Chapter 3: Islamic Beliefs and Code of Laws by Mahmud Shaltout

(Mahmud Shaltoutis a Member of the Grand Ulama, Professor of Comparative Law, Al Azhar University, Cairo, Egypt)

In the Name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful

Islam is the religion of Allah revealed to the Prophet Muhammad (Allah bless him and give him peace) in order that he might proclaim it to all mankind and men might be able to believe in it and put its teachings and regulations into practice. The Apostle transmitted the Scripture precisely as it was revealed to him, explained its fundamental teachings, and in his own life followed the principles and regulations of the Holy Revelation. Since the time of the Prophet, Muslims have for generation after generation received the Qur’an as it was given to the Apostle himself from Allah, passing it on precisely as it was taught at the beginning -- whereof there is no doubt whatsoever.

It has been definitely proved that the Qur’an could not possibly be the work of Muhammad or of any other human being, as is clearly seen when one considers its style, the treasures of teachings contained in it, and the environment in which Muhammad lived. In the Scripture itself Allah defiantly stressed the impossibility of imitating the Qur’an when He said to the unbelievers, "And if ye are in doubt concerning that which We reveal unto Our slave (Muhammad), then produce a surah of the like thereof, and call your witnesses beside Allah if ye are truthful. And if ye do it not -- and ye can never do it -- then guard yourselves against the fire prepared for disbelievers, whose fuel is of men and stones" (Surah II, 23-24). Such a final demonstration that the Scripture was revealed by Allah to Muhammad is the Muslim’s authority for recognizing the Qur’an as the principle source of Islamic beliefs and the Islamic code governing practices.

After the Apostle had been called by Allah, the ulama -- those leaders who were well-versed in Islam -- recognized that there were two types of texts in the Qur’an: those which are clear and definite and those which could have more than one meaning. The Quranic texts which are clear and definite are concerned with the basic beliefs like belief in Allah and the Last Day. These texts also cover the origin of law, whether religious laws governing prayer, religious tax, and fasting, or prohibitions against such acts as manslaughter or attacks on the chastity of a woman, and laws governing the use of property. For them no freedom of interpretation is allowed. The texts which could have more than one meaning are concerned with subsidiary aspects of Islam, but not its fundamentals, and have given rise to a plurality of Muslim theories and attitudes which are more or less personal points of view and are far from being obligatory.

Islam, except in matters concerning its basic beliefs and the principles of its code of practices, is not limited to one type of thinking or one specific legislative method. It is a tolerant religion which authorizes and permits wise liberality. As it has demonstrated throughout the Muslim world, Islam fits into all major cultures and constructive civilizations -- and will continue to do so forever.

The Qur’an, the principal basis of Islam, shows us that Islam cannot find its way into any heart or mind without the acceptance of its two basic branches: the beliefs and the code of laws. Islam requires, first of all, a deep belief in it without any doubt or suspicion, as is made clear in many texts of the Qur’an and in the general agreement of the ulama of Islam. This emphasis on the primacy of belief was the first message of Muhammad to the Arabs, just as it was the message of all apostles and prophets; as the Qur’an says, "Say (O Muslims): We believe in Allah and that which is revealed unto us and that which was revealed unto Abraham, and Ishmael, and Isaac, and Jacob, and the tribes, and that which Moses and Jesus received, and that which the Prophets received from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and unto Him we have surrendered" (Surah II, 136).

The code of laws provides the regulations which create the proper relations between man and God, such as saying prayers, fasting, and other religious duties; they guide man in his relations with his brother in Islam or the non-Muslim community, in organizing the structure of the family and encouraging reciprocal affection; they lead man to an understanding of his place in the universe, encouraging research into the nature of man and animals and guiding man in the use of the benefits of the natural world.

The Qur’an makes clear that the result of belief is faith, and the result of the code of laws is good behavior, as is shown in many texts: "Lo! Those who believe and do good works, theirs are the Gardens of the Paradise for welcome, Wherein they will abide, with no desire to be removed from thence" (Surah XVIII, 108-9). "Lo! Those who say: Our Lord is Allah, and thereafter walk aright, there shall no fear come upon them neither shall they grieve" (Surah XLVI,13).

Islam is both belief and legislation which organizes all the relationships of man. Belief is the basis of the code of laws and the code of laws is the result of belief, for legislation without belief is a building without a foundation -- and belief without a code of laws to put it into effect would be merely theoretical and ineffective. Thus, in Islam there is an intimate interrelation between belief and the code of laws governing all conduct, and those who deny this can by no means be considered to be Muslims.

Islam calls upon all people to accept its beliefs and code of laws regardless of race, sex, color, rank, or any other difference. All people are equal before Allah and must bear their own responsibility to accept the revelations of the Qur’an: "O mankind! Lo! We have created you male and female, and have made you nations and tribes that ye may know one another. Lo! the noblest of you in the sight of Allah, is the best in conduct" (Surah XLIX, 13). "It will not be in accordance with your desires, nor the desires of the People of the Scripture [i.e., Jews and Christians]. He who doeth wrong will have the recompense thereof, and will not find against Allah any protecting friend or helper. And whoso doeth good works, whether of male or female, and he (or she) is a believer, such will enter paradise and they will not be wronged the dint in a date-stone" (Surah IV, 123-24).

Those two verses make clear that the descendants or relatives of any of the apostles have no more rights in His sight than any common believer. They also emphasize that men and women bear equal religious responsibility, regardless of their sexual differences. The woman’s responsibility is quite independent of that of her mate; his good behavior will not benefit her and his bad actions will not harm her. Each will receive in the eternal abode the reward or punishment which his -- or her -- actions merit. "Allah citeth an example for those who disbelieve: the wife of Noah and the wife of Lot, who were under two of our righteous slaves yet betrayed them so that they (the husbands) availed them naught against Allah and it was said (unto them): Enter the Fire along with those who enter" (Surah LXVI, 10).

The son is also responsible for himself once he attains majority. The belief and behavior of his parents neither benefit nor harm him, nor does his belief and behavior benefit or harm his parents. Thus says the Qur’an, "O mankind! Keep your duty to your Lord and fear a Day when the parent will not be able to avail the child aught, nor the child to avail the parent" (Surah XXXI, 33).

Thus it is clear that it is the individual responsibility of each person to accept the revelation of Allah -- the Islamic beliefs and code of laws governing conduct -- regardless of sex, rank, race, or any other difference.

The Fundamental Beliefs of Islam

A man announces his acceptance of the beliefs of Islam and his commitment to its code of regulations, he manifests the existence of Muslim beliefs in his heart, when he repeats the Word of Witness: I witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is His Prophet. To witness that Allah is One includes a perfect belief in Him as the source of creation and knowledge and the object of worship. To witness that Muhammad is His messenger includes a perfect belief in the Angels, the Scriptures, the messengers, the Day of Resurrection, and the principles on which the code of laws is based. This witness is the key to Islam, subjecting one to its beliefs and regulations. "The messenger believeth in that which hath been revealed unto him from his Lord and (so do) the believers. Each one believeth in Allah and His angels and His scriptures and His messengers -- We make no distinction between any of His messengers -- and they say: We hear, and we obey" (Surah II, 285). "It is not righteousness that ye turn your faces to the East and the West; but righteous is he who believeth in Allah and the Last Day and the angels and the Scripture and the Prophets" (Surah II, 177).

We must believe in the existence and oneness of Allah, that He is the only creator and disposer of the universe, that He has no partner, that there is no comparable being, and that none but Allah is worthy of worship. "Say: He is Allah, the One! Allah, the eternally Besought of all! He begotteth not nor was begotten. And there is none comparable unto Him" (Surah CXII). "Say: Shall I seek another than Allah for Lord, when He is Lord of all things?" (Surah VI, 165). "Say: Shall I choose for a protecting friend other than Allah, the Originator of the heavens and the earth, who feedeth and is never fed?" (Surah VI, 14).

We must believe in all the messengers of Allah of whom we are informed by the Qur’an from Noah to Muhammad (Allah bless them and give them peace). Allah selects some of his slaves and prepares them through ideal education to be His messengers to mankind. Some of these apostles are mentioned in the Qur’an and other are not mentioned; we must believe in all of them.

We must believe in Angels, the ambassadors of the revelation from Allah to His apostles, and, of necessity, in the Scriptures, His messages to humanity. The principles of legislation of Allah are His laws that we must follow; we must not sanction that which Allah has forbidden, nor forbid that which He allows us to do. We must believe in the contents of all the messages concerning the code of laws which aims at the organization of human life in a way which meets the needs of mankind and promotes human welfare in accordance with His justice and mercy.

We must believe in the Day of Judgment and the Other World, which is the only eternal life and is the life of reward and punishment.

We have to believe in all of these facts.

Anyone who denies one of these Muslim facts cannot be treated as a Muslim nor subjected to the Muslim rules. Yet it does not follow that he who does not believe in any of these facts would be considered a nonbeliever by Allah and would therefore suffer eternal damnation. It simply means that he would not be treated as a Muslim; he would not be under any obligation to worship Allah according to Muslim rules. He would not be prevented from doing things prohibited by Islam -- such as drinking wine or eating pork -- and on death he would not be washed and prayed for by Muslims.

Man will, however, be considered to be an unbeliever if, after having been freely convinced of the truth of these beliefs, he rejects them, or any part of them, through obstinacy, pride, love of mammon or the pomp of power, or the fear of being criticized. But if these beliefs had not been presented to him at all, or were presented in a hateful way, or were presented in a true and right way but he was incapable of fully understanding them, or even if he were capable but died before being fully convinced -- in such cases a man is not an unbeliever according to Almighty Judgment and will not suffer everlasting punishment. The only disbelief mentioned in the Qur’an for which man will suffer judgment is a disbelief arising from obstinacy and pride. Hence the distant peoples to whom Islam has not been introduced, or those to whom it has been introduced in a hateful way, or those who have not understood the evidence even though they tried, will not suffer judgment. But they will by no means be treated as Muslims for they have not adopted the Word of Witness; they have not said with conviction, "I witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is His Prophet."

Islam, when it invites one to adopt its beliefs, does not use any compulsion, for it detests compulsion. Faith cannot be attained by force; there can never be true faith through obligation. The Scripture says, "There is no compulsion in religion" (Surah II, 256). "And if thy Lord willed, all who are in the earth would have believed together. Wouldst thou (Muhammad) compel men until they are believers?" (Surah X, 100). Not only is there no compulsion to adopt Islam, but Islam does not lead people to faith through spellbinding miracles which seek to convince without thought or the exercise of free choice. "If We will, We can send down on them from the sky a portent so that their necks would remain bowed before it" (Surah XXVI, 4).

Islam, in its invitation to accept its beliefs and to submit to its rules, rejects any methods which are not based on liberality and freedom of choice. Everyone has full liberty to embrace Islam voluntarily and through conviction. Thus Islam supports its beliefs through sound evidence and completely logical proofs. The Quranic evidence for the revelation of Allah-concerning belief in the One God, in Angels, the Scripture, the prophets, and the Last Day -- is the Qur’an itself, the Word of Allah, whereof there is no doubt, as we have already seen. The logic of this belief is that all that is mentioned in the Qur’an is a matter of fact because it is supported by a standing miracle which will never cease, the Qur’an itself. "And thou (O Muhammad) wast not a reader of any scripture before it, nor didst thou write it with thy right hand, for then might those have doubted, who follow falsehood. But it is clear revelations in the hearts of those who have been given knowledge, and none deny our revelations save wrong-doers. And they say: Why are not portents sent down upon him from his Lord? Say: Portents are with Allah only, and I am but a plain warner. Is it not enough for them that We have sent down unto thee the Scripture which is read unto them? Lo! herein verily is mercy and a reminder for folk who believe" (Surah XXIX, 48-51).

