The Value of Saintliness

We have now passed in review the more important of the phenomena which are regarded as fruits of genuine religion and characteristics of men who are devout. To-day we have to change our attitude from that of description to that of appreciation; we have to ask whether the fruits in question can help us to judge the absolute value of what religion adds to human life. Were I to parody Kant, I should say that a “Critique of pure Saintliness” must be our theme.

We have now reviewed the most important traits considered fruits of genuine religion and marks of devout people. Today we must move from describing them to evaluating them. We must ask whether these fruits can help us judge the absolute value of what religion adds to human life. To parody Kant, I would say that our subject must be a “Critique of pure Saintliness”.

If, in turning to this theme, we could descend upon our subject from above like Catholic theologians, with our fixed definitions of man and man's perfection and our positive dogmas about God, we should have an easy time of it. Man's perfection would be the fulfillment of his end; and his end would be union with his Maker. That union could be pursued by him along three paths, active, purgative, and contemplative, respectively; and progress along either path would be a simple matter to measure by the application of a limited number of theological and moral conceptions and definitions. The absolute significance and value of any bit of religious experience we might hear of would thus be given almost mathematically into our hands.

As we turn to this subject, we could have an easy time if we approached it from above like Catholic theologians. We would have fixed definitions of human nature and human perfection, and definite doctrines about God. Human perfection would mean fulfilling our purpose, and that purpose would be union with our maker. We could pursue that union along three paths: active, purgative, and contemplative. Progress along any of these paths would be easy to measure. We would simply apply a limited number of theological and moral concepts and definitions. In this way, the absolute meaning and value of any religious experience we heard about would be given to us almost mathematically.

If convenience were everything, we ought now to grieve at finding ourselves cut off from so admirably convenient a method as this. But we did cut ourselves off from it deliberately in those remarks which you remember we made, in our first lecture, about the empirical method; and it must be confessed that after that act of renunciation we can never hope for clean-cut and scholastic results. We cannot divide man sharply into an animal and a rational part. We cannot distinguish natural from supernatural effects; nor among the latter know which are favors of God, and which are counterfeit operations of the demon. We have merely to collect things together without any special a priori theological system, and out of an aggregate of piecemeal judgments as to the value of this and that experience—judgments in which our general philosophic prejudices, our instincts, and our common sense are our only guides—decide that on the whole one type of religion is approved by its fruits, and another type condemned. “On the whole,”—I fear we shall never escape complicity with that qualification, so dear to your practical man, so repugnant to your systematizer!

If convenience were everything, we should regret having cut ourselves off from such an admirably convenient method. But we deliberately cut ourselves off from it in our first lecture, when we discussed the empirical method. And we must admit that, having given it up, we can never hope for neat, systematic results. We cannot divide human beings neatly into animal and rational parts. We cannot distinguish natural from supernatural effects. Nor can we tell which supernatural effects are gifts from God and which are the demon’s counterfeits. We can only gather things together without any special theological system established in advance. Then we must make individual judgments about the value of each experience. In making those judgments, our general philosophical prejudices, our instincts, and our common sense are our only guides. From those judgments, we must decide that on the whole one type of religion is approved by its fruits and another condemned. “On the whole,” I fear we shall never escape using that qualification. The practical person loves it, but the system builder cannot stand it!

I also fear that as I make this frank confession, I may seem to some of you to throw our compass overboard, and to adopt caprice as our pilot. Skepticism or wayward choice, you may think, can be the only results of such a formless method as I have taken up. A few remarks in deprecation of such an opinion, and in farther explanation of the empiricist principles which I profess, may therefore appear at this point to be in place.

I also fear that, in making this frank confession, I may seem to some of you to throw our compass overboard and let whim steer us. You may think that skepticism or arbitrary choices are the only possible results of the unstructured method I have adopted. So a few remarks may be appropriate here to challenge that opinion and further explain the empiricist principles I hold.

Abstractly, it would seem illogical to try to measure the worth of a religion's fruits in merely human terms of value. How can you measure their worth without considering whether the God really exists who is supposed to inspire them? If he really exists, then all the conduct instituted by men to meet his wants must necessarily be a reasonable fruit of his religion,—it would be unreasonable only in case he did not exist. If, for instance, you were to condemn a religion of human or animal sacrifices by virtue of your subjective sentiments, and if all the while a deity were really there demanding such sacrifices, you would be making a theoretical mistake by tacitly assuming that the deity must be non-existent; you would be setting up a theology of your own as much as if you were a scholastic philosopher.

In theory, it seems illogical to judge the fruits of a religion by human standards alone. How can you judge their worth without considering whether the God said to inspire them really exists? If he does, then all the conduct people adopt to meet his wants must necessarily be a reasonable fruit of his religion. Such conduct would be unreasonable only if he did not exist. Suppose, for example, that you condemned a religion that practiced human or animal sacrifice, based on your own feelings. If a deity really did exist and demand such sacrifices, you would be making a theoretical mistake. You would be assuming without saying so that the deity did not exist. You would be creating a theology of your own, just as much as a scholastic philosopher would.

To this extent, to the extent of disbelieving peremptorily in certain types of deity, I frankly confess that we must be theologians. If disbeliefs can be said to constitute a theology, then the prejudices, instincts, and common sense which I chose as our guides make theological partisans of us whenever they make certain beliefs abhorrent.

I frankly admit that we must be theologians to this extent: we must firmly reject belief in certain types of deity. If disbelief can be called a theology, then our chosen guides make us take sides in theology. These guides are our prejudices, instincts, and common sense, and they make us take sides whenever they make certain beliefs abhorrent to us.

But such common-sense prejudices and instincts are themselves the fruit of an empirical evolution. Nothing is more striking than the secular alteration that goes on in the moral and religious tone of men, as their insight into nature and their social arrangements progressively develop. After an interval of a few generations the mental climate proves unfavorable to notions of the deity which at an earlier date were perfectly satisfactory: the older gods have fallen below the common secular level, and can no longer be believed in. To-day a deity who should require bleeding sacrifices to placate him would be too sanguinary to be taken seriously. Even if powerful historical credentials were put forward in his favor, we would not look at them. Once, on the contrary, his cruel appetites were of themselves credentials. They positively recommended him to men's imaginations in ages when such coarse signs of power were respected and no others could be understood. Such deities then were worshiped because such fruits were relished.

But these common-sense prejudices and instincts are themselves the product of evolution through experience. Nothing is more striking than how people's moral and religious outlook changes over long periods. It changes as their understanding of nature and their social arrangements develop. After a few generations, the prevailing outlook no longer favors ideas of God that were once perfectly satisfactory. The older gods have fallen below ordinary secular standards and can no longer be believed in. Today, a god who demanded blood sacrifices to appease him would be too bloodthirsty to be taken seriously. Even if strong historical evidence were offered in his favor, we would not consider it. Once, by contrast, a god's cruel appetites were themselves evidence in his favor. They actually made him appealing to people's imaginations in ages when such crude displays of power were respected. In those ages, no other signs of power could be understood. Such gods were worshiped then because people enjoyed what they brought.

Doubtless historic accidents always played some later part, but the original factor in fixing the figure of the gods must always have been psychological. The deity to whom the prophets, seers, and devotees who founded the particular cult bore witness was worth something to them personally. They could use him. He guided their imagination, warranted their hopes, and controlled their will,—or else they required him as a safeguard against the demon and a curber of other people's crimes. In any case, they chose him for the value of the fruits he seemed to them to yield. So soon as the fruits began to seem quite worthless; so soon as they conflicted with indispensable human ideals, or thwarted too extensively other values; so soon as they appeared childish, contemptible, or immoral when reflected on, the deity grew discredited, and was erelong neglected and forgotten. It was in this way that the Greek and Roman gods ceased to be believed in by educated pagans; it is thus that we ourselves judge of the Hindu, Buddhist, and Mohammedan theologies; Protestants have so dealt with the Catholic notions of deity, and liberal Protestants with older Protestant notions; it is thus that Chinamen judge of us, and that all of us now living will be judged by our descendants. When we cease to admire or approve what the definition of a deity implies, we end by deeming that deity incredible.

Historical accidents no doubt always played some part later on. But the original factor shaping the gods must always have been psychological. A deity meant something personal to the prophets, seers, and devotees who founded a particular cult and bore witness to him. They could use him. He guided their imagination, supported their hopes, and controlled their will. Or else they needed him to protect them against the demon and restrain other people from committing crimes. In any case, they chose him for the value of the results he seemed to produce. But as soon as those results began to seem entirely worthless, the deity lost credibility and was soon neglected and forgotten. The same thing happened when the results conflicted with essential human ideals or interfered too much with other values. It also happened when, on reflection, the results seemed childish, contemptible, or immoral. This is how educated pagans came to stop believing in the Greek and Roman gods. This is how we ourselves judge Hindu, Buddhist, and Mohammedan theologies. Protestants have judged Catholic ideas of the deity in the same way, and liberal Protestants have judged older Protestant ideas. This is how Chinese people judge us, and how our descendants will judge all of us now living. When we no longer admire or approve of what a definition of a deity implies, we eventually stop believing in that deity.

Few historic changes are more curious than these mutations of theological opinion. The monarchical type of sovereignty was, for example, so ineradicably planted in the mind of our own forefathers that a dose of cruelty and arbitrariness in their deity seems positively to have been required by their imagination. They called the cruelty “retributive justice,” and a God without it would certainly have struck them as not “sovereign” enough. But to-day we abhor the very notion of eternal suffering inflicted; and that arbitrary dealing-out of salvation and damnation to selected individuals, of which Jonathan Edwards could persuade himself that he had not only a conviction, but a “delightful conviction,” as of a doctrine “exceeding pleasant, bright, and sweet,” appears to us, if sovereignly anything, sovereignly irrational and mean. Not only the cruelty, but the paltriness of character of the gods believed in by earlier centuries also strikes later centuries with surprise. We shall see examples of it from the annals of Catholic saintship which make us rub our Protestant eyes. Ritual worship in general appears to the modern transcendentalist, as well as to the ultra-puritanic type of mind, as if addressed to a deity of an almost absurdly childish character, taking delight in toy-shop furniture, tapers and tinsel, costume and mumbling and mummery, and finding his “glory” incomprehensibly enhanced thereby;—just as on the other hand the formless spaciousness of pantheism appears quite empty to ritualistic natures, and the gaunt theism of evangelical sects seems intolerably bald and chalky and bleak. Luther, says Emerson, would have cut off his right hand rather than nail his theses to the door at Wittenberg, if he had supposed that they were destined to lead to the pale negations of Boston Unitarianism.

Few changes in history are more curious than these shifts in theological opinion. For example, our ancestors’ minds were so firmly rooted in the idea of a monarch’s sovereignty that their imaginations seemed to require a measure of cruelty and arbitrariness in their deity. They called the cruelty “retributive justice.” A God without it would surely have struck them as not “sovereign” enough. But today we detest the very idea of eternal suffering being inflicted. Jonathan Edwards could persuade himself that he believed in the arbitrary assignment of salvation and damnation to chosen individuals. He even called his belief a “delightful conviction” and the doctrine “exceeding pleasant, bright, and sweet.” To us, if the doctrine is sovereignly anything, it is sovereignly irrational and mean. Later centuries are surprised not only by the cruelty of the gods earlier centuries believed in, but also by their petty character. We shall see examples from the records of Catholic saints that make us rub our Protestant eyes. To the modern transcendentalist, as well as to the extreme puritan, ritual worship in general seems directed at an almost absurdly childish deity. Such a deity delights in toy shop furnishings, candles and tinsel, costumes, mumbling, and make believe. In some incomprehensible way, these things increase his “glory.” On the other hand, the formless vastness of pantheism seems quite empty to people drawn to ritual. To them, the stark theism of evangelical sects seems unbearably bare, chalky, and bleak. Emerson says that Luther would have cut off his right hand rather than nail his theses to the door at Wittenberg if he had thought they were destined to lead to the pale denials of Boston Unitarianism.

So far, then, although we are compelled, whatever may be our pretensions to empiricism, to employ some sort of a standard of theological probability of our own whenever we assume to estimate the fruits of other men's religion, yet this very standard has been begotten out of the drift of common life. It is the voice of human experience within us, judging and condemning all gods that stand athwart the pathway along which it feels itself to be advancing. Experience, if we take it in the largest sense, is thus the parent of those disbeliefs which, it was charged, were inconsistent with the experiential method. The inconsistency, you see, is immaterial, and the charge may be neglected.

So far, then, we must use some standard of theological probability when we judge the fruits of other people’s religion. We must do this however strongly we claim to be empiricists. Yet our standard itself has grown out of the course of ordinary life. It is the voice of human experience within us. This voice judges and condemns all gods that stand in the way of its perceived progress. Experience, in the broadest sense, is therefore the source of those doubts that were said to be inconsistent with the experiential method. As you can see, the inconsistency does not matter, and the charge can be dismissed.

If we pass from disbeliefs to positive beliefs, it seems to me that there is not even a formal inconsistency to be laid against our method. The gods we stand by are the gods we need and can use, the gods whose demands on us are reinforcements of our demands on ourselves and on one another. What I then propose to do is, briefly stated, to test saintliness by common sense, to use human standards to help us decide how far the religious life commends itself as an ideal kind of human activity. If it commends itself, then any theological beliefs that may inspire it, in so far forth will stand accredited. If not, then they will be discredited, and all without reference to anything but human working principles. It is but the elimination of the humanly unfit, and the survival of the humanly fittest, applied to religious beliefs; and if we look at history candidly and without prejudice, we have to admit that no religion has ever in the long run established or proved itself in any other way. Religions have approved themselves; they have ministered to sundry vital needs which they found reigning. When they violated other needs too strongly, or when other faiths came which served the same needs better, the first religions were supplanted.

If we move from disbelief to positive beliefs, I see no formal inconsistency in our method. The gods we support are the gods we need and can use. Their demands on us reinforce the demands we make on ourselves and one another. So, in short, I propose to test saintliness by common sense. I will use human standards to decide how far religious life recommends itself as an ideal form of human activity. If it recommends itself, then any theological beliefs that may inspire it will be supported to that extent. If not, those beliefs will be discredited. In either case, we need refer only to human principles of action. This is simply the elimination of what is unfit for humans and the survival of what is fittest for humans, applied to religious beliefs. If we look at history honestly and without prejudice, we must admit that no religion has ever established or proved itself in the long run in any other way. Religions have proved their worth. They have served various vital needs they found already present. When they violated other needs too strongly, other religions replaced them. The same happened when other faiths came along that served the same needs better.

