To
be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion,
to gain an assurance, are so many phrases which denote the process, gradual or
sudden, by which a self hitherto divided, and consciously wrong inferior and unhappy,
becomes unified and consciously right superior and happy, in consequence of its
firmer hold upon religious realities. This at least is what conversion signifies
in general terms, whether or not we believe that a direct divine operation is
needed to bring such a moral change about. Before entering upon a minuter
study of the process, let me enliven our understanding of the definition by a
concrete example. I choose the quaint case of an unlettered man, Stephen H. Bradley,
whose experience is related in a scarce American pamphlet. *
* A sketch of
the life of Stephen H. Bradley, from the age of five to twenty-four years, including
his remarkable experience of the power of the Holy Spirit on the second evening
of November, 1829. Madison, Connecticut, 1830.
I select this case because
it shows how in these inner alterations one may find one unsuspected depth below
another, as if the possibilities of character lay disposed in a series of layers
or shells, of whose existence we have no premonitory knowledge.
Bradley thought
that he had been already fully converted at the age of fourteen.
"I thought
I saw the Saviour, by faith, in human shape, for about one second in the room,
with arms extended, appearing to say to me, Come. The next day I rejoiced with
trembling; soon after, my happiness was so great that I said that I wanted to
die; this world had no place in my affections, as I knew of, and every day appeared
as solemn to me as the Sabbath. I had an ardent desire that all mankind might
feel as I did; I wanted to have them all love God supremely. Previous to this
time I was very selfish and self-righteous; but now I desired the welfare of all
mankind, and could with a feeling heart forgive my worst enemies, and I felt as
if I should be willing to bear the scoffs and sneers of any person, and suffer
anything for His sake, if I could be the means in the hands of God, of the conversion
of one soul."
Nine years later, in 1829, Mr. Bradley heard of a revival of
religion that had began in his neighborhood. "Many of the young converts," he
says, "would come to me when in meeting and ask me if I had religion, and my reply
generally was, I hope I have. This did not appear to satisfy them; they said they
knew they had it. I requested them to pray for me, thinking with myself, that
if I had not got religion now, after so long a time professing to be a Christian,
that it was time I had, and hoped their prayers would be answered in my behalf.
"One Sabbath, I went to hear the Methodist at the Academy. He spoke of the
ushering in of the day of general judgment; and he set it forth in such a solemn
and terrible manner as I never heard before. The scene of that day appeared to
be taking place, and so awakened were all the powers of my mind that, like Felix,
I trembled involuntarily on the bench where I was sitting, though I felt nothing
at heart. The next day evening I went to hear him again. He took his text from
Revelation: 'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God.' And he represented
the terrors of that day in such a manner that it appeared as if it would melt
the heart of stone. When he finished his discourse, an old gentleman turned to
me and said, 'This is what I call preaching.' I thought the same; but my feelings
were still unmoved by what he said, and I did not enjoy religion, but I believe
he did.
"I will now relate my experience of the power of the Holy Spirit which
took place on the same night. Had any person told me previous to this that I could
have experienced the power of the Holy Spirit in the manner which I did, I could
not have believed it, and should have thought the person deluded that told me
so. I went directly home after the meeting, and when I got home I wondered what
made me feel so stupid. I retired to rest soon after I got home, and felt indifferent
to the things of religion until I began to be exercised by the Holy Spirit, which
began in about five minutes after, in the following manner:
"At first, I began
to feel my heart beat very quick all on a sudden, which made me at first think
that perhaps something is going to ail me, though I was not alarmed, for I felt
no pain. My heart increased in its beating, which soon convinced me that it was
the Holy Spirit from the effect it had on me. I began to feel exceedingly happy
and humble, and such a sense of unworthiness as I never felt before. I could not
very well help speaking out, which I did, and said, Lord, I do not deserve this
happiness, or words to that effect, while there was a stream (resembling air in
feeling) came into my mouth and heart in a more sensible manner than that of drinking
anything, which continued, as near as I could judge, five minutes or more, which
appeared to be the cause of such a palpitation of my heart. It took complete possession
of my soul, and I am certain that I desired the Lord, while in the midst of it,
not to give me any more happiness, for it seemed as if I could not contain what
I had got. My heart seemed as if it would burst but it did not stop until I felt
as if I was unutterably full of the love and grace of God. In the mean time while
thus exercised, a thought arose in my mind, what can it mean? and all at once,
as if to answer it, my memory became exceedingly clear, and it appeared to me
just as if the New Testament was placed open before me, eighth chapter of Romans,
and as light as if some candle lighted was held for me to read the 26th and 27th
verses of that chapter, and I read these words: 'The Spirit helpeth our infirmities
with groanings which cannot be uttered.' And all the time that my heart was a-beating,
it made me groan like a person in distress, which was not very easy to stop, though
I was in no pain at all, and my brother being in bed in another room came and
opened the door, and asked me if I had got the toothache. I told him no, and that
he might get to sleep. I tried to stop. I felt unwilling to go to sleep myself,
I was so happy, fearing I should loose it- thinking within myself
'My willing
soul would stay
In such a frame as this.'