Belief in Allah.

The basic belief in Islam is belief in Allah -- His existence, His unity, and His perfection. The evidence by which the Qur’an draws people’s attention to the belief in Allah is based on reason and inner consciousness or intuition.

The rational evidence for belief in Allah is based on Islam’s call to ponder on the nature of the universe -- the earth, the heavens, the mysteries, the natural laws, the harmony and unity of the universe. Thus one comes to see that it is impossible that the universe could be self-created, or created by opposed or contradictory forces, or purposeless. This universe was created by an ultimate creative force; it was created by a supernatural force which guides and manages it through ultimate knowledge and wisdom. This universe is attaining its purposes through the will of the Almighty Creator. One of those purposes is its ultimate dissolution, after which comes the eternal abode, as we are told in many places in the Qur’an.

When the heaven is split asunder

And attentive to her Lord in fear,

And when the earth is spread out

And hath cast out all that was in her, and is empty

And attentive to her Lord in fear!

(Surah LXXXIV, 1-5)

When the heaven is cleft asunder,

When the planets are dispersed,

When the seas are poured forth,

And the sepulchres are overturned,

A soul will know what it hath sent before (it) and

what left behind.

(Surah LXXXII, 1-5)

When the sun is overthrown,

And when the stars fall,

And when the hills are moved,

And when the camels big with young

And when the wild beasts are herded

And when the seas rise,

And when souls are reunited,

And when the girl-child that was buried alive is asked

For what sin she was slain,

And when the pages are laid open.

And when the sky is torn away,

And when hell is lighted,

And when the garden is brought nigh,

(Then) every soul will know what it hath made ready.

(Surah LXXXI, 1-14)

By such rational evidence we are instructed in the Qur’an as to the ultimate end toward which the universe is moving, the final destruction which awaits all created things. In almost every Surah we find rational evidence proving that the universe was created and is sustained by Allah. "Lo! in the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the difference of night and day, and the ships which run upon the sea with that which is of use to men, and the water which Allah sendeth down from the sky, thereby reviving the earth after its death, and dispersing all kinds of beasts therein, and (in) the ordinance of the winds, and the clouds obedient between heaven and earth: are signs (of Allah’s sovereignty) for people who have sense’ (Surah II, 164). "And in the Earth are neighboring tracts, vineyards and ploughed lands, and date-palms, like and unlike, which are watered with one water. And We have made some of them to excel others in fruit. Lo! herein verily are portents for people who have sense" (Surah XIII, 4). "We have built the heavens with might, and We it is who made the vast extent (thereof) And the earth have We laid out, how gracious was the Spreader (thereof)! And all things We have created by pairs, that haply ye may reflect" (Surah LI, 47-49). These are only a few examples illustrating the many texts which give rational evidence of the creative power of Allah.

The intuitional evidence for belief in Allah, the belief based upon the recognition of Allah by our inner consciousness, is brought to our attention in the Qur’an by pointing out the important psychological fact that there is an instinctive feeling of faith in Almighty Allah, the Creator of the universe, which comes to men when they are free from inclinations, or the distractions of dull routines, or when surprised by the question of the origin of the universe, or when faced with hardships or misfortunes which they cannot overcome by themselves. These facts are illustrated by many texts of the Qur’an. "And if thou (Muhammad) ask them: Who created the heavens and the earth, they will surely answer: The Mighty, the Knower created them" (Surah XLIII, 9). "When We show favor unto man, he withdraweth and turneth aside, but when ill toucheth him then he aboundeth in prayer" (Surah XLI, 51). "And if a wave enshroudeth them like awnings, they cry unto Allah, making their faith pure for Him only. But when He bringeth them safe to land, some of them compromise. None denieth Our signs save every traitor ingrate." (Surah XXXI, 32).

The Qur’an illustrates this sudden, instinctive faith in Allah by describing in detail Pharaoh’s feeling when he was faced with death by drowning and realized the impossibility of escape, "And We brought the Children of Israel across the sea, Pharaoh with his hosts pursued them in rebellion and transgression, till, when the (fate of) drowning overtook him, he exclaimed: I believe that there is no God save Him in whom the Children of Israel believe, and I am of those who surrender (unto Him). What! Now! When hitherto thou has rebelled and been of the wrong-doers? But this day We save thee in thy body that thou mayest be a portent for those after thee. Lo! most of mankind are heedless of Our portents" (Surah X, 91-93). Thus we see that the belief in Allah is based on both rational evidence and intuitive insight, evidence which is available to all men who are not heedless of the Divine portents.

The Scripture also guides us to the Names and Qualities of Allah, all of which refer to His power, His wisdom, and all His perfections. Many of the Names are difficult to translate from the Arabic, for example, Allah is the One, the Eternally Besought of All, the First, the Last, the Beneficent, the Powerful, the Almighty, the Wise, the Knower, the Creator, the Shaper out of Naught, the Fashioner, the Guardian, the Majestic, thc Superb, the Glorified. The Creator names Himself in this manner, "He is Allah, than whom there is no other God, the Knower of the invisible and the visible, He is the Beneficent, the Merciful. He is Allah, than whom there is no other God, the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One, Peace, the Keeper of Faith, the Guardian, the Majestic, the Compeller, the Superb. Glorified be Allah from all that they ascribe as partner (unto Him). He is Allah, the Creator, the Shaper out of naught, the Fashioner. His are the most beautiful names. All that is in the heavens and the earth glorifieth Him, and He is the Mighty, the Wise" (Surah LIX, 22-24).

These names which show His superiority, mercy, and perfection are recognized by wise men to be true and justly applicable, because a true understanding of the nature of the universe indicates that these are the qualities of Allah. The wise man recognizes also that no other being in the universe is worthy of such names, for all these beings are creations -- changeable, needy, and deficient. In the Qur’an the proper and comprehensive name which emphasizes His individuality is the Ultimate Being, known to Muslims as Allah, or the name of the Almighty and the Sublime.

Muslims call Him and worship Him by such names. For thus He saith: "Allah’s are the fairest names. Invoke Him by them. And leave the company of those who blaspheme His names. They will be requited what they do" (Surah VII, 80). It is forbidden for a Muslim to invoke Him by a name or an adjective that is not mentioned in His Scripture or by His Apostle.

The Ultimate Being can be described, but not conceived by man. When the Qur’an guides men to belief in Allah, it aims at turning man’s thought from the fruitless attempt to know the essence and reality of His Ultimate Being and instead to guide men to know His creative ability and the activities which reveal His qualities, His might and perfection. The Qur’an shows that He is above all qualities possessed by His creation, that His qualities are divine and superior and that attempts to know His essence, to describe Him by such concepts as monism or pantheism, will fail. For He saith, "Such is Allah, your Lord. There is no God save Him, the Creator of all things, so worship Him. And He taketh care of all things. Vision comprehendeth Him not, but he comprehendeth (all) vision. He is the Subtile, the Aware" (Surah, VI, 103-4).

The story of Moses (the Blessing of Allah be upon him) when he asked his Creator to show him Himself, is a good illustration of the impossibility of knowing the essence of the Ultimate Being. "And when We did appoint for Moses thirty nights (of solitude), and added to them ten, and he completed the whole time appointed by his Lord of forty nights; and Moses said unto his brother: Take my place among the people. Do right, and follow not the way of mischief-makers. And when Moses came to Our appointed tryst and his Lord had spoken unto him, he said: My Lord! Show me (Thy self), that I may gaze upon Thee. He said: Thou wilt not see Me, but gaze upon the mountain! If it stand still in its place, then thou wilt see Me. And when his Lord revealed (His) glory to the mountain He sent it crashing down. And Moses fell down senseless. And when he woke he said: Glory unto Thee! I turn unto Thee repentant, and I am the first of (true) believers" (Surah VII, 142-43). It is by such texts that the Qur’an makes clear that Allah can be described, His qualities can be partially known, but His essence cannot be conceived of by man.

One final point should be stressed in relation to the Islamic belief in Allah. Islam rejects all forms of polytheism. Allah is One. The Qur’an often reprimands those who believe in the existence of two gods, or in Trinitarianism, and those who worship any part of His creation such as the sun, the moon, or idols. The Qur’an calls upon such polytheists to consider the numerous evidences of His ultimate Unity. "If there were therein Gods beside Allah, then verily both (the heavens and the earth) had been disordered" (Surah XXI, 22). "Allah hath not chosen any son, nor is there any God along with Him; else would each God have assuredly championed that which he created, and some of them would assuredly have overcome others. Glorified be Allah above all that they allege" (Surah XXIII, 91). "Say: O People of the Scripture: Come to an agreement between us and you: that we shall worship none but Allah, and that we shall ascribe no partner unto Him, and that none of us shall take others for lords beside Allah" (Surah III, 64). "Lo! I have turned my face toward Him Who created the heavens and the earth, as one by nature upright, and I am not of the idolaters" (Surab VI, 80). Thus it is seen that Islam clearly rejects all polytheism, Trinitarianism, and idolatry and worships only the One.

Belief in Angels, Jinn, and the Soul.

The first of the basic beliefs of Islam is the belief in Allah, as we have said. The second basic belief is the belief in Angels. The Scripture describes Angels as supernatural and says that such is their real nature that they do not appear in the material world generally, but only by divine command. The Qur’an says, "And they say: The Beneficent hath taken unto Himself a son. Be He glorified! Nay, but (those whom they call sons) are honoured slaves; They speak not until He hath spoken, and they act by His command" (Surah XXI, 26-27). The Angels’ functions are concerned with spirits and souls. Some of these functions, through which they carry out His orders and His will, are recorded in the Quranic texts. Some of the Angels carry His revelations, His orders, His messages to His prophets and apostles: "And lo! it is a revelation of the Lord of the Worlds, Which the True Spirit hath brought down Upon thy heart, that thou mayest be (one) of the warners" (Surah XXVI, 192-94). Other Angels support the prophets and make the believers stand firm. "And we gave Jesus, son of Mary, clear proofs (of Allah’s sovereignty) and We supported him with the holy Spirit [i.e., the angel Gabriel]" (Surah II, 253). "When thy Lord inspired the angels, (saying:) I am with you. So make those who believe stand firm. I will throw fear into the hearts of those who disbelieve" (Surab VIII, 12).

Other Angels are preachers who preach the true and the good and encourage believers by His good tidings of His eternal Paradise. "Lo! those who say: Our Lord is Allah, and afterward are uptight, the angels descend upon them, saying: Fear not nor grieve, but hear good tidings of the paradise which ye are promised. We are your protecting friends in the life of the world and in the Hereafter. There ye will have (all) that your souls desire, and there ye will have (all) for which ye pray" (Surah XLI, 30-31).

Others are Angels of Death, such as Azrad. "Say: the Angel of death, who hath charge concerning you, will gather you, and afterward unto your Lord ye will be returned" (Surah XXXII, 11). "Those whom the angels cause to die (when they are) good. They say: Peace be unto you! Enter the Garden because of what ye used to do" (Surah XVI, 32). "Lo! as for those whom the angels take (in death) while they wrong themselves, (the angels) will ask: In what were ye engaged? They will say: We were oppressed in the land. (The angels) will say: Was not Allah’s earth spacious that ye could have migrated therein? As for such, their habitation will be hell, an evil journey’s end" (Surah IV, 97).