The needs were always many, and the tests were never sharp. So the reproach of vagueness and subjectivity and “on the whole”-ness, which can with perfect legitimacy be addressed to the empirical method as we are forced to use it, is after all a reproach to which the entire life of man in dealing with these matters is obnoxious. No religion has ever yet owed its prevalence to “apodictic certainty.” In a later lecture I will ask whether objective certainty can ever be added by theological reasoning to a religion that already empirically prevails.

The needs were always many, and the tests were never precise. So we can fairly criticize the empirical method, as we are forced to use it, for being vague, subjective, and based on judgments “on the whole.” But the same criticism applies to everything people do when dealing with these matters. No religion has ever become widespread because of “apodictic certainty.” In a later lecture, I will ask whether theological reasoning can ever give objective certainty to a religion that is already widespread in practice.

One word, also, about the reproach that in following this sort of an empirical method we are handing ourselves over to systematic skepticism.

One more word about the criticism that using this kind of empirical method commits us to systematic skepticism.

Since it is impossible to deny secular alterations in our sentiments and needs, it would be absurd to affirm that one's own age of the world can be beyond correction by the next age. Skepticism cannot, therefore, be ruled out by any set of thinkers as a possibility against which their conclusions are secure; and no empiricist ought to claim exemption from this universal liability. But to admit one's liability to correction is one thing, and to embark upon a sea of wanton doubt is another. Of willfully playing into the hands of skepticism we cannot be accused. He who acknowledges the imperfectness of his instrument, and makes allowance for it in discussing his observations, is in a much better position for gaining truth than if he claimed his instrument to be infallible. Or is dogmatic or scholastic theology less doubted in point of fact for claiming, as it does, to be in point of right undoubtable? And if not, what command over truth would this kind of theology really lose if, instead of absolute certainty, she only claimed reasonable probability for her conclusions? If we claim only reasonable probability, it will be as much as men who love the truth can ever at any given moment hope to have within their grasp. Pretty surely it will be more than we could have had, if we were unconscious of our liability to err.

Our feelings and needs clearly change over long periods of time. So it would be absurd to claim that the next age could find nothing to correct in our own. No group of thinkers can therefore rule out skepticism as a possible challenge to its conclusions. And no empiricist should claim to be exempt from this universal vulnerability. But admitting that we may need correction is one thing. Plunging into a sea of reckless doubt is another. No one can accuse us of deliberately playing into the hands of skepticism. Someone who recognizes the imperfections of an instrument and takes them into account when discussing observations is better placed to find the truth. Such a person is better placed than someone who claims the instrument is infallible. Does dogmatic or scholastic theology face less doubt in practice because it claims, as a matter of principle, to be beyond doubt? If not, what grasp on truth would this kind of theology really lose by claiming only reasonable probability for its conclusions, rather than absolute certainty? If we claim only reasonable probability, that is as much as people who love the truth can ever hope to grasp at any given moment. Almost certainly, it is more than we could grasp if we were unaware that we might be wrong.

Nevertheless, dogmatism will doubtless continue to condemn us for this confession. The mere outward form of inalterable certainty is so precious to some minds that to renounce it explicitly is for them out of the question. They will claim it even where the facts most patently pronounce its folly. But the safe thing is surely to recognize that all the insights of creatures of a day like ourselves must be provisional. The wisest of critics is an altering being, subject to the better insight of the morrow, and right at any moment, only “up to date” and “on the whole.” When larger ranges of truth open, it is surely best to be able to open ourselves to their reception, unfettered by our previous pretensions. “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.”

Nevertheless, dogmatists will no doubt continue to condemn us for admitting this. Some people value even the outward appearance of unchanging certainty so highly that they cannot openly give it up. They will claim certainty even when the facts most clearly show how foolish that is. But surely the safest course is to recognize that all the insights of short-lived creatures like us must be provisional. Even the wisest critic changes and may gain better insight tomorrow. At any moment, such a critic is right only “up to date” and “on the whole.” When broader truths come into view, surely it is best to be open to them, unhindered by our earlier claims. “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.”

The fact of diverse judgments about religious phenomena is therefore entirely unescapable, whatever may be one's own desire to attain the irreversible. But apart from that fact, a more fundamental question awaits us, the question whether men's opinions ought to be expected to be absolutely uniform in this field. Ought all men to have the same religion? Ought they to approve the same fruits and follow the same leadings? Are they so like in their inner needs that, for hard and soft, for proud and humble, for strenuous and lazy, for healthy-minded and despairing, exactly the same religious incentives are required? Or are different functions in the organism of humanity allotted to different types of man, so that some may really be the better for a religion of consolation and reassurance, whilst others are better for one of terror and reproof? It might conceivably be so; and we shall, I think, more and more suspect it to be so as we go on. And if it be so, how can any possible judge or critic help being biased in favor of the religion by which his own needs are best met? He aspires to impartiality; but he is too close to the struggle not to be to some degree a participant, and he is sure to approve most warmly those fruits of piety in others which taste most good and prove most nourishing to him.

People will inevitably make different judgments about religious phenomena, however much we may want a final answer. But beyond that fact lies a more fundamental question. Should we expect people’s opinions in this field to be completely uniform? Should everyone have the same religion? Should they approve of the same fruits and follow the same guidance? Are their inner needs so alike that exactly the same religious incentives are needed by everyone? Are they needed equally by the tough and the gentle, the proud and the humble, the energetic and the lazy, the healthy-minded and the despairing? Or do different types of people have different functions in the organism of humanity? If so, some may really be better off with a religion of comfort and reassurance. Others may be better off with one of terror and reproach. That could be true, and I think we will increasingly suspect that it is as we go on. And if it is true, how can any judge or critic avoid favoring the religion that best meets his own needs? He aims to be impartial, but he is too close to the struggle not to be a participant to some degree. He will surely give the warmest approval to those fruits of devotion in others that taste best and prove most nourishing to him.

I am well aware of how anarchic much of what I say may sound. Expressing myself thus abstractly and briefly, I may seem to despair of the very notion of truth. But I beseech you to reserve your judgment until we see it applied to the details which lie before us. I do indeed disbelieve that we or any other mortal men can attain on a given day to absolutely incorrigible and unimprovable truth about such matters of fact as those with which religions deal. But I reject this dogmatic ideal not out of a perverse delight in intellectual instability. I am no lover of disorder and doubt as such. Rather do I fear to lose truth by this pretension to possess it already wholly. That we can gain more and more of it by moving always in the right direction, I believe as much as any one, and I hope to bring you all to my way of thinking before the termination of these lectures. Till then, do not, I pray you, harden your minds irrevocably against the empiricism which I profess.

I know that much of what I say may sound chaotic. Speaking so abstractly and briefly, I may seem to have given up on the very idea of truth. But I urge you to reserve judgment until we see how these ideas apply to the details before us. I do not believe that we or any other mortals can ever reach absolutely certain and perfect truth about the matters of fact religions deal with. But I reject this dogmatic ideal not because I take a perverse delight in intellectual instability. I do not love disorder and doubt for their own sake. Rather, I fear that claiming to possess the whole truth already will cause us to lose truth. I believe as strongly as anyone that we can gain more and more truth by always moving in the right direction. I hope to bring you all around to my view before these lectures end. Until then, please do not close your minds permanently to the empiricism I advocate.

I will waste no more words, then, in abstract justification of my method, but seek immediately to use it upon the facts.

So I will waste no more words justifying my method in the abstract. Instead, I will apply it to the facts immediately.

In critically judging of the value of religious phenomena, it is very important to insist on the distinction between religion as an individual personal function, and religion as an institutional, corporate, or tribal product. I drew this distinction, you may remember, in my second lecture. The word “religion,” as ordinarily used, is equivocal. A survey of history shows us that, as a rule, religious geniuses attract disciples, and produce groups of sympathizers. When these groups get strong enough to “organize” themselves, they become ecclesiastical institutions with corporate ambitions of their own. The spirit of politics and the lust of dogmatic rule are then apt to enter and to contaminate the originally innocent thing; so that when we hear the word “religion” nowadays, we think inevitably of some “church” or other; and to some persons the word “church” suggests so much hypocrisy and tyranny and meanness and tenacity of superstition that in a wholesale undiscerning way they glory in saying that they are “down” on religion altogether. Even we who belong to churches do not exempt other churches than our own from the general condemnation.

When judging the value of religious phenomena, it is very important to distinguish personal religion from religion as an institutional, group, or tribal product. You may remember that I made this distinction in my second lecture. The word “religion,” as commonly used, has more than one meaning. History shows that religious geniuses generally attract disciples and groups of sympathizers. When these groups become strong enough to “organize” themselves, they become church institutions with ambitions of their own. The spirit of politics and the desire to impose doctrine are then likely to enter and contaminate what was originally innocent. As a result, when we hear the word “religion” nowadays, we inevitably think of some “church” or other. And to some people, the word “church” suggests so much hypocrisy, tyranny, meanness, and stubborn attachment to superstition that they proudly declare themselves “down” on religion altogether, without making any distinctions. Even those of us who belong to churches do not exempt churches other than our own from this general condemnation.

But in this course of lectures ecclesiastical institutions hardly concern us at all. The religious experience which we are studying is that which lives itself out within the private breast. First-hand individual experience of this kind has always appeared as a heretical sort of innovation to those who witnessed its birth. Naked comes it into the world and lonely; and it has always, for a time at least, driven him who had it into the wilderness, often into the literal wilderness out of doors, where the Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, St. Francis, George Fox, and so many others had to go. George Fox expresses well this isolation; and I can do no better at this point than read to you a page from his Journal, referring to the period of his youth when religion began to ferment within him seriously.

But in this course of lectures, religious institutions hardly concern us at all. We are studying religious experience as it unfolds within the individual. Those who witnessed such firsthand individual experience when it began have always seen it as a kind of heretical innovation. It comes into the world naked and alone. For a time, at least, it has always driven the person who experienced it into the wilderness. Often, this was a literal wilderness, where the Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, St. Francis, George Fox, and many others had to go. George Fox expresses this isolation well. At this point, I can do no better than read you a page from his Journal. It describes the time in his youth when religion began to stir deeply within him.

A genuine first-hand religious experience like this is bound to be a heterodoxy to its witnesses, the prophet appearing as a mere lonely madman. If his doctrine prove contagious enough to spread to any others, it becomes a definite and labeled heresy. But if it then still prove contagious enough to triumph over persecution, it becomes itself an orthodoxy; and when a religion has become an orthodoxy, its day of inwardness is over: the spring is dry; the faithful live at second hand exclusively and stone the prophets in their turn. The new church, in spite of whatever human goodness it may foster, can be henceforth counted on as a staunch ally in every attempt to stifle the spontaneous religious spirit, and to stop all later bubblings of the fountain from which in purer days it drew its own supply of inspiration. Unless, indeed, by adopting new movements of the spirit it can make capital out of them and use them for its selfish corporate designs! Of protective action of this politic sort, promptly or tardily decided on, the dealings of the Roman ecclesiasticism with many individual saints and prophets yield examples enough for our instruction.

A genuine firsthand religious experience like this is bound to seem unorthodox to those who witness it. The prophet appears to be just a lone madman. If his doctrine spreads to enough other people, it becomes a distinct, labeled heresy. But if it spreads far enough to triumph over persecution, it becomes orthodoxy itself. Once a religion becomes orthodox, its days of inner spiritual life are over. The spring runs dry. The faithful live entirely on secondhand experience and, in their turn, stone the prophets. Despite whatever human goodness the new church may foster, it can now be counted on as a staunch ally in every effort to stifle the spontaneous religious spirit. It will also try to stop any later bubbling of the fountain that supplied its own inspiration in purer days. That is, unless the church can profit by embracing new spiritual movements and using them for its own selfish institutional purposes! The dealings of the Roman ecclesiastical establishment with many individual saints and prophets offer ample instructive examples of such calculated self-protection, whether adopted promptly or belatedly.

The plain fact is that men's minds are built, as has been often said, in water-tight compartments. Religious after a fashion, they yet have many other things in them beside their religion, and unholy entanglements and associations inevitably obtain. The basenesses so commonly charged to religion's account are thus, almost all of them, not chargeable at all to religion proper, but rather to religion's wicked practical partner, the spirit of corporate dominion. And the bigotries are most of them in their turn chargeable to religion's wicked intellectual partner, the spirit of dogmatic dominion, the passion for laying down the law in the form of an absolutely closed-in theoretic system. The ecclesiastical spirit in general is the sum of these two spirits of dominion; and I beseech you never to confound the phenomena of mere tribal or corporate psychology which it presents with those manifestations of the purely interior life which are the exclusive object of our study. The baiting of Jews, the hunting of Albigenses and Waldenses, the stoning of Quakers and ducking of Methodists, the murdering of Mormons and the massacring of Armenians, express much rather that aboriginal human neophobia, that pugnacity of which we all share the vestiges, and that inborn hatred of the alien and of eccentric and non-conforming men as aliens, than they express the positive piety of the various perpetrators. Piety is the mask, the inner force is tribal instinct. You believe as little as I do, in spite of the Christian unction with which the German emperor addressed his troops upon their way to China, that the conduct which he suggested, and in which other Christian armies went beyond them, had anything whatever to do with the interior religious life of those concerned in the performance.

The plain fact is that people's minds are divided into separate compartments, as many have said. They are religious in their way, yet their minds contain many other things besides religion. So religion inevitably becomes tangled up with unholy interests and associations. Almost all the wrongdoing commonly blamed on religion cannot properly be blamed on religion itself. Instead, it belongs to religion's wicked practical partner, the desire for institutional power. Most religious bigotry, in turn, belongs to religion's wicked intellectual partner, the desire for dogmatic power. This is the passion for laying down the law through an absolutely closed system of theory. The spirit of organized religion is the sum of these two desires for power. I beg you never to confuse the mere tribal or group psychology this spirit displays with the expressions of the purely inner life. Those expressions are the sole subject of our study. The persecution of Jews, the hunting of Albigenses and Waldenses, the stoning of Quakers and dunking of Methodists, the murder of Mormons and the massacre of Armenians all express something other than the perpetrators' active piety. They express, much more, the ancient human fear of what is new and the fighting spirit that survives in all of us. They also express an inborn hatred of outsiders, including people considered outsiders because they are unconventional or refuse to conform. Piety is the mask. The driving force beneath it is tribal instinct. The German emperor addressed his troops with Christian piety as they set out for China. But you believe, as little as I do, that the conduct he encouraged had anything to do with their inner religious lives. Other Christian armies went even further, and their conduct had no more to do with their inner religious lives.

