountcy of the higher insight, even though in the ebbs of emotional excitement meaner motives might temporarily prevail and backsliding might occur. But that lower temptations may remain completely annulled, apart from transient emotion and as if by alteration of the man's habitual nature, is also proved by documentary evidence in certain cases. Before embarking on the general natural history of the regenerate character, let me convince you of this curious fact by one or two examples. The most numerous are those of reformed drunkards. You recollect the case of Mr. Hadley in the last lecture; the Jerry McAuley Water Street Mission abounds in similar instances.¹⁴⁷ You also remember the graduate of Oxford, converted at three in the afternoon, and getting drunk in the hay-field the next day, but after that permanently cured of his appetite. “From that hour drink has had no terrors for me: I never touch it, never want it. The same thing occurred with my pipe, ... the desire for it went at once and has never returned. So with every known sin, the deliverance in each case being permanent and complete. I have had no temptations since conversion.”

At the end of the last lecture, we saw that the higher insight remains generally dominant. This remains true even though lower motives may temporarily prevail when emotional excitement fades, and a person may backslide. But documentary evidence also shows that, in certain cases, lower temptations may remain completely gone. This happens apart from any temporary emotion, as if the person’s habitual nature had changed. Before turning to the general natural history of the regenerate character, let me give one or two examples to convince you of this curious fact. The most numerous examples are reformed drunkards. You remember the case of Mr. Hadley from the last lecture. The Jerry McAuley Water Street Mission has many similar cases.¹⁴⁷ You also remember the Oxford graduate who was converted at three in the afternoon. He got drunk in the hay-field the next day, but after that he was permanently cured of his desire for drink. “From that hour, drink has held no terror for me. I never touch it and never want it. The same thing happened with my pipe, ... the desire for it disappeared at once and has never returned. The same was true of every known sin. In each case, my deliverance was permanent and complete. I have had no temptations since my conversion.”

Here is an analogous case from Starbuck's manuscript collection:—

Here is a similar case from Starbuck's manuscript collection:

The classic case of Colonel Gardiner is that of a man cured of sexual temptation in a single hour. To Mr. Spears the colonel said, “I was effectually cured of all inclination to that sin I was so strongly addicted to that I thought nothing but shooting me through the head could have cured me of it; and all desire and inclination to it was removed, as entirely as if I had been a sucking child; nor did the temptation return to this day.” Mr. Webster's words on the same subject are these: “One thing I have heard the colonel frequently say, that he was much addicted to impurity before his acquaintance with religion; but that, so soon as he was enlightened from above, he felt the power of the Holy Ghost changing his nature so wonderfully that his sanctification in this respect seemed more remarkable than in any other.”¹⁴⁸

The classic case of Colonel Gardiner is about a man cured of sexual temptation in a single hour. The colonel told Mr. Spears, “I was completely cured of all desire for the sin I had been so strongly addicted to. I had thought that nothing but shooting me through the head could have cured me of it. All desire and inclination for it disappeared, as completely as if I had been a nursing infant. The temptation has not returned to this day.” Mr. Webster said the following about the same subject: “I often heard the colonel say that he was much addicted to impurity before he came to know religion. But as soon as he was enlightened from above, he felt the Holy Ghost change his nature so wonderfully that his sanctification in this respect seemed more remarkable than in any other.”¹⁴⁸

Such rapid abolition of ancient impulses and propensities reminds us so strongly of what has been observed as the result of hypnotic suggestion that it is difficult not to believe that subliminal influences play the decisive part in these abrupt changes of heart, just as they do in hypnotism.¹⁴⁹ Suggestive therapeutics abound in records of cure, after a few sittings, of inveterate bad habits with which the patient, left to ordinary moral and physical influences, had struggled in vain. Both drunkenness and sexual vice have been cured in this way, action through the subliminal seeming thus in many individuals to have the prerogative of inducing relatively stable change. If the grace of God miraculously operates, it probably operates through the subliminal door, then. But just how anything operates in this region is still unexplained, and we shall do well now to say good-by to the process of transformation altogether,—leaving it, if you like, a good deal of a psychological or theological mystery,—and to turn our attention to the fruits of the religious condition, no matter in what way they may have been produced.¹⁵⁰

The sudden disappearance of long-standing impulses and tendencies strongly resembles what has been observed after hypnotic suggestion. It is hard not to believe that subliminal influences play the decisive role in these sudden changes of heart, just as they do in hypnotism.¹⁴⁹ Records of treatment through suggestion include many cases of deeply rooted bad habits cured after a few sessions. Left to ordinary moral and physical influences, the patients had struggled against these habits in vain. Both drunkenness and sexual vice have been cured this way. Action through the subliminal therefore seems to have a special power to bring relatively stable change in many people. If the grace of God works miracles, then it probably works through the subliminal door. But just how anything works in this region remains unexplained. So we would do well to leave the process of transformation behind altogether. If you like, we can leave it as largely a psychological or theological mystery. Instead, let us turn our attention to the fruits of the religious condition, however they may have been produced.¹⁵⁰

The collective name for the ripe fruits of religion in a character is Saintliness.¹⁵¹ The saintly character is the character for which spiritual emotions are the habitual centre of the personal energy; and there is a certain composite photograph of universal saintliness, the same in all religions, of which the features can easily be traced.¹⁵²

Saintliness is the collective name for the mature fruits of religion in a person’s character.¹⁵¹ In a saintly character, spiritual emotions are the usual center of personal energy. And across all religions, there is a shared composite picture of saintliness whose features are easy to trace.¹⁵²

They are these:—

They are these:

1. A feeling of being in a wider life than that of this world's selfish little interests; and a conviction, not merely intellectual, but as it were sensible, of the existence of an Ideal Power. In Christian saintliness this power is always personified as God; but abstract moral ideals, civic or patriotic utopias, or inner visions of holiness or right may also be felt as the true lords and enlargers of our life, in ways which I described in the lecture on the Reality of the Unseen.¹⁵³

1. A feeling that one belongs to a life wider than this world's selfish little interests. It also includes a conviction that an Ideal Power exists, not just as an intellectual idea but as something almost tangible. In Christian saintliness, this power is always personified as God. But abstract moral ideals, civic or patriotic utopias, or inner visions of holiness or right may also be felt as the true rulers and enlargers of our lives. I described these ways of feeling in the lecture on the Reality of the Unseen.¹⁵³

2. A sense of the friendly continuity of the ideal power with our own life, and a willing self-surrender to its control.

2. A sense that the ideal power is friendly and connected to our own lives, and a willingness to surrender to its control.

3. An immense elation and freedom, as the outlines of the confining selfhood melt down.

3. An immense sense of joy and freedom, as the boundaries of the confining self melt away.

4. A shifting of the emotional centre towards loving and harmonious affections, towards “yes, yes” and away from “no,” where the claims of the non-ego are concerned.

4. A shift in emotional focus toward loving and harmonious feelings. It means saying “yes, yes” rather than “no” to the demands of others and the world outside oneself.

These fundamental inner conditions have characteristic practical consequences, as follows:—

These basic inner conditions have the following characteristic effects in practice:

a. Asceticism.—The self-surrender may become so passionate as to turn into self-immolation. It may then so overrule the ordinary inhibitions of the flesh that the saint finds positive pleasure in sacrifice and asceticism, measuring and expressing as they do the degree of his loyalty to the higher power.

a. Asceticism. Self-surrender may become so passionate that it turns into self-immolation. It may then overcome the body’s normal resistance so completely that the saint takes pleasure in sacrifice and asceticism. These measure and express the degree of his loyalty to the higher power.

b. Strength of Soul.—The sense of enlargement of life may be so uplifting that personal motives and inhibitions, commonly omnipotent, become too insignificant for notice, and new reaches of patience and fortitude open out. Fears and anxieties go, and blissful equanimity takes their place. Come heaven, come hell, it makes no difference now!

b. Strength of Soul. A sense of a larger life may be so uplifting that personal motives and inhibitions seem too small to notice. Usually, they have overwhelming power. New depths of patience and courage open up. Fears and anxieties disappear, and a blissful calm takes their place. Come heaven or hell, it makes no difference now!

c. Purity.—The shifting of the emotional centre brings with it, first, increase of purity. The sensitiveness to spiritual discords is enhanced, and the cleansing of existence from brutal and sensual elements becomes imperative. Occasions of contact with such elements are avoided: the saintly life must deepen its spiritual consistency and keep unspotted from the world. In some temperaments this need of purity of spirit takes an ascetic turn, and weaknesses of the flesh are treated with relentless severity.

c. Purity. The shift in a person’s emotional center brings, first, an increase in purity. People become more sensitive to spiritual disharmony. They feel compelled to cleanse their lives of brutal and sensual elements and avoid contact with them. The saintly life must become more consistently spiritual and remain unstained by the world. In some people, this need for spiritual purity takes an ascetic form. They treat weaknesses of the flesh with relentless severity.

d. Charity.—The shifting of the emotional centre brings, secondly, increase of charity, tenderness for fellow-creatures. The ordinary motives to antipathy, which usually set such close bounds to tenderness among human beings, are inhibited. The saint loves his enemies, and treats loathsome beggars as his brothers.

d. Charity: Second, the shift in emotional focus increases charity and tenderness toward others. The usual reasons for dislike, which place such narrow limits on human tenderness, are held in check. The saint loves his enemies and treats beggars he finds repulsive as his brothers.