Other Angels are registers of the deeds of human beings, preserving the records until the Day of Judgment when they are shown to man. "Lo! there are above you guardians, Generous and recording, Who know (all) that ye do" (Surah LXXXII, 10-12).

Such exemplary functions, like all other functions of the Angels, are supernatural. The Qur’an describes Angels as "Messengers with wings and force." "Allah chooseth from the angels messengers, and (also) from mankind" (Surah XXII, 75). "Praise be to Allah, the Creator of the heavens and the earth, who appointeth the angels messengers having wings two, three, and four. He multiplieth in creation what He will. Lo! Allah is Able to do all things" (Surah XXXV, 1). As has been demonstrated previously, the Qur’an is the basic resource of Islam and therefore the Muslim’s belief in Angels must be fully limited by definite Quranic texts, which are the only source of such supernatural facts.

Another kind of supernatural creature is the Jinn. The Qur’an differentiates between Jinn and Angels in several ways. Concerning the substance of the Jinn, the Qur’an states several times that He created them from fire. "And the Jinn did We create aforetime of essential fire" (Surab XV, 27).

Some of the Jinn are virtuous, others are wicked. According to the Qur’an, speaking of the Jinn, "And there are among us some who have surrendered (to Allah) and there are among us some who are unjust. And whoso hath surrendered to Allah, such have taken the right path purposefully. And as for those who are unjust, they are firewood for hell" (Surah LXXII, 14- 15). In contrast, we have seen above that the Angels are "honoured slaves."

Angels, as we mentioned previously, are the messengers of Allah to His prophets and apostles, but Jinn, like mankind, receive the revelations through His apostles. This is shown in the Quranic text, addressed to Muhammad, "And when We inclined toward thee (Muhammad) certain of the Jinn, who wished to hear the Qur’an, when they were in its presence, said: Give ear! and, when it was finished, turned back to their people, warning. They said: O our people! Lo! we have heard a Scripture which hath been revealed after Moses, confirming that which was before it, guiding unto the truth and a right road. O our people! respond to Allah’s summoner and believe Him. He will forgive you some of your sins and guard you from a painful doom" (Surah XLVI, 29-31).

Jinn share with mankind the responsibility of hearing and believing Muslim teachings. On the Judgment Day, both mankind and Jinn will be called by Allah in the same way and will be responsible in the same degree. "In the day when He will gather them together (He will say): O ye assembly of the Jinn! Many of humankind did ye seduce. And their adherents among humankind will say: Our Lord! We enjoyed one another, but now we have arrived at the appointed term which Thou appointedst for us. He will say: Fire is your home. Abide therein for ever, save him whom Allah willeth (to deliver). Lo! thy Lord is Wise, Aware" (Surah VI, 129). But the Angels do not share with mankind the same responsibilities.

The Qur’an makes it clear in many passages that Angels possess all the spiritual virtues and none of the shortcomings of human beings, while the Jinn are described as sometimes being whisperers and provocators -- evils which are sometimes found in men.

Concerning the soul, or spirit, the Qur’an says very little. "And (remember) when thy Lord said unto the angels: Lo! I am creating a mortal out of potter’s clay of black mud altered, so, when I have made him and have breathed into him of My spirit, do ye fall down, prostrating yourselves unto him" (Surah XV, 28-29). There is another text in which He says, "Why, then, when (the soul) cometh up to the throat (of the dying) And ye are at that moment looking" (Surah LVI, 83-84). All that we can deduce from such texts is that the soul is the source of life, and that it is the vital force of existence without which beings become lifeless. As to the precise nature of the soul, the Qur’an says nothing. However, there is no Quranic text which prohibits searching for such a supernatural spirit, whether or not such researches might be fruitful. His saying, "They will ask thee concerning the Spirit. Say: The Spirit is by command of my Lord, and of knowledge ye have been vouchsafed but little" (Surah XVII, 85), indicates that the identification of the soul is His own concern and that the human mind is too limited to understand such a supernatural reality. This has been a subject of scientific research, but up to now those who have studied the problem have not reached a clear understanding about the soul.

Concerning the soul after death, the texts of the Scripture and the sayings of the Prophet say nothing except that the soul remains after death, either living in ease and comfort or in torment. Thus He saith, "Think not of those, who are slain in the way of Allah, as dead. Nay, they are living. With their Lord they have provision. Jubilant (are they) because of that which Allah hath bestowed upon them of His bounty" (Surah III, 169-70).

Belief in the Apostles.

Belief in Angels is the highest stage of belief which leads to the right way, the belief in Allah. Belief in apostles is not a belief in the supernatural, for they are men with the same human nature that other men have. They differ from other men in that they have been selected by Allah and authorized to receive His revelations through His Angels in order that they may proclaim them to mankind and lead men in practicing their teachings. Such a divine selection preserves them from error in all that they proclaim of His divine messages. At the same time, their very human nature and qualities make it easy for believers to accept what they say and imitate what they do. He saith, "And We sent not (as Our messengers) before thee other than men whom We inspired. Ask the followers of the Reminder [i.e., the Jewish Scripture] if ye know not? We gave them not bodies that would not eat food, nor were they immortals" (Surah XXI, 7-8).

It is a divine fact that in all ages Allah has sent His messages to men through His apostles to direct and strengthen human beings toward good. Since the dawn of creation it has been the aim of the divine will to further the spiritual progress of man by providing the guidance which enables man to arrange his daily affairs so that he lives wisely and correctly, "and there is not a nation but a warner hath passed among them" (Surah XXXV, 24). Thus messages have been revealed again and again with the one purpose of guiding man to perfection. Each age had its message and each generation had the chance to hear His words. In all these messages, the principles taught were the same. "He hath ordained for you that religion which He commended unto Noah, and that which We inspire in thee (Muhammad), and that which We commended unto Abraham and Moses and Jesus, saying: Establish the religion, and be not divided therein" (Surah XLII, 13).

The Messenger Muhammad illustrated the unity of divine messages by saying that all the apostles are builders of one house, the earlier apostles laying the foundation for the later ones who build upon their foundation. The Qur’an calls upon mankind to believe in all His messengers as well as in the scriptures revealed to them. To believe in some apostles and reject others is a fallacy from the Islamic point of view. The Qur’an says, "Say (O Muslims): We believe in Allah and that which is revealed unto us and that which was revealed unto Abraham, and Ishmael, and Isaac, and Jacob, and the tribes, and that which Moses and Jesus received, and that which the Prophets received from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and unto Him we have surrendered" (Surah II, 136). "And who believe in that which is revealed unto thee (Muhammad) and that which was revealed before thee, and are certain of the Hereafter" (Surah II, 4).

Those who believe in some apostles and reject others will be punished, for the Qur’an says, "Lo! those who disbelieve in Allah and His messengers, and seek to make distinction between Allah and His messengers, and say: We believe in some and disbelieve in others, and seek to choose a way in between; Such are disbelievers in truth; and for disbelievers We prepare a shameful doom" (Surah IV, 150-51). On the other hand, those who believe in all of His apostles will receive their reward. "But those who believe in Allah and His messengers and make no distinction between any of them, unto them Allah will give their wages; and Allah was ever Forgiving, Merciful" (Surah IV, 152).

The message of the Apostle Muhammad includes the foundations of all the previous messages which guide humanity to perfection and open the way to human progress, both materially and spiritually. Islam calls mankind to believe that Muhammad is the last of all prophets and apostles, as is made clear in the Qur’an, "Muhammad is not the father of any man among you, but he is the messenger of Allah and the Seal of the Prophets; and Allah is Aware of all things" (Surah XXXIII, 40). "This day have I perfected your religion for you and completed My favour unto you, and have chosen for you as religion AL-ISLAM" (Surah V, 3).

Muhammad’s message, or Islam, is addressed to every human being in all ages and all over the world, regardless of color, race, nationality, or any other difference. "Say (O Muhammad): O mankind! Lo! I am the messenger of Allah to you all" (Surah VII, 158). The messages of the apostles before Muhammad differed from his in that they were limited to the apostle’s people or tribe, as the Qur’an shows. "We sent Noah (of old) unto his people, and he said: 0 my people: Serve Allah. Ye have no other God save him" (Surah VII, 59).

"And unto (the tribe of) A‘ad (We sent) their brother, Hud" (Surah VII, 65). "And to (the tribe of) Thamud (We sent) their brother Salih" (Surah VII, 73). And the Qur’an reveals concerning Jesus (the Blessings of Allah be upon him): "Allah createth what He will. If He decreeth a thing, He saith unto it only: Be! and it is. And He will teach him [Jesus] the Scripture and wisdom, and the Torah and the Gospel. And will make him a messenger unto the children of Israel" (Surab III, 47-49). Thus we see that Muhammad, the last of the prophets, brought a message which was unique in that it was addressed to all men everywhere.

It should be clearly understood that, according to the Quranic texts, the function of the apostles is limited to guiding and educating people through revelation. They are worthy of the highest degree of honor and respect, for they are fully authorized to assume spiritual and educational leadership for all men, but they have no authority over people’s beliefs, minds, or hearts. They are in no way responsible for the unbeliever. They have no power to confer any benefit or to inflict any punishment on themselves or other human beings. He saith, "We have not sent thee (O Muhammad) as a warden over them" (Surah XVII, 54). "Thy people (O Muhammad) have denied it, though it is the Truth. Say: I am not put in charge of you" (Surah VI, 66). "Say: For myself I have no power to benefit, nor power to hurt, save that which Allah willeth" (Surah VII, 188).

The apostles are human beings. The Qur’an asserts that the fact that their messages were divine revelations did not change their human nature or make them into supernatural beings. They were highly honored to be selected as messengers, but they remain human; their only infallibility is that given them by Allah concerning the religious facts revealed through them. The Qur’an says, "Say: I am only a mortal like you. My Lord inspireth in me that your God is only One God. And whoever hopeth for the meeting with his Lord, let him do righteous work, and make none sharer of the worship due unto his Lord" (Surah XVIII, 111). As human beings, in all matters other than the messages of Allah, apostles can be right or wrong like any other human beings. It is recorded in the Qur’an that Allah admonished His Apostle Muhammad for some of his actions, as for instance when the Apostle was distracted from his responsibilities to the Muslims by his honorable aim to preach to the idolators (Surah LXXX, 1-10).

We have seen that worship may be offered only to Allah. Islam states that no Angel or human being is entitled to any kind of worship. No human being can be of any assistance in the Day of Judgment, nor can a human being remit any sins, for himself or for others. Only Allah has the power to pardon or punish, only Allah is entitled to worship. And just as no Angel or prophet is entitled to worship, so also no worship may be offered to any of the educated believers, the leaders in Islam, no matter how distinguished. Islam has no saints in the sense of beings with intercessory powers who may be worshiped. Rather than saints in that sense, Islam has Allah’s Aoulia, that is, His constant obeyers, His favorites. According to the Qur’an they have no special distinction which gives them any sort of saintliness or supernatural ability such as the authority to intercede or remit sins. The constant obeyers, or favorites of Allah, are true believers who follow the apostles in all that is revealed to them by Allah, obeying the divine commands and avoiding that which He prohibits.