Well, no more for past atrocities than for this atrocity should we make piety responsible. At most we may blame piety for not availing to check our natural passions, and sometimes for supplying them with hypocritical pretexts. But hypocrisy also imposes obligations, and with the pretext usually couples some restriction; and when the passion gust is over, the piety may bring a reaction of repentance which the irreligious natural man would not have shown.

Well, we should no more blame religious devotion for past atrocities than for this atrocity. At most, we may blame religious devotion for failing to restrain our natural passions. We may also blame it for sometimes supplying hypocritical excuses for those passions. But hypocrisy also imposes obligations, and the excuse usually comes with some restraint. And when the surge of passion is over, religious devotion may lead to repentance. An irreligious person following their natural impulses would not have shown such repentance.

For many of the historic aberrations which have been laid to her charge, religion as such, then, is not to blame. Yet of the charge that over-zealousness or fanaticism is one of her liabilities we cannot wholly acquit her, so I will next make a remark upon that point. But I will preface it by a preliminary remark which connects itself with much that follows.

Religion itself, then, is not to blame for many of the historical errors attributed to it. Yet we cannot entirely dismiss the charge that religion is prone to excessive zeal or fanaticism. So I will comment on that point next. But first, I will make a preliminary remark that connects with much of what follows.

Our survey of the phenomena of saintliness has unquestionably produced in your minds an impression of extravagance. Is it necessary, some of you have asked, as one example after another came before us, to be quite so fantastically good as that? We who have no vocation for the extremer ranges of sanctity will surely be let off at the last day if our humility, asceticism, and devoutness prove of a less convulsive sort. This practically amounts to saying that much that it is legitimate to admire in this field need nevertheless not be imitated, and that religious phenomena, like all other human phenomena, are subject to the law of the golden mean. Political reformers accomplish their successive tasks in the history of nations by being blind for the time to other causes. Great schools of art work out the effects which it is their mission to reveal, at the cost of a one-sidedness for which other schools must make amends. We accept a John Howard, a Mazzini, a Botticelli, a Michael Angelo, with a kind of indulgence. We are glad they existed to show us that way, but we are glad there are also other ways of seeing and taking life. So of many of the saints whom we have looked at. We are proud of a human nature that could be so passionately extreme, but we shrink from advising others to follow the example. The conduct we blame ourselves for not following lies nearer to the middle line of human effort. It is less dependent on particular beliefs and doctrines. It is such as wears well in different ages, such as under different skies all judges are able to commend.

Our survey of saintliness has undoubtedly left you with an impression of excess. As we considered example after example, some of you asked: Is it necessary to be so fantastically good? Most of us have no calling to the most extreme forms of holiness. Surely we will be spared on the day of judgment if our humility, self-denial, and devotion are less violent. In practice, this means that we may rightly admire much in saintliness without having to imitate it. Religious phenomena, like all other human phenomena, are subject to the rule of moderation. Political reformers accomplish their successive tasks in the history of nations by temporarily ignoring other causes. Great schools of art reveal the effects they are meant to show, but they do so at a cost. They are one-sided, and other schools must make up for that. We accept a John Howard, a Mazzini, a Botticelli, a Michael Angelo with a kind of indulgence. We are glad they existed to show us their way of seeing and living. But we are also glad there are other ways. The same is true of many of the saints we have considered. We are proud that human nature can be so passionately extreme, but we hesitate to advise others to follow their example. The conduct we blame ourselves for not following lies closer to the middle range of human effort. It depends less on particular beliefs and doctrines. It stands the test of time, and all judges, in every part of the world, can praise it.

The fruits of religion, in other words, are, like all human products, liable to corruption by excess. Common sense must judge them. It need not blame the votary; but it may be able to praise him only conditionally, as one who acts faithfully according to his lights. He shows us heroism in one way, but the unconditionally good way is that for which no indulgence need be asked.

In other words, the fruits of religion, like all human products, can be corrupted by excess. Common sense must judge them. It need not blame the religious devotee. But it may be able to praise him only with reservations, as someone who acts faithfully according to his own understanding. He shows us heroism in one way. But the unconditionally good way is one that needs no allowance made for it.

We find that error by excess is exemplified by every saintly virtue. Excess, in human faculties, means usually one-sidedness or want of balance; for it is hard to imagine an essential faculty too strong, if only other faculties equally strong be there to coöperate with it in action. Strong affections need a strong will; strong active powers need a strong intellect; strong intellect needs strong sympathies, to keep life steady. If the balance exist, no one faculty can possibly be too strong—we only get the stronger all-round character. In the life of saints, technically so called, the spiritual faculties are strong, but what gives the impression of extravagance proves usually on examination to be a relative deficiency of intellect. Spiritual excitement takes pathological forms whenever other interests are too few and the intellect too narrow. We find this exemplified by all the saintly attributes in turn—devout love of God, purity, charity, asceticism, all may lead astray. I will run over these virtues in succession.

We find that every saintly virtue can lead to error through excess. In human abilities, excess usually means one-sidedness or a lack of balance. For it is hard to imagine any essential ability being too strong, if other abilities are equally strong and work with it. Strong feelings need a strong will. Strong powers of action need a strong intellect. A strong intellect needs strong sympathy for others to keep life steady. If these abilities are balanced, none can possibly be too strong. We simply get a stronger, well-rounded character. In the lives of those properly called saints, spiritual abilities are strong. But on closer examination, what seems excessive usually turns out to reflect a relative lack of intellectual strength. Spiritual excitement takes pathological forms whenever a person has too few other interests and too narrow an intellect. We see this in each of the saintly qualities in turn. Devout love of God, purity, charity, and asceticism can all lead people astray. I will consider these virtues one by one.

First of all let us take Devoutness. When unbalanced, one of its vices is called Fanaticism. Fanaticism (when not a mere expression of ecclesiastical ambition) is only loyalty carried to a convulsive extreme. When an intensely loyal and narrow mind is once grasped by the feeling that a certain superhuman person is worthy of its exclusive devotion, one of the first things that happens is that it idealizes the devotion itself. To adequately realize the merits of the idol gets to be considered the one great merit of the worshiper; and the sacrifices and servilities by which savage tribesmen have from time immemorial exhibited their faithfulness to chieftains are now outbid in favor of the deity. Vocabularies are exhausted and languages altered in the attempt to praise him enough; death is looked on as gain if it attract his grateful notice; and the personal attitude of being his devotee becomes what one might almost call a new and exalted kind of professional specialty within the tribe.¹⁹⁸ The legends that gather round the lives of holy persons are fruits of this impulse to celebrate and glorify. The Buddha¹⁹⁹ and Mohammed²⁰⁰ and their companions and many Christian saints are incrusted with a heavy jewelry of anecdotes which are meant to be honorific, but are simply abgeschmackt and silly, and form a touching expression of man's misguided propensity to praise.

First, let us consider devoutness. When unbalanced, it can become a vice called fanaticism. Fanaticism (when it is not simply an expression of church ambition) is loyalty carried to a frenzied extreme. A fiercely loyal, narrow-minded person may come to believe that a certain superhuman being deserves exclusive devotion. One of the first results is that the person idealizes devotion itself. Fully recognizing the idol’s merits comes to be seen as the worshiper’s one great merit. Since time immemorial, people in savage tribes have shown loyalty to their chiefs through sacrifices and acts of submission. Now, worshipers go even further for their deity. They exhaust vocabularies and alter languages in their attempts to praise him enough. They see death as a gain if it draws his grateful attention. Being his devotee becomes almost a new and exalted kind of professional specialty within the tribe.¹⁹⁸ The legends that grow up around holy people’s lives are products of this impulse to celebrate and glorify. The Buddha¹⁹⁹ and Mohammed²⁰⁰, their companions, and many Christian saints are encrusted with a heavy jewelry of anecdotes. These stories are meant to honor them, but they are simply tasteless and silly. They are a touching expression of humanity’s misguided tendency to praise.

An immediate consequence of this condition of mind is jealousy for the deity's honor. How can the devotee show his loyalty better than by sensitiveness in this regard? The slightest affront or neglect must be resented, the deity's enemies must be put to shame. In exceedingly narrow minds and active wills, such a care may become an engrossing preoccupation; and crusades have been preached and massacres instigated for no other reason than to remove a fancied slight upon the God. Theologies representing the gods as mindful of their glory, and churches with imperialistic policies, have conspired to fan this temper to a glow, so that intolerance and persecution have come to be vices associated by some of us inseparably with the saintly mind. They are unquestionably its besetting sins. The saintly temper is a moral temper, and a moral temper has often to be cruel. It is a partisan temper, and that is cruel. Between his own and Jehovah's enemies a David knows no difference; a Catherine of Siena, panting to stop the warfare among Christians which was the scandal of her epoch, can think of no better method of union among them than a crusade to massacre the Turks; Luther finds no word of protest or regret over the atrocious tortures with which the Anabaptist leaders were put to death; and a Cromwell praises the Lord for delivering his enemies into his hands for “execution.” Politics come in in all such cases; but piety finds the partnership not quite unnatural. So, when “freethinkers” tell us that religion and fanaticism are twins, we cannot make an unqualified denial of the charge.

One immediate result of this state of mind is a jealous concern for the deity's honor. How better can a devotee show loyalty than by being sensitive to the deity's honor? The devotee must resent the slightest insult or neglect and put the deity's enemies to shame. In very narrow minds with strong wills, this concern may become an all-consuming obsession. Crusades have been preached and massacres instigated solely to remove an imagined insult to God. Some theologies portray the gods as concerned with their glory. Churches have also pursued imperialistic policies. Together, theologies and churches have helped fan this attitude into a blaze. As a result, some of us have come to see intolerance and persecution as inseparable from the saintly mind. They are unquestionably its most persistent sins. The saintly temperament is a moral temperament, and a moral temperament often has to be cruel. It takes sides, and that is cruel. A David sees no difference between his own enemies and Jehovah's. A Catherine of Siena longs to stop the warfare among Christians, which was the scandal of her age. Yet she can think of no better way to unite Christians than a crusade to massacre the Turks. Luther offers no protest or regret over the atrocious tortures used to put the Anabaptist leaders to death. And a Cromwell praises the Lord for delivering his enemies into his hands for “execution.” Politics plays a part in all such cases, but piety does not find the partnership entirely unnatural. So, when “freethinkers” tell us that religion and fanaticism are twins, we cannot deny the charge outright.

Fanaticism must then be inscribed on the wrong side of religion's account, so long as the religious person's intellect is on the stage which the despotic kind of God satisfies. But as soon as the God is represented as less intent on his own honor and glory, it ceases to be a danger.

Fanaticism must therefore count against religion as long as a religious person's intellect is at a stage satisfied by a tyrannical God. But as soon as God is portrayed as less concerned with his own honor and glory, fanaticism is no longer a danger.

Fanaticism is found only where the character is masterful and aggressive. In gentle characters, where devoutness is intense and the intellect feeble, we have an imaginative absorption in the love of God to the exclusion of all practical human interests, which, though innocent enough, is too one-sided to be admirable. A mind too narrow has room but for one kind of affection. When the love of God takes possession of such a mind, it expels all human loves and human uses. There is no English name for such a sweet excess of devotion, so I will refer to it as a theopathic condition.

Fanaticism appears only in people with forceful, aggressive characters. In gentle people, intense devotion combined with a weak intellect produces something different. Their imaginations become absorbed in the love of God, to the exclusion of all practical human interests. Though harmless enough, this absorption is too one-sided to be admirable. A mind that is too narrow has room for only one kind of affection. When the love of God takes hold of such a mind, it drives out all human loves and uses. There is no English name for such a sweet excess of devotion, so I will call it a theopathic condition.

The blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque may serve as an example.

The blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque may serve as an example.

“This revelation,” says Mgr. Bougaud, “is unquestionably the most important of all the revelations which have illumined the Church since that of the Incarnation and of the Lord's Supper.... After the Eucharist, the supreme effort of the Sacred Heart.”²⁰² Well, what were its good fruits for Margaret Mary's life? Apparently little else but sufferings and prayers and absences of mind and swoons and ecstasies. She became increasingly useless about the convent, her absorption in Christ's love,—

“This revelation,” says Mgr. Bougaud, “is unquestionably the most important of all the revelations that have enlightened the Church since the Incarnation and the Lord's Supper.... After the Eucharist, the supreme effort of the Sacred Heart.”²⁰² Well, what good came from this revelation in Margaret Mary's life? Apparently little besides suffering, prayers, absent-mindedness, fainting, and ecstasies. She became increasingly useless around the convent, absorbed in Christ's love,...

Poor dear sister, indeed! Amiable and good, but so feeble of intellectual outlook that it would be too much to ask of us, with our Protestant and modern education, to feel anything but indulgent pity for the kind of saintship which she embodies. A lower example still of theopathic saintliness is that of Saint Gertrude, a Benedictine nun of the thirteenth century, whose “Revelations,” a well-known mystical authority, consist mainly of proofs of Christ's partiality for her undeserving person. Assurances of his love, intimacies and caresses and compliments of the most absurd and puerile sort, addressed by Christ to Gertrude as an individual, form the tissue of this paltry-minded recital.²⁰⁴ In reading such a narrative, we realize the gap between the thirteenth and the twentieth century, and we feel that saintliness of character may yield almost absolutely worthless fruits if it be associated with such inferior intellectual sympathies. What with science, idealism, and democracy, our own imagination has grown to need a God of an entirely different temperament from that Being interested exclusively in dealing out personal favors, with whom our ancestors were so contented. Smitten as we are with the vision of social righteousness, a God indifferent to everything but adulation, and full of partiality for his individual favorites, lacks an essential element of largeness; and even the best professional sainthood of former centuries, pent in as it is to such a conception, seems to us curiously shallow and unedifying.