I now have to give some concrete illustrations of these fruits of the spiritual tree. The only difficulty is to choose, for they are so abundant.

I now need to give some concrete examples of these fruits of the spiritual tree. The only difficulty is choosing, because there are so many.

Since the sense of Presence of a higher and friendly Power seems to be the fundamental feature in the spiritual life, I will begin with that.

The sense that a higher, friendly power is present seems to be the central feature of spiritual life, so I will begin there.

In our narratives of conversion we saw how the world might look shining and transfigured to the convert,¹⁵⁴ and, apart from anything acutely religious, we all have moments when the universal life seems to wrap us round with friendliness. In youth and health, in summer, in the woods or on the mountains, there come days when the weather seems all whispering with peace, hours when the goodness and beauty of existence enfold us like a dry warm climate, or chime through us as if our inner ears were subtly ringing with the world's security. Thoreau writes:—

In our accounts of conversion, we saw how the world could appear shining and transformed to the convert.¹⁵⁴ Even apart from intensely religious experiences, we all have moments when the life of the universe seems to surround us with friendliness. In youth and health, in summer, in the woods or on the mountains, there are days when the weather seems to whisper of peace. There are hours when the goodness and beauty of existence surround us like a dry, warm climate. Or they ring through us, as if our inner ears were softly echoing with the world's safety. Thoreau writes:

In the Christian consciousness this sense of the enveloping friendliness becomes most personal and definite. “The compensation,” writes a German author, “for the loss of that sense of personal independence which man so unwillingly gives up, is the disappearance of all fear from one's life, the quite indescribable and inexplicable feeling of an inner security, which one can only experience, but which, once it has been experienced, one can never forget.”¹⁵⁶

In Christian consciousness, this sense of being surrounded by friendliness becomes most personal and definite. “People are very reluctant to give up their sense of personal independence,” writes a German author. “But in return, all fear disappears from their lives. They gain an inner security that is impossible to describe or explain. One can only experience this feeling, but once experienced, it can never be forgotten.”¹⁵⁶

I find an excellent description of this state of mind in a sermon by Mr. Voysey:—

I find an excellent description of this state of mind in a sermon by Mr. Voysey:

More excited expressions of this condition are abundant in religious literature. I could easily weary you with their monotony. Here is an account from Mrs. Jonathan Edwards:—

Religious literature is full of more excited expressions of this condition. I could easily tire you with how repetitive they are. Here is an account from Mrs. Jonathan Edwards:

The annals of Catholic saintship abound in records as ecstatic or more ecstatic than this. “Often the assaults of the divine love,” it is said of the Sister Séraphique de la Martinière, “reduced her almost to the point of death. She used tenderly to complain of this to God. ‘I cannot support it,’ she used to say. ‘Bear gently with my weakness, or I shall expire under the violence of your love.’ ”¹⁶⁰

The records of Catholic saints contain many accounts as ecstatic as this one, or even more so. Of Sister Séraphique de la Martinière, it is said: “The assaults of divine love often brought her close to death. She would tenderly complain to God about them. ‘I cannot bear it,’ she would say. ‘Be gentle with my weakness, or I will die from the violence of your love.’ ”¹⁶⁰

Let me pass next to the Charity and Brotherly Love which are a usual fruit of saintliness, and have always been reckoned essential theological virtues, however limited may have been the kinds of service which the particular theology enjoined. Brotherly love would follow logically from the assurance of God's friendly presence, the notion of our brotherhood as men being an immediate inference from that of God's fatherhood of us all. When Christ utters the precepts: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you,” he gives for a reason: “That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” One might therefore be tempted to explain both the humility as to one's self and the charity towards others which characterize spiritual excitement, as results of the all-leveling character of theistic belief. But these affections are certainly not mere derivatives of theism. We find them in Stoicism, in Hinduism, and in Buddhism in the highest possible degree. They harmonize with paternal theism beautifully; but they harmonize with all reflection whatever upon the dependence of mankind on general causes; and we must, I think, consider them not subordinate but coördinate parts of that great complex excitement in the study of which we are engaged. Religious rapture, moral enthusiasm, ontological wonder, cosmic emotion, are all unifying states of mind, in which the sand and grit of the selfhood incline to disappear, and tenderness to rule. The best thing is to describe the condition integrally as a characteristic affection to which our nature is liable, a region in which we find ourselves at home, a sea in which we swim; but not to pretend to explain its parts by deriving them too cleverly from one another. Like love or fear, the faith-state is a natural psychic complex, and carries charity with it by organic consequence. Jubilation is an expansive affection, and all expansive affections are self-forgetful and kindly so long as they endure.

Let me turn next to charity and brotherly love. These are usual fruits of saintliness and have always been considered essential theological virtues. This is true however limited the kinds of service a particular theology required. Brotherly love would follow logically from the assurance of God's friendly presence. The idea that God is the father of us all immediately suggests that we are all brothers and sisters. Christ gives these commands: “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you and persecute you.” He gives this reason: “So that you may be children of your Father in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust.” We might therefore be tempted to explain the humility and charity that characterize spiritual excitement as results of theistic belief. Such belief puts everyone on an equal footing. But these feelings certainly do not come merely from theism. We find them in Stoicism, Hinduism, and Buddhism to the highest possible degree. They fit beautifully with belief in a fatherly God. But they fit with any reflection on humanity's dependence on general causes. I think we must consider them not subordinate to other parts of the great complex excitement we are studying, but equal parts of it. Religious rapture, moral enthusiasm, wonder at existence, and cosmic emotion are all states of mind that bring things together. In them, the sand and grit of selfhood tend to disappear, and tenderness tends to rule. It is best to describe this condition as a whole, as a characteristic feeling that our nature is capable of experiencing. It is a region where we find ourselves at home, a sea in which we swim. But we should not pretend to explain its parts by deriving them too cleverly from one another. Like love or fear, the state of faith is a natural complex of the mind. It brings charity with it as a natural consequence. Jubilation is an expansive feeling, and all expansive feelings make us forget ourselves and feel kindly toward others as long as they last.

We find this the case even when they are pathological in origin. In his instructive work, la Tristesse et la Joie,¹⁶¹ M. Georges Dumas compares together the melancholy and the joyous phase of circular insanity, and shows that, while selfishness characterizes the one, the other is marked by altruistic impulses. No human being so stingy and useless as was Marie in her melancholy period! But the moment the happy period begins, “sympathy and kindness become her characteristic sentiments. She displays a universal goodwill, not only of intention, but in act.... She becomes solicitous of the health of other patients, interested in getting them out, desirous to procure wool to knit socks for some of them. Never since she has been under my observation have I heard her in her joyous period utter any but charitable opinions.”¹⁶² And later, Dr. Dumas says of all such joyous conditions that “unselfish sentiments and tender emotions are the only affective states to be found in them. The subject's mind is closed against envy, hatred, and vindictiveness, and wholly transformed into benevolence, indulgence, and mercy.”¹⁶³

We find this even when they have a pathological origin. In his instructive work, la Tristesse et la Joie,¹⁶¹ M. Georges Dumas compares the melancholic and joyful phases of circular insanity. He shows that the melancholic phase is characterized by selfishness, while the joyful phase is marked by unselfish impulses. No human being was as stingy and useless as Marie during her melancholic period! But the moment her happy period begins, “sympathy and kindness become her characteristic feelings. She shows goodwill toward everyone, not just in intention but in action.... She becomes concerned about the health of other patients and interested in getting them out. She wants to get wool so she can knit socks for some of them. Since she has been under my observation, I have never heard her express anything but charitable opinions during her joyful period.”¹⁶² Later, Dr. Dumas says of all such joyful states that “unselfish feelings and tender emotions are the only emotional states found in them. The person’s mind is closed to envy, hatred, and vindictiveness. It is wholly transformed into goodwill, tolerance, and mercy.”¹⁶³

There is thus an organic affinity between joyousness and tenderness, and their companionship in the saintly life need in no way occasion surprise. Along with the happiness, this increase of tenderness is often noted in narratives of conversion. “I began to work for others”;—“I had more tender feeling for my family and friends”;—“I spoke at once to a person with whom I had been angry”;—“I felt for every one, and loved my friends better”;—“I felt every one to be my friend”;—these are so many expressions from the records collected by Professor Starbuck.¹⁶⁴

Joy and tenderness are naturally connected, so it is no surprise that they go together in the lives of saints. Accounts of conversion often describe an increase in tenderness along with happiness. “I began to work for others.” “I felt more tenderness toward my family and friends.” “I spoke at once to someone I had been angry with.” “I felt for everyone and loved my friends more.” “I felt that everyone was my friend.” These are expressions from the records collected by Professor Starbuck.¹⁶⁴

Whatever be the explanation of the charity, it may efface all usual human barriers.¹⁶⁵

Whatever explains this charity, it may erase all the usual barriers between people.¹⁶⁵