Some people, influenced by non-Muslim sources, say that Allah has, in addition to the apostles, His distinctive slaves who are authorized by Him to rule the universe and to respond and fulfill the people’s demands. It is even said that when such "saints" die they should have distinctive tombs, high domed, and lighted at night; that one should seek their blessings, offer them pledges, and bow before them. Such errors have become popular among some Muslims and in other religious congregations, but all such errors are entirely rejected by His religion in all His messages.

Belief in the Scriptures.

To accept and believe in the messages of Allah is a mere logical consequence of belief in Angels and apostles. The messages are the contents of all His scriptures, which include instruction concerning true beliefs and the fundamental principles for codes of law which guide men in distinguishing the approved from the forbidden in human actions. Islam calls mankind to believe in all His scriptures which have been revealed through the apostles -- such as Abraham’s Books, Moses’ Bible, Jesus’ Gospel, and Muhammad’s Qur’an. From the Muslim point of view, no one who denies any of these scriptures is considered to be a believer.

It also follows that if Muhammad is the final Apostle, the Qur’an is the final Scripture. The Qur’an, as is known to anyone who is thoroughly acquainted with its contents, States the basic beliefs, the basic principles of worship and of human dealings, and the ideals of morality. The Quranic texts do not give in detail the code of laws regulating dealings -- human actions -- but they give the general principles which guide people to perfection, to a life of harmony -- to an inner harmony between man’s appetites and his spiritual desires, to harmony between man and the natural world, and to a harmony between individuals as well as a harmony with the society in which men live. The means of establishing harmony which are revealed in the Qur’an are based on faith and justice, and a wise understanding of human nature.

It is not the function of the Qur’an to explain in detail the facts of the universe, its secrets and the useful ways in which it can serve mankind. It does, however, urge men to use their minds and skills to gain understanding of the universe, its secrets and its wonderful phenomena. It opens the way for man to use his mind and powers in whatever vocation falls to his lot, to increase his knowledge, and to strengthen his faith in the Almighty. It guides mankind to individual and social welfare and establishes justice among men. The Qur’an limits the human mind only in basic beliefs and principles of legislation, a wise limitation which is necessary to guide the people’s faith and bring them to submission to Allah.

Belief in the Last Day.

The fifth principle of faith in Islam -- after faith in Allah, Angels, apostles, and the scriptures -- is belief in the Day of Resurrection, the Judgment Day. It is the end of man and His goal in the creation of man. "And that man hath only that for which he maketh effort, And that his effort will be seen, And afterward he will be repaid for it with fullest payments (Surah LIII, 39-41). What happens to a man on the Last Day -- his reward or punishment, his pleasure or pain, -- is determined by what he has chosen to do in this world. The Other World is the world of judgment for what man has done. "On the day when We shall summon all men with their record, whoso is given his book in his right hand -- such will read their book and they will not be wronged a shred. Whoso is blind here will be blind in the Hereafter, and yet further from the road" (Surah XVII, 71-72). Thus the belief in the judgment of the Last Day is the strongest motive for man to seek perfection and progress in this world in order that he may be accepted and favored by Allah in the Other World.

The Qur’an mentions in various places the rewards and sufferings which will come to men in the Other XVorld. Although it uses phrases that are commonly used by man in his daily life, Islamic sources emphasize that life in the Other World is a new life that differs from life in this world in everything except the names.

But for him who feareth the standing before his Lord

there are two gardens.

Which is it, of the favors of your Lord, that ye deny?

Of spreading branches.

Which is it, of the favors of your Lord, that ye deny?

Wherein are two fountains flowing.

Which is it, of the favors of your Lord, that ye deny?

Wherein is every kind of fruit in pairs.

Which is it, of the favors of your Lord, that ye deny? Reclining upon couches lined with silk brocade,

the fruit of both gardens near to hand.

(Surah LV, 46-54)

Concerning the sufferings in the Other World, He saith, "The guilty will be known by their marks, and will be taken by the forelocks and the feet" (Surah LV, 41). "While the reward of disbelievers is the Fire" (Surah XIII, 35). "And lo! for all such, hell will be the promised place" (Surah XV, 43). Thus in many passages does the Qur’an describe the blessings and sufferings of the Other World in a way which urges men to believe according to the teachings of Allah’s messages and to act in accordance with the principles of dealings laid down in the Quranic texts.

A Muslim never doubts, nor hesitates to hold a firm belief in, the eternity of the blessings of the Other World. He knows that those who obstinately continue to be disbelievers will be punished for that disbelief which contradicts the natural disposition of man. That punishment, according to the Qur’an, will continue eternally. It is not definitely stated in the Qur’an whether Hell is everlasting or not, but it is clearly stated that Paradise and its blessings are eternal. In all matters of belief concerning the Last Day and the Other World, the human mind is subject to the definite Quranic texts and the sayings of the Apostle.

These, then, are the beliefs of Islam: belief in Allah the One God, in Angels, in the apostles, in the scriptures, and in the Day of Judgment. These beliefs are, according to Islam, the basis of every divine religion; therefore, the religions which are not founded on them are false religions. Allah rejects the disbelievers, those who are polytheists, who do not believe in Angels, or in the apostles, or in the scriptures, or in the Last Day -- and He invites them all to believe in Islam through logical thought and acceptance of the evidence revealed to men.

Man was called by Allah to adopt these beliefs. As an expression of His mercy and His goodness to His slaves, He has made man master of the earth, God’s deputy on earth to make use of its blessings by using and developing its natural resources. Allah has called upon man to study the universe in order that he may see and understand the wonders of His creation which confirm man’s faith and lead him to spiritual and material progress. The Qur’an says, "He it is Who created for you all that is in the earth" (Surah II, 29). "See ye not how Allah hath made serviceable unto you whatsoever is in the skies and whatsoever is in the earth and hath loaded you with His favors both without and within?" (Surah XXXI, 20). "Allah it is Who hath made the sea of service unto you that the ships may run thereon by His command, and that ye may seek His bounty, and that haply ye may be thankful; And hath made of service unto you whatsoever is in the heavens and whatsoever is in the earth; it is all from Him. Lo! herein verily are portents for people who reflect" (Surah XIV, 12-13).

Islam states that Allah created man with a disposition which leads him sometimes to choose the good and sometimes to choose the evil way of life. His good deeds lead him to his own happiness, to social welfare, and to his being acceptable to Allah, while his evil deeds lead him to unhappiness and to destruction in this life and damnation in the next. For thus saith Allah,

Did We not assign unto him two eyes

And a tongue and two lips,

And guide him to the parting of the mountain ways?

But he hath not attempted the Ascent --

Ah, what will convey unto thee what the Ascent is! --

(It is) to free a slave,

And to feed in the day of hunger

An orphan near of kin,

Or some poor wretch in misery,

And to be of those who believe and exhort one another

to perseverance and exhort one another to pity.

(Surah XC, 8-17)

The purpose of Allah’s messages and revelations is to strengthen the good tendencies of men and guide them to perfection in this life, thus laying the foundations for the next life. Islam points out that each man must choose for himself the way to happiness through good deeds or the way to unhappiness and punishment through wickedness. Islam, in placing the responsibility on each individual, makes no distinction between human beings; each is given the same rights and responsibilities regardless of his sex, race, color, or other differences. Blessed are faithful and true believers. The Qur’an says, "Whosoever doeth right, whether male or female, and is a believer, him verily We shall quicken with good life, and We shall pay them a recompense in proportion to the best of what they used to do" (Surah XVI, 97).

In the eyes of Islam a man chooses either good or evil by his own free will and is rewarded or punished according to his deeds. He is only guided and advised by the messages of Allah and by the apostles but is still completely free to choose as he wishes. It is quite clear that if Allah wanted to He would have created man wholly good and completely ignorant of all evil. Since man has been created free to choose between good and evil, he will be rewarded or punished on Doomsday according to what he has chosen. There is no supernatural force which limits a man or compels him to adopt any mode of behavior. What is called fate, or testing, is nothing but the operation of natural laws, such as the principles of cause and effect and of the freedom of man.

In former times, disbelievers excused themselves by saying that they had been predestined to certain actions by His will. But the Almighty rejected such an excuse and made it clear that full responsibility is thrown on each man because of his free mind and the guidance given by the apostles. "They who are idolaters will say: Had Allah willed, we had not ascribed (unto Him) partners neither had our fathers, nor had we forbidden aught. Thus did those who were before them give the lie (to Allah’s messengers) till they tasted of the fear of Us. Say: Have ye any knowledge that ye can adduce for us? Lo! ye follow naught but an opinion. Lo! ye do not guess. Say -- For Allah’s is the final judgment -- Had He willed He could indeed have guided all of you" (Surah VI, 149-50). It is true enough that the Almighty foresees how man will act; but this foresight is nothing other than divine knowledge of the freedom of choice, which is a natural law.

Therefore, Islam does not allow a man to wander from the rightful faith and then offer the workings of fate as his excuse. For if that were so, His commandments, the missions of the apostles, the scriptures, and the promise of reward and punishment would all be null and void, impossible to reconcile with the Almighty’s Wisdom and Justice.

The Islamic Code

In the name of God, the Merciful, the Most Compassionate

In the introduction to this chapter it was stated that the Qur’an, the all-embracing source of the true concept of Islam, says that Islam is both a faith and a code. Up to this point we have discussed the beliefs that must be held with the head and the heart if one is to be a Muslim. The acceptance or rejection of these beliefs determines the dividing line between loyalty to Islam and infidelity.

The Islamic code is the name given to the principles and laws which God revealed and which He requires all Muslims to adhere to strictly in all their actions, whether in their relations with Him or in their dealings with mankind. The actions through which Muslims draw near to their Lord, recall His greatness, and show their trust in Him by their observance of His divine rules are known in Islam as worship of God. The actions through which Muslims uphold their interests and repel evils in themselves, between themselves and their neighbors, and between Muslims and non-Muslims, the actions through which they prevent maltreatment, preserve rights, fulfill the general good, and establish peace and security, are known in Islam as dealings. The great number of laws which make up the Islamic code are classified under these two headings: worship and dealings.

Worship of God. The worship of God is made up of prayers, fasting, payment of religious tax, and pilgrimage. Basic to the worship of God is the acknowledgment of God’s oneness and Muhammad’s heavenly purpose in life, the cleansing of the heart and soul, the strict observance of obedience to God in all actions. This is the foundation, these are the pillars on which Islam is built. Therefore the Prophet (may God bless him) has said, "Islam is put upon five principles: belief In the single God and in Muhammad as His Messenger, performance of prayers, payment of religious tax, keeping of the month of Ramadan, and pilgrimage to the Holy Mosque by whoever finds the way clear to do it."

Prayer. Prayer is a form of physical worship assigned to the Muslim five times a day at specified times. In prayer he stands wherever he happens to be at the appointed time and turns his face toward the Divine Mosque in Mecca. He begins his prayer by saying in a fairly loud voice, "God is the Most Great," praying reverently with profound intent to worship God. He then recites the Good Book’s first Surah, along with a passage of the Qur’an which he has learned by heart, trying to understand its inner meaning. He then bows by bending until his back makes a straight horizontal line, holding his knees with his hands, and saying to himself as he bows, "Great God." Then he lifts his head, saying, "God the Most Great," and kneels down, touching his forehead to the floor, saying as he goes down, "God the Highest." He then lifts his head, saying "God the Most Great," and sits comfortably on his heels. Then he touches the floor with his forehead a second time. This process is called one kneeling.