Poor dear sister, indeed! She is kind and good, but her intellectual outlook is so limited that we can hardly be expected to feel anything but indulgent pity for her kind of saintliness. We have, after all, had a Protestant and modern education. An even lesser example of theopathic saintliness is Saint Gertrude, a Benedictine nun of the thirteenth century. Her “Revelations,” a well-known mystical authority, consist mainly of proofs of Christ's special favor toward her undeserving self. This small-minded account is made up of assurances of his love, intimacies, caresses, and compliments of the most absurd and childish kind. Christ addresses them to Gertrude personally.²⁰⁴ As we read such an account, we realize the gap between the thirteenth and the twentieth century. We feel that saintliness of character may produce almost completely worthless results if it is joined to such inferior intellectual interests. Thanks to science, idealism, and democracy, our imaginations now need a God of an entirely different temperament. Our ancestors were content with a Being concerned exclusively with handing out personal favors. We are captivated by the vision of social righteousness. So a God who cares about nothing but praise and shows special favor to individual favorites lacks an essential breadth of character. Even the best professional sainthood of earlier centuries seems curiously shallow and uninspiring to us, confined as it is within such a conception.

Take Saint Teresa, for example, one of the ablest women, in many respects, of whose life we have the record. She had a powerful intellect of the practical order. She wrote admirable descriptive psychology, possessed a will equal to any emergency, great talent for politics and business, a buoyant disposition, and a first-rate literary style. She was tenaciously aspiring, and put her whole life at the service of her religious ideals. Yet so paltry were these, according to our present way of thinking, that (although I know that others have been moved differently) I confess that my only feeling in reading her has been pity that so much vitality of soul should have found such poor employment.

Take Saint Teresa, for example. She was, in many respects, one of the most capable women whose lives have been recorded. She had a powerful, practical intellect. She wrote excellent descriptions of the human mind and had a will strong enough for any emergency. She also had great talent for politics and business, a cheerful disposition, and a first-rate literary style. She pursued her ambitions with determination and devoted her whole life to her religious ideals. Yet by the standards of our present way of thinking, those ideals were so poor that I can only feel pity when I read her. I pity her because so much vitality of soul found such a poor use. I know, though, that others have been moved differently.

In spite of the sufferings which she endured, there is a curious flavor of superficiality about her genius. A Birmingham anthropologist, Dr. Jordan, has divided the human race into two types, whom he calls “shrews” and “non-shrews” respectively.²⁰⁵ The shrew-type is defined as possessing an “active unimpassioned temperament.” In other words, shrews are the “motors,” rather than the “sensories,”²⁰⁶ and their expressions are as a rule more energetic than the feelings which appear to prompt them. Saint Teresa, paradoxical as such a judgment may sound, was a typical shrew, in this sense of the term. The bustle of her style, as well as of her life, proves it. Not only must she receive unheard-of personal favors and spiritual graces from her Saviour, but she must immediately write about them and exploiter them professionally, and use her expertness to give instruction to those less privileged. Her voluble egotism; her sense, not of radical bad being, as the really contrite have it, but of her “faults” and “imperfections” in the plural; her stereotyped humility and return upon herself, as covered with “confusion” at each new manifestation of God's singular partiality for a person so unworthy, are typical of shrewdom: a paramountly feeling nature would be objectively lost in gratitude, and silent. She had some public instincts, it is true; she hated the Lutherans, and longed for the church's triumph over them; but in the main her idea of religion seems to have been that of an endless amatory flirtation—if one may say so without irreverence—between the devotee and the deity; and apart from helping younger nuns to go in this direction by the inspiration of her example and instruction, there is absolutely no human use in her, or sign of any general human interest. Yet the spirit of her age, far from rebuking her, exalted her as superhuman.

Despite all her suffering, there is a curious hint of superficiality about her genius. Dr. Jordan, an anthropologist from Birmingham, divided humanity into two types, which he called “shrews” and “non-shrews.”²⁰⁵ He defined the shrew type as having an “active unimpassioned temperament.” In other words, shrews are “motors” rather than “sensories.”²⁰⁶ Their expressions are usually more energetic than the feelings that seem to prompt them. Strange as the judgment may sound, Saint Teresa was a typical shrew in this sense. The busy energy of her style, like that of her life, proves it. She must not only receive unheard-of personal favors and spiritual graces from her Saviour. She must also immediately write about them, exploit them professionally, and use her expertise to instruct those less privileged. Her talkative self-absorption is typical of shrewdom. So is her awareness of her “faults” and “imperfections” in the plural, rather than the sense of being fundamentally bad that truly repentant people have. Also typical are her formulaic humility and her habit of turning back to herself. Whenever God shows her some new sign of his special favor, she says she is filled with “confusion” that he would favor someone so unworthy. A person governed above all by feeling would be absorbed in gratitude and remain silent. It is true that she had some public concerns. She hated the Lutherans and longed for the church to triumph over them. But for the most part, her idea of religion seems to have been an endless romantic flirtation between the devotee and God, if one may say so without irreverence. Apart from inspiring and instructing younger nuns to follow this path, she was absolutely no use to humanity. Nor did she show any sign of a general interest in humanity. Yet the spirit of her age, far from rebuking her, exalted her as superhuman.

We have to pass a similar judgment on the whole notion of saintship based on merits. Any God who, on the one hand, can care to keep a pedantically minute account of individual shortcomings, and on the other can feel such partialities, and load particular creatures with such insipid marks of favor, is too small-minded a God for our credence. When Luther, in his immense manly way, swept off by a stroke of his hand the very notion of a debit and credit account kept with individuals by the Almighty, he stretched the soul's imagination and saved theology from puerility.

We must judge the whole idea of sainthood based on merits in the same way. A God who keeps a painstaking record of each person's shortcomings is too small-minded for us to believe in. So is a God who plays favorites and showers particular creatures with such bland tokens of favor. With a sweep of his hand, Luther, in his immensely manly way, dismissed the very idea that the Almighty keeps a ledger of debits and credits for each person. He expanded the soul's imagination and saved theology from childishness.

So much for mere devotion, divorced from the intellectual conceptions which might guide it towards bearing useful human fruit.

That is enough about devotion alone, separated from the ideas that might guide it toward producing useful results for humanity.

The next saintly virtue in which we find excess is Purity. In theopathic characters, like those whom we have just considered, the love of God must not be mixed with any other love. Father and mother, sisters, brothers, and friends are felt as interfering distractions; for sensitiveness and narrowness, when they occur together, as they often do, require above all things a simplified world to dwell in. Variety and confusion are too much for their powers of comfortable adaptation. But whereas your aggressive pietist reaches his unity objectively, by forcibly stamping disorder and divergence out, your retiring pietist reaches his subjectively, leaving disorder in the world at large, but making a smaller world in which he dwells himself and from which he eliminates it altogether. Thus, alongside of the church militant with its prisons, dragonnades, and inquisition methods, we have the church fugient, as one might call it, with its hermitages, monasteries, and sectarian organizations, both churches pursuing the same object—to unify the life,²⁰⁷ and simplify the spectacle presented to the soul. A mind extremely sensitive to inner discords will drop one external relation after another, as interfering with the absorption of consciousness in spiritual things. Amusements must go first, then conventional “society,” then business, then family duties, until at last seclusion, with a subdivision of the day into hours for stated religious acts, is the only thing that can be borne. The lives of saints are a history of successive renunciations of complication, one form of contact with the outer life being dropped after another, to save the purity of inner tone.²⁰⁸ “Is it not better,” a young sister asks her Superior, “that I should not speak at all during the hour of recreation, so as not to run the risk, by speaking, of falling into some sin of which I might not be conscious?”²⁰⁹ If the life remains a social one at all, those who take part in it must follow one identical rule. Embosomed in this monotony, the zealot for purity feels clean and free once more. The minuteness of uniformity maintained in certain sectarian communities, whether monastic or not, is something almost inconceivable to a man of the world. Costume, phraseology, hours, and habits are absolutely stereotyped, and there is no doubt that some persons are so made as to find in this stability an incomparable kind of mental rest.

The next saintly virtue in which we find excess is Purity. In theopathic characters, like those we have just considered, love of God must not be mixed with any other love. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and friends are felt to be distracting intrusions. Sensitivity and narrowness often occur together, and when they do, they require above all a simplified world to live in. Variety and confusion are too much for such people to adapt to comfortably. The aggressive pietist achieves unity in the world itself, by forcibly stamping out disorder and difference. The retiring pietist, on the other hand, achieves unity within himself. He leaves disorder in the wider world but creates a smaller world to live in, eliminating disorder from it altogether. Thus, alongside the church militant, with its prisons, dragonnades, and inquisition methods, we have what might be called the church fugient. The church fugient has its hermitages, monasteries, and sectarian organizations. Both churches pursue the same goal: to unify life²⁰⁷ and simplify the scene presented to the soul. A mind extremely sensitive to inner conflicts will give up one external relationship after another. Each is felt to interfere with the mind’s absorption in spiritual things. Amusements must go first, then conventional “society,” then business, then family duties. At last, seclusion is the only thing such a person can bear, with the day divided into hours for set religious acts. The lives of saints are a history of giving up complexities, one after another. They abandon one form of contact with outer life after another to preserve the purity of their inner state.²⁰⁸ “Wouldn’t it be better,” a young sister asks her Superior, “if I didn’t speak at all during the hour of recreation? Then I wouldn’t risk committing some sin by speaking without being aware of it.”²⁰⁹ If life remains social at all, everyone who takes part must follow the same rule. Surrounded by this monotony, the zealot for purity feels clean and free once more. People of the world can hardly imagine how detailed the uniformity is in certain sectarian communities, whether monastic or not. Dress, language, hours, and habits are absolutely fixed. And there is no doubt that some people are made so that this stability gives them an incomparable kind of mental rest.

We have no time to multiply examples, so I will let the case of Saint Louis of Gonzaga serve as a type of excess in purification. I think you will agree that this youth carried the elimination of the external and discordant to a point which we cannot unreservedly admire. At the age of ten, his biographer says:—

We do not have time for more examples, so I will use Saint Louis of Gonzaga as an example of excessive purification. I think you will agree that this young man went too far in eliminating external and discordant things for us to admire him without reservation. His biographer says that, at the age of ten:

At the age of twelve, we read of this young man that “if by chance his mother sent one of her maids of honor to him with a message, he never allowed her to come in, but listened to her through the barely opened door, and dismissed her immediately. He did not like to be alone with his own mother, whether at table or in conversation; and when the rest of the company withdrew, he sought also a pretext for retiring.... Several great ladies, relatives of his, he avoided learning to know even by sight; and he made a sort of treaty with his father, engaging promptly and readily to accede to all his wishes, if he might only be excused from all visits to ladies.” (Ibid., p. 71.)

We read that, at the age of twelve, this young man behaved as follows: “If his mother happened to send one of her maids of honor with a message, he never let her in. He listened to her through the barely open door and sent her away immediately. He did not like to be alone with his own mother, either at the table or in conversation. When the rest of the company left, he also looked for an excuse to leave.... He avoided even learning to recognize several distinguished female relatives by sight. He made a kind of agreement with his father. He promised to agree promptly and willingly to all his father’s wishes, if only he could be excused from all visits to ladies.” (Ibid., p. 71.)

When he was seventeen years old Louis joined the Jesuit order²¹¹ against his father's passionate entreaties, for he was heir of a princely house; and when a year later the father died, he took the loss as a “particular attention” to himself on God's part, and wrote letters of stilted good advice, as from a spiritual superior, to his grieving mother. He soon became so good a monk that if any one asked him the number of his brothers and sisters, he had to reflect and count them over before replying. A Father asked him one day if he were never troubled by the thought of his family, to which, “I never think of them except when praying for them,” was his only answer. Never was he seen to hold in his hand a flower or anything perfumed, that he might take pleasure in it. On the contrary, in the hospital, he used to seek for whatever was most disgusting, and eagerly snatch the bandages of ulcers, etc., from the hands of his companions. He avoided worldly talk, and immediately tried to turn every conversation on to pious subjects, or else he remained silent. He systematically refused to notice his surroundings. Being ordered one day to bring a book from the rector's seat in the refectory, he had to ask where the rector sat, for in the three months he had eaten bread there, so carefully did he guard his eyes that he had not noticed the place. One day, during recess, having looked by chance on one of his companions, he reproached himself as for a grave sin against modesty. He cultivated silence, as preserving from sins of the tongue; and his greatest penance was the limit which his superiors set to his bodily penances. He sought after false accusations and unjust reprimands as opportunities of humility; and such was his obedience that, when a room-mate, having no more paper, asked him for a sheet, he did not feel free to give it to him without first obtaining the permission of the superior, who, as such, stood in the place of God, and transmitted his orders.

At seventeen, Louis joined the Jesuit order²¹¹ despite his father’s passionate pleas. Louis was the heir to a princely family. When his father died a year later, Louis took the loss as a “particular attention” from God to himself. He wrote stiff letters of good advice to his grieving mother, as though he were her spiritual superior. He soon became so good a monk that he had to stop and count his brothers and sisters before answering how many he had. One day a Father asked whether thoughts of his family ever troubled him. His only answer was, “I never think of them except when praying for them.” He was never seen holding a flower or anything perfumed for the pleasure of it. On the contrary, in the hospital, he sought out whatever was most disgusting. He eagerly snatched the bandages of ulcers and similar things from his companions’ hands. He avoided worldly talk and immediately tried to turn every conversation to pious subjects. Otherwise, he remained silent. He deliberately refused to notice his surroundings. One day he was ordered to bring a book from the rector’s seat in the refectory. He had to ask where the rector sat. For three months he had eaten there, but he had guarded his eyes so carefully that he had not noticed the place. One day during recess, he happened to look at one of his companions. He reproached himself as though he had committed a grave sin against modesty. He practiced silence to avoid sins of the tongue. His greatest penance was the limit his superiors set on his bodily penances. He sought out false accusations and unjust reprimands as opportunities to practice humility. He was so obedient that when a roommate ran out of paper and asked him for a sheet, Louis did not feel free to give him one without first getting permission from his superior. The superior stood in the place of God and passed on his orders.