Here, for instance, is an example of Christian non-resistance from Richard Weaver's autobiography. Weaver was a collier, a semi-professional pugilist in his younger days, who became a much beloved evangelist. Fighting, after drinking, seems to have been the sin to which he originally felt his flesh most perversely inclined. After his first conversion he had a backsliding, which consisted in pounding a man who had insulted a girl. Feeling that, having once fallen, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he got drunk and went and broke the jaw of another man who had lately challenged him to fight and taunted him with cowardice for refusing as a Christian man;—I mention these incidents to show how genuine a change of heart is implied in the later conduct which he describes as follows:—

Here, for example, is a case of Christian non-resistance from Richard Weaver's autobiography. Weaver was a coal miner and, in his younger days, a semiprofessional boxer. He became a much-loved evangelist. Fighting after drinking seems to have been the sin his flesh was originally most perversely drawn to. After his first conversion, he backslid by beating up a man who had insulted a girl. Having fallen once, he felt he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. So he got drunk and broke the jaw of another man. That man had recently challenged him to a fight and called him a coward for refusing as a Christian. I mention these incidents to show how genuine a change of heart is implied by his later conduct, which he describes as follows:

“Love your enemies!” Mark you, not simply those who happen not to be your friends, but your enemies, your positive and active enemies. Either this is a mere Oriental hyperbole, a bit of verbal extravagance, meaning only that we should, as far as we can, abate our animosities, or else it is sincere and literal. Outside of certain cases of intimate individual relation, it seldom has been taken literally. Yet it makes one ask the question: Can there in general be a level of emotion so unifying, so obliterative of differences between man and man, that even enmity may come to be an irrelevant circumstance and fail to inhibit the friendlier interests aroused? If positive well-wishing could attain so supreme a degree of excitement, those who were swayed by it might well seem superhuman beings. Their life would be morally discrete from the life of other men, and there is no saying, in the absence of positive experience of an authentic kind,—for there are few active examples in our scriptures, and the Buddhistic examples are legendary,¹⁶⁷—what the effects might be: they might conceivably transform the world.

“Love your enemies!” Notice, not merely those who happen not to be your friends, but your enemies, your active and determined enemies. Either this is simply Oriental exaggeration, a flourish of words meaning only that we should reduce our hostility as much as we can, or it is meant sincerely and literally. Except in certain close personal relationships, it has seldom been taken literally. Yet it raises a question: Can there be a level of emotion so unifying that it erases differences between people? Could such emotion make even enmity irrelevant, so that it no longer stands in the way of friendlier feelings? If goodwill could reach such an intense degree, those moved by it might well seem superhuman. Their lives would be morally distinct from those of other people. And without genuine firsthand experience, there is no telling what the effects might be. For there are few active examples in our scriptures, and the Buddhistic examples are legendary.¹⁶⁷ Such people might conceivably transform the world.

Psychologically and in principle, the precept “Love your enemies” is not self-contradictory. It is merely the extreme limit of a kind of magnanimity with which, in the shape of pitying tolerance of our oppressors, we are fairly familiar. Yet if radically followed, it would involve such a breach with our instinctive springs of action as a whole, and with the present world's arrangements, that a critical point would practically be passed, and we should be born into another kingdom of being. Religious emotion makes us feel that other kingdom to be close at hand, within our reach.

Psychologically and in principle, the command “Love your enemies” is not self-contradictory. It is simply an extreme form of generosity of spirit that we already know fairly well. We show it when we tolerate our oppressors out of pity. Yet if we followed this command completely, we would break sharply with all our instinctive motives and with the way the world is now organized. In practice, we would pass a critical point and be born into another realm of existence. Religious emotion makes us feel that this other realm is close at hand, within our reach.

The inhibition of instinctive repugnance is proved not only by the showing of love to enemies, but by the showing of it to any one who is personally loathsome. In the annals of saintliness we find a curious mixture of motives impelling in this direction. Asceticism plays its part; and along with charity pure and simple, we find humility or the desire to disclaim distinction and to grovel on the common level before God. Certainly all three principles were at work when Francis of Assisi and Ignatius Loyola exchanged their garments with those of filthy beggars. All three are at work when religious persons consecrate their lives to the care of leprosy or other peculiarly unpleasant diseases. The nursing of the sick is a function to which the religious seem strongly drawn, even apart from the fact that church traditions set that way. But in the annals of this sort of charity we find fantastic excesses of devotion recorded which are only explicable by the frenzy of self-immolation simultaneously aroused. Francis of Assisi kisses his lepers; Margaret Mary Alacoque, Francis Xavier, St. John of God, and others are said to have cleansed the sores and ulcers of their patients with their respective tongues; and the lives of such saints as Elizabeth of Hungary and Madame de Chantal are full of a sort of reveling in hospital purulence, disagreeable to read of, and which makes us admire and shudder at the same time.

We can see people overcoming instinctive disgust not only when they show love to enemies, but also when they show it to anyone they find personally repulsive. Accounts of saintly lives reveal a curious mixture of motives behind such actions. Asceticism plays a part, along with simple charity. So does humility, or the desire to reject special distinction and humble oneself on the common level before God. Certainly all three motives were at work when Francis of Assisi and Ignatius Loyola exchanged clothes with filthy beggars. All three are also at work when religious people devote their lives to caring for people with leprosy or other especially unpleasant diseases. Religious people seem strongly drawn to nursing the sick, even apart from the fact that church traditions encourage it. But accounts of this kind of charity describe fantastic extremes of devotion. These can be explained only by the frenzy of self-sacrifice stirred up at the same time. Francis of Assisi kisses his lepers. Margaret Mary Alacoque, Francis Xavier, St. John of God, and others are said to have cleaned their patients’ sores and ulcers with their tongues. The lives of saints such as Elizabeth of Hungary and Madame de Chantal are full of a kind of delight in the pus and infection of hospitals. These accounts are unpleasant to read and make us admire and shudder at the same time.

So much for the human love aroused by the faith-state. Let me next speak of the Equanimity, Resignation, Fortitude, and Patience which it brings.

That concludes my discussion of the human love awakened by a state of faith. Next, let me discuss the calm, acceptance, courage, and patience that faith brings.

“A paradise of inward tranquillity” seems to be faith's usual result; and it is easy, even without being religious one's self, to understand this. A moment back, in treating of the sense of God's presence, I spoke of the unaccountable feeling of safety which one may then have. And, indeed, how can it possibly fail to steady the nerves, to cool the fever, and appease the fret, if one be sensibly conscious that, no matter what one's difficulties for the moment may appear to be, one's life as a whole is in the keeping of a power whom one can absolutely trust? In deeply religious men the abandonment of self to this power is passionate. Whoever not only says, but feels, “God's will be done,” is mailed against every weakness; and the whole historic array of martyrs, missionaries, and religious reformers is there to prove the tranquil-mindedness, under naturally agitating or distressing circumstances, which self-surrender brings.

“A paradise of inner peace” seems to be the usual result of faith. Even without being religious yourself, you can easily understand this. A moment ago, I discussed the sense of God's presence. I mentioned the unexplainable feeling of safety that can come with it. And indeed, imagine being keenly aware that your whole life is in the care of a power you can trust completely. No matter what your present difficulties may seem to be, how could that awareness fail to steady your nerves, calm your fever, and ease your worry? Deeply religious people passionately surrender themselves to this power. Anyone who not only says, but feels, “God's will be done,” is protected against every weakness. The whole historical array of martyrs, missionaries, and religious reformers proves how calm such surrender can make people. They remained calm in circumstances that would naturally cause agitation or distress.

The temper of the tranquil-mindedness differs, of course, according as the person is of a constitutionally sombre or of a constitutionally cheerful cast of mind. In the sombre it partakes more of resignation and submission; in the cheerful it is a joyous consent. As an example of the former temper, I quote part of a letter from Professor Lagneau, a venerated teacher of philosophy who lately died, a great invalid, at Paris:—

The character of a tranquil mind differs, of course, depending on whether a person is naturally gloomy or cheerful. In a gloomy person, tranquility is more like resignation and submission. In a cheerful person, it is a joyful acceptance. As an example of the former, I quote part of a letter from Professor Lagneau. He was a highly respected philosophy teacher who recently died in Paris after suffering from severe illness:

There is something pathetic and fatalistic about this, but the power of such a tone as a protection against outward shocks is manifest. Pascal is another Frenchman of pessimistic natural temperament. He expresses still more amply the temper of self-surrendering submissiveness:—

There is something pitiful and fatalistic about this, but it clearly helps protect against shocks from the outside world. Pascal is another Frenchman with a naturally pessimistic temperament. He expresses an attitude of self-surrendering submission even more fully:

When we reach more optimistic temperaments, the resignation grows less passive. Examples are sown so broadcast throughout history that I might well pass on without citation. As it is, I snatch at the first that occurs to my mind. Madame Guyon, a frail creature physically, was yet of a happy native disposition. She went through many perils with admirable serenity of soul. After being sent to prison for heresy,—