And while I lay reflecting,
after my heart stopped beating, feeling as if my soul was full of the Holy Spirit,
I thought that perhaps there might be angels hovering round my bed. I felt just
as if I wanted to converse with them, and finally I spoke, saying, 'O ye affectionate
angels! how is it that ye can take so much interest in our welfare, and we take
so little interest in our own.' After this, with difficulty I got to sleep; and
when I awoke in the morning my first thoughts were: What has become of my happiness?
and, feeling a degree of it in my heart, I asked for more, which was given to
me as quick as thought. I then got up to dress myself, and found to my surprise
that I could but just stand. It appeared to me as if it was a little heaven upon
earth. My soul felt as completely raised above the fears of death as of going
to sleep; and like a bird in a cage, I had a desire, if it was the will of God,
to get released from my body and to dwell with Christ, though willing to live
to do good to others, and to warn sinners to repent. I went downstairs feeling
as solemn as if I had lost all my friends, and thinking with myself, that I would
not let my parents know it until I had first looked into the Testament. I went
directly to the shelf and looked into it, at the eighth chapter of Romans, and
every verse seemed to almost speak and to confirm it to be truly the Word of God,
and as if my feelings corresponded with the meaning of the word. I then told my
parents of it, and told them that I thought that they must see that when I spoke,
that it was not my own voice, for it appeared so to me. My speech seemed entirely
under the control of the Spirit within me; I do not mean that the words which
I spoke were not my own, for they were. I thought that I was influenced similar
to the Apostles on the day of Pentecost (with the exception of having power to
give it to others, and doing what they did). After breakfast I went round to converse
with my neighbors on religion, which I could not have been hired to have done
before this, and at their request I prayed with them, though I had never prayed
in public before.
"I now feel as if I had discharged my duty by telling the
truth, and hope by the blessing of God, it may do some good to all who shall read
it. He has fulfilled his promise in sending the Holy Spirit down into our hearts,
or mine at least, and I now defy all the Deists and Atheists in the world to shake
my faith in Christ."
So much for Mr. Bradley and his conversion, of the effect
of which upon his later life we gain no information. Now for a minuter survey
of the constituent elements of the conversion process.
If you
open the chapter on Association, of any treatise on Psychology, you will read
that a man's ideas, aims, and objects form diverse internal groups and systems,
relatively independent of one another. Each 'aim' which he follows awakens a certain
specific kind of interested excitement, and gathers a certain group of ideas together
in subordination to it as its associates; and if the aims and excitements are
distinct in kind, their groups of ideas may have little in common. When one group
is present and engrosses the interest, all the ideas connected with other groups
may be excluded from the mental field. The President of the United States when
with paddle, gun, and fishing-rod, he goes camping in the wilderness for a vacation,
changes his system of ideas from top to bottom. The presidential anxieties have
lapsed into the background entirely; the official habits are replaced by the habits
of a son of nature, and those who knew the man only as the strenuous magistrate
would not 'know him for the same person' if they saw him as the camper.
If
now he should never go back, and never again suffer political interests to gain
dominion over him, he would be for practical intents and purposes a permanently
transformed being. Our ordinary alterations of character, as we pass from one
of our aims to another, are not commonly called transformations, because each
of them is so rapidly succeeded by another in the reverse direction; but whenever
one aim grows so stable as to expel definitively its previous rivals from the
individual's life, we tend to speak of the phenomenon, and perhaps to wonder at
it, as a 'transformation.'
These alternations are the completest of the ways
in which a self may be divided. A less complete way is the simultaneous coexistence
of two or more different groups of aims, of which one practically holds the right
of way and instigates activity, whilst the others are only pious wishes, and never
practically come to anything. Saint Augustine's aspirations to a purer life, in
our last lecture, were for a while an example. Another would be the President
in his full pride of office, wondering whether it were not all vanity, and whether
the life of a wood-chopper were not the wholesomer destiny. Such fleeting aspirations
are mere velleitates, whimsies. They exist on the remoter outskirts of the mind,
and the real self of the man, the centre of his energies, is occupied with an
entirely different system. As life goes on, there is a constant change of our
interests, and a consequent change of place in our systems of ideas, from more
central to more peripheral, and from more peripheral to more central parts of
consciousness. I remember, for instance, that one evening when I was a youth,
my father read aloud from a Boston newspaper that part of Lord Gifford's will
which founded these four lectureships. At that time I did not think of being a
teacher of philosophy: and what I listened to was as remote from my own life as
if it related to the planet Mars. Yet here I am, with the Gifford system part
and parcel of my very self, and all my energies, for the time being, devoted to
successfully identifying myself with it. My soul stands now planted in what once
was for it a practically unreal object, and speaks from it as from its proper
habitat and centre.
When I say 'Soul,' you need not take me in the ontological
sense unless you prefer to; for although ontological language is instinctive in
such matters, yet Buddhists or Humians can perfectly well describe the facts in
the phenomenal terms which are their favorites. For them the soul is only a succession
of fields of consciousness: yet there is found in each field a part, or sub-field,
which figures as focal and contains the excitement, and from which, as from a
centre, the aim seems to be taken. Talking of this part, we involuntarily apply
words of perspective to distinguish it from the rest, words like 'here,' 'this,'
'now,' 'mine,' or 'me'; and we ascribe to the other parts the positions 'there,'
'then,' 'that,' 'his' or 'thine,' 'it,' 'not me.' But a 'here' can change to a
'there,' and a 'there' become a 'here,' and what was 'mine' and what was 'not
mine' change their places.
What brings such changes about is the way in which
emotional excitement alters. Things hot and vital to us to-day are cold to-morrow.
It is as if seen from the hot parts of the field that the other parts appear to
us, and from these hot parts personal desire and volition make their sallies.
They are in short the centres of our dynamic energy, whereas the cold parts leave
us indifferent and passive in proportion to their coldness.
Whether such language
be rigorously exact is for the present of no importance. It is exact enough, if
you recognize from your own experience the facts which I seek to designate by
it.