I can find no other sorts of fruit than these of Louis's saintship. He died in 1591, in his twenty-ninth year, and is known in the Church as the patron of all young people. On his festival, the altar in the chapel devoted to him in a certain church in Rome “is embosomed in flowers, arranged with exquisite taste; and a pile of letters may be seen at its foot, written to the Saint by young men and women, and directed to ‘Paradiso.’ They are supposed to be burnt unread except by San Luigi, who must find singular petitions in these pretty little missives, tied up now with a green ribbon, expressive of hope, now with a red one, emblematic of love,” etc.²¹²

I can find no other fruits of Louis's sainthood than these. He died in 1591, in his twenty-ninth year, and is known in the Church as the patron of all young people. On his feast day, the altar in his chapel in a certain church in Rome “is surrounded by flowers, arranged with exquisite taste. At its foot, there is a pile of letters written to the Saint by young men and women, addressed to ‘Paradiso.’ The letters are supposedly burned unread, except by San Luigi. He must find some unusual requests in these pretty little letters. Some are tied with green ribbons, expressing hope, and others with red ribbons, symbolizing love,” etc.²¹²

Our final judgment of the worth of such a life as this will depend largely on our conception of God, and of the sort of conduct he is best pleased with in his creatures. The Catholicism of the sixteenth century paid little heed to social righteousness; and to leave the world to the devil whilst saving one's own soul was then accounted no discreditable scheme. To-day, rightly or wrongly, helpfulness in general human affairs is, in consequence of one of those secular mutations in moral sentiment of which I spoke, deemed an essential element of worth in character; and to be of some public or private use is also reckoned as a species of divine service. Other early Jesuits, especially the missionaries among them, the Xaviers, Brébeufs, Jogues, were objective minds, and fought in their way for the world's welfare; so their lives to-day inspire us. But when the intellect, as in this Louis, is originally no larger than a pin's head, and cherishes ideas of God of corresponding smallness, the result, notwithstanding the heroism put forth, is on the whole repulsive. Purity, we see in the object-lesson, is not the one thing needful; and it is better that a life should contract many a dirt-mark, than forfeit usefulness in its efforts to remain unspotted.

Our final judgment of the worth of such a life will depend largely on how we think of God. It will also depend on what sort of conduct we believe he most appreciates in his creatures. Sixteenth-century Catholicism paid little attention to social justice. At the time, leaving the world to the devil while saving one's own soul was considered a respectable plan. Today, rightly or wrongly, we consider helpfulness in human affairs generally essential to a good character. This is the result of one of the long-term shifts in moral sentiment I spoke of earlier. We also consider being useful to others, in public or private life, a form of service to God. Other early Jesuits, especially missionaries such as Xavier, Brébeuf, and Jogues, were outward-looking. They fought in their own way for the world's welfare, so their lives inspire us today. But in someone like this Louis, the mind is no bigger than a pinhead to begin with. His ideas of God are just as small. Despite his heroism, the overall result is repulsive. This example shows us that purity is not the only thing we need. It is better for a life to pick up many a stain than to give up being useful in order to stay spotless.

Proceeding onwards in our search of religious extravagance, we next come upon excesses of Tenderness and Charity. Here saintliness has to face the charge of preserving the unfit, and breeding parasites and beggars. “Resist not evil,” “Love your enemies,” these are saintly maxims of which men of this world find it hard to speak without impatience. Are the men of this world right, or are the saints in possession of the deeper range of truth?

As we continue our search for religious excess, we come to excessive tenderness and charity. Here, saintliness faces the charge of keeping the unfit alive and encouraging parasites and beggars. “Do not resist evil” and “Love your enemies” are saintly rules that worldly people find hard to discuss without impatience. Are worldly people right, or do the saints possess a deeper truth?

No simple answer is possible. Here, if anywhere, one feels the complexity of the moral life, and the mysteriousness of the way in which facts and ideals are interwoven.

There is no simple answer. Here, if anywhere, we feel how complex moral life is and how mysteriously facts and ideals are intertwined.

Perfect conduct is a relation between three terms: the actor, the objects for which he acts, and the recipients of the action. In order that conduct should be abstractly perfect, all three terms, intention, execution, and reception, should be suited to one another. The best intention will fail if it either work by false means or address itself to the wrong recipient. Thus no critic or estimator of the value of conduct can confine himself to the actor's animus alone, apart from the other elements of the performance. As there is no worse lie than a truth misunderstood by those who hear it, so reasonable arguments, challenges to magnanimity, and appeals to sympathy or justice, are folly when we are dealing with human crocodiles and boa-constrictors. The saint may simply give the universe into the hands of the enemy by his trustfulness. He may by non-resistance cut off his own survival.

Perfect conduct involves three things: the person acting, the aims of the action, and those who receive it. For conduct to be perfect in the abstract, all three must fit together: intention, execution, and reception. Even the best intention will fail if it uses the wrong means or is directed at the wrong recipient. So anyone judging the value of conduct must consider more than the actor’s intentions. The other elements of the action matter too. There is no worse lie than a truth misunderstood by those who hear it. Likewise, reasonable arguments, calls for generosity, and appeals to sympathy or justice are foolish when dealing with human crocodiles and boa constrictors. By trusting them, the saint may simply hand the universe over to the enemy. By refusing to resist, the saint may make his own survival impossible.

Herbert Spencer tells us that the perfect man's conduct will appear perfect only when the environment is perfect: to no inferior environment is it suitably adapted. We may paraphrase this by cordially admitting that saintly conduct would be the most perfect conduct conceivable in an environment where all were saints already; but by adding that in an environment where few are saints, and many the exact reverse of saints, it must be ill adapted. We must frankly confess, then, using our empirical common sense and ordinary practical prejudices, that in the world that actually is, the virtues of sympathy, charity, and non-resistance may be, and often have been, manifested in excess. The powers of darkness have systematically taken advantage of them. The whole modern scientific organization of charity is a consequence of the failure of simply giving alms. The whole history of constitutional government is a commentary on the excellence of resisting evil, and when one cheek is smitten, of smiting back and not turning the other cheek also.

Herbert Spencer tells us that a perfect person's conduct will appear perfect only in a perfect environment. It is not suited to any less perfect environment. We can restate this by readily admitting that saintly conduct would be the most perfect conduct imaginable if everyone were already a saint. But where few are saints, and many are the exact opposite, saintly conduct must be poorly suited to its surroundings. Using our experience, common sense, and ordinary practical prejudices, we must frankly admit that the virtues of sympathy, charity, and nonresistance can be excessive in the world as it actually is. They often have been. The powers of darkness have systematically taken advantage of these virtues. The entire modern scientific organization of charity is a result of the failure of simply giving alms. The whole history of constitutional government shows the value of resisting evil. It shows the value of striking back when one cheek is struck, rather than turning the other cheek.

You will agree to this in general, for in spite of the Gospel, in spite of Quakerism, in spite of Tolstoi, you believe in fighting fire with fire, in shooting down usurpers, locking up thieves, and freezing out vagabonds and swindlers.

You will agree with this in general. Despite the Gospel, Quakerism, and Tolstoi, you believe in fighting fire with fire. You believe in shooting down people who seize power, locking up thieves, and shutting out vagrants and swindlers.

And yet you are sure, as I am sure, that were the world confined to these hard-headed, hard-hearted, and hard-fisted methods exclusively, were there no one prompt to help a brother first, and find out afterwards whether he were worthy; no one willing to drown his private wrongs in pity for the wronger's person; no one ready to be duped many a time rather than live always on suspicion; no one glad to treat individuals passionately and impulsively rather than by general rules of prudence; the world would be an infinitely worse place than it is now to live in. The tender grace, not of a day that is dead, but of a day yet to be born somehow, with the golden rule grown natural, would be cut out from the perspective of our imaginations.

And yet you are as sure as I am that the world would be an infinitely worse place if it relied exclusively on hard-headed, hard-hearted, and tight-fisted methods. Imagine if no one was quick to help a fellow human being before finding out whether they deserved help. Imagine if no one was willing to put aside a personal injury out of pity for the person who caused it. Imagine if no one was ready to be deceived many times rather than always live with suspicion. Imagine if no one was glad to treat people with passion and spontaneity rather than follow general rules of caution. We could no longer imagine the tender grace of a day that has not died but is somehow yet to be born, when the golden rule has become second nature.

The saints, existing in this way, may, with their extravagances of human tenderness, be prophetic. Nay, innumerable times they have proved themselves prophetic. Treating those whom they met, in spite of the past, in spite of all appearances, as worthy, they have stimulated them to be worthy, miraculously transformed them by their radiant example and by the challenge of their expectation.

Saints who live this way may be prophetic in their extraordinary human tenderness. Indeed, countless times they have proved prophetic. They have treated the people they met as worthy, despite their past and all appearances. In doing so, they have encouraged those people to be worthy. Their radiant example and the challenge of their expectations have miraculously transformed them.

From this point of view we may admit the human charity which we find in all saints, and the great excess of it which we find in some saints, to be a genuinely creative social force, tending to make real a degree of virtue which it alone is ready to assume as possible. The saints are authors, auctores, increasers, of goodness. The potentialities of development in human souls are unfathomable. So many who seemed irretrievably hardened have in point of fact been softened, converted, regenerated, in ways that amazed the subjects even more than they surprised the spectators, that we never can be sure in advance of any man that his salvation by the way of love is hopeless. We have no right to speak of human crocodiles and boa-constrictors as of fixedly incurable beings. We know not the complexities of personality, the smouldering emotional fires, the other facets of the character-polyhedron, the resources of the subliminal region. St. Paul long ago made our ancestors familiar with the idea that every soul is virtually sacred. Since Christ died for us all without exception, St. Paul said, we must despair of no one. This belief in the essential sacredness of every one expresses itself to-day in all sorts of humane customs and reformatory institutions, and in a growing aversion to the death penalty and to brutality in punishment. The saints, with their extravagance of human tenderness, are the great torch-bearers of this belief, the tip of the wedge, the clearers of the darkness. Like the single drops which sparkle in the sun as they are flung far ahead of the advancing edge of a wave-crest or of a flood, they show the way and are forerunners. The world is not yet with them, so they often seem in the midst of the world's affairs to be preposterous. Yet they are impregnators of the world, vivifiers and animaters of potentialities of goodness which but for them would lie forever dormant. It is not possible to be quite as mean as we naturally are, when they have passed before us. One fire kindles another; and without that over-trust in human worth which they show, the rest of us would lie in spiritual stagnancy.

From this point of view, we may recognize the love for others found in all saints as a truly creative social force. The same is true of the even greater love found in some saints. This love helps bring about a degree of virtue that it alone is prepared to believe possible. Saints are authors, auctores, increasers of goodness. The potential for development in human souls is beyond measure. Many people who seemed hopelessly hardened have in fact been softened, converted, and renewed. These changes amazed the people themselves even more than they surprised those watching. So we can never be sure in advance that anyone is beyond salvation through love. We have no right to speak of human crocodiles and boa constrictors as if they could never be cured. We do not know the complexities of personality, the smoldering emotional fires, or the other sides of the many-sided character. Nor do we know the resources of the subconscious mind. St. Paul long ago made our ancestors familiar with the idea that every soul is sacred in effect. Since Christ died for us all without exception, St. Paul said, we must despair of no one. Today, this belief in the essential sacredness of everyone appears in all kinds of humane practices and institutions for reform. It also appears in a growing opposition to the death penalty and to brutal punishment. Saints, with their extraordinary tenderness toward others, are the great torchbearers of this belief. They are the leading edge, clearing away the darkness. They are like the individual drops flung far ahead of a breaking wave or a flood, sparkling in the sun. They show the way and go before the rest. The world has not yet caught up with them, so they often seem absurd amid the affairs of the world. Yet they plant seeds in the world. They awaken and bring to life possibilities for goodness that would otherwise remain dormant forever. After saints have passed before us, we cannot be quite as mean as we naturally are. One fire kindles another. Without the saints' excessive trust in human worth, the rest of us would remain spiritually stagnant.

Momentarily considered, then, the saint may waste his tenderness and be the dupe and victim of his charitable fever, but the general function of his charity in social evolution is vital and essential. If things are ever to move upward, some one must be ready to take the first step, and assume the risk of it. No one who is not willing to try charity, to try non-resistance as the saint is always willing, can tell whether these methods will or will not succeed. When they do succeed, they are far more powerfully successful than force or worldly prudence. Force destroys enemies; and the best that can be said of prudence is that it keeps what we already have in safety. But non-resistance, when successful, turns enemies into friends; and charity regenerates its objects. These saintly methods are, as I said, creative energies; and genuine saints find in the elevated excitement with which their faith endows them an authority and impressiveness which makes them irresistible in situations where men of shallower nature cannot get on at all without the use of worldly prudence. This practical proof that worldly wisdom may be safely transcended is the saint's magic gift to mankind.²¹³ Not only does his vision of a better world console us for the generally prevailing prose and barrenness; but even when on the whole we have to confess him ill adapted, he makes some converts, and the environment gets better for his ministry. He is an effective ferment of goodness, a slow transmuter of the earthly into a more heavenly order.

Considered in the moment, then, the saint may waste his tenderness. He may be deceived and victimized by his feverish charity. But charity has a vital and essential role in social evolution. If things are ever to improve, someone must be ready to take the first step and accept the risk. The saint is always willing to try charity and nonresistance. No one unwilling to try these methods can know whether they will succeed. When they do succeed, they are far more effective than force or worldly prudence. Force destroys enemies. The best that can be said of prudence is that it keeps what we already have safe. But nonresistance, when successful, turns enemies into friends, and charity transforms the people it helps. As I said, these saintly methods are creative energies. Genuine saints find authority and power in the uplifting excitement their faith gives them. These qualities make them irresistible in situations where people of shallower nature cannot manage at all without worldly prudence. The saint's magic gift to humanity is this practical proof that we can safely go beyond worldly wisdom.²¹³ His vision of a better world consoles us for the dullness and barrenness that generally prevail. But even when we must admit that, on the whole, he is poorly suited to this world, he wins some converts. And the world around him grows better through his work. He is an active force for goodness, slowly transforming the earthly order into a more heavenly one.

In this respect the Utopian dreams of social justice in which many contemporary socialists and anarchists indulge are, in spite of their impracticability and non-adaptation to present environmental conditions, analogous to the saint's belief in an existent kingdom of heaven. They help to break the edge of the general reign of hardness, and are slow leavens of a better order.