There are five daily prayers. First is the morning prayer which the Muslim performs at the beginning of his day between the small hours of the morning and sunrise. It is made up of two kneelings, at the end of which the worshiper sits to salute his Lord, admitting His oneness and the mission of His Prophet in a manner which has been universally copied from Muhammad (may God bless him). He then salutes the right side and the left side with the words, "Peace be upon you together with God’s blessings." The second prayer is the midday prayer which is performed from noon until halfway between noon and sundown. The afternoon prayer comes between midafternoon and sunset. Each of those prayers is made up of four kneelings. The early evening prayer is three kneelings and is offered between sunset and the vanishing from the horizon of the twilight. The late evening prayer is performed after the twilight disappears; it is the last prayer of the day when the Muslim welcomes the night, and is made up of four kneelings.

With these prayers the Muslim thinks of his Lord five times during each day and night, appearing before his Lord repeatedly and saluting His name within his heart and soul, submitting himself to God, looking forward to His favor. Therefore he perseveres in obeying His commands.

The Muslim can perform these prayers anywhere -- at the mosque, at home, in the field, at the factory, in the office -- wherever he happens to be when the time falls due for prayer. He can pray alone, or he can pray with others standing in a line or lines arrayed closely in straight formation, like a highly-disciplined military parade, behind a leader who is followed by the congregation in all that he does. Congregational prayer in Islam is the best form of prayer because it encourages acquaintanceship, intimacy, cooperation, joint entreaty, remembrance, and cheerful submission to God, the Lord of all peoples.

Muslims are reminded of the time for prayer by the call to prayer which is given from the minaret of the mosque in the form taught by the Prophet, "God is Most Great. God is Most Great. I avow that there is no God other than Allah. I avow that there is no God other than Allah. I declare openly that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. I declare openly that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. Welcome prayer. Welcome prayer. Welcome good fortune. Welcome good fortune. God is Most Great. God is Most Great. There is no God but Allah."

Islam also has a weekly prayer, known as the Friday prayer because it is performed at noon on Friday. It is a congregational service with preaching before the prayer, which is made up of two kneelings. There are also two other prayers like the Friday prayer which are performed twice a year on the mornings of the two Islamic feasts, the first day following the month of Ramadan and the tenth day of the month of Dhu‘l Hijja. These two prayers are known in Islam as the prayers of the two feasts, Ramadan and al-Qurban.

In addition to the daily prayers, the Friday prayer, and the prayers of the two feasts, there is in Islam the funeral prayer, a religious ceremony expressing the Muslims’ loyalty toward their dead. Muslims are required to prepare their dead for burial by cleaning the body and wrapping it from head to foot in unstitched cloth; the body is then placed on a bed and the mourners stand in line and, led by one of them, join in the prayer for the dead person. They repeat four times the phrase "God is Most Great" and recite together the preface to the Qur’an; then they ask God’s blessing on the deceased. The body is later buried. According to Islam the grave may be in the ground or on the surface level, but should not be elevated either for a member of the masses or for a prophet who has completed a heavenly mission.

In this connection it should be pointed out that Islam has no other funeral ceremonies than those mentioned above. The elaborate rituals, the special places for ceremonies, the special funeral processions which are sometimes seen, the domes built over graves, all these have nothing whatever to do with Islam. Nor is there any basis in Islam for the great respect paid to certain mausoleums with the object of securing blessings. Islam has nothing to say about visiting graveyards for inspiration or blessing. These customs have been copied by Muslims from others.

Islam is also opposed to the practice of withdrawing into monasteries or caves to repeat prayers. It looks upon the daily work to support one’s family and to improve the life of the community as an obligation as important as prayer. Indeed, the daily prayers are assigned merely to fulfill the debt owed to God, and as a means of securing His aid in the daily struggle in the world. The Islamic code states clearly the everyday obligations of the Muslim which provide him with food for the soul through worship and further his material standing as an individual and promote the welfare of his community. Islamic law provides the best way for a man to maintain the right relationship with his Lord and a proper participation in the life of the world. This is not possible except for the Muslim.

Except for the five daily prayers which distinguish the Muslim from the non-Muslim, the daily routine of the Muslim is like that of other men. He carries on the business for which his talents qualify him, earning his livelihood, guarding his family and his interests, and abstaining from sin in matters of food and drink and evil amusements. Then he retires at night to relax from work and fatigue. Islam does not prevent the Muslim from enjoying the beautiful things of life and the favors of God. "Say: Who hath forbidden the adornment of Allah which He hath brought forth for His bondmen, and the good things of His providing?" (Surah VII, 32).

Fasting. Prayer is the first form of physical worship. The second is fasting -- refraining from eating, drinking, and sexual intercourse all day from dawn to sunset during the whole month of Ramadan each year with the intention of showing submission to God’s command. The act of fasting during Ramadan is the means by which the Muslim recognizes the favor God did to His subjects in the month of Ramadan when He began the revelation of the Qur’an to the Prophet Muhammad (may God bless him).

Fasting is the means by which the Muslim voluntarily abandons certain legitimate frivolous enjoyments as a means of putting his soul to a test and promoting its capacity for perseverance. thus strengthening his will to keep away from sins, both obvious and obscure. The Muslim thereby samples enough of starvation to make him a warm-hearted, hospitable person, sympathetic with the poor who are in constant want. This is precisely the spirit Islam endeavors to create in the Muslim’s heart and mind by requiring fasting as a mode of worship. Therefore, Islam attaches no significance to the kind of fasting that does not inspire this great humanitarian spirit, and a person fasting for any other purpose has nothing to gain except hunger and thirst.

Religious tax. The third form of worship is the religious tax, zakat. This is a fiscal worship by which Islam requires the well-to-do to care for the needs of the poor and to pay a subsidy to maintain public benefits like hospitals, educational institutions, and a defense force. It is a sacred duty incumbent upon the rich to pay out of their possessions in excess of their requirements, and those of their dependents, portions which are universally recognized by Muslims as fair, and which in the aggregate meet the needs of the poor and the general interests of the community without adversely afflicting the owners. It is customary to give one-tenth of the product of the land if it is watered by rain and one-twentieth if it is irrigated by human effort; two and one-half per cent of savings is suggested, with equal proportions of the increase in cattle or in trade in goods. The motive for giving the religious tax is internal; there is no external pressure.

Worship through the giving of the religious tax is the best means of promoting the welfare of society, linking the classes of the community with reciprocal sympathy and compassion, and spreading throughout the people a sentiment of love and cooperation. Through the religious tax the nation protects itself from creating financial tyranny through the concentration of the bulk of the national income in the hands of a few individuals, or of the ruler who might claim it in the name of the state. The divine legislation which requires the religious tax preserves for the ordinary man freedom of choice as to his means of livelihood and at the same time provides the community with the aid and cooperation owed it by the individual. The Muslim who fails to pay the religious tax is failing in his religious duty and undermining one of the main pillars of Islam.

Pilgrimage. Pilgrimage is also a form of physical, or external, worship in Islam. The pilgrimage is an annual form of congregational worship in which those Muslims who are able to make the trip assemble from all over the world at Mecca, the home of the revelation to Muhammad (may God bless him). There they visit the Holy Mosque and pray to God in Arafat, a narrow defile some thirteen miles from Mecca. It is a public worship expressing the full equality among Muslims gathered together from all over the world with a common objective -- all performing the same actions, all seeking to gain God’s favor. At Mecca all pilgrims stand on equal footing whether rich or poor, rulers or ordinary people, scholars or laborers. There all of them, wearing similar white, seamless robes and shorn of class distinctions, assemble around a single center which inspires them with a strong sense of unity. There their views and aims are unified and their resolution is strengthened to work cooperatively for the fulfillment of the general good.

This, then, is worship in Islam -- based on the beliefs required of all Muslims, worship is performed through prayer, fasting, payment of the religious tax, and pilgrimages. These forms of worship are required by Islam as owed to God in order that Muslims may please Him, observe His commands, and show their gratitude to Him. As Muslims perform their worship they always think of God and of His gifts related to the body, wealth, and society. At the same time the Muslim realizes that these ceremonies performed in honor of God are of benefit to himself. Prayer and fasting give the Muslim discipline which he needs and further the development of his spiritual life; the religious tax encourages communal cooperation to meet the requirements of the poor and of society; and the pilgrimage widens the circle of acquaintances and increases mutual understanding and cooperation under the shadow of revelation and divine guidance.

The mosque. Although the prayers may be performed at the appropriate times wherever a Muslim happens to be, the mosque has since the dawn of Islam been the best environment for Islamic learning and the performance of religious ceremonies. It has been the center for preaching and guidance, it has served as a court of law where disputes are reconciled, and has been like a social club where Muslims assemble to discuss topics of common interest. The mosque was not invented by Islam but is copied from ancient divine establishments. The Qur’an states that the first building set aside for worship for the people was the Holy Mosque erected by Abraham and his son Ishmael. The Good Book says of mosques in general, "He only shall tend Allah’s sanctuaries who believeth in Allah and the Last Day and observeth proper worship and payeth the poor-due and feareth none save Allah. For such (only) is it possible that they can be of the rightly guided" (Surah IX, 18).

The Qur’an mentions two mosques by name, the Divine Mosque in Mecca and the Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. "Glorified be He who carried His servant by night from the inviolable Place of Worship [Mecca] to the Far Distant Place of Worship [Jerusalem], the neighborhood whereof We have blessed" (Surah XVII, 1).

Among the first things the Prophet did on his return to Medina was to establish his own mosque as a means of bringing the Muslims closer together and forming the Muslim community, and as a place for performing the magnificent communal prayer.

Following the example of the Prophet, the Caliphs set up mosques where Muslims worshiped their Lord on an equal footing without any distinctions whatsoever. Today mosques are found throughout the Islamic world as the symbol of Islam, the center for Islamic worship, teachings, and service.

Dealings.

Within the Islamic code, which provides guidance for all human activities, the distinction between worship and dealings is made for convenience in the exposition of Islam. We have seen the nature of the true worship of Islam; in considering the dealings we shall be concerned with the dealings within the Muslim community -- the family, monetary affairs, relations with fellow Muslims, and government -- and dealings with non-Muslims both as individuals and nations. Islamic law has clearly stated the obligations of the Muslims in all areas of life and the penalties to be inflicted for offenses and irregularities.

Under the guidance of its code of laws Islam preaches the one God and, by acknowledging the principle of equality, asserts the unity of the human race and denounces discrimination based on color, racial, or regional differences. It aims at justice through the eradication of oppression and tyranny. It mistreats no stranger merely because he is a stranger in a strange land, nor the infidel because of his infidelity, nor the enemy because of his enmity; nor is a near relative given special treatment in Islamic law because of his relationship, nor is a friend shown partiality for his friendship, nor is a Muslim treated leniently because of his adherence to Islam. "Be steadfast witnesses for Allah in equity, and let not hatred of any people seduce you that ye deal not justly. Deal justly, that is nearer to your duty" (Surah V, 8).

The family. Marriage in Islam requires the full agreement of both parties without compulsion being brought to bear on either person. A marriage which takes place forcibly is considered null and void. When an agreement is reached between the two, the man pays to the woman the bride money, which is a token of admiration, not a purchase price or a form of remuneration. The actual amount of the bride money is determined by agreement and is the exclusive property of the prospective wife; the husband is not entitled to use it in any way without her consent.