Now there may be great oscillation in the emotional
interest, and the hot places may shift before one almost as rapidly as the sparks
that run through burnt-up paper. Then we have the wavering and divided self we
heard so much of in the previous lecture. Or the focus of excitement and heat,
the point of view from which the aim is taken, may come to lie permanently within
a certain system; and then, if the change be a religious one, we call it a conversion,
especially if it be by crisis, or sudden.
Let us hereafter, in speaking of
the hot place in a man's consciousness, the group of ideas to which he devotes
himself, and from which he works, call it the habitual centre of his personal
energy. It makes a great difference to a man whether one set of his ideas, or
another, be the centre of his energy; and it makes a great difference, as regards
any set of ideas which he may possess, whether they become central or remain peripheral
in him. To say that a man is 'converted' means, in these terms, that religious
ideas, previously peripheral in his consciousness, now take a central place, and
that religious aims form the habitual centre of his energy.
Now if you ask
of psychology just how the excitement shifts in a man's mental system, and why
aims that were peripheral become at a certain moment central, psychology has to
reply that although she can give a general description of what happens, she is
unable in a given case to account accurately for all the single forces at work.
Neither an outside observer nor the Subject who undergoes the process can explain
fully how particular experiences are able to change one's centre of energy so
decisively, or why they so often have to bide their hour to do so. We have a thought,
or we perform an act, repeatedly, but on a certain day the real meaning of the
thought peals through us for the first time, or the act has suddenly turned into
a moral impossibility. All we know is that there are dead feelings, dead ideas,
and cold beliefs, and there are hot and live ones; and when one grows hot and
alive within us, everything has to re-crystallize about it. We may say that the
heat and liveliness mean only the 'motor efficacy,' long deferred but now operative,
of the idea; but such talk itself is only circumlocution, for whence the sudden
motor efficacy? And our explanations then get so vague and general that one realizes
all the more the intense individuality of the whole phenomenon.
In the end
we fall back on the hackneyed symbolism of a mechanical equilibrium. A mind is
a system of ideas, each with the excitement it arouses, and with tendencies impulsive
and inhibitive, which mutually check or reinforce one another. The collection
of ideas alters by subtraction or by addition in the course of experience, and
the tendencies alter as the organism gets more aged. A mental system may be undermined
or weakened by this interstitial alteration just as a building is, and yet for
a time keep upright by dead habit. But a new perception, a sudden emotional shock,
or an occasion which lays bare the organic alteration, will make the whole fabric
fall together; and then the centre of gravity sinks into an attitude more stable,
for the new ideas that reach the centre in the rearrangement seem now to be locked
there, and the new structure remains permanent.
Formed associations
of ideas and habits are usually factors of retardation in such changes of equilibrium.
New information, however acquired, plays an accelerating part in the changes;
and the slow mutation of our instincts and propensities, under the 'unimaginable
touch of time' has an enormous influence. Moreover, all these influences may work
subconsciously or half unconsciously. * And when you get a Subject in whom the
subconscious life- of which I must speak more fully soon- is largely developed,
and in whom motives habitually ripen in silence, you get a case of which you can
never give a full account, and in which, both to the Subject and the onlookers,
there may appear an element of marvel. Emotional occasions, especially violent
ones, are extremely potent in precipitating mental rearrangements. The sudden
and explosive ways in which love, jealousy, guilt, fear, remorse, or anger can
seize upon one are known to everybody. *(2) Hope, happiness, security, resolve,
emotions characteristic of conversion, can be equally explosive. And emotions
that come in this explosive way seldom leave things as they found them.
*
Jouffroy is an example: "Down this slope it was that my intelligence had glided,
and little by little it had got far from its first faith. But this melancholy
revolution had not taken place in the broad daylight of my consciousness; too
many scruples, too many guides and sacred affections had made it dreadful to me,
so that I was far from avowing to myself the progress it had made. It had gone
on in silence, by an involuntary elaboration of which I was not the accomplice;
and although I had in reality long ceased to be a Christian, yet, in the innocence
of my intention, I should have shuddered to suspect it, and thought it calumny
had I been accused of such a falling away." Then follows Jouffroy's account of
his counter-conversion, quoted above in Lecture VIII.
*(2) One hardly needs
examples; but for love, see Lecture VIII note [Op. cit., Letter III...], for fear,
see Lecture VI and VII, for remorse, see Othello after the murder; for anger,
see Lear after Cordelia's first speech to him; for resolve, see Lecture VIII (J.
Foster case). Here is a pathological case in which guilt was the feeling that
suddenly exploded: "One night I was seized on entering bed with a rigor, such
as Swedenborg describes as coming over him with a sense of holiness, but over
me with a sense of guilt. During that whole night I lay under the influence of
the rigor, and from its inception I felt that I was under the curse of God. I
have never done one act of duty in my life- sins against God and man, beginning
as far as my memory goes back- a wildcat in human shape."
In
his recent work on the Psychology of Religion, Professor Starbuck of California
has shown by a statistical inquiry how closely parallel in its manifestations
the ordinary 'conversion' which occurs in young people brought up in evangelical
circles is to that growth into a larger spiritual life which is a normal phase
of adolescence in every class of human beings. The age is the same falling usually
between fourteen and seventeen. The symptoms are the same,- sense of incompleteness
and imperfection; brooding, depression, morbid introspection, and sense of sin;
anxiety about the hereafter; distress over doubts, and the like. And the result
is the same,- a happy relief and objectivity, as the confidence in self gets greater
through the adjustment of the faculties to the wider outlook. In spontaneous religious
awakening, apart from revivalistic examples, and in the ordinary storm and stress
and moulting-time of adolescence, we also may meet with mystical experiences,
astonishing the subjects by their suddenness, just as in revivalistic conversion.