In this respect, the utopian dreams of social justice that many socialists and anarchists today indulge in resemble the saint's belief that a kingdom of heaven exists. This is so even though these dreams are impractical and unsuited to present conditions. Such dreams help soften the widespread rule of hardness and slowly help bring about a better order.

The next topic in order is Asceticism, which I fancy you are all ready to consider without argument a virtue liable to extravagance and excess. The optimism and refinement of the modern imagination has, as I have already said elsewhere, changed the attitude of the church towards corporeal mortification, and a Suso or a Saint Peter of Alcantara²¹⁴ appear to us to-day rather in the light of tragic mountebanks than of sane men inspiring us with respect. If the inner dispositions are right, we ask, what need of all this torment, this violation of the outer nature? It keeps the outer nature too important. Any one who is genuinely emancipated from the flesh will look on pleasures and pains, abundance and privation, as alike irrelevant and indifferent. He can engage in actions and experience enjoyments without fear of corruption or enslavement. As the Bhagavad-Gita says, only those need renounce worldly actions who are still inwardly attached thereto. If one be really unattached to the fruits of action, one may mix in the world with equanimity. I quoted in a former lecture Saint Augustine's antinomian saying: If you only love God enough, you may safely follow all your inclinations. “He needs no devotional practices,” is one of Ramakrishna's maxims, “whose heart is moved to tears at the mere mention of the name of Hari.”²¹⁵ And the Buddha, in pointing out what he called “the middle way” to his disciples, told them to abstain from both extremes, excessive mortification being as unreal and unworthy as mere desire and pleasure. The only perfect life, he said, is that of inner wisdom, which makes one thing as indifferent to us as another, and thus leads to rest, to peace, and to Nirvâna.²¹⁶

The next topic is Asceticism. I imagine you are all ready to agree that it is a virtue prone to extravagance and excess. As I have said elsewhere, the optimism and refinement of the modern imagination have changed the church’s attitude toward physical self-punishment. Today, a Suso or a Saint Peter of Alcantara²¹⁴ seems to us more like a tragic clown than a sane person who inspires respect. If a person’s inner disposition is right, we ask, why all this torment and violation of the body? Such practices give the body too much importance. Anyone who is truly free from the flesh will regard pleasure and pain, abundance and deprivation, as equally irrelevant and unimportant. Such a person can act and enjoy things without fear of corruption or enslavement. As the Bhagavad-Gita says, only those who are still inwardly attached to worldly actions need to give them up. If a person is truly unattached to the fruits of action, they can take part in the world with equanimity. In an earlier lecture, I quoted Saint Augustine’s antinomian saying: If you love God enough, you can safely follow all your inclinations. “He needs no devotional practices,” is one of Ramakrishna’s maxims, “whose heart is moved to tears at the mere mention of the name of Hari.”²¹⁵ The Buddha pointed out to his disciples what he called “the middle way.” He told them to avoid both extremes. Excessive self-punishment is just as unreal and unworthy as mere desire and pleasure. The only perfect life, he said, is a life of inner wisdom. Such wisdom makes one thing as unimportant to us as another and thus leads to rest, peace, and Nirvâna.²¹⁶

We find accordingly that as ascetic saints have grown older, and directors of conscience more experienced, they usually have shown a tendency to lay less stress on special bodily mortifications. Catholic teachers have always professed the rule that, since health is needed for efficiency in God's service, health must not be sacrificed to mortification. The general optimism and healthy-mindedness of liberal Protestant circles to-day makes mortification for mortification's sake repugnant to us. We can no longer sympathize with cruel deities, and the notion that God can take delight in the spectacle of sufferings self-inflicted in his honor is abhorrent. In consequence of all these motives you probably are disposed, unless some special utility can be shown in some individual's discipline, to treat the general tendency to asceticism as pathological.

We find that as ascetic saints grow older, they usually place less emphasis on specific forms of bodily self-denial. Spiritual advisers tend to do the same as they gain experience. Catholic teachers have always maintained that health must not be sacrificed to self-denial, because it is needed to serve God effectively. The general optimism and healthy-mindedness of liberal Protestant circles today make self-denial for its own sake repugnant to us. We can no longer sympathize with cruel deities. The idea that God could take pleasure in seeing people inflict suffering on themselves in his honor is abhorrent. For all these reasons, you are probably inclined to regard the general tendency toward asceticism as pathological, unless a particular person's self-discipline can be shown to serve some useful purpose.

Yet I believe that a more careful consideration of the whole matter, distinguishing between the general good intention of asceticism and the uselessness of some of the particular acts of which it may be guilty, ought to rehabilitate it in our esteem. For in its spiritual meaning asceticism stands for nothing less than for the essence of the twice-born philosophy. It symbolizes, lamely enough no doubt, but sincerely, the belief that there is an element of real wrongness in this world, which is neither to be ignored nor evaded, but which must be squarely met and overcome by an appeal to the soul's heroic resources, and neutralized and cleansed away by suffering. As against this view, the ultra-optimistic form of the once-born philosophy thinks we may treat evil by the method of ignoring. Let a man who, by fortunate health and circumstances, escapes the suffering of any great amount of evil in his own person, also close his eyes to it as it exists in the wider universe outside his private experience, and he will be quit of it altogether, and can sail through life happily on a healthy-minded basis. But we saw in our lectures on melancholy how precarious this attempt necessarily is. Moreover it is but for the individual; and leaves the evil outside of him, unredeemed and unprovided for in his philosophy.

Yet I believe that a closer look at the whole matter should restore our respect for asceticism. We should distinguish its generally good intention from the uselessness of some of the particular acts it may involve. In its spiritual meaning, asceticism represents nothing less than the essence of the twice-born philosophy. It symbolizes the belief that there is an element of real wrongness in this world. No doubt it does so imperfectly, but it does so sincerely. This wrongness must not be ignored or evaded. It must be faced squarely and overcome by drawing on the soul’s heroic resources. It must be neutralized and cleansed away through suffering. By contrast, the extremely optimistic form of the once-born philosophy thinks we can deal with evil by ignoring it. Suppose a man is fortunate enough in health and circumstances to suffer little evil himself. If he also closes his eyes to the evil in the wider world outside his own experience, he will be rid of it altogether. He can then sail happily through life with a healthy-minded outlook. But in our lectures on melancholy, we saw how precarious this attempt necessarily is. Moreover, it works only for the individual. It leaves the evil outside him unredeemed and unaccounted for in his philosophy.

No such attempt can be a general solution of the problem; and to minds of sombre tinge, who naturally feel life as a tragic mystery, such optimism is a shallow dodge or mean evasion. It accepts, in lieu of a real deliverance, what is a lucky personal accident merely, a cranny to escape by. It leaves the general world unhelped and still in the clutch of Satan. The real deliverance, the twice-born folk insist, must be of universal application. Pain and wrong and death must be fairly met and overcome in higher excitement, or else their sting remains essentially unbroken. If one has ever taken the fact of the prevalence of tragic death in this world's history fairly into his mind,—freezing, drowning, entombment alive, wild beasts, worse men, and hideous diseases,—he can with difficulty, it seems to me, continue his own career of worldly prosperity without suspecting that he may all the while not be really inside the game, that he may lack the great initiation.

No such attempt can provide a general solution to the problem. Some people naturally see life as a tragic mystery. To these somber minds, such optimism is a shallow dodge or a contemptible evasion. Instead of real deliverance, it offers a mere stroke of personal luck, a narrow opening for escape. It leaves the world at large unhelped and still in Satan's grip. The twice-born insist that real deliverance must apply to everyone. Pain, wrong, and death must be faced squarely and overcome in a higher state of excitement. Otherwise, their sting remains essentially unbroken. Suppose someone has fully taken in how common tragic death has been throughout the world's history. People have died from freezing, drowning, being buried alive, wild beasts, even more savage human beings, and hideous diseases. It seems to me that such a person can hardly continue to prosper in the world without a nagging suspicion. They may not really be inside the game at all. They may have missed the great initiation.

Well, this is exactly what asceticism thinks; and it voluntarily takes the initiation. Life is neither farce nor genteel comedy, it says, but something we must sit at in mourning garments, hoping its bitter taste will purge us of our folly. The wild and the heroic are indeed such rooted parts of it that healthy-mindedness pure and simple, with its sentimental optimism, can hardly be regarded by any thinking man as a serious solution. Phrases of neatness, cosiness, and comfort can never be an answer to the sphinx's riddle.

Well, this is exactly what asceticism believes, and it voluntarily undergoes the initiation. Life is neither a farce nor a polite comedy, asceticism says. Instead, we must sit down to it in mourning clothes, hoping its bitter taste will cleanse us of our folly. The wild and the heroic are so deeply rooted in life that any thinking person can hardly regard simple healthy-mindedness, with its sentimental optimism, as a serious solution. Talk of neatness, coziness, and comfort can never answer the sphinx's riddle.

In these remarks I am leaning only upon mankind's common instinct for reality, which in point of fact has always held the world to be essentially a theatre for heroism. In heroism, we feel, life's supreme mystery is hidden. We tolerate no one who has no capacity whatever for it in any direction. On the other hand, no matter what a man's frailties otherwise may be, if he be willing to risk death, and still more if he suffer it heroically, in the service he has chosen, the fact consecrates him forever. Inferior to ourselves in this or that way, if yet we cling to life, and he is able “to fling it away like a flower” as caring nothing for it, we account him in the deepest way our born superior. Each of us in his own person feels that a high-hearted indifference to life would expiate all his shortcomings.

In these remarks, I rely only on humanity’s common instinct for reality. In fact, that instinct has always held that the world is essentially a stage for heroism. We feel that life’s greatest mystery is hidden in heroism. We tolerate no one who is completely incapable of heroism in any form. On the other hand, a man may have any number of other weaknesses. But if he is willing to risk death in the service he has chosen, that fact makes him forever worthy of reverence. This is even more true if he dies heroically in that service. He may be inferior to us in one way or another. Yet if we cling to life and he can “fling it away like a flower,” caring nothing for it, we consider him our natural superior in the deepest sense. Each of us feels that a noble indifference to life would make up for all our shortcomings.

The metaphysical mystery, thus recognized by common sense, that he who feeds on death that feeds on men possesses life supereminently and excellently, and meets best the secret demands of the universe, is the truth of which asceticism has been the faithful champion. The folly of the cross, so inexplicable by the intellect, has yet its indestructible vital meaning.

Common sense recognizes a mystery about the nature of reality. A person who feeds on the death that feeds on people has life in the fullest and finest sense. Such a person best meets the universe’s hidden demands. Asceticism has faithfully defended this truth. The folly of the cross cannot be explained by reason, yet its vital meaning cannot be destroyed.

Representatively, then, and symbolically, and apart from the vagaries into which the unenlightened intellect of former times may have let it wander, asceticism must, I believe, be acknowledged to go with the profounder way of handling the gift of existence. Naturalistic optimism is mere syllabub and flattery and sponge-cake in comparison. The practical course of action for us, as religious men, would therefore, it seems to me, not be simply to turn our backs upon the ascetic impulse, as most of us to-day turn them, but rather to discover some outlet for it of which the fruits in the way of privation and hardship might be objectively useful. The older monastic asceticism occupied itself with pathetic futilities, or terminated in the mere egotism of the individual, increasing his own perfection.²¹⁷ But is it not possible for us to discard most of these older forms of mortification, and yet find saner channels for the heroism which inspired them?

In its symbolic meaning, then, I believe asceticism must be recognized as part of a deeper way of treating the gift of existence. This is true despite the strange paths down which the unenlightened minds of earlier times may have led it. By comparison, naturalistic optimism is mere froth, flattery, and sponge cake. As religious people, then, we should not simply turn our backs on the ascetic impulse, as most of us do today. Instead, it seems to me, we should find an outlet for it where the resulting privation and hardship might be objectively useful. The older monastic asceticism was concerned with pitifully useless activities. Or it ended in mere egotism, with individuals concerned only with perfecting themselves.²¹⁷ But can we not discard most of these older forms of self-denial and still find healthier outlets for the heroism that inspired them?

Does not, for example, the worship of material luxury and wealth, which constitutes so large a portion of the “spirit” of our age, make somewhat for effeminacy and unmanliness? Is not the exclusively sympathetic and facetious way in which most children are brought up to-day—so different from the education of a hundred years ago, especially in evangelical circles—in danger, in spite of its many advantages, of developing a certain trashiness of fibre? Are there not hereabouts some points of application for a renovated and revised ascetic discipline?

For example, does the worship of luxury and wealth encourage some degree of effeminacy and unmanliness? It makes up such a large part of the “spirit” of our age. Most children today are raised with nothing but sympathy and humor. This is very different from education a hundred years ago, especially in evangelical circles. Despite its many advantages, might this approach produce a certain weakness of character? Are these not areas where an updated, revised discipline of self-denial could be useful?

Many of you would recognize such dangers, but would point to athletics, militarism, and individual and national enterprise and adventure as the remedies. These contemporary ideals are quite as remarkable for the energy with which they make for heroic standards of life, as contemporary religion is remarkable for the way in which it neglects them.²¹⁸ War and adventure assuredly keep all who engage in them from treating themselves too tenderly. They demand such incredible efforts, depth beyond depth of exertion, both in degree and in duration, that the whole scale of motivation alters. Discomfort and annoyance, hunger and wet, pain and cold, squalor and filth, cease to have any deterrent operation whatever. Death turns into a commonplace matter, and its usual power to check our action vanishes. With the annulling of these customary inhibitions, ranges of new energy are set free, and life seems cast upon a higher plane of power.

Many of you would recognize such dangers, but point to athletics, militarism, and individual and national enterprise and adventure as remedies. These modern ideals promote heroic standards of life with energy as remarkable as modern religion’s neglect of them.²¹⁸ War and adventure certainly keep all who engage in them from treating themselves too gently. They demand incredible effort, with ever greater exertion over ever longer periods. As a result, the whole scale of motivation changes. Discomfort and annoyance, hunger and wet, pain and cold, squalor and filth no longer deter people at all. Death becomes commonplace, and its usual power to stop us from acting disappears. When these usual restraints fall away, new levels of energy are released, and life seems to rise to a higher level of power.

The beauty of war in this respect is that it is so congruous with ordinary human nature. Ancestral evolution has made us all potential warriors; so the most insignificant individual, when thrown into an army in the field, is weaned from whatever excess of tenderness towards his precious person he may bring with him, and may easily develop into a monster of insensibility.