When we come to more optimistic temperaments, resignation becomes less passive. Examples are so widespread throughout history that I could easily move on without citing any. But I will take the first one that comes to mind. Madame Guyon was physically frail, yet naturally cheerful. She faced many dangers with admirable calm. After she was sent to prison for heresy,

The contempt of danger which religious enthusiasm produces may be even more buoyant still. I take an example from that charming recent autobiography, “With Christ at Sea,” by Frank Bullen. A couple of days after he went through the conversion on shipboard of which he there gives an account,—

The disregard for danger that religious enthusiasm produces may be even more cheerful. I take an example from Frank Bullen’s charming recent autobiography, “With Christ at Sea.” A couple of days after his conversion aboard ship, which he describes in the book:

The annals of martyrdom are of course the signal field of triumph for religious imperturbability. Let me cite as an example the statement of a humble sufferer, persecuted as a Huguenot under Louis XIV.:—

The history of martyrdom is, of course, the outstanding example of religious calm in the face of suffering. Let me cite the account of an ordinary person persecuted as a Huguenot under Louis XIV:

The transition from tenseness, self-responsibility, and worry, to equanimity, receptivity, and peace, is the most wonderful of all those shiftings of inner equilibrium, those changes of the personal centre of energy, which I have analyzed so often; and the chief wonder of it is that it so often comes about, not by doing, but by simply relaxing and throwing the burden down. This abandonment of self-responsibility seems to be the fundamental act in specifically religious, as distinguished from moral practice. It antedates theologies and is independent of philosophies. Mind-cure, theosophy, stoicism, ordinary neurological hygiene, insist on it as emphatically as Christianity does, and it is capable of entering into closest marriage with every speculative creed.¹⁷³ Christians who have it strongly live in what is called “recollection,” and are never anxious about the future, nor worry over the outcome of the day. Of Saint Catharine of Genoa it is said that “she took cognizance of things, only as they were presented to her in succession, moment by moment.” To her holy soul, “the divine moment was the present moment,... and when the present moment was estimated in itself and in its relations, and when the duty that was involved in it was accomplished, it was permitted to pass away as if it had never been, and to give way to the facts and duties of the moment which came after.”¹⁷⁴

The shift from tension, self-responsibility, and worry to calm, openness, and peace is the most wonderful of all the changes in inner balance I have so often analyzed. These are changes in the center of a person’s energy. The chief wonder is that this shift so often happens not through action, but simply by relaxing and laying down the burden. Giving up self-responsibility seems to be the fundamental act of specifically religious practice, as distinct from moral practice. It came before theologies and is independent of philosophies. Mind-cure, theosophy, stoicism, and ordinary neurological hygiene all insist on it as strongly as Christianity does. It can also be joined closely to any speculative creed.¹⁷³ Christians who strongly practice this live in what is called “recollection.” They are never anxious about the future or worried about how the day will turn out. Of Saint Catharine of Genoa it is said that “she noticed things only as they came to her, one after another, moment by moment.” To her holy soul, “the divine moment was the present moment.... Once she had considered the present moment in itself and in relation to other things, and had done the duty it required, she let it pass as if it had never been. Then she turned to the facts and duties of the next moment.”¹⁷⁴

Hinduism, mind-cure, and theosophy all lay great emphasis upon this concentration of the consciousness upon the moment at hand.

Hinduism, mind-cure, and theosophy all strongly emphasize focusing awareness on the present moment.

The next religious symptom which I will note is what I have called Purity of Life. The saintly person becomes exceedingly sensitive to inner inconsistency or discord, and mixture and confusion grow intolerable. All the mind's objects and occupations must be ordered with reference to the special spiritual excitement which is now its keynote. Whatever is unspiritual taints the pure water of the soul and is repugnant. Mixed with this exaltation of the moral sensibilities there is also an ardor of sacrifice, for the beloved deity's sake, of everything unworthy of him. Sometimes the spiritual ardor is so sovereign that purity is achieved at a stroke—we have seen examples. Usually it is a more gradual conquest. Billy Bray's account of his abandonment of tobacco is a good example of the latter form of achievement.

The next religious trait I will note is what I have called Purity of Life. The saintly person becomes extremely sensitive to inner inconsistency or conflict. Mixture and confusion become unbearable. All the mind’s concerns and activities must be ordered around the special spiritual excitement that now dominates it. Whatever is unspiritual taints the pure water of the soul and is repugnant. Along with this heightened moral sensitivity comes an eagerness to sacrifice everything unworthy of the beloved deity, for his sake. Sometimes the spiritual passion is so powerful that purity is achieved at once. We have seen examples of this. Usually, purity is achieved more gradually. Billy Bray’s account of giving up tobacco is a good example of this more gradual achievement.

The ascetic forms which the impulse for veracity and purity of life may take are often pathetic enough. The early Quakers, for example, had hard battles to wage against the worldliness and insincerity of the ecclesiastical Christianity of their time. Yet the battle that cost them most wounds was probably that which they fought in defense of their own right to social veracity and sincerity in their thee-ing and thou-ing, in not doffing the hat or giving titles of respect. It was laid on George Fox that these conventional customs were a lie and a sham, and the whole body of his followers thereupon renounced them, as a sacrifice to truth, and so that their acts and the spirit they professed might be more in accord.

The strict forms that the desire for truthfulness and purity in life may take are often movingly sad. The early Quakers, for example, fought hard against the worldliness and insincerity of the established Christianity of their time. Yet their most costly battle was probably the one they fought for their right to be truthful and sincere in social life. They insisted on using “thee” and “thou,” keeping their hats on, and refusing to use titles of respect. George Fox came to believe that these conventional customs were a lie and a sham. His followers all gave up the customs as a sacrifice to truth, so that their actions would better match the spirit they professed.

In the autobiography of Thomas Elwood, an early Quaker, who at one time was secretary to John Milton, we find an exquisitely quaint and candid account of the trials he underwent both at home and abroad, in following Fox's canons of sincerity. The anecdotes are too lengthy for citation; but Elwood sets down his manner of feeling about these things in a shorter passage, which I will quote as a characteristic utterance of spiritual sensibility:—

Thomas Elwood was an early Quaker who once served as John Milton’s secretary. In his autobiography, he gives a charmingly old-fashioned and candid account of the trials he faced at home and elsewhere while following Fox’s rules of sincerity. The anecdotes are too long to quote. But Elwood describes his feelings about these matters in a shorter passage, which I will quote as a characteristic expression of spiritual sensitivity:

These early Quakers were Puritans indeed. The slightest inconsistency between profession and deed jarred some of them to active protest. John Woolman writes in his diary:—

These early Quakers were indeed Puritans. Even the slightest gap between what people professed and what they did moved some Quakers to protest. John Woolman writes in his diary:

When the craving for moral consistency and purity is developed to this degree, the subject may well find the outer world too full of shocks to dwell in, and can unify his life and keep his soul unspotted only by withdrawing from it. That law which impels the artist to achieve harmony in his composition by simply dropping out whatever jars, or suggests a discord, rules also in the spiritual life. To omit, says Stevenson, is the one art in literature: “If I knew how to omit, I should ask no other knowledge.” And life, when full of disorder and slackness and vague superfluity, can no more have what we call character than literature can have it under similar conditions. So monasteries and communities of sympathetic devotees open their doors, and in their changeless order, characterized by omissions quite as much as constituted of actions, the holy-minded person finds that inner smoothness and cleanness which it is torture to him to feel violated at every turn by the discordancy and brutality of secular existence.

When the desire for moral consistency and purity grows this strong, a person may find the outside world too full of shocks to live in. Only by withdrawing from it can he bring his life into harmony and keep his soul untainted. The same law governs the spiritual life and drives the artist to create harmony in a composition. The artist does this by leaving out whatever jars or suggests discord. Stevenson says that omission is the one art in literature: “If I knew how to omit, I should ask no other knowledge.” A life full of disorder, carelessness, and vague excess can no more have what we call character than literature can under similar conditions. So monasteries and communities of like-minded devotees open their doors. Their unchanging order is defined as much by what they leave out as by what they do. Within that order, the holy-minded person finds inner peace and purity. In secular life, it is torture for him to feel that peace and purity violated at every turn by discord and brutality.

That the scrupulosity of purity may be carried to a fantastic extreme must be admitted. In this it resembles Asceticism, to which further symptom of saintliness we had better turn next. The adjective “ascetic” is applied to conduct originating on diverse psychological levels, which I might as well begin by distinguishing from one another.

We must admit that concern for purity may be taken to a fantastic extreme. In this respect, it resembles Asceticism, another sign of saintliness that we should turn to next. The adjective “ascetic” is used to describe conduct arising from different psychological levels. I might as well begin by distinguishing these levels from one another.

I will try to give an instance under each of these heads in turn; but it is not easy to get them pure, for in cases pronounced enough to be immediately classed as ascetic, several of the assigned motives usually work together. Moreover, before citing any examples at all, I must invite you to some general psychological considerations which apply to all of them alike.

I will try to give an example under each of these headings in turn. But it is hard to find examples that fit just one heading. In cases clearly enough ascetic to be recognized as such, several of the identified motives usually work together. Before giving any examples, though, I must ask you to consider some general psychological points that apply to all of them.