The marriage contract is repeated in the presence of two or more witnesses. The bride says, "I marry you to myself," and the groom replies, "I accept your marriage to me." It is quite in order for the two accredited agents for the bride and groom to repeat the phrases of the marriage contract also. If the contract is not authenticated by two witnesses it is unlawful, and no marriage exists between the two. Properly witnessed, this verbal contract completes the marriage and the man and woman may establish their home.

In Islam, the husband, by virtue of his physical strength and ability to secure means of livelihood, is given the responsibility of guardianship of the wife and of the home, within the framework of their reciprocal legal rights and obligations. Such guardianship is not an autocratic authority which excludes the wife from expressing her views or from the right of consultation; it is merely a rank of honor and control which must respect the wife’s point of view.

Thus it is seen that the marriage in Islam is a simple agreement between two parties without any participation by religious or civil authorities. Nor does it curtail the wife’s freedom of action or her control of property, so long as she lives up to the responsibilities of married life and cares for the home and children.

Islam authorizes a man to marry a second wife in special circumstances in which the objectives of the initial marriage, such as the begetting of children, cannot be fulfilled. There can be no doubt that marriage to a second wife is the best solution to the problem in cases in which the first wife, if divorced, might not be able to remarry or might have no one to look after her. Islam permits a man to have not more than four wives and stipulates that he may have not more than one wife unless he is able to discharge the rights of each wife and maintain absolute equity between them. Islam authorizes the woman to bring her case before justice if she believes that by marrying another wife her husband sought to injure her.

Islam permits marriage with Christians and Jews. In the Qur’an He saith, "This day are (all) good things made lawful for you. The food of those who have received the Scripture is lawful for you, and your food is lawful for them. And so are the virtuous women of the believers and the virtuous women of those who received the Scripture before you" (Surah V, 5). But Islam forbids Muslims to marry disbelievers or polytheists, for He saith, "Wed not idolatresses till they believe; for lo! a believing bondwoman is better than an idolatress though she please you; and give not your daughters in marriage to idolaters till they believe, for lo! a believing slave is better than an idolater though he please you" (Surah II, 221).

Islam seeks to stabilize married life and reconcile differences between the husband and wife. It orders, for instance, that when there is a disagreement between husband and wife they should turn to their family or near relatives for arbitration. But if ill feelings gain such a hold on the married couple that their union is endangered, and no arbitration can succeed, and married life develops from a state of tranquillity, love, and compassion into one of anxiety, hardship, and boycott, and indeed is almost hell, then in such a situation, and only in such a situation, the husband is allowed by Islam, against its better judgment, to seek the remedy of divorce. Strictly speaking, divorce is a right bestowed on the husband in view of his ability to shoulder the marriage obligations and because of his aptitude for better self-restraint than the wife can display.

If the shock of divorce fulfills the purpose for which it is intended and both the husband and wife return to their senses, then they are permitted by Islam to resume their marriage within the terms of the Islamic code. Islam permits the husband to resort to the remedy of divorce twice, and to remarry each time if a satisfactory reconciliation is attained, but a third divorce is decisive and a woman so divorced cannot be made a legitimate wife a fourth time unless she first marries a different man and is then divorced by that man of his own free will, and there have been no consequences of that marriage. If that marriage had been arranged with the intention of divorcing him so that she might go back to her original husband, the contract for the second marriage was unlawful.

It is thus seen that Islam has not allowed divorce in order that a man may use the threat of divorce as a sword which he waves in the woman’s face. On the contrary, Islam allows divorce as a bitter medicine to be used by a man to cure a situation or get rid of an association that defies remedy. Islam holds that if a man trespasses on a woman’s rights by divorcing her without cause he is abusing his power and is therefore liable to be held responsible for committing a breach of duty. Islamic courts are allowed to censure the man for misusing the right of divorce.

The law of Islam permits the woman to ask the courts of law to look into her case if her husband maintains an unpleasant association with her, or causes real hardship to her unjustifiably, or if she finds that he suffers from a disease of the body or mind which prevents him from preserving her chastity. The court is authorized to order her to be divorced if she is justified in her contentions and her husband refuses to divorce her.

Just as Islam maintains equality between husband and wife in married life it insists on equality in the termination of the marriage. It does not allow the man in any circumstances to take undue advantage of the woman’s innate weakness to deny her any of her rights or to abuse the rights which she owes to him. At the same time, it does not require a woman to go beyond her obligations to keep intact her purity and to preserve her husband’s property and the home.

The family bears a special responsibility for the education of the children in Islam. The training begins with teaching the child to repeat lessons concerning Islamic beliefs and to perform correctly the worship rites. The family is also responsible for seeing that the child receives further training in the school and the mosque where legitimate and illegitimate actions and beliefs are expounded so that when the child attains maturity he will have been guided along the way to a true understanding of Islam.

Monetary affairs. Inheritance in Islam is based on the blood relationship of parents, brothers and sisters, and children, and on the marriage relationship of husband and wife, without regard for sex or age in the right of inheritance. The parents, the children, and the consorts do not in any circumstances lose this right, though the amount of their share may be affected by the number of heirs. However, brothers and sisters are not entitled to inheritance in case the parents are living. If men and women are both heirs, the man receives twice as much as a woman except in the case of maternal half-brothers and half-sisters, who each get an equal share.

Islamic law has ruled that, since the man bears the support of the woman and the expenses of her children as well as the cost of her marriage, his share of the inheritance should be double that of the woman. Her share is allowed to stand her in good stead in case she loses the source of her livelihood. Islam has taken into consideration the fact that to allocate the inheritance among blood relatives and consorts strengthens bonds of affection and promotes among relatives a reciprocal interest in their common good. Jealousy would prevail and the family structure would be exposed to disintegration if favoritism were allowed among heirs of equal standing. Thanks to this system, Islamic society has been guarded against the threat of financial tyranny which may result when the entire inheritance goes to a single person. It is also guarded against the danger which would come from paying the inheritance into the state treasury, for that would deprive members of the family of the results of the efforts made by parents, children, relatives, husbands, and wives, and would be damaging to society.

Islamic law also sets the standards for financial dealings through its regulations governing such things as the terms of sale and lease, things liable to sale and lease and those liable to neither, ways to employ capital, conditions regulating deposits, authentication of debts, and like matters which could become sources of controversy. All these financial dealings must be based on truthfulness, fidelity, and a willingness to discharge obligations.

Government. The necessity for some sort of government in the Muslim community is indicated by many texts in the Qur’an, such as, "Retaliation is prescribed for you in the matter of the murdered" (Surah II, 178). "Lo! Allah commandeth you that ye restore deposits to their owners, and, if ye judge between mankind, that ye judge justly" (Surah IV, 58). The obligations imposed upon the community by the Qur’an can only be discharged by the community deputizing a spokesman from its midst, a man possessing the mental qualifications, will power, and skills which enable him to secure unity of thought and cooperation in carrying out the tasks required for the common welfare. Such a man is known in Islam as the Caliph or Imam.

It is the duty of the Caliph or Imam, the leader in Islam, to consolidate public opinion, execute judgments, administer state machinery, encourage the faithful in the practice of their faith, such as prayers and the religious tax, and look after affairs of public interest with the guidance of a parliamentary democracy, the basis of government in Islam. The Caliph, in Islamic practice, is subject to control by the nation; he has no authority other than that given to him as a representative of the people and that which is required of him as the enforcer of supernatural laws. If he violates the terms of national representation or breaks God’s orders, it is up to the nation to depose him and replace him. The Caliphate or Imamate in Islam is not based on a heavenly sanction which gives the Caliph power from God to rule the nation; he has no divine authority which makes it the duty of the people to obey him at any cost. The Caliph or Imam is only a member of the society whose actions are determined by divine laws and orders. The Caliph and the nation form an inseparable whole linked together by the strong tie of religious faith, worship of God, fair dealing, and interest in the public welfare. The Prophet (may God bless him) says, "The Muslims are equal before God." The first Caliph in Islam said, "Obey me so long as I obey God and the Prophet in dealing with you. Once I cease obeying them you are no longer obliged to obey me."

Thus in Islam we find no distinction in community life between that which is called religious and that which is outside religion. In Islam religion is concerned with faith and worship, and also with the upbringing, education, and guidance of the people, and with all economic and social dealings as to those which are legitimate and illegitimate, sound or corrupt; and religion is concerned with the government of the people and the administration of state machinery, with the operation of all the functions of the community or nation. Religion provides the guiding principles for the individual and for the state. There can be no state which has a separate framework for the government and for religion. Those Islamic regions which separate the state from religion are following a mere private school of thought, contrary to the teachings of Islam.

Islam recognizes equally the rights and responsibilities of the individual and the community. It has built its legislation on the recognition that a man has a personality independent of his compatriots and his community, a personality which forms an element in the social structure. He has rights and obligations as an independent individual and rights and responsibilities as a part of the nation to which he belongs. As an independent person, man is required by Islam to believe in God, worship Him, and to live in a manner which assures him a clear conscience; it is incumbent upon him to work for a living, to control himself and his children, and to realize his interests and maintain his existence without encroaching upon the life and welfare of other people. It is his right to own property and to enjoy the legitimate pleasures of life. As a member of the community it is the divine duty of man to contribute to the general good, to guide and aid his fellow men, to do his full share in furthering the social amenities of the community, and to take part in fighting the common enemy.

In return for the individual’s fulfillment of his obligations, the community is required by Islam to protect the individual’s life and property, and to safeguard the chastity of his womenfolk. Islam has legislated for this purpose, clearly defining the functions of the legitimate ruler who is representative of the community, and outlining the penalties which the ruler must enforce.

Within the Islamic framework the individual and the community have defined for them the rights and obligations which ensure life and happiness through cooperation and equity in assigning privileges and tasks without encroaching upon the rights of the individual or the community. Should the individual deny to the community any of the rights due to it, he deserves God’s denunciation, and it is the duty of the ruler to censure him on behalf of the nation. And if the society, as represented in the ruler, fails to ensure the rights of the individual, then the individual is entitled to insist upon his rights, and the ruler deserves God’s condemnation and anger. When the ruler does not protect the rights of the individual, the community is empowered to depose him and to replace him with a man who is able to live up to the functions of his high office.

Dealings with non-Muslims. Islam does not hold any enmity or hatred toward non-Muslims. It stands for peaceful coexistence and cooperation in daily life with them. For thus the Qur’an says, "Say: O disbelievers! I worship not that which ye worship; Nor worship ye that which I worship. And I shall not worship that which ye worship. Nor will ye worship that which I worship. Unto you your religion, and unto me my religion" (Surah CIX). "Unto this, then, summon (O Muhammad). And be thou upright as thou art commanded, and follow not their lusts, but say: I believe in whatever Scripture Allah hath sent down, and I am commanded to be just among you. Allah is our Lord and your Lord. Unto us our works and unto you your works; no argument between us and you. Allah will bring us together, and unto Him is the journeying" (Surah XLII, 15). When non-Muslims are resident in the same country with Muslims, the most important thing is to ensure freedom of belief and the opportunity for non-Muslims to worship God in their own sanctuaries and hold their religious ceremonies, and to maintain full equality between them and their Muslim compatriots in public rights and obligations.

As we have seen, Muslims are permitted to marry Christian or Jewish women, and such wives enjoy the same rights and duties as Muslim wives with full liberty to cherish their own religion and perform their religious duties.