The analogy, in fact, is complete; and Starbuck's conclusion as to these ordinary
youthful conversions would seem to be the only sound one: Conversion is in its
essence a normal adolescent phenomenon, incidental to the passage from the child's
small universe to the wider intellectual and spiritual life of maturity.
"Theology,"
says Dr. Starbuck, "takes the adolescent tendencies and builds upon them; it sees
that the essential thing in adolescent growth is bringing the person out of childhood
into the new life of maturity and personal insight. It accordingly brings those
means to bear which will intensify the normal tendencies. It shortens up the period
of duration of storm and stress." The conversion phenomena of 'conviction of sin'
last, by this investigator's statistics, about one fifth as long as the periods
of adolescent storm and stress phenomena of which he also got statistics, but
they are very much more intense. Bodily accompaniments, loss of sleep and appetite,
for example, are much more frequent in them. "The essential distinction appears
to be that conversion intensifies but shortens the period by bringing the person
to a definite crisis." *
* E.D. STARBUCK: The Psychology of Religion, pp.
224, 262.
The conversions which Dr. Starbuck here has in mind are of course
mainly those of very commonplace persons, kept true to a pre-appointed type by
instruction, appeal, and example. The particular form which they affect is the
result of suggestion and imitation. * If they went through their growth-crisis
in other faiths and other countries, although the essence of the change would
be the same (since it is one in the main so inevitable), its accidents would be
different. In Catholic lands, for example, and in our own Episcopalian sects,
no such anxiety and conviction of sin is usual as in sects that encourage revivals.
The sacraments being more relied on in these more strictly ecclesiastical bodies,
the individual's personal acceptance of salvation needs less to be accentuated
and led up to.
* No one understands this better than Jonathan Edwards understood
it already. Conversion narratives of the more commonplace sort must always be
taken with the allowances which he suggests: "A rule received and established
by common consent has a very great, though to many persons an insensible influence
in forming their notions of the process of their own experience. I know very well
how they proceed as to this matter, for I have had frequent opportunities of observing
their conduct. Very often their experience at first appears like a confused chaos,
but then those parts are selected which bear the nearest resemblance to such particular
steps as are insisted on; and these are dwelt upon in their thoughts, and spoken
of from time to time, till they grow more and more conspicuous in their view,
and other parts which are neglected grow more and more obscure. Thus what they
have experienced is insensibly strained, so as to bring it to an exact conformity
to the scheme already established in their minds. And it becomes natural also
for ministers, who have to deal with those who insist upon distinctness and clearness
of method, to do so too." Treatise on Religious Affections.
But every imitative
phenomenon must once have had its original, and I propose that for the future
we keep as close as may be to the more first-hand and original forms of experience.
These are more likely to be found in sporadic adult cases.
Professor
Leuba, in a valuable article on the psychology of conversion, * subordinates
the theological aspect of the religious life almost entirely to its moral aspect.
The religious sense he defines as "the feeling of unwholeness, of moral imperfection,
of sin, to use the technical word, accompanied by the yearning after the peace
of unity." "The word 'religion,'" he says, "is getting more and more to signify
the conglomerate of desires and emotions springing from the sense of sin and its
release"; and he gives a large number of examples, in which the sin ranges from
drunkenness to spiritual pride, to show that the sense of it may beset one and
crave relief as urgently as does the anguish of the sickened flesh or any form
of physical misery.
* Studies in the Psychology of Religious Phenomena, American
Journal of Psychology, vii. 309 (1896).
Undoubtedly this conception covers
an immense number of cases. A good one to use as an example is that of Mr. S.H.
Hadley, who after his conversion became an active and useful rescuer of drunkards
in New York. His experience runs as follows:
"One Tuesday evening I sat in
a saloon in Harlem, a homeless, friendless, dying drunkard. I had pawned or sold
everything that would bring a drink. I could not sleep unless I was dead drunk.
I had not eaten for days, and for four nights preceding I had suffered with delirium
tremens, or the horrors, from midnight till morning. I had often said, 'I will
never be a tramp. I will never be cornered, for when that time comes, if ever
it comes, I will find a home in the bottom of the river.' But the Lord so ordered
it that when that time did come I was not able to walk one quarter of the way
to the river. As I sat there thinking, I seemed to feel some great and mighty
presence. I did not know then what it was. I did learn afterwards that it was
Jesus, the sinner's friend. I walked up to the bar and pounded it with my fist
till I made the glasses rattle. Those who stood by drinking looked on with scornful
curiosity. I said I would never take another drink, if I died on the street, and
really I felt as though that would happen before morning. Something said, 'If
you want to keep this promise, go and have yourself locked up.' I went to the
nearest station-house and had myself locked up.
"I was placed in a narrow
cell, and it seemed as though all the demons that could find room came in that
place with me. This was not all the company I had, either. No, praise the Lord;
that dear Spirit that came to me in the saloon was present, and said, Pray. I
did pray, and though I did not feel any great help, I kept on praying. As soon
as I was able to leave my cell I was taken to the police court and remanded back
to the cell. I was finally released, and found my way to my brother's house, where
every care was given me. While lying in bed the admonishing Spirit never left
me, and when I arose the following Sabbath morning I felt that day would decide
my fate, and toward evening it came into my head to go to Jerry M'Auley's Mission.
I went. The house was packed, and with great difficulty I made my way to the space
near the platform. There I saw the apostle to the drunkard and the outcast- that
man of God, Jerry M'Auley. He rose, and amid deep silence told his experience.
There was a sincerity about this man that carried conviction with it, and I found
myself saying, 'I wonder if God can save me?' I listened to the testimony of twenty-five
or thirty persons, every one of whom had been saved from rum, and I made up my
mind that I would be saved or die right there. When the invitation was given,
I knelt down with a crowd of drunkards. Jerry made the first prayer. Then Mrs.