A strange moral transformation has within the past century swept over our Western world. We no longer think that we are called on to face physical pain with equanimity. It is not expected of a man that he should either endure it or inflict much of it, and to listen to the recital of cases of it makes our flesh creep morally as well as physically. The way in which our ancestors looked upon pain as an eternal ingredient of the world's order, and both caused and suffered it as a matter-of-course portion of their day's work, fills us with amazement. We wonder that any human beings could have been so callous. The result of this historic alteration is that even in the Mother Church herself, where ascetic discipline has such a fixed traditional prestige as a factor of merit, it has largely come into desuetude, if not discredit. A believer who flagellates or “macerates” himself to-day arouses more wonder and fear than emulation. Many Catholic writers who admit that the times have changed in this respect do so resignedly; and even add that perhaps it is as well not to waste feelings in regretting the matter, for to return to the heroic corporeal discipline of ancient days might be an extravagance.

A strange moral change has swept across the Western world over the past century. We no longer think we are called upon to face physical pain calmly. No one is expected to endure much pain or inflict much of it. Hearing accounts of pain makes us shudder, both morally and physically. Our ancestors saw pain as a permanent part of the world’s order. They caused and suffered pain as an ordinary part of their daily work, and this amazes us. We wonder how any human beings could have been so insensitive. As a result of this historical change, ascetic discipline has largely fallen out of use, if not into disrepute. This is true even in the Mother Church herself, where ascetic discipline has a firmly established traditional reputation for merit. Today, a believer who whips or “macerates” himself inspires more wonder and fear than a desire to follow his example. Many Catholic writers acknowledge with resignation that times have changed in this respect. They even add that perhaps there is no point in wasting emotion on regret. A return to the heroic physical discipline of earlier days might be excessive.

Where to seek the easy and the pleasant seems instinctive—and instinctive it appears to be in man; any deliberate tendency to pursue the hard and painful as such and for their own sakes might well strike one as purely abnormal. Nevertheless, in moderate degrees it is natural and even usual to human nature to court the arduous. It is only the extreme manifestations of the tendency that can be regarded as a paradox.

Seeking what is easy and pleasant seems instinctive, and it appears to be instinctive in humans. A deliberate tendency to seek difficulty and pain for their own sake might well seem entirely abnormal. Nevertheless, it is natural and even common for people to seek challenges to a moderate degree. Only extreme forms of this tendency can be considered paradoxical.

The psychological reasons for this lie near the surface. When we drop abstractions and take what we call our will in the act, we see that it is a very complex function. It involves both stimulations and inhibitions; it follows generalized habits; it is escorted by reflective criticisms; and it leaves a good or a bad taste of itself behind, according to the manner of the performance. The result is that, quite apart from the immediate pleasure which any sensible experience may give us, our own general moral attitude in procuring or undergoing the experience brings with it a secondary satisfaction or distaste. Some men and women, indeed, there are who can live on smiles and the word “yes” forever. But for others (indeed for most), this is too tepid and relaxed a moral climate. Passive happiness is slack and insipid, and soon grows mawkish and intolerable. Some austerity and wintry negativity, some roughness, danger, stringency, and effort, some “no! no!” must be mixed in, to produce the sense of an existence with character and texture and power. The range of individual differences in this respect is enormous; but whatever the mixture of yeses and noes may be, the person is infallibly aware when he has struck it in the right proportion for him. This, he feels, is my proper vocation, this is the optimum, the law, the life for me to live. Here I find the degree of equilibrium, safety, calm, and leisure which I need, or here I find the challenge, passion, fight, and hardship without which my soul's energy expires.

The psychological reasons for this are easy to see. When we set abstractions aside and look at the will in action, we see that it is very complex. It involves both impulses and restraints. It follows established habits and is accompanied by reflective judgments. It also leaves us feeling good or bad about it, depending on how we act. So, apart from the immediate pleasure an experience may give us, our general moral attitude brings its own satisfaction or distaste. This is true whether we seek out the experience or simply undergo it. Some men and women can indeed live on smiles and the word “yes” forever. But for others, indeed for most, this moral climate is too mild and relaxed. Passive happiness is weak and bland, and soon becomes sentimental and unbearable. Life must include some austerity and wintry negativity, some roughness, danger, demands, and effort. Some “no! no!” must be mixed in to give life character, texture, and power. People differ enormously in this respect. But whatever the mixture of yeses and noes, a person unfailingly knows when the proportion is right for him. He feels: this is my proper calling, this is the optimum, the law, the life for me to live. Here I find the balance, safety, calm, and leisure I need. Or here I find the challenge, passion, struggle, and hardship without which my soul's energy dies.

Every individual soul, in short, like every individual machine or organism, has its own best conditions of efficiency. A given machine will run best under a certain steam-pressure, a certain amperage; an organism under a certain diet, weight, or exercise. You seem to do best, I heard a doctor say to a patient, at about 140 millimeters of arterial tension. And it is just so with our sundry souls: some are happiest in calm weather; some need the sense of tension, of strong volition, to make them feel alive and well. For these latter souls, whatever is gained from day to day must be paid for by sacrifice and inhibition, or else it comes too cheap and has no zest.

In short, every individual soul, like every machine or organism, has its own best conditions for working well. A machine runs best at a certain steam pressure or amperage. An organism does best with a certain diet, weight, or amount of exercise. I once heard a doctor tell a patient, “You seem to do best at a blood pressure of about 140 millimeters.” The same is true of our various souls. Some are happiest in calm conditions. Others need a sense of tension and strong will to feel alive and well. For these souls, whatever they gain from day to day must be paid for through sacrifice and self-restraint. Otherwise, the gains come too cheaply and have no zest.

Now when characters of this latter sort become religious, they are apt to turn the edge of their need of effort and negativity against their natural self; and the ascetic life gets evolved as a consequence.

When people of this latter sort become religious, they tend to direct their need for effort and negation against their natural selves. As a result, they develop an ascetic way of life.

When Professor Tyndall in one of his lectures tells us that Thomas Carlyle put him into his bath-tub every morning of a freezing Berlin winter, he proclaimed one of the lowest grades of asceticism. Even without Carlyle, most of us find it necessary to our soul's health to start the day with a rather cool immersion. A little farther along the scale we get such statements as this, from one of my correspondents, an agnostic:—

In one of his lectures, Professor Tyndall tells us about a freezing winter in Berlin. Thomas Carlyle inspired him to get into his bathtub every morning that winter. Tyndall was describing one of the mildest forms of asceticism. Even without Carlyle, most of us find it necessary for our spiritual health to start the day with a rather cool bath. A little farther along the scale of asceticism, we find statements like this one from a correspondent of mine, an agnostic:

Such cases as these belong simply to our head 1. In the next case we probably have a mixture of heads 2 and 3—the asceticism becomes far more systematic and pronounced. The writer is a Protestant, whose sense of moral energy could doubtless be gratified on no lower terms, and I take his case from Starbuck's manuscript collection.

Cases like these belong simply to category 1. The next case probably combines categories 2 and 3. The asceticism becomes much more systematic and pronounced. The writer is a Protestant whose sense of moral energy could doubtless be satisfied with nothing less. I take his case from Starbuck's manuscript collection.

The Roman Church has organized and codified all this sort of thing, and given it a market-value in the shape of “merit.” But we see the cultivation of hardship cropping out under every sky and in every faith, as a spontaneous need of character. Thus we read of Channing, when first settled as a Unitarian minister, that—

The Roman Church has organized and codified all this, giving it a market value in the form of “merit.” But the practice of embracing hardship appears everywhere and in every faith, as a spontaneous need of character. Thus we read this about Channing when he first began serving as a Unitarian minister:

Channing's asceticism, such as it was, was evidently a compound of hardihood and love of purity. The democracy which is an offshoot of the enthusiasm of humanity, and of which I will speak later under the head of the cult of poverty, doubtless bore also a share. Certainly there was no pessimistic element in his case. In the next case we have a strongly pessimistic element, so that it belongs under head 4. John Cennick was Methodism's first lay preacher. In 1735 he was convicted of sin, while walking in Cheapside,—

Channing’s asceticism, such as it was, was clearly a mix of toughness and a love of purity. Democracy, which grows out of enthusiasm for humanity, doubtless also played a part. I will discuss democracy later under the heading of the cult of poverty. Certainly, there was no pessimism in Channing’s case. The next case has a strong element of pessimism, so it belongs under heading 4. John Cennick was Methodism’s first lay preacher. In 1735, while walking in Cheapside, he became deeply aware of his sin:

In this poor man we have morbid melancholy and fear, and the sacrifices made are to purge out sin, and to buy safety. The hopelessness of Christian theology in respect of the flesh and the natural man generally has, in systematizing fear, made of it one tremendous incentive to self-mortification. It would be quite unfair, however, in spite of the fact that this incentive has often been worked in a mercenary way for hortatory purposes, to call it a mercenary incentive. The impulse to expiate and do penance is, in its first intention, far too immediate and spontaneous an expression of self-despair and anxiety to be obnoxious to any such reproach. In the form of loving sacrifice, of spending all we have to show our devotion, ascetic discipline of the severest sort may be the fruit of highly optimistic religious feeling.