Even if parents are polytheists and even if they strive to mislead their Muslim son to follow them, he is commanded by the Qur’an to be good to them and to treat them gently, for Allah saith, "And We have enjoined upon man concerning his parents . . . But if they strive with thee to make thee ascribe unto Me as partner that of which thou hast no knowledge, then obey them not. Consort with them in the world kindly, and follow the path of him who repenteth unto Me" (Surah XXXI, 14-15). It is said in history that Abu Talib, the Prophet’s uncle, who was a polytheist until his death, was a good helper and protector of Muhammad.

Islam is strongly averse to resorting to force to expound its cause or to compel people to embrace its faith. Islam’s invitation to non-Muslims to embrace Islam is made by an explanation of its advantages -- its easily understandable faith, its simple obligations in religious ceremonies and dealings, its tolerant ethical principles, freedom of research, deep understanding of the universe, and the fact that it makes no distinction between men except by virtue of piety and good achievements. It points out that in Islam no man has authority over another person’s beliefs, and that only God has authority to introduce beliefs and to require or receive worship.

Islam bases its policy for relations between Muslims and other people of varying beliefs on acquaintanceship, cooperation, and working for the common good. Non-Muslims who live in the community in cooperation and peace are looked upon by Islam as equal to Muslims, each of them holding to his faith and preaching its aims with wisdom and friendly argument without bringing pressure to bear on anyone or encroaching on each other’s rights. Islam requires of non-Muslims only abstention from hostility to Muslims and from sedition or opposition to the Islamic way of life.

In the relations between Muslim and non-Muslim states, Islam stands for "inviting the world to do good." Islam permits treaties and cooperation with non-Muslim powers in time of peace so long as the treaties do not contradict the basic principles of Islam. "Allah forbiddeth you not those who warred not against you on account of religion and drove you not out from your homes, that ye should show them kindness and deal justly with them. Lo! Allah loveth the just dealers. Allah forbiddeth you only those who warred against you on account of religion and have driven you out from your homes and helped to drive you out, that ye make friends of them. Whosoever maketh friends of them -- (All) such are wrong-doers" (Surah LX, 8-9).

Islam does not turn from friendly relations with non-Muslim countries unless it is the victim of an aggressive attack, or obstacles are placed in the path of Islam, or attempts are made to seduce the people. When Islam is exposed to such hardships, its believers are permitted, and indeed it is made incumbent upon them, to repel aggression, to restore peace, and to establish a just situation in which people can think and act freely. Islam forbids Muslims to launch aggressive war motivated by a spirit of cruelty, or a desire to drain the resources of a people, or to cause suffering, or to eject people from their homes. After an approved war breaks out, Islam rejects devastation or extermination as methods of war. It does not permit the killing of members of the civilian population who are not actively engaged in hostilities, such as women, children, the old, and the disabled. The Prophet said, "Do not exterminate the young ones." When he was asked, "Aren’t they the children of the infidel?" he replied. "Are not the best among you children of infidels?"

Islam does not permit participation in war until after the causes are clearly known and the enemy has received a warning. Islam condemns maltreatment of prisoners of war, their persecution, or their murder. It is made clear in the Qur’an that the prisoners must be fed in order to win God’s satisfaction. "And feed with food the needy wretch, the orphan and the prisoner, for love of Him" (Surah LXXVI, 8). The termination of an approved war does not require that the enemy forces embrace Islam. It is considered sufficient if the enemy stops his evil aggression and signs a treaty which preserves the rights of the people, and protects them from tyranny or sedition.

Such are the principles which govern the relations of Muslim and non-Muslim nations and the code of jihad -- the Holy Struggle. The basis for the Islamic code of war was laid in the Qur’an and it was carried out in practice by the Prophet and his foremost successors.

Penalties and rewards. Up to this point we have been discussing the Islamic code -- worship and dealings. The code also states the rewards and penalties which are in store in this world and in the Second World. Islam has specified the death penalty for murder, the cutting off of the hand for theft, and flogging for adultery and slander. The punishment is definitely stated for these three categories of offences only; the penalties for other offences and irregularities are left to the ruler who is representative of the nation and who acts after consultation with the people.

Concerning the rewards and penalties in the next world, Allah has said, "Whoso obeyeth Allah and His messenger, He will make him enter Gardens underneath which rivers flow, where such will dwell for ever. That will be the great success. And whoso disobeyeth Allah and His messenger and transgresseth His limits, He will make him enter Fire, where such will dwell for ever; his will be a shameful doom" (Surah IV, 13-14). The penalty for the aggressor and the corrupt is stated in God’s saying, "The only reward for those who make war upon Allah and His messenger and strive after corruption in the land will be that they will be killed or crucified, or have their hands and feet on alternate sides cut off, or will be expelled out of the land. Such will be their degradation in the world, and in the Hereafter theirs will be an awful doom" (Surah V, 33)

Thus we see that in both worship and dealings man stands before his Lord and receives rewards or punishment in the afterlife according to his merits. In Islam, both worship and dealings are religious ceremonies and the Muslim must answer for all his actions before God in the Second World just as he must answer before a court of law in this world.

If a Muslim commits a breach of divine law through intent and premeditation, it constitutes a dangerous sin for which he alone is responsible. Even an accomplice who seduces him to commit the sin cannot relieve him of responsibility; he must, as an accomplice, bear his own sin. According to the Qur’an it is a law of God of long standing that it is only the sinner who bears responsibility, "That no laden one shall bear another’s load" (Surah LIII, 38). One of the clearly established principles of Islam is that only God forgives sins, and that God has given no authorization to anyone whatsoever to pardon sins, "Who forgiveth sins save Allah only?" (Surah III, 135). Another principle is that all sins are pardoned by God as he pleases except the sin of infidelity This is expressly stated in the Qur’an, "Lo! Allah pardoneth not that partners should be ascribed unto Him. He pardoneth all save that to whom He will" (Surah IV, 116). Infidelity includes doubt in God’s oneness and divinity. Therefore those who denounce the Creator, and those who worship other than God, and those who disagree with God’s legislation as to that which is legitimate or illegitimate are all infidels.

It is also a principle of Islam that if a sinner repents and abstains from committing further sins because of fear of God and a determination to uphold His orders, God has pledged to forgive the sin. "And He it is Who accepteth repentance from his bondmen, and pardoneth the evil deeds, and knoweth what ye do" (Surah XLII, 25). And Islam holds to the principle that man is born free from sins and remains free of sin until he is mature and has heard God’s teachings. If, then, he closes his eyes to God’s teachings and refuses to observe them, only then is he regarded as a sinner, with exclusive responsibility for his sins.

The Moral Framework.

Thus far in this chapter we have dealt with Islamic beliefs, Islamic worship, and Islamic dealings. The moral framework of Islam is a fourth element of equal significance in the life of a Muslim, entailing reward or punishment in the afterlife according to its observances or neglect. The moral principles of Islam strengthen the Muslim’s resolve to adhere strictly to Islamic teachings and rules of conduct for polite society. They consolidate the bonds of understanding and unify sentiment and common feeling among Muslims. Allah urges Muslims to speak the truth, forget and forgive, and display compassion, mercy, valor, and love in all their relations with others.

The moral framework of Islam states the principles of etiquette for polite society for the common people as well as for the most advanced. The Qur’an says concerning the etiquette of walking and modesty in one’s bearing, "Turn not thy cheek in scorn toward folk, nor walk with pertness in the land. Lo! Allah loveth not each braggard boaster. Be modest in thy bearing and subdue thy voice" (Surah XXXI, 18-19). Concerning the etiquette of calling on one’s neighbors, "Lo! those who call thee from behind the private apartments, most of them have no sense" (Surah XLIX, 4). And also, "Enter not houses other than your own without first announcing your presence and invoking peace upon the folk thereof" (Surah XXIV, 27). And in closing the door to sexual irregularities, the Qur’an says, "Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and be modest. That is purer for them. Lo! Allah is Aware of what they do. And tell the believing women to lower their gaze and be modest" (Surah XXIV, 30-31). And concerning unkind conversations, "Lee not a folk deride a folk who may be better than they (are), nor let women (deride) women who may be better than they are; neither defame one another, nor insult one another by nicknames" (Surah XLIX, 11).

By these and similar rules of social etiquette Islam guided the steps of people in backward stages of development, urging them to rise to an appropriate standard and attain the level of the more advanced social classes. At the same time Islam invites men of all levels to live up to the highest point of ethical and spiritual progress. "Keep to forgiveness (O Muhammad), and enjoin kindness, and turn away from the ignorant" (Surah VII, 199). "The good deed and the evil deed are not alike. Repel the evil deed with one which is better" (Surah XLI, 34). "Those who spend (of that which Allah hath given them) in ease and adversity, those who control their wrath and are forgiving toward mankind; Allah loveth the good" (Surah III, 134). "If ye publish your alms-giving, it is well, but if ye hide it and give it to the poor, it will be better for you" (Surah II, 271).

In calling upon the people to guide their lives by these ethical principles, Islam insists, in the main, that they should be moderate in all things, sparing themselves misery and not lowering their status in life. Islam requires courage of Muslims and warns them against cowardice and extravagance. It demands forgiveness and renounces both submissive humbleness and revenge. It upholds hospitality and condemns spendthrift and miserly economy. It preaches perseverance and rejects panic and defeatism. It constantly urges, "Give the kinsman his due, and the needy, and the wayfarer, and squander not (thy wealth) in wantonness" (Surah XVII, 26). It praises moderation in all things, "And those who, when they spend, are neither prodigal nor grudging; and there is ever a firm station between the two" (Surah XXV, 67).

These illustrate, briefly, the ethical principles which guide the actions of the Muslim.

Sources of Islamic Legislation.

The fundamental source of Islamic legislation is the Qur’an, which has been proved beyond all doubt as God’s own book brought down by His Prophet to guide the people to obey its commands and to refrain from actions which it prohibits. The legislation of the Qur’an is of two kinds: that which has a crystal clear and decisive meaning not open to debate, and legislation liable to have two or more meanings.

The secondary sources of Islamic legislation are the Sunnah and the schools of thought, dealing with those areas not decisively covered in the Qur’an, the areas of probable meaning. After the Qur’an, the chief interpretative authority for Islamic legislation is the Sunnah -- Muhammad’s own sayings, deeds, and legislative decisions which have been correctly and authoritatively transmitted. If a problem arises which is not dealt with clearly in the Qur’an or in the Sunnah, the answer is sought in the schools of thought, the theories worked out by "leaders of thought" who have been careful students of the Qur’an and the Sunnah, have thought profoundly about their inner meanings and understand their general principles, and who have special knowledge of virtue and the general welfare.

The order of merit of the three sources of Islamic legislation has been recognized by Muslims from the days of the Prophet. They will continue to be the basis of Islamic legislation to the end of time.

The Qur’an. In the previous discussions of the Qur’an we have seen that it contains many specific passages calling upon the people to follow its teachings and be guided by its legislation. "Lo! We reveal unto thee the Scripture with the truth, that thou mayest judge between mankind by that which Allah showeth thee" (Surah IV, 105). "These are the limits (imposed by) Allah. Transgress them not. For whoso transgresseth Allah’s limits: such are wrongdoers" (Surah II, 229).

The Qur’an legislates concerning worship, enjoining fixed hours for prayer; it prescribes fasting, the giving of alms, and pilgrimage. It lays down the regulations for family life -- marriage and divorce. It gives clear directions concerning financial dealings, contracts and pledges, relations with the people of the scriptures and with infidels, holy war and fighters and non-fighters, the administration of community life, sources of legislation, and the penalties for disobedience.