M'Auley prayed fervently for us. Oh, what a conflict was going on for my poor
soul! A blessed whisper said, 'Come'; the devil said, 'Be careful.' I halted but
a moment, and then, with a breaking heart, I said, 'Dear Jesus, can you help me?'
Never with mortal tongue can I describe that moment. Although up to that moment
my soul had been filled with indescribable gloom, I felt the glorious brightness
of the noonday sun shine into my heart. I felt I was a free man. Oh, the precious
feeling of safety, of freedom, of resting on Jesus! I felt that Christ with all
his brightness and power had come into my life; that, indeed, old things had passed
away and all things had become new.
"From that moment till now I have never
wanted a drink of whiskey, and I have never seen money enough to make me take
one. I promised God that night that if he would take away the appetite for strong
drink, I would work for him all my life. He has done his part, and I have been
trying to do mine." *
* I have abridged Mr. Hadley's account. For other conversions
of drunkards, see his pamphlet, Rescue Mission Work, published at the Old Jerry
M'Auley Water Street Mission, New York city. A striking collection of cases also
appears in the appendix to Professor Leuba's article.
Dr. Leuba rightly remarks
that there is little doctrinal theology in such an experience, which starts with
the absolute need of a higher helper, and ends with the sense that he has helped
us. He gives other cases of drunkards conversions which are purely ethical, containing,
as recorded, no theological beliefs whatever. John B. Gough's case, for instance,
is practically, says Dr. Leuba, the conversion of an atheist- neither God nor
Jesus being mentioned. * But in spite of the importance of this type of regeneration,
with little or no intellectual readjustment, this writer surely makes it too exclusive.
It corresponds to the subjectively centred form of morbid melancholy, of which
Bunyan and Alline were examples. But we saw in our seventh lecture that there
are objective forms of melancholy also, in which the lack of rational meaning
of the universe, and of life anyhow, is the burden that weighs upon one- you remember
Tolstoy's case. *(2) So there are distinct elements in conversion, and their relations
to individual lives deserve to be discriminated. *(3)
* A restaurant waiter
served provisionally as Gough's 'Saviour.' General Booth, the founder of the Salvation
Army, considers that the first vital step in saving outcasts consists in making
them feel that some decent human being cares enough for them to take an interest
in the question whether they are to rise or sink.
*(2) The crisis of apathetic
melancholy- no use in life- into which J.S. Mill records that he fell, and from
which he emerged by the reading of Marmontel's Memoirs (Heaven save the mark!)
and Wordsworth's poetry, is another intellectual and general metaphysical case.
See Mill's Autobiography, New York, 1873, pp. 141, 148.
*(3) Starbuck, in
addition to 'escape from sin,' discriminates 'spiritual illumination' as a distinct
type of conversion experience. Psychology of Religion, p. 85.
Some
persons, for instance, never are, and possibly never under any circumstances
could be, converted. Religious ideas cannot become the centre of their spiritual
energy. They may be excellent persons, servants of God in practical ways, but
they are not children of his kingdom. They are either incapable of imagining the
invisible; or else, in the language of devotion, they are life-long subjects of
'barrenness' and 'dryness.' Such inaptitude for religious faith may in some cases
be intellectual in its origin. Their religious faculties may be checked in their
natural tendency to expand, by beliefs about the world that are inhibitive, the
pessimistic and materialistic beliefs, for example, within which so many good
souls, who in former times would have freely indulged their religious propensities,
find themselves nowadays, as it were, frozen; or the agnostic vetoes upon faith
as something weak and shameful, under which so many of us to-day lie cowering,
afraid to use our instincts. In many persons such inhibitions are never overcome.
To the end of their days they refuse to believe, their personal energy never gets
to its religious centre, and the latter remains inactive in perpetuity.
In
other persons the trouble is profounder. There are men anaesthetic on the religious
side, deficient in that category of sensibility. Just as a bloodless organism
can never, in spite of all its goodwill, attain to the reckless 'animal spirits'
enjoyed by those of sanguine temperament; so the nature which is spiritually barren
may admire and envy faith in others, but can never compass the enthusiasm and
peace which those who are temperamentally qualified for faith enjoy. All this
may, however, turn out eventually to have been a matter of temporary inhibition.
Even late in life some thaw, some release may take place, some bolt be shot back
in the barrenest breast, and the man's hard heart may soften and break into religious
feeling. Such cases more than any others. suggest the idea that sudden conversion
is by miracle. So long as they exist, we must not imagine ourselves to deal with
irretrievably fixed classes.
Now there are two forms of
mental occurrence in human beings, which lead to a striking difference in the
conversion process, a difference to which Professor Starbuck has called attention.
You know how it is when you try to recollect a forgotten name. Usually you help
the recall by working for it, by mentally running over the places, persons, and
things with which the word was connected. But sometimes this effort fails: you
feel then as if the harder you tried the less hope there would be, as though the
name were jammed, and pressure in its direction only kept it all the more from
rising. And then the opposite expedient often succeeds. Give up the effort entirely;
think of something altogether different, and in half an hour the lost name comes
sauntering into your mind, as Emerson says, as carelessly as if it had never been
invited. Some hidden process was started in you by the effort, which went on after
the effort ceased, and made the result come as if it came spontaneously. A certain
music teacher, says Dr. Starbuck, says to her pupils after the thing to be done
has been clearly pointed out, and unsuccessfully attempted: "Stop trying and it
will do itself!" *
* Psychology of Religion, p. 117.