In this poor man, we see unhealthy melancholy and fear. He makes sacrifices to cleanse himself of sin and gain safety. Christian theology sees no hope for the flesh and for human nature in general. By making fear part of a system, it has turned fear into a powerful incentive to deny oneself. This incentive has often been used in a calculating way to urge people to act. Even so, it would be quite unfair to call the incentive itself calculating. The urge to atone and do penance is, at first, a far too immediate and spontaneous expression of self-despair and anxiety to deserve that reproach. The strictest ascetic discipline may be the result of highly optimistic religious feeling. It may take the form of loving sacrifice, of spending all we have to show our devotion.

M. Vianney, the curé of Ars, was a French country priest, whose holiness was exemplary. We read in his life the following account of his inner need of sacrifice:—

M. Vianney, the curé of Ars, was a French country priest known for his exemplary holiness. His biography gives the following account of his inner need for sacrifice:

In this case the spontaneous impulse to make sacrifices for the pure love of God was probably the uppermost conscious motive. We may class it, then, under our head 3. Some authors think that the impulse to sacrifice is the main religious phenomenon. It is a prominent, a universal phenomenon certainly, and lies deeper than any special creed. Here, for instance, is what seems to be a spontaneous example of it, simply expressing what seemed right at the time between the individual and his Maker. Cotton Mather, the New England Puritan divine, is generally reputed a rather grotesque pedant; yet what is more touchingly simple than his relation of what happened when his wife came to die?

In this case, the strongest conscious motive was probably a spontaneous urge to make sacrifices out of pure love for God. We may therefore place it under category 3. Some authors think the urge to sacrifice is the main feature of religion. It is certainly a prominent and universal feature, and it runs deeper than any particular creed. Here, for example, is what seems to be a spontaneous instance of it. It simply expresses what seemed right at the time between a person and his Maker. Cotton Mather, the New England Puritan minister, is generally thought of as a rather grotesque pedant. Yet what could be more touchingly simple than his account of what happened when his wife was dying?

Father Vianney's asceticism taken in its totality was simply the result of a permanent flood of high spiritual enthusiasm, longing to make proof of itself. The Roman Church has, in its incomparable fashion, collected all the motives towards asceticism together, and so codified them that any one wishing to pursue Christian perfection may find a practical system mapped out for him in any one of a number of ready-made manuals.¹⁸⁰ The dominant Church notion of perfection is of course the negative one of avoidance of sin. Sin proceeds from concupiscence, and concupiscence from our carnal passions and temptations, chief of which are pride, sensuality in all its forms, and the loves of worldly excitement and possession. All these sources of sin must be resisted; and discipline and austerities are a most efficacious mode of meeting them. Hence there are always in these books chapters on self-mortification. But whenever a procedure is codified, the more delicate spirit of it evaporates, and if we wish the undiluted ascetic spirit,—the passion of self-contempt wreaking itself on the poor flesh, the divine irrationality of devotion making a sacrificial gift of all it has (its sensibilities, namely) to the object of its adoration,—we must go to autobiographies, or other individual documents.

Father Vianney's asceticism, taken as a whole, was simply the result of a constant flood of intense spiritual enthusiasm. That enthusiasm longed to prove itself. The Roman Church has, in its incomparable fashion, gathered all the motives for asceticism and organized them into a system. Anyone wishing to pursue Christian perfection can find a practical guide in any of several ready-made manuals.¹⁸⁰ The Church's main idea of perfection is, of course, the negative one of avoiding sin. Sin arises from concupiscence, or desire, and concupiscence arises from our bodily passions and temptations. The chief among these are pride, sensuality in all its forms, and the love of worldly excitement and possessions. All these sources of sin must be resisted, and discipline and austerities are a highly effective way to resist them. That is why these books always contain chapters on self-mortification. But whenever a practice is organized into a system, its more delicate spirit evaporates. To find the undiluted ascetic spirit, we must turn to autobiographies or other personal documents. There we find the passion of self-contempt taking itself out on the poor flesh. We find the divine irrationality of devotion making a sacrificial gift of all it has, namely its capacity to feel, to the object of its adoration.

Saint John of the Cross, a Spanish mystic who flourished—or rather who existed, for there was little that suggested flourishing about him—in the sixteenth century, will supply a passage suitable for our purpose.

Saint John of the Cross was a Spanish mystic who lived in the sixteenth century. One might say he flourished then, but little about him suggested flourishing. He offers a passage suited to our purpose.

These later verses play with that vertigo of self-contradiction which is so dear to mysticism. Those that come next are completely mystical, for in them Saint John passes from God to the more metaphysical notion of the All.

These later verses play with the dizzying self-contradiction that mysticism loves so much. The next verses are completely mystical. In them, Saint John moves from God to the more metaphysical idea of the All.

And now, as a more concrete example of heads 4 and 5, in fact of all our heads together, and of the irrational extreme to which a psychopathic individual may go in the line of bodily austerity, I will quote the sincere Suso's account of his own self-tortures. Suso, you will remember, was one of the fourteenth century German mystics; his autobiography, written in the third person, is a classic religious document.

Now I will give a more concrete example of points 4 and 5, and indeed of all our points together. It also shows the irrational extremes of bodily self-denial that a mentally disturbed person may reach. I will quote the sincere Suso's account of his own self-tortures. Suso, you will remember, was a fourteenth-century German mystic. His autobiography, written in the third person, is a classic religious document.

I spare you the recital of poor Suso's self-inflicted tortures from thirst. It is pleasant to know that after his fortieth year, God showed him by a series of visions that he had sufficiently broken down the natural man, and that he might leave these exercises off. His case is distinctly pathological, but he does not seem to have had the alleviation, which some ascetics have enjoyed, of an alteration of sensibility capable of actually turning torment into a perverse kind of pleasure. Of the founder of the Sacred Heart order, for example, we read that

I will spare you the account of poor Suso’s self-inflicted tortures of thirst. It is pleasant to know that after Suso turned forty, God showed him in a series of visions that he had sufficiently broken down his natural self. God showed him that he could stop these exercises. Suso’s case is clearly pathological. But he does not seem to have had a relief enjoyed by some ascetics. Their sensitivity changed enough to turn torment into a perverse kind of pleasure. For example, we read of the founder of the Sacred Heart order that

So much for the phenomena to which the ascetic impulse will in certain persons give rise. In the ecclesiastically consecrated character three minor branches of self-mortification have been recognized as indispensable pathways to perfection. I refer to the chastity, obedience, and poverty which the monk vows to observe; and upon the heads of obedience and poverty I will make a few remarks.

That concludes my account of the phenomena that the ascetic impulse produces in certain people. In the church's consecrated life, three lesser forms of self-denial have been recognized as essential paths to perfection. These are chastity, obedience, and poverty, which monks vow to observe. I will make a few remarks about obedience and poverty.

First, of Obedience. The secular life of our twentieth century opens with this virtue held in no high esteem. The duty of the individual to determine his own conduct and profit or suffer by the consequences seems, on the contrary, to be one of our best rooted contemporary Protestant social ideals. So much so that it is difficult even imaginatively to comprehend how men possessed of an inner life of their own could ever have come to think the subjection of its will to that of other finite creatures recommendable. I confess that to myself it seems something of a mystery. Yet it evidently corresponds to a profound interior need of many persons, and we must do our best to understand it.

First, obedience. At the beginning of the twentieth century, secular society does not value this virtue highly. On the contrary, one of our most deeply rooted Protestant social ideals is individual responsibility. Each person is expected to decide how to act and benefit or suffer from the consequences. This ideal is so firmly rooted that it is hard even to imagine how people with inner lives of their own could have thought it desirable to submit their wills to other finite beings. I admit that this seems something of a mystery to me. Yet obedience evidently answers a deep inner need for many people, and we must do our best to understand it.

On the lowest possible plane, one sees how the expediency of obedience in a firm ecclesiastical organization must have led to its being viewed as meritorious. Next, experience shows that there are times in every one's life when one can be better counseled by others than by one's self. Inability to decide is one of the commonest symptoms of fatigued nerves; friends who see our troubles more broadly, often see them more wisely than we do; so it is frequently an act of excellent virtue to consult and obey a doctor, a partner, or a wife. But, leaving these lower prudential regions, we find, in the nature of some of the spiritual excitements which we have been studying, good reasons for idealizing obedience. Obedience may spring from the general religious phenomenon of inner softening and self-surrender and throwing one's self on higher powers. So saving are these attitudes felt to be that in themselves, apart from utility, they become ideally consecrated; and in obeying a man whose fallibility we see through thoroughly, we, nevertheless, may feel much as we do when we resign our will to that of infinite wisdom. Add self-despair and the passion of self-crucifixion to this, and obedience becomes an ascetic sacrifice, agreeable quite irrespective of whatever prudential uses it might have.