The beauty of war in this respect is how well it fits ordinary human nature. Our ancestors’ evolution has made us all potential warriors. So even the most insignificant person, sent into an army in the field, loses any excessive concern for personal safety. That person may easily become a monster without feeling.

But when we compare the military type of self-severity with that of the ascetic saint, we find a world-wide difference in all their spiritual concomitants.

But when we compare the military type of self-discipline with that of the ascetic saint, all their spiritual associations are worlds apart.

“ ‘Live and let live,’ ” writes a clear-headed Austrian officer, “is no device for an army. Contempt for one's own comrades, for the troops of the enemy, and, above all, fierce contempt for one's own person, are what war demands of every one. Far better is it for an army to be too savage, too cruel, too barbarous, than to possess too much sentimentality and human reasonableness. If the soldier is to be good for anything as a soldier, he must be exactly the opposite of a reasoning and thinking man. The measure of goodness in him is his possible use in war. War, and even peace, require of the soldier absolutely peculiar standards of morality. The recruit brings with him common moral notions, of which he must seek immediately to get rid. For him victory, success, must be everything. The most barbaric tendencies in men come to life again in war, and for war's uses they are incommensurably good.”²¹⁹

“ ‘Live and let live,’ ” writes a clear-thinking Austrian officer, “is no principle for an army. War demands that everyone despise their comrades, the enemy’s troops, and, above all, themselves. An army is far better off being too savage, cruel, and barbaric than too sentimental and humane. To be any good as a soldier, a person must be the exact opposite of someone who reasons and thinks. A soldier’s worth is measured by how useful they can be in war. War, and even peace, require soldiers to follow entirely different moral standards. A recruit brings ordinary moral beliefs into the army and must immediately try to abandon them. For the recruit, victory, success, must be everything. War brings out the most barbaric tendencies in people, and those tendencies are immeasurably useful for war.”²¹⁹

These words are of course literally true. The immediate aim of the soldier's life is, as Moltke said, destruction, and nothing but destruction; and whatever constructions wars result in are remote and non-military. Consequently the soldier cannot train himself to be too feelingless to all those usual sympathies and respects, whether for persons or for things, that make for conservation. Yet the fact remains that war is a school of strenuous life and heroism; and, being in the line of aboriginal instinct, is the only school that as yet is universally available. But when we gravely ask ourselves whether this wholesale organization of irrationality and crime be our only bulwark against effeminacy, we stand aghast at the thought, and think more kindly of ascetic religion. One hears of the mechanical equivalent of heat. What we now need to discover in the social realm is the moral equivalent of war: something heroic that will speak to men as universally as war does, and yet will be as compatible with their spiritual selves as war has proved itself to be incompatible. I have often thought that in the old monkish poverty-worship, in spite of the pedantry which infested it, there might be something like that moral equivalent of war which we are seeking. May not voluntarily accepted poverty be “the strenuous life,” without the need of crushing weaker peoples?

These words are, of course, literally true. As Moltke said, the immediate aim of a soldier’s life is destruction, and nothing but destruction. Whatever wars build comes later and is not military in nature. So a soldier cannot train himself to be too indifferent to the usual sympathies and respect that protect people and things. Yet war remains a school of demanding action and heroism. Because war follows a primal instinct, it is the only such school that is universally available so far. But is this vast organization of irrationality and crime our only defense against effeminacy? When we seriously ask ourselves this question, the thought horrifies us, and we think more kindly of ascetic religion. We hear of the mechanical equivalent of heat. What we now need to discover in society is the moral equivalent of war. It must be something heroic that speaks to men as universally as war does. Yet it must also be as compatible with their spiritual selves as war has proved incompatible with them. I have often thought that the old monastic worship of poverty might offer something like the moral equivalent of war we seek, despite all the pedantry that plagued it. Could voluntarily accepted poverty be “the strenuous life,” without the need to crush weaker peoples?

Poverty indeed is the strenuous life,—without brass bands or uniforms or hysteric popular applause or lies or circumlocutions; and when one sees the way in which wealth-getting enters as an ideal into the very bone and marrow of our generation, one wonders whether a revival of the belief that poverty is a worthy religious vocation may not be “the transformation of military courage,” and the spiritual reform which our time stands most in need of.

Poverty is indeed the strenuous life, without brass bands, uniforms, frantic public applause, lies, or evasions. Making money has become an ideal rooted in the very heart of our generation. When one sees this, one wonders whether a renewed belief in poverty as a worthy religious calling may be “the transformation of military courage.” It may also be the spiritual reform our time needs most.

Among us English-speaking peoples especially do the praises of poverty need once more to be boldly sung. We have grown literally afraid to be poor. We despise any one who elects to be poor in order to simplify and save his inner life. If he does not join the general scramble and pant with the money-making street, we deem him spiritless and lacking in ambition. We have lost the power even of imagining what the ancient idealization of poverty could have meant: the liberation from material attachments, the unbribed soul, the manlier indifference, the paying our way by what we are or do and not by what we have, the right to fling away our life at any moment irresponsibly,—the more athletic trim, in short, the moral fighting shape. When we of the so-called better classes are scared as men were never scared in history at material ugliness and hardship; when we put off marriage until our house can be artistic, and quake at the thought of having a child without a bank-account and doomed to manual labor, it is time for thinking men to protest against so unmanly and irreligious a state of opinion.

Among English-speaking people especially, we need to speak boldly again in praise of poverty. We have become literally afraid of being poor. We look down on anyone who chooses poverty to simplify and protect their inner life. If someone does not join the general scramble and rush breathlessly after money, we consider them weak and unambitious. We can no longer even imagine what the ancient ideal of poverty meant. It meant freedom from attachment to material things, a soul that could not be bought, and a more manly indifference to comfort. It meant paying our way through who we are or what we do, not through what we own. It meant the right to throw away our lives at any moment without worrying about the consequences. In short, it meant being more athletic, in fighting shape morally. We of the so-called better classes are more frightened of material ugliness and hardship than people have ever been. We postpone marriage until we can have an artistic home. We tremble at the thought of having a child without a bank account, condemned to manual labor. When we feel this way, it is time for thinking people to protest against such an unmanly and irreligious attitude.

It is true that so far as wealth gives time for ideal ends and exercise to ideal energies, wealth is better than poverty and ought to be chosen. But wealth does this in only a portion of the actual cases. Elsewhere the desire to gain wealth and the fear to lose it are our chief breeders of cowardice and propagators of corruption. There are thousands of conjunctures in which a wealth-bound man must be a slave, whilst a man for whom poverty has no terrors becomes a freeman. Think of the strength which personal indifference to poverty would give us if we were devoted to unpopular causes. We need no longer hold our tongues or fear to vote the revolutionary or reformatory ticket. Our stocks might fall, our hopes of promotion vanish, our salaries stop, our club doors close in our faces; yet, while we lived, we would imperturbably bear witness to the spirit, and our example would help to set free our generation. The cause would need its funds, but we its servants would be potent in proportion as we personally were contented with our poverty.

It is true that wealth is better than poverty when it gives us time to pursue ideals and energy to act on them. In those cases, we should choose wealth. But wealth does this in only some cases. In others, the desire to gain wealth and the fear of losing it are among the chief causes of cowardice and corruption. In thousands of situations, a person tied to wealth must be a slave, while someone who does not fear poverty becomes free. Think how much strength we would have if we were indifferent to poverty and devoted to unpopular causes. We would no longer need to stay silent or fear voting for revolutionary or reform candidates. Our stocks might fall, our hopes of promotion vanish, our salaries stop, and our clubs shut their doors to us. Yet, as long as we lived, we would calmly bear witness to the spirit. Our example would help set our generation free. The cause would need funds, but we who served it would be more effective the more content we were with our own poverty.

I recommend this matter to your serious pondering, for it is certain that the prevalent fear of poverty among the educated classes is the worst moral disease from which our civilization suffers.

I urge you to think seriously about this matter. For the widespread fear of poverty among educated people is certainly the worst moral disease in our civilization.

I have now said all that I can usefully say about the several fruits of religion as they are manifested in saintly lives, so I will make a brief review and pass to my more general conclusions.

I have now said all I can usefully say about the various fruits of religion as they appear in saintly lives. So I will briefly review them and move on to my more general conclusions.

Our question, you will remember, is as to whether religion stands approved by its fruits, as these are exhibited in the saintly type of character. Single attributes of saintliness may, it is true, be temperamental endowments, found in non-religious individuals. But the whole group of them forms a combination which, as such, is religious, for it seems to flow from the sense of the divine as from its psychological centre. Whoever possesses strongly this sense comes naturally to think that the smallest details of this world derive infinite significance from their relation to an unseen divine order. The thought of this order yields him a superior denomination of happiness, and a steadfastness of soul with which no other can compare. In social relations his serviceability is exemplary; he abounds in impulses to help. His help is inward as well as outward, for his sympathy reaches souls as well as bodies, and kindles unsuspected faculties therein. Instead of placing happiness where common men place it, in comfort, he places it in a higher kind of inner excitement, which converts discomforts into sources of cheer and annuls unhappiness. So he turns his back upon no duty, however thankless; and when we are in need of assistance, we can count upon the saint lending his hand with more certainty than we can count upon any other person. Finally, his humble-mindedness and his ascetic tendencies save him from the petty personal pretensions which so obstruct our ordinary social intercourse, and his purity gives us in him a clean man for a companion. Felicity, purity, charity, patience, self-severity,—these are splendid excellencies, and the saint of all men shows them in the completest possible measure.

Our question, you will remember, is whether religion proves its worth by its fruits in the saintly character. Individual qualities of saintliness may be inborn traits found in nonreligious people. But taken together, these qualities form a religious combination. They seem to flow from a sense of the divine as their psychological center. Anyone who strongly feels the divine naturally comes to believe that the smallest details of this world have infinite significance. They have this significance because they relate to an unseen divine order. Thinking of this order gives the person a higher kind of happiness and an unmatched steadiness of soul. In social relationships, the saint is exceptionally helpful and full of impulses to help others. His help reaches both inward and outward. He cares for souls as well as bodies and awakens unsuspected abilities in them. Most people look for happiness in comfort. Instead, he finds it in a higher kind of inner excitement. This excitement turns discomforts into sources of cheer and cancels out unhappiness. So he turns away from no duty, however thankless. When we need help, we can count on a saint more surely than on anyone else. Finally, his humility and self-denial save him from the petty personal pretensions that so often obstruct our social dealings. His purity also gives us a clean person for a companion. Happiness, purity, charity, patience, and strictness with oneself are splendid virtues. Of all people, the saint displays them in the fullest possible measure.

But, as we saw, all these things together do not make saints infallible. When their intellectual outlook is narrow, they fall into all sorts of holy excesses, fanaticism or theopathic absorption, self-torment, prudery, scrupulosity, gullibility, and morbid inability to meet the world. By the very intensity of his fidelity to the paltry ideals with which an inferior intellect may inspire him, a saint can be even more objectionable and damnable than a superficial carnal man would be in the same situation. We must judge him not sentimentally only, and not in isolation, but using our own intellectual standards, placing him in his environment, and estimating his total function.

But, as we saw, all these things together do not make saints infallible. When their outlook is narrow, they fall into all sorts of religious excesses. These include fanaticism, absorption in God, self-torment, prudery, excessive concern about sin, gullibility, and an unhealthy inability to face the world. A saint of limited intelligence may be inspired by petty ideals and remain intensely faithful to them. For that very reason, he can be even more objectionable and deserving of condemnation than a shallow, worldly man in the same situation. We must not judge him only by our feelings or apart from his surroundings. We must use our own intellectual standards, consider him in his environment, and assess his overall role.

Now in the matter of intellectual standards, we must bear in mind that it is unfair, where we find narrowness of mind, always to impute it as a vice to the individual, for in religious and theological matters he probably absorbs his narrowness from his generation. Moreover, we must not confound the essentials of saintliness, which are those general passions of which I have spoken, with its accidents, which are the special determinations of these passions at any historical moment. In these determinations the saints will usually be loyal to the temporary idols of their tribe. Taking refuge in monasteries was as much an idol of the tribe in the middle ages, as bearing a hand in the world's work is to-day. Saint Francis or Saint Bernard, were they living to-day, would undoubtedly be leading consecrated lives of some sort, but quite as undoubtedly they would not lead them in retirement. Our animosity to special historic manifestations must not lead us to give away the saintly impulses in their essential nature to the tender mercies of inimical critics.

When judging intellectual standards, we must remember that it is unfair to blame narrow-mindedness on the individual in every case. In religious and theological matters, people probably absorb their narrow-mindedness from their generation. We must also distinguish the essentials of saintliness from its incidental features. The essentials are the general passions I have spoken of. The incidental features are the particular forms these passions take at any moment in history. In these particular forms, saints will usually remain loyal to the passing idols of their tribe. In the Middle Ages, taking refuge in monasteries was as much an idol of the tribe as helping with the world's work is today. If Saint Francis or Saint Bernard were alive today, they would undoubtedly lead dedicated lives of some kind. But just as undoubtedly, they would not live in seclusion. Our hostility toward particular historical expressions of saintliness must not lead us to abandon the essential saintly impulses to the mercy of hostile critics.

The most inimical critic of the saintly impulses whom I know is Nietzsche. He contrasts them with the worldly passions as we find these embodied in the predaceous military character, altogether to the advantage of the latter. Your born saint, it must be confessed, has something about him which often makes the gorge of a carnal man rise, so it will be worth while to consider the contrast in question more fully.

Nietzsche is the most hostile critic of saintly impulses that I know. He contrasts them with worldly passions as embodied in the predatory military character, and strongly favors the latter. We must admit that a born saint often has something about him that disgusts a worldly person. So it is worth considering this contrast more fully.

Dislike of the saintly nature seems to be a negative result of the biologically useful instinct of welcoming leadership, and glorifying the chief of the tribe. The chief is the potential, if not the actual tyrant, the masterful, overpowering man of prey. We confess our inferiority and grovel before him. We quail under his glance, and are at the same time proud of owning so dangerous a lord. Such instinctive and submissive hero-worship must have been indispensable in primeval tribal life. In the endless wars of those times, leaders were absolutely needed for the tribe's survival. If there were any tribes who owned no leaders, they can have left no issue to narrate their doom. The leaders always had good consciences, for conscience in them coalesced with will, and those who looked on their face were as much smitten with wonder at their freedom from inner restraint as with awe at the energy of their outward performances.