There is thus a conscious
and voluntary way and an involuntary and unconscious way in which mental results
may get accomplished; and we find both ways exemplified in the history of conversion,
giving us two types, which Starbuck calls the volitional type and the type by
self-surrender respectively.
In the volitional type the
regenerative change is usually gradual, and consists in the building up, piece
by piece, of a new set of moral and spiritual habits. But there are always critical
points here at which the movement forward seems much more rapid. This psychological
fact is abundantly illustrated by Dr. Starbuck. Our education in any practical
accomplishment proceeds apparently by jerks and starts, just as the growth of
our physical bodies does.
"An athlete... sometimes awakens suddenly to an
understanding of the fine points of the game and to a real enjoyment of it, just
as the convert awakens to an appreciation of religion. If he keeps on engaging
in the sport, there may come a day when all at once the game plays itself through
him- when he loses himself in some great contest. In the same way, a musician
may suddenly reach a point at which pleasure in the technique of the art entirely
falls away, and in some moment of inspiration he becomes the instrument through
which music flows. The writer has chanced to hear two different married persons,
both of whose wedded lives had been beautiful from the beginning, relate that
not until a year or more after marriage did they awake to the full blessedness
of married life. So it is with the religious experience of these persons we are
studying." *
* Psychology of Religion, p. 385. Compare, also, pp. 137-144
and 262.
We shall erelong hear still more remarkable illustrations of subconsciously
maturing processes eventuating in results of which we suddenly grow conscious.
Sir William Hamilton and Professor Laycock of Edinburgh were among the first to
call attention to this class of effects; but Dr. Carpenter first, unless I am
mistaken, introduced the term 'unconscious cerebration,' which has since then
been a popular phrase of explanation. The facts are now known to us far more extensively
than he could know them, and the adjective 'unconscious,' being for many of them
almost certainly a misnomer, is better replaced by the vaguer term 'subconscious'
or 'subliminal.'
Of the volitional type of conversion it
would be easy to give examples, * but they are as a rule less interesting than
those of the self-surrender type, in which the subconscious effects are more abundant
and often startling. I will therefore hurry to the latter, the more so because
the difference between the two types is after all not radical. Even in the most
voluntarily built-up sort of regeneration there are passages of partial self-surrender
interposed; and in the great majority of all cases, when the will has done its
uttermost towards bringing one close to the complete unification aspired after,
it seems that the very last step must be left to other forces and performed without
the help of its activity. In other words, self-surrender becomes then indispensable.
"The personal will," says Dr. Starbuck, "must be given up. In many cases relief
persistently refuses to come until the person ceases to resist, or to make an
effort in the direction he desires to go."
* For instance, C.G. Finney italicizes
the volitional element: "Just at this point the whole question of Gospel salvation
opened to my mind in a manner most marvelous to me at the time. I think I then
saw, as clearly an I ever have in my life, the reality and fullness of the atonement
of Christ. Gospel salvation seemed to me to be an offer of something to be accepted,
and all that was necessary on my part was to get my own consent to give up my
sins and accept Christ. After this distinct revelation had stood for some little
time before my mind, the question seemed to be put, 'Will you accept it now, to-day?'
I replied, 'Yes; I will accept it to-day, or I will die in the attempt!'" He then
went into the woods, where he describes his struggles. He could not pray, his
heart was hardened in its pride. "I then reproached myself for having promised
to give my heart to God before I left the woods. When I came to try I found I
could not.... My inward soul hung back, and there was no going out of my heart
to God. The thought was pressing me, of the rashness of my promise that I would
give my heart to God that day, or die in the attempt. It seemed to me as if that
was binding on my soul; and yet I was going to break my vow. A great sinking and
discouragement came over me, and I felt almost too weak to stand upon my knees.
Just at this moment I again thought I heard some one approach me, and I opened
my eyes to see whether it were so. But right there the revelation of my pride
of heart, as the great difficulty that stood in the way, was distinctly shown
to me. An overwhelming sense of my wickedness in being ashamed to have a human
being see me on my knees before God took such powerful possession of me, that
I cried at the top of my voice, and exclaimed that I would not leave that place
if all the men on earth and all the devils in hell surrounded me. 'What!' I said,
'such a degraded sinner as I am, on my knees confessing my sins to the great and
holy God; and ashamed to have any human being, and a sinner like myself, find
me on my knees endeavoring to make my peace with my offended God!' The sin appeared
awful, infinite. It broke me down before the Lord." Memoirs, pp. 14-16, abridged.
"I had said I would not give up; but when my will was broken, it was all over,"
writes one of Starbuck's correspondents.- Another says: "I simply said: 'Lord,
I have done all I can; I leave the whole matter with Thee;' and immediately there
came to me a great peace."- Another: "All at once it occurred to me that I might
be saved, too, if I would stop trying to do it all myself, and follow Jesus: somehow
I lost my load."- Another: "I finally ceased to resist, and gave myself up, though
it was a hard struggle. Gradually the feeling came over me that I had done my
part, and God was willing to do his."- * "Lord, Thy will be done; damn or save!"
cries John Nelson, *(2) exhausted with the anxious struggle to escape damnation;
and at that moment his soul was filled with peace.
* STARBUCK: Op. cit., pp.
91, 114.
*(2) Extracts from the Journal of Mr. John Nelson, London, no date,
p. 24.
Dr. Starbuck gives an interesting, and it seems to me a true, account-
so far as conceptions so schematic can claim truth at all- of the reasons why
self-surrender at the last moment should be so indispensable. To begin with, there
are two things in the mind of the candidate for conversion first, the present
incompleteness or wrongness, the 'sin' which he is eager to escape from; and,
second, the positive ideal which he longs to compass. Now with most of us the
sense of our present wrongness is a far more distinct piece of our consciousness
than is the imagination of any positive ideal we can aim at. In a majority of
cases, indeed, the 'sin' almost exclusively engrosses the attention, so that conversion
is "a process of struggling away from sin rather than of striving towards righteousness."