At the most basic level, obedience is useful in a firmly organized church. We can see how this usefulness must have led people to regard obedience as a virtue. Experience also shows that there are times in everyone’s life when others can give us better advice than we can give ourselves. Trouble making decisions is one of the most common signs of exhausted nerves. Friends who see our troubles more broadly often see them more wisely than we do. So it is often a very virtuous act to seek advice from and obey a doctor, a partner, or a wife. But beyond these practical considerations, some of the spiritual experiences we have been studying give us good reasons to idealize obedience. Obedience may arise from a common religious experience: a softening within, a surrender of the self, and a reliance on higher powers. People feel that these attitudes save them. So the attitudes themselves come to be regarded as sacred ideals, regardless of their usefulness. We may obey a man whose fallibility we fully recognize. Yet we may feel much as we do when we surrender our will to infinite wisdom. Add despair about oneself and a passion for crucifying the self, and obedience becomes an ascetic sacrifice. It becomes pleasing quite apart from any practical use it might have.

It is as a sacrifice, a mode of “mortification,” that obedience is primarily conceived by Catholic writers, a “sacrifice which man offers to God, and of which he is himself both the priest and the victim. By poverty he immolates his exterior possessions; by chastity he immolates his body; by obedience he completes the sacrifice, and gives to God all that he yet holds as his own, his two most precious goods, his intellect and his will. The sacrifice is then complete and unreserved, a genuine holocaust, for the entire victim is now consumed for the honor of God.”¹⁸⁵ Accordingly, in Catholic discipline, we obey our superior not as mere man, but as the representative of Christ. Obeying God in him by our intention, obedience is easy. But when the text-book theologians marshal collectively all their reasons for recommending it, the mixture sounds to our ears rather odd.

Catholic writers think of obedience primarily as a sacrifice, a form of “mortification.” They call it a “sacrifice that a person offers to God, in which the person is both priest and victim. Through poverty, he sacrifices his external possessions. Through chastity, he sacrifices his body. Through obedience, he completes the sacrifice. He gives God everything he still holds as his own: his two most precious possessions, his intellect and his will. The sacrifice is then complete and unconditional, a true holocaust, for the entire victim is consumed to honor God.”¹⁸⁵ Accordingly, in Catholic practice, we obey our superior not merely as a man, but as Christ’s representative. When we intend to obey God through our superior, obedience is easy. But when textbook theologians gather all their reasons for recommending obedience, the mixture sounds rather odd to our ears.

One should read the letters in which Ignatius Loyola recommends obedience as the backbone of his order, if one would gain insight into the full spirit of its cult.¹⁸⁷ They are too long to quote; but Ignatius's belief is so vividly expressed in a couple of sayings reported by companions that, though they have been so often cited, I will ask your permission to copy them once more:—

To understand the full spirit of his order’s worship, one should read Ignatius Loyola’s letters recommending obedience as its backbone.¹⁸⁷ The letters are too long to quote. But two sayings reported by his companions express Ignatius’s belief vividly. Although they have often been quoted, I will ask your permission to repeat them once more:

The other saying is reported by Rodriguez in the chapter from which I a moment ago made quotations. When speaking of the Pope's authority, Rodriguez writes:—

Rodriguez reports the other saying in the chapter I quoted a moment ago. Writing about the Pope's authority, Rodriguez says:

With a solitary concrete example of the extravagance to which the virtue we are considering has been carried, I will pass to the topic next in order.

I will give one concrete example of how far the virtue we are considering has been taken. Then I will move to the next topic.

Our next topic shall be Poverty, felt at all times and under all creeds as one adornment of a saintly life. Since the instinct of ownership is fundamental in man's nature, this is one more example of the ascetic paradox. Yet it appears no paradox at all, but perfectly reasonable, the moment one recollects how easily higher excitements hold lower cupidities in check. Having just quoted the Jesuit Rodriguez on the subject of obedience, I will, to give immediately a concrete turn to our discussion of poverty, also read you a page from his chapter on this latter virtue. You must remember that he is writing instructions for monks of his own order, and bases them all on the text, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

Our next topic is poverty, which has always been seen in every creed as a mark of a saintly life. Since the instinct to own things is fundamental to human nature, this is another example of the ascetic paradox. Yet poverty seems perfectly reasonable, not paradoxical, once we remember how easily higher excitements keep lower desires in check. I have just quoted the Jesuit Rodriguez on obedience. To give our discussion of poverty a concrete starting point, I will also read you a page from his chapter on that virtue. Remember that he is writing instructions for monks of his own order. He bases all these instructions on the text, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

Since Hindu fakirs, Buddhist monks, and Mohammedan dervishes unite with Jesuits and Franciscans in idealizing poverty as the loftiest individual state, it is worth while to examine into the spiritual grounds for such a seemingly unnatural opinion. And first, of those which lie closest to common human nature.

Hindu fakirs, Buddhist monks, and Muslim dervishes join Jesuits and Franciscans in idealizing poverty as the highest state for an individual. So it is worth examining the spiritual reasons for this seemingly unnatural view. Let us begin with the reasons closest to common human nature.

The opposition between the men who have and the men who are is immemorial. Though the gentleman, in the old-fashioned sense of the man who is well born, has usually in point of fact been predaceous and reveled in lands and goods, yet he has never identified his essence with these possessions, but rather with the personal superiorities, the courage, generosity, and pride supposed to be his birthright. To certain huckstering kinds of consideration he thanked God he was forever inaccessible, and if in life's vicissitudes he should become destitute through their lack, he was glad to think that with his sheer valor he was all the freer to work out his salvation. “Wer nur selbst was hätte,” says Lessing's Tempelherr, in Nathan the Wise, “mein Gott, mein Gott, ich habe nichts!” This ideal of the well-born man without possessions was embodied in knight-errantry and templardom; and, hideously corrupted as it has always been, it still dominates sentimentally, if not practically, the military and aristocratic view of life. We glorify the soldier as the man absolutely unencumbered. Owning nothing but his bare life, and willing to toss that up at any moment when the cause commands him, he is the representative of unhampered freedom in ideal directions. The laborer who pays with his person day by day, and has no rights invested in the future, offers also much of this ideal detachment. Like the savage, he may make his bed wherever his right arm can support him, and from his simple and athletic attitude of observation, the property-owner seems buried and smothered in ignoble externalities and trammels, “wading in straw and rubbish to his knees.” The claims which things make are corrupters of manhood, mortgages on the soul, and a drag anchor on our progress towards the empyrean.

The opposition between men who have and men who are is ancient. The gentleman, in the old sense of a man of good birth, has usually been predatory and delighted in owning land and goods. Yet he has never identified his essential nature with these possessions. Instead, he identified it with the personal superiorities thought to be his birthright: courage, generosity, and pride. He thanked God that certain kinds of petty, profit-seeking concerns could never touch him. If life’s ups and downs left him destitute because he ignored such concerns, he was glad of one thought. His sheer courage would leave him all the freer to work out his salvation. “Wer nur selbst was hätte,” says Lessing’s Tempelherr, in Nathan the Wise, “mein Gott, mein Gott, ich habe nichts!” This ideal of the well-born man without possessions took shape in knight-errantry and the order of the Templars. Though the ideal has always been hideously corrupted, it still governs the military and aristocratic view of life, at least in sentiment if not in practice. We glorify the soldier as a man with no burdens at all. He owns nothing but his life, and he is willing to throw it away whenever the cause demands. He represents freedom to pursue ideals without restraint. The laborer, too, shares much of this ideal detachment. He pays with his own body every day and has no rights invested in the future. Like the savage, he may make his bed wherever his own strength can support him. From his simple, athletic point of view, the property owner seems buried and smothered in degrading external possessions and restraints, “wading in straw and rubbish to his knees.” The demands that things make corrupt manhood. They are mortgages on the soul and a drag anchor on our progress toward the empyrean.

The loathing of “capital” with which our laboring classes to-day are growing more and more infected seems largely composed of this sound sentiment of antipathy for lives based on mere having. As an anarchist poet writes:—

Our working classes today increasingly hate “capital.” This hatred seems to be largely rooted in a sound dislike of lives based on merely having things. As an anarchist poet writes:

In short, lives based on having are less free than lives based either on doing or on being, and in the interest of action people subject to spiritual excitement throw away possessions as so many clogs. Only those who have no private interests can follow an ideal straight away. Sloth and cowardice creep in with every dollar or guinea we have to guard. When a brother novice came to Saint Francis, saying: “Father, it would be a great consolation to me to own a psalter, but even supposing that our general should concede to me this indulgence, still I should like also to have your consent,” Francis put him off with the examples of Charlemagne, Roland, and Oliver, pursuing the infidels in sweat and labor, and finally dying on the field of battle. “So care not,” he said, “for owning books and knowledge, but care rather for works of goodness.” And when some weeks later the novice came again to talk of his craving for the psalter, Francis said: “After you have got your psalter you will crave a breviary; and after you have got your breviary you will sit in your stall like a grand prelate, and will say to your brother: ‘Hand me my breviary.’ ... And thenceforward he denied all such requests, saying: ‘A man possesses of learning only so much as comes out of him in action, and a monk is a good preacher only so far as his deeds proclaim him such, for every tree is known by its fruits.’ ”¹⁹⁴