Dislike of saintly people seems to be a negative result of a biologically useful instinct. That instinct leads us to welcome leadership and glorify the tribal chief. The chief is a potential tyrant, if not an actual one, a domineering, overpowering predator. We admit our inferiority and grovel before him. We shrink under his gaze, yet take pride in having such a dangerous lord. This instinctive, submissive hero worship must have been essential to early tribal life. In the endless wars of those times, leaders were absolutely necessary for a tribe’s survival. If any tribes had no leaders, they could have left no descendants to tell of their destruction. The leaders always had clear consciences, because their consciences and their wills were one. Those who looked upon them were struck by their freedom from inner restraint. They were just as awed by the energy of their outward actions.

Compared with these beaked and taloned graspers of the world, saints are herbivorous animals, tame and harmless barn-yard poultry. There are saints whose beard you may, if you ever care to, pull with impunity. Such a man excites no thrills of wonder veiled in terror; his conscience is full of scruples and returns; he stuns us neither by his inward freedom nor his outward power; and unless he found within us an altogether different faculty of admiration to appeal to, we should pass him by with contempt.

Compared with these beaked and taloned creatures who seize the world, saints are plant-eating animals, tame and harmless barnyard poultry. Some saints would let you pull their beards without punishment, if you ever cared to. Such a man inspires no wonder mixed with terror. His conscience is full of doubts and second thoughts. He does not stun us with either inner freedom or outward power. If he did not appeal to a completely different capacity for admiration within us, we would pass him by with contempt.

In point of fact, he does appeal to a different faculty. Reënacted in human nature is the fable of the wind, the sun, and the traveler. The sexes embody the discrepancy. The woman loves the man the more admiringly the stormier he shows himself, and the world deifies its rulers the more for being willful and unaccountable. But the woman in turn subjugates the man by the mystery of gentleness in beauty, and the saint has always charmed the world by something similar. Mankind is susceptible and suggestible in opposite directions, and the rivalry of influences is unsleeping. The saintly and the worldly ideal pursue their feud in literature as much as in real life.

In fact, he does appeal to a different faculty. The fable of the wind, the sun, and the traveler plays out again in human nature. The sexes embody this contrast. The stormier a man is, the more admiringly a woman loves him. And the world worships its rulers all the more for being willful and unpredictable. But in turn, a woman gains power over a man through the mystery of gentleness in beauty. The saint has always charmed the world through something similar. People are open to opposing influences and can be swayed in either direction. The rivalry between these influences never rests. The saintly and worldly ideals continue their feud in literature as much as in real life.

For Nietzsche the saint represents little but sneakingness and slavishness. He is the sophisticated invalid, the degenerate par excellence, the man of insufficient vitality. His prevalence would put the human type in danger.

For Nietzsche, the saint represents little more than sneakiness and servility. He is a sophisticated sick person, the ultimate degenerate, a man with too little vitality. If saints became widespread, they would put the human type in danger.

Poor Nietzsche's antipathy is itself sickly enough, but we all know what he means, and he expresses well the clash between the two ideals. The carnivorous-minded “strong man,” the adult male and cannibal, can see nothing but mouldiness and morbidness in the saint's gentleness and self-severity, and regards him with pure loathing. The whole feud revolves essentially upon two pivots: Shall the seen world or the unseen world be our chief sphere of adaptation? and must our means of adaptation in this seen world be aggressiveness or non-resistance?

Poor Nietzsche’s hostility is itself unhealthy enough, but we all know what he means. He expresses the clash between the two ideals well. The meat-eating-minded “strong man,” the adult male and cannibal, sees nothing but decay and sickness in the saint’s gentleness and strictness with himself. He regards the saint with pure loathing. The whole feud turns essentially on two questions: Should we adapt ourselves chiefly to the visible world or the invisible world? And must we adapt to the visible world through aggression or nonresistance?

The debate is serious. In some sense and to some degree both worlds must be acknowledged and taken account of; and in the seen world both aggressiveness and non-resistance are needful. It is a question of emphasis, of more or less. Is the saint's type or the strong-man's type the more ideal?

The debate is serious. In some sense and to some degree, we must acknowledge and take both worlds into account. And in the visible world, both aggression and nonresistance are necessary. The question is how much emphasis to place on each. Which is the greater ideal, the saint or the strong man?

It has often been supposed, and even now, I think, it is supposed by most persons, that there can be one intrinsically ideal type of human character. A certain kind of man, it is imagined, must be the best man absolutely and apart from the utility of his function, apart from economical considerations. The saint's type, and the knight's or gentleman's type, have always been rival claimants of this absolute ideality; and in the ideal of military religious orders both types were in a manner blended. According to the empirical philosophy, however, all ideals are matters of relation. It would be absurd, for example, to ask for a definition of “the ideal horse,” so long as dragging drays and running races, bearing children, and jogging about with tradesmen's packages all remain as indispensable differentiations of equine function. You may take what you call a general all-round animal as a compromise, but he will be inferior to any horse of a more specialized type, in some one particular direction. We must not forget this now when, in discussing saintliness, we ask if it be an ideal type of manhood. We must test it by its economical relations.

People have often assumed that there can be one inherently ideal type of human character. Even now, I think most people assume this. They imagine that one kind of person must be the best in absolute terms, regardless of their usefulness or practical value. The saint and the knight or gentleman have always been rival candidates for this absolute ideal. In the ideal of military religious orders, the two types were blended in a way. According to empirical philosophy, however, all ideals depend on their relation to something else. For example, it would be absurd to ask for a definition of “the ideal horse.” Different horses are still needed to pull heavy carts, run races, bear young, and carry tradesmen's packages. You may choose a good all-purpose horse as a compromise. But in some particular respect, that horse will be inferior to any more specialized type. We must remember this when we ask whether saintliness is an ideal type of human character. We must judge saintliness by its practical value.

I think that the method which Mr. Spencer uses in his Data of Ethics will help to fix our opinion. Ideality in conduct is altogether a matter of adaptation. A society where all were invariably aggressive would destroy itself by inner friction, and in a society where some are aggressive, others must be non-resistant, if there is to be any kind of order. This is the present constitution of society, and to the mixture we owe many of our blessings. But the aggressive members of society are always tending to become bullies, robbers, and swindlers; and no one believes that such a state of things as we now live in is the millennium. It is meanwhile quite possible to conceive an imaginary society in which there should be no aggressiveness, but only sympathy and fairness,—any small community of true friends now realizes such a society. Abstractly considered, such a society on a large scale would be the millennium, for every good thing might be realized there with no expense of friction. To such a millennial society the saint would be entirely adapted. His peaceful modes of appeal would be efficacious over his companions, and there would be no one extant to take advantage of his non-resistance. The saint is therefore abstractly a higher type of man than the “strong man,” because he is adapted to the highest society conceivable, whether that society ever be concretely possible or not. The strong man would immediately tend by his presence to make that society deteriorate. It would become inferior in everything save in a certain kind of bellicose excitement, dear to men as they now are.

I think the method Mr. Spencer uses in his Data of Ethics will help us form an opinion. Ideal conduct is entirely a matter of adaptation. A society in which everyone was always aggressive would destroy itself through internal conflict. And in a society where some people are aggressive, others must be nonresistant if there is to be any order. This is how society is organized today, and we owe many of our blessings to this mixture. But aggressive members of society are always tending to become bullies, robbers, and swindlers. And no one believes that the society we live in now is the millennium. Meanwhile, it is quite possible to imagine a society with no aggression, but only sympathy and fairness. Any small community of true friends already forms such a society. In theory, such a society on a large scale would be the millennium. Every good thing could be achieved there without the cost of conflict. The saint would be entirely suited to such a society. His peaceful appeals would be effective with his companions, and no one would take advantage of his nonresistance. In theory, then, the saint is a higher type of man than the “strong man.” He is suited to the highest conceivable form of society, whether or not such a society could ever actually exist. The strong man's presence would immediately tend to make that society worse. It would become inferior in every way except for a certain kind of warlike excitement, which men as they are now hold dear.

But if we turn from the abstract question to the actual situation, we find that the individual saint may be well or ill adapted, according to particular circumstances. There is, in short, no absoluteness in the excellence of sainthood. It must be confessed that as far as this world goes, any one who makes an out-and-out saint of himself does so at his peril. If he is not a large enough man, he may appear more insignificant and contemptible, for all his saintship, than if he had remained a worldling.²²¹ Accordingly religion has seldom been so radically taken in our Western world that the devotee could not mix it with some worldly temper. It has always found good men who could follow most of its impulses, but who stopped short when it came to non-resistance. Christ himself was fierce upon occasion. Cromwells, Stonewall Jacksons, Gordons, show that Christians can be strong men also.

But if we turn from the abstract question to the actual situation, we find that an individual saint may be well suited to the circumstances or not. In short, sainthood is not always admirable. We must admit that, as far as this world is concerned, anyone who becomes a complete saint does so at their own risk. If a person is not great enough, they may seem more insignificant and contemptible, despite their sainthood, than if they had remained worldly.²²¹ Accordingly, in our Western world, people have seldom embraced religion so completely that they could not mix it with some worldly spirit. Religion has always found good people who could follow most of its impulses, but who stopped short of non-resistance. Christ himself was fierce at times. Cromwells, Stonewall Jacksons, Gordons, show that Christians can be strong people too.

How is success to be absolutely measured when there are so many environments and so many ways of looking at the adaptation? It cannot be measured absolutely; the verdict will vary according to the point of view adopted. From the biological point of view Saint Paul was a failure, because he was beheaded. Yet he was magnificently adapted to the larger environment of history; and so far as any saint's example is a leaven of righteousness in the world, and draws it in the direction of more prevalent habits of saintliness, he is a success, no matter what his immediate bad fortune may be. The greatest saints, the spiritual heroes whom every one acknowledges, the Francises, Bernards, Luthers, Loyolas, Wesleys, Channings, Moodys, Gratrys, the Phillips Brookses, the Agnes Joneses, Margaret Hallahans, and Dora Pattisons, are successes from the outset. They show themselves, and there is no question; every one perceives their strength and stature. Their sense of mystery in things, their passion, their goodness, irradiate about them and enlarge their outlines while they soften them. They are like pictures with an atmosphere and background; and, placed alongside of them, the strong men of this world and no other seem as dry as sticks, as hard and crude as blocks of stone or brickbats.

How can success be measured absolutely when there are so many environments and so many ways to judge adaptation? It cannot be measured absolutely. The verdict depends on the point of view. From a biological point of view, Saint Paul was a failure because he was beheaded. Yet he was magnificently suited to the larger environment of history. And a saint is a success insofar as his example spreads righteousness in the world and encourages more widespread habits of saintliness. This is true no matter what misfortune he suffers at the time. The greatest saints are successes from the outset. They are the spiritual heroes everyone recognizes: the Francises, Bernards, Luthers, Loyolas, Wesleys, Channings, Moodys, Gratrys, the Phillips Brookses, the Agnes Joneses, Margaret Hallahans, and Dora Pattisons. They show themselves, and there is no doubt. Everyone sees their strength and stature. Their sense of mystery in things, their passion, and their goodness shine around them. These qualities make them seem larger while softening their outlines. They are like pictures with an atmosphere and a background. Beside them, the strong men of this world and no other seem as dry as sticks. They seem as hard and crude as blocks of stone or broken bricks.

In a general way, then, and “on the whole,”²²² our abandonment of theological criteria, and our testing of religion by practical common sense and the empirical method, leave it in possession of its towering place in history. Economically, the saintly group of qualities is indispensable to the world's welfare. The great saints are immediate successes; the smaller ones are at least heralds and harbingers, and they may be leavens also, of a better mundane order. Let us be saints, then, if we can, whether or not we succeed visibly and temporally. But in our Father's house are many mansions, and each of us must discover for himself the kind of religion and the amount of saintship which best comports with what he believes to be his powers and feels to be his truest mission and vocation. There are no successes to be guaranteed and no set orders to be given to individuals, so long as we follow the methods of empirical philosophy.

In general, then, and “on the whole,”²²² religion keeps its towering place in history. It does so even when we set aside theological standards and judge it by practical common sense and evidence. In terms of the world’s welfare, saintly qualities are indispensable. The great saints are immediate successes. Lesser saints at least announce and signal a better worldly order, and they may also help bring it about. So let us be saints if we can, whether or not we achieve visible success in this world. But in our Father’s house are many mansions. Each of us must discover the kind of religion and degree of saintliness that best fit our own powers and truest sense of mission and calling. As long as we follow the methods of empirical philosophy, we can guarantee no success and give individuals no fixed orders.

This is my conclusion so far. I know that on some of your minds it leaves a feeling of wonder that such a method should have been applied to such a subject, and this in spite of all those remarks about empiricism which I made at the beginning of Lecture XIII.²²³ How, you say, can religion, which believes in two worlds and an invisible order, be estimated by the adaptation of its fruits to this world's order alone? It is its truth, not its utility, you insist, upon which our verdict ought to depend. If religion is true, its fruits are good fruits, even though in this world they should prove uniformly ill adapted and full of naught but pathos. It goes back, then, after all, to the question of the truth of theology. The plot inevitably thickens upon us; we cannot escape theoretical considerations. I propose, then, that to some degree we face the responsibility. Religious persons have often, though not uniformly, professed to see truth in a special manner. That manner is known as mysticism. I will consequently now proceed to treat at some length of mystical phenomena, and after that, though more briefly, I will consider religious philosophy.

This is my conclusion so far. I know that some of you are puzzled that I have used this method to study religion. You feel this way despite everything I said about empiricism at the beginning of Lecture XIII.²²³ You ask: How can religion be judged solely by how well its fruits suit this world’s order? Religion, after all, believes in two worlds and an invisible order. You insist that our verdict should depend on its truth, not its usefulness. If religion is true, its fruits are good. This is so even if, in this world, they always prove poorly suited and full of nothing but pathos. So, after all, we return to the question of whether theology is true. The plot inevitably thickens. We cannot escape theoretical questions. I propose, then, that we face this responsibility to some degree. Religious people have often, though not always, claimed to see truth in a special way. This way is known as mysticism. I will therefore discuss mystical phenomena at some length. After that, I will consider religious philosophy more briefly.