* A man's conscious wit and will, so far as they strain towards the ideal, are
aiming at something only dimly and inaccurately imagined. Yet all the while the
forces of mere organic ripening within him are going on towards their own prefigured
result, and his conscious strainings are letting loose subconscious allies behind
the scenes, which in their way work towards rearrangement; and the rearrangement
towards which all these deeper forces tend is pretty surely definite, and definitely
different from what he consciously conceives and determines. It may consequently
be actually interfered with (jammed, as it were, like the lost word when we seek
too energetically to recall it), by his voluntary efforts slanting from the true
direction.
* STARBUCK, p. 64.
Starbuck seems to put his finger on the
root of the matter when he says that to exercise the personal will is still to
live in the region where tho imperfect self is the thing most emphasized. Where,
on the contrary, the subconscious forces take the lead, it is more probably the
better self in posse which directs the operation. Instead of being clumsily and
vaguely aimed at from with. out, it is then itself the organizing centre. What
then must the person do? "He must relax," says Dr. Starbuck,- "that is, he must
fall back on the larger Power that makes for righteousness, which has been welling
up in his own being, and let it finish in its own way the work it has begun....
The act of yielding, in this point of view, is giving one's self over to the new
life, making it the centre of a new personality, and living, from within, the
truth of it which had before been viewed objectively." *
* STARBUCK, p. 115.
"Man's extremity is God's opportunity" is the theological way of putting this
fact of the need of self-surrender; whilst the physiological way of stating it
would be, "Let one do all in one's power, and one's nervous system will do the
rest." Both statements acknowledge the same fact. *
* STARBUCK, p. 113.
To state it in terms of our own symbolism: When the new centre of personal energy
has been subconsciously incubated so long as to be just ready to open into flower,
'hands off' is the only word for us, it must burst forth unaided!
We have
used the vague and abstract language of psychology. But since, in any terms, the
crisis described is the throwing of our conscious selves upon the mercy of powers
which, whatever they may be, are more ideal than we are actually, and make for
our redemption, you see why self-surrender has been and always must be regarded
as the vital turning-point of the religious life, so far as the religious life
is spiritual and no affair of outer works and ritual and sacraments. One may say
that the whole development of Christianity in inwardness has consisted in little
more than the greater and greater emphasis attached to this crisis of self-surrender.
From Catholicism to Lutheranism, and then to Calvinism; from that to Wesleyanism;
and from this, outside of technical Christianity altogether, to pure 'liberalism'
or transcendental idealism, whether or not of the mind-cure type, taking in the
medieval mystics, the quietists, the pietists, and quakers by the way, we can
trace the stages of progress towards the idea of an immediate spiritual help,
experienced by the individual in his forlornness and standing in no essential
need of doctrinal apparatus or propitiatory machinery.
Psychology
and religion are thus in perfect harmony up to this point, since both admit
that there are forces seemingly outside of the conscious individual that bring
redemption to his life. Nevertheless psychology, defining these forces as 'subconscious,'
and speaking of their effects as due to 'incubation,' or 'cerebration,' implies
that they do not transcend the individual's personality; and herein she diverges
from Christian theology, which insists that they are direct supernatural operations
of the Deity. I propose to you that we do not yet consider this divergence final,
but leave the question for a while in abeyance- continued inquiry may enable us
to get rid of some of the apparent discord.
Revert, then, for a moment more
to the psychology of self-surrender.
When you find a man living on the ragged
edge of his consciousness, pent in to his sin and want and incompleteness, and
consequently inconsolable, and then simply tell him that all is well with him,
that he must stop his worry, break with his discontent, and give up his anxiety,
you seem to him to come with pure absurdities. The only positive consciousness
he has tells him that all is not well, and the better way you offer sounds simply
as if you proposed to him to assert cold-blooded falsehoods. 'The will to believe'
cannot be stretched as far as that. We can make ourselves more faithful to a belief
of which we have the rudiments, but we cannot create a belief out of whole cloth
when our perception actively assures us of its opposite. The better mind proposed
to us comes in that case in the form of a pure negation of the only mind we have,
and we cannot actively will a pure negation.
There are only two ways in which
it is possible to get rid of anger, worry, fear, despair, or other undesirable
affections. One is that an opposite affection should overpoweringly break over
us, and the other is by getting so exhausted with the struggle that we have to
stop,- so we drop down, give up, and don't care any longer. Our emotional brain-centres
strike work, and we lapse into a temporary apathy. Now there is documentary proof
that this state of temporary exhaustion not infrequently forms part of the conversion
crisis. So long as the egoistic worry of the sick soul guards the door, the expansive
confidence of the soul of faith gains no presence. But let the former faint away,
even but for a moment, and the latter can profit by the opportunity, and, having
once acquired possession, may retain it. Carlyle's Teufelsdrockh passes from the
everlasting No to the everlasting Yes through a 'Centre of Indifference.'