In short, lives based on having are less free than lives based on doing or being. To act freely, people caught up in spiritual excitement throw away possessions as if they were burdens. Only those with no private interests can follow an ideal without delay. Laziness and cowardice creep in with every dollar or guinea we have to guard. A brother novice once came to Saint Francis and said: “Father, it would be a great comfort to me to own a psalter. But even if our general granted me this privilege, I would still like your consent too.” Francis put him off by citing Charlemagne, Roland, and Oliver. They pursued the infidels through sweat and toil, and finally died on the battlefield. “So do not concern yourself with owning books and gaining knowledge,” he said. “Concern yourself instead with doing good.” Some weeks later, the novice came again to talk about his desire for the psalter. Francis said: “After you get your psalter, you will want a breviary. After you get your breviary, you will sit in your stall like a grand prelate and say to your brother: ‘Hand me my breviary.’ ... From then on, he denied all such requests. He said: ‘A man possesses only as much learning as he puts into action. A monk is a good preacher only as far as his deeds show him to be one. For every tree is known by its fruits.’ ”¹⁹⁴

But beyond this more worthily athletic attitude involved in doing and being, there is, in the desire of not having, something profounder still, something related to that fundamental mystery of religious experience, the satisfaction found in absolute surrender to the larger power. So long as any secular safeguard is retained, so long as any residual prudential guarantee is clung to, so long the surrender is incomplete, the vital crisis is not passed, fear still stands sentinel, and mistrust of the divine obtains: we hold by two anchors, looking to God, it is true, after a fashion, but also holding by our proper machinations. In certain medical experiences we have the same critical point to overcome. A drunkard, or a morphine or cocaine maniac, offers himself to be cured. He appeals to the doctor to wean him from his enemy, but he dares not face blank abstinence. The tyrannical drug is still an anchor to windward: he hides supplies of it among his clothing; arranges secretly to have it smuggled in in case of need. Even so an incompletely regenerate man still trusts in his own expedients. His money is like the sleeping potion which the chronically wakeful patient keeps beside his bed; he throws himself on God, but if he should need the other help, there it will be also. Every one knows cases of this incomplete and ineffective desire for reform,—drunkards whom, with all their self-reproaches and resolves, one perceives to be quite unwilling seriously to contemplate never being drunk again! Really to give up anything on which we have relied, to give it up definitively, “for good and all” and forever, signifies one of those radical alterations of character which came under our notice in the lectures on conversion. In it the inner man rolls over into an entirely different position of equilibrium, lives in a new centre of energy from this time on, and the turning-point and hinge of all such operations seems usually to involve the sincere acceptance of certain nakednesses and destitutions.

But beyond the more admirable, athletic attitude involved in doing and being, the desire to have nothing holds something deeper. It relates to a fundamental mystery of religious experience: the satisfaction found in absolute surrender to a greater power. As long as we retain any worldly safeguard or cling to any remaining guarantee of security, our surrender is incomplete. The vital crisis has not passed, fear still stands guard, and distrust of the divine remains. We hold to two anchors. We look to God, it is true, in a way, but we also rely on our own schemes. In certain medical experiences, we have to overcome the same critical point. A person addicted to alcohol, morphine, or cocaine seeks a cure. He asks the doctor to free him from his enemy, but he dares not face complete abstinence. The tyrannical drug is still a backup. He hides supplies of it among his clothes and secretly arranges to have it smuggled in if needed. In the same way, a person who has not been fully transformed still trusts in his own devices. His money is like the sleeping potion a chronically sleepless patient keeps beside his bed. He throws himself on God, but if he should need the other help, it will be there too. Everyone knows cases of this incomplete and ineffective desire for reform. Some drinkers reproach themselves and make resolutions, yet clearly refuse to consider seriously never getting drunk again! To give up something we have relied on, definitively, “for good and all” and forever, means a radical change of character. We encountered such changes in the lectures on conversion. In giving up that reliance, our inner selves shift into an entirely different state of balance. From then on, we live from a new center of energy. And the turning point in all such changes usually seems to involve sincerely accepting certain forms of vulnerability and deprivation.

Accordingly, throughout the annals of the saintly life, we find this ever-recurring note: Fling yourself upon God's providence without making any reserve whatever,—take no thought for the morrow,—sell all you have and give it to the poor,—only when the sacrifice is ruthless and reckless will the higher safety really arrive. As a concrete example let me read a page from the biography of Antoinette Bourignon, a good woman, much persecuted in her day by both Protestants and Catholics, because she would not take her religion at second hand. When a young girl, in her father's house,—

So, throughout the history of saintly lives, we find the same message again and again: Trust entirely in God's care, holding nothing back. Give no thought to tomorrow. Sell all you have and give it to the poor. Only when the sacrifice is ruthless and reckless will true safety come from a higher power. As a concrete example, let me read a page from the biography of Antoinette Bourignon. She was a good woman, much persecuted in her day by both Protestants and Catholics because she would not accept her religion secondhand. When she was a young girl, living in her father's house,

The penny was a small financial safeguard, but an effective spiritual obstacle. Not till it was thrown away could the character settle into the new equilibrium completely.

The penny offered a small measure of financial security, but it was a real spiritual obstacle. Only after the penny was thrown away could the character fully settle into a new balance.

Over and above the mystery of self-surrender, there are in the cult of poverty other religious mysteries. There is the mystery of veracity: “Naked came I into the world,” etc.,—whoever first said that, possessed this mystery. My own bare entity must fight the battle—shams cannot save me. There is also the mystery of democracy, or sentiment of the equality before God of all his creatures. This sentiment (which seems in general to have been more widespread in Mohammedan than in Christian lands) tends to nullify man's usual acquisitiveness. Those who have it spurn dignities and honors, privileges and advantages, preferring, as I said in a former lecture, to grovel on the common level before the face of God. It is not exactly the sentiment of humility, though it comes so close to it in practice. It is humanity, rather, refusing to enjoy anything that others do not share. A profound moralist, writing of Christ's saying, “Sell all thou hast and follow me,” proceeds as follows:—

Besides the mystery of self-surrender, the practice of poverty holds other religious mysteries. One is the mystery of truthfulness: “Naked came I into the world,” and so on. Whoever first said that understood this mystery. My bare self must fight the battle. Pretenses cannot save me. There is also the mystery of democracy, the feeling that all God's creatures are equal before him. This feeling seems generally to have been more widespread in Muslim lands than in Christian ones. It tends to overcome people's usual desire to acquire things. Those who feel this way reject high rank, honors, privileges, and advantages. As I said in an earlier lecture, they prefer to humble themselves on the common level before God. This is not exactly the feeling of humility, though in practice it comes very close. Rather, it is humanity, refusing to enjoy anything that others do not share. A profound moralist wrote the following about Christ's saying, “Sell all thou hast and follow me”:

But in all these matters of sentiment one must have “been there” one's self in order to understand them. No American can ever attain to understanding the loyalty of a Briton towards his king, of a German towards his emperor; nor can a Briton or German ever understand the peace of heart of an American in having no king, no Kaiser, no spurious nonsense, between him and the common God of all. If sentiments as simple as these are mysteries which one must receive as gifts of birth, how much more is this the case with those subtler religious sentiments which we have been considering! One can never fathom an emotion or divine its dictates by standing outside of it. In the glowing hour of excitement, however, all incomprehensibilities are solved, and what was so enigmatical from without becomes transparently obvious. Each emotion obeys a logic of its own, and makes deductions which no other logic can draw. Piety and charity live in a different universe from worldly lusts and fears, and form another centre of energy altogether. As in a supreme sorrow lesser vexations may become a consolation; as a supreme love may turn minor sacrifices into gain; so a supreme trust may render common safeguards odious, and in certain glows of generous excitement it may appear unspeakably mean to retain one's hold of personal possessions. The only sound plan, if we are ourselves outside the pale of such emotions, is to observe as well as we are able those who feel them, and to record faithfully what we observe; and this, I need hardly say, is what I have striven to do in these last two descriptive lectures, which I now hope will have covered the ground sufficiently for our present needs.

But in all matters of feeling, you must have “been there” yourself to understand them. No American can ever understand a Briton’s loyalty to his king or a German’s loyalty to his emperor. Nor can a Briton or German ever understand an American’s peace of heart. An American has no king, no Kaiser, no phony nonsense, between him and the God common to all. If feelings as simple as these are mysteries we must receive as gifts of birth, how much more is this true of the subtler religious feelings we have been considering! You can never fully understand an emotion or guess what it demands by standing outside it. Yet in a glowing moment of excitement, everything incomprehensible is resolved. What was so puzzling from the outside becomes perfectly obvious. Each emotion follows its own logic and draws conclusions that no other logic can reach. Piety and charity live in a different universe from worldly desires and fears. They form a completely different center of energy. In a time of supreme sorrow, lesser troubles may become a comfort. A supreme love may turn minor sacrifices into gains. In the same way, supreme trust may make ordinary safeguards seem hateful. And in certain moments of glowing generosity, holding on to personal possessions may seem unspeakably mean. If we ourselves are outside the reach of such emotions, the only sound plan is to observe those who feel them. We must observe them as well as we can and faithfully record what we see. I hardly need to say that this is what I have tried to do in these last two descriptive lectures. I now hope they have covered the subject sufficiently for our present needs.