Let me give you a good illustration of this feature in the conversion
process. That genuine saint, David Brainerd, describes his own crisis in the following
words:
"One morning, while I was walking in a solitary place as usual, I at
once saw that all my contrivances and projects to effect or procure deliverance
and salvation for myself were utterly in vain; I was brought quite to a stand,
as finding myself totally lost. I saw that it was forever impossible for me to
do anything towards helping or delivering myself, that I had made all the pleas
I ever could have made to all eternity; and that all my pleas were vain, for I
saw that self-interest had led me to pray, and that I had never once prayed from
any respect to the glory of God. I saw that there was no necessary connection
between my prayers and the bestowment of divine mercy; that they laid not the
least obligation upon God to bestow his grace upon me; and that there was no more
virtue or goodness in them than there would be in my paddling with my hand in
the water. I saw that I had been heaping up my devotions before God, fasting,
praying, etc., pretending, and indeed really thinking sometimes that I was aiming
at the glory of God; whereas I never once truly intended it, but only my own happiness.
I saw that as I had never done anything for God, I had no claim on anything from
him but perdition, on account of my hypocrisy and mockery. When I saw evidently
that I had regard to nothing but self-interest, then my duties appeared a vile
mockery and a continual course of lies, for the whole was nothing but self-worship,
and an horrid abuse of God.
"I continued, as I remember, in this state of
mind, from Friday morning till the Sabbath evening following (July 12, 1739),
when I was walking again in the same solitary place. Here, in a mournful melancholy
state [I was attempting to pray; but found no heart to engage in that or any other
duty; my former concern, exercise, and religious affections were now gone. I thought
that the Spirit of God had quite left me; but still was not distressed; yet disconsolate,
as if there was nothing in heaven or earth could make me happy. Having been thus
endeavoring to pray- though, as I thought, very stupid and senseless]- for near
half an hour; then, as I was walking in a thick grove, unspeakable glory seemed
to open to the apprehension of my soul. I do not mean any external brightness,
nor any imagination of a body of light, but it was a new inward apprehension or
view that I had of God, such as I never had before, nor anything which had the
least resemblance to it. I had no particular apprehension of any one person in
the Trinity, either the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost; but it appeared to
be Divine glory. My soul rejoiced with joy unspeakable. to see such a God, such
a glorious Divine Being; and I was inwardly pleased and satisfied that he should
be God over all for ever and ever. My soul was so captivated and delighted with
the excellency of God that I was even swallowed up in him; at least to that degree
that I had no thought about my own salvation, and scarce reflected that there
was such a creature as myself. I continued in this state of inward joy, peace,
and astonishing, till near dark without any sensible abatement; and then began
to think and examine what I had seen; and felt sweetly composed in my mind all
the evening following. I felt myself in a new world, and everything about me appeared
with a different aspect from what it was wont to do. At this time, the way of
salvation opened to me with such infinite wisdom, suitableness, and excellency,
that I wondered I should ever think of any other way of salvation; was amazed
that I had not dropped my own contrivances, and complied with this lovely, blessed,
and excellent way before. If I could have been saved by my own duties or any other
way that I had formerly contrived, my whole soul would now have refused it. I
wondered that all the world did not see and comply with this way of salvation,
entirely by the righteousness of Christ." *
* EDWARD's and DWIGHT'S Life of
Brainerd, New Haven, 1822, pp. 45-47, abridged.
I have italicized [bracketed]
the passage which records the exhaustion of the anxious emotion hitherto habitual.
In a large proportion, perhaps the majority, of reports, the writers speak as
if the exhaustion of the lower and the entrance of the higher emotion were simultaneous,
* yet often again they speak as if the higher actively drove the lower out. This
is undoubtedly true in a great many instances, as we shall presently see. But
often there seems little doubt that both conditions- subconscious ripening of
the one affection and exhaustion of the other- must simultaneously have conspired,
in order to produce the result.
* Describing the whole phenomenon as a change
of equilibrium, we might say that the movement of new psychic energies towards
the personal centre and the recession of old ones towards the margin (or the rising
of some objects above, and the sinking of others below the conscious threshold)
were only two ways of describing an indivisible event. Doubtless this is often
absolutely true, and Starbuck is right when he says that 'self-surrender' and
'new determination,' though seeming at first sight to be such different experiences,
are "really the same thing. Self-surrender sees the change in terms of the old
self; determination sees it in terms of the new." Op. cit., p. 160.
T.W.B.,
a convert of Nettleton's, being brought to an acute paroxysm of conviction of
sin, ate nothing all day, locked himself in his room in the evening in complete
despair, crying aloud, "How long, O Lord, how long?" "After repeating this and
similar language," he says, "several times, I seemed to sink away into a state
of insensibility. When I came to myself again I was on my knees, praying not for
myself but for others. I felt submission to the will of God, willing that he should
do with me as should seem good in his sight. My concern seemed all lost in concern
for others." *
* A.A. BONAR: Nettleton and his Labors, Edinburgh, 1854, p.
261.
Our great American revivalist Finney writes: "I said to myself: 'What
is this? I must have grieved the Holy Ghost entirely away. I have lost all my
conviction. I have not a particle of concern about my soul; and it must be that
the Spirit has left me.' 'Why!' thought I, 'I never was so far from being concerned
about my own salvation in my life.'... I tried to recall my convictions, to get
back again the load of sin under which I had been laboring. I tried in vain to
make myself anxious. I was so quiet and peaceful that I tried to feel concerned
about that, lest it should be the result of my having grieved the Spirit away."
*
* CHARLES G. FINNEY: Memoirs written by Himself, 1876, pp. 17, 18.
But
beyond all question there are persons in whom, quite independently of any exhaustion
in the Subject's capacity for feeling, or even in the absence of any acute previous
feeling, the higher condition, having reached the due degree of energy, bursts
through all barriers and sweeps in like a sudden flood. These are the most striking
and memorable cases, the cases of instantaneous conversion to which the conception
of divine grace has been most peculiarly attached. I have given one of them at
length- the case of Mr. Bradley. But I had better reserve the other cases and
my comments on the rest of the subject for the following lecture.