Thus the Qur’an is established as the foundation of the faith and of the code of legislation. Although the legislation in the Qur’an which may have two or more meanings is the subject of theory and study, the legislation which is explicit and open to only one meaning is binding on all Muslims. Should the Muslim fail to follow such legislation in his practical affairs, he is looked upon as rejecting Islam. Whoever alleges that the Qur’an is the product of a particular people, or a special age, or a limited aspect of human life is a disbeliever in Islam and in God’s Book.

The Sunnah. There are two aspects to the Sunnah: legislation given by the Prophet on matters not specifically detailed in the Qur’an, and traditions based on the actions and utterances of Muhammad as a human being.

The legislation given by the Prophet is illustrated by the rules stating the form of prayer, the pilgrimage rites, and giving in detail the limits of legitimacy in marriage. For instance, marriage is illegitimate between two people who in their infancy fed from the same breasts, and a man may not be married at the same time to a woman and to her aunt. This type of teaching is based on the tradition of Muhammad’s instructions on matters not specified in the Qur’an.

The second aspect of the Sunnah is not associated with legislation. It deals with the traditions based on the actions and teachings of Muhammad concerning the affairs left to man’s discretion, affairs for which God has given no definite command as to their legitimacy or illegitimacy, such as when to stand up and when to sit, the etiquette pertaining to eating and drinking and sleeping, and matters to be dealt with on the basis of experience or expert knowledge like agriculture, industry, medicine, military discipline, and tactics. It is authentically related that the Prophet, in the course of one of his battles, ordered an army contingent to be dispatched to a particular point, but a group of his disciples objected, "Is it a position God commanded you to choose, or have you chosen it as a strategist?" He replied, "No, it is one of my own choosing." His disciples pointed out that it was not an ideal position and gave their reasons for preferring an alternate location. The Prophet was convinced and dropped his plan. At another time he expressed his views as to the proper way to fertilize palm trees, but the trees failed to produce fruit. When he was informed of the result, he said, "You are better acquainted with your own worldly affairs."

Knowledge which depends on human experience and traditions related to the Prophet concerning such matters are not the basis for Islamic legislation. Traditions attributed to the Prophet can only be a source of legislation that must be obeyed if they are based on revelations given to him to guide the people according to God’s laws.

The Sunnah as a source of legislation is always subordinate to the principles and fundamental laws of the Qur’an; its importance lies in the fact that it expounds specific aspects of the general principles of the Qur’an. Sometimes the expounding may be done by the example of an action; in the case of prayer, the Prophet showed how it is performed, the number of kneelings required for each prayer, and the proper time limits for its performance. The expounding may also be done by adding certain ceremonies not expressly described in the Qur’an. Expounding is also done by the Prophet in expressing opinions concerning general rules, such as the opinion that the simpler of two possibilities should be chosen in following a general principle stated in the Qur’an.

Hence we may assert that the legislative Sunnah is an attempt on the part of the Prophet to teach the real meaning of the Qur’an, its inner implications and aims. Thus, the legislation based on the Sunnah really springs from the Qur’an.

God’s policy in relation to the Prophet’s endeavor to interpret the Qur’an was to endorse his endeavor if it was right and proper, and to direct his attention to the correct interpretation and even to censure him if he was in error. Once when the Prophet out of dutiful regard for his faith was willfully denying himself certain good things allowable by God, He said, "O Prophet! Why bannest thou that which Allah hath made lawful for thee, seeking to please thy wives?" (Surah LXVI, 1). This and similar instances in which the Prophet tried to get at the correct answer but failed provide the best proof that the Prophet used his discretion to determine things about which no revelation was forthcoming, and that whenever he made a mistake God directed him along the correct path.

Thus the Prophet used his discretion and received God’s endorsement when he was right, and the result became law, binding on the people. So, also, his disciples copied his example and used their discretion when necessary, and on being informed of the outcome of their efforts the Prophet endorsed them if they were in order and God agreed with his approval. If they were in error, the Prophet directed his disciples’ attention to the correct answer to which God guided him. In this way the results of his disciples’ endeavors in his time were associated with his own efforts to interpret the Qur’an and became legislative Sunnah which it is incumbent on the people to respect. Thus we see that during the Prophet’s lifetime there was no source of legislation other than the Qur’an and the Prophet’s interpretation of it either through revelation or discretion.

The authenticity of the Sunnah is proved by the Qur’an, for it orders that the Prophet should be obeyed and it made obedience to him a form of obedience to God and a recognition of His love, "But nay, by thy Lord, they will not believe (in truth) until they make thee judge of what is in dispute between them and find within themselves no dislike of that which thou decidest, and submit with full submission" (Surah IV, 65).

If the purpose of the legislation of the Sunnah is to expound the legislation of the Qur’an, and if God’s policy with His Prophet was to endorse Muhammad’s interpretation when it was correct and to guide him to what was right when he made a mistake, then the Sunnah legislation is the same as the legislation of the Qur’an, and equally binding on all Muslims.

Schools of thought. In the time of the Prophet there were two sources of Islamic legislation: the fundamental source in the Qur’an, and the interpretative source in the Sunnah. After Muhammed’s death his disciples found themselves in an expanding Islamic world, facing new issues for which they needed the guidance of explicit legislation. They would refer to the Qur’an and if they failed to find a satisfactory answer there they would turn to the Sunnah, which was preserved for them by reliable men who were fully acquainted with the Prophet’s interpretations. If they did not find the answer to their question in either the Qur’an or the Sunnah, they pondered the points at issue -- guided by their knowledge of the aims and guiding principles of Islamic legislation -- and came to conclusions which are consistent with the Qur’an and the Sunnah, and have the authority of legislation. In this way the schools of thought, under carefully controlled conditions, became a third source of Islamic legislation.

The schools of thought, in their interpretations of the probable meanings of passages in the Qur’an and the Sunnah and in their rulings concerning issues not definitely dealt with in those sources, adopted certain general principles found in Quranic legislation as a guide. These are some of the principles on which the schools of thought based their decisions: all things are fundamentally allowable, unless specifically prohibited; toleration and the lifting of restrictions should be the aim of legislation; eradication of mischief is the aim of administration; necessity permits benefiting by things not otherwise allowable; necessity is given due appreciation; preventing mischief has priority over bringing about welfare; commit the lesser of two evils; mischief is not removed by mischief; one should suffer private damage to avert general disaster. Such general principles are the guides for the creation and interpretation of Islamic law.

Under the first two Caliphs. Abu Bakr and Umar, it was the policy when deciding public issues to consult with the leading disciples who were recognized for their accurate thinking, appreciation of the interests of the people, and grasp of the spirit of the legislation of the Qur’an and the Sunnah. When unity of view was achieved among those responsible leaders of the Muslim community, it was put into practice. In this way, the adoption of a law through consultation and a consensus (ijma) of the opinions of the leaders of Islam became a new source of Islamic legislation after the Prophet’s death, covering all matters which were not expressly mentioned or clearly implied in either the Qur’an or the Sunnah.

The authenticity of the legislation of the schools of thought is assured by the Qur’an, for it says that the affairs of the people are matters of counsel and it orders that the people should obey the authority of those who are responsible for the common good and are known for sound interpretation. Such legislation is also authorized by the Sunnah, for the Prophet dispatched his lieutenants to remote regions with authority to use their discretion when guided by the consensus of opinion on all issues not defined in the Qur’an and Sunnah.

During the regimes of the first two Caliphs the differences of opinion were quite limited because of the trouble they took to ascertain the authenticity of the Sunnah and the importance they gave to consultations among the students of the law from among the Prophet’s disciples, most of whom were resident at the Caliph’s headquarters. It is important to note that the regimes of the two Shaikhs Abu Bakr and Umar are the only ones which define the correct use of discretion as a source of legislation. They show that discretion as a source of legislation must reach its conclusions through consultation which arrives at unity of view among Muslims of authority who are qualified to decide issues. Thus unity of view, considered by Islam to be a source of legislation in cases where neither the Qur’an nor the Sunnah is applicable, is the agreement reached by investigation and study by men of thought who understand the spirit of Islamic legislation and are responsible for guiding the interests of the people in the community.

Unity of view as a source of Islamic legislation is not the same as complete agreement among all members of the nation, whether men of thought or mere laymen, scholars or ordinary people. Such general agreement about Islamic principles definitely known to have been enacted is not the subject of thought and discretion and should be held equally by all Muslims. It is simply the general acceptance of the beliefs and code of legislation required of all members of the Islamic community.

For the unity of thought which is considered to be a source of binding legislation, the agreement or disagreement on the part of those not qualified to state views has no weight. Unity of view which can be the source of legislation must be attained through the use of methods of thinking and investigation which have been approved as valid; it must be reached by a limited number of men from among all classes of the nation, whose qualifications for the use of the approved methods are recognized; the views of all the qualified men must be ascertained; and unanimous agreement on a specific ruling must be sought. The unanimous agreement is difficult to attain because of the varying abilities of the men participating and the diversity of interests and regional circumstances influencing each investigator. Therefore it is recognized that unanimity can be achieved only on the basis of the principles that "there is no knowledge of any dissidents," or of "agreement by the preponderant majority." This is all that can be done to attain unity of view which can be a basis for legislation. "Allah tasketh not a soul beyond its scope" (Surah II, 286). However, in seeking unity of thought as a basis for legislation, freedom of thought must be ensured for all those participating and no authority should bring to bear any pressure which would restrict the liberty of thought.

Islamic legislation based upon the consensus of opinion of the leaders qualified to decide is subject to review and alteration. The interests on which the leaders were called to rule vary in different areas, places, and conditions, making it allowable for the successors of the original leaders to review the position in the light of new circumstances and to make a new decision if the changed situation requires it. The new unanimity replaces the former legislation and becomes the new law which ought to be followed.

Individual private discretion. In addition to the discretion employed in communal consultations concerning issues not specifically covered in the Qur’an or the Sunnah, there is the private discretion of the individual man in which decisions are reached by independent thinking. Private discretion (ijtihad) is not binding on anyone except the individual who uses it. Islam recognizes that the right of private discretion belongs to any individual who possesses the capacity for clear thinking and study, whether man or woman, ruler or subject, leading government civil servant or private citizen. Just as they have an equal right to engage in individual discretion, so do they have equal responsibility for making mistakes. Islam knows of no one who is immune from committing errors except the Prophet insofar as revelation was concerned. If the Prophet was liable to make mistakes in trying to find the correct answer -- and indeed he did try and did make mistakes -- then other Muslims, even those of great accomplishment or near relationship to Muhammad, are more liable to commit error.

The exercise of individual discretion was widespread after the time of the first two Caliphs, particularly after the great sedition arising out of the assassination of the third Caliph, Uthman. In its extreme form it transmuted Muslims into contending sects following their own private tendencies in determining schools of thinking and in conveying prophetic sayings.

It should be clearly understood that Islam does not set aside a specific person with the right to interpret the Qur’an or the Sunnah, nor does it make it a duty of the people to adhere to any person’s individual views on questions which are open to private opinion. Every Muslim qualified to investigate questions has the right to do so. Muslims who are not qualified ought to enquire concerning the qualifications of those who speak concerning the obligations of Islamic law. Islam does not bind any Muslim to follow a particular person, for no. duty is owed other than those duties which were assigned by God and the Prophet. Nor did God or the Prophet order anyone to follow a given religious school of thought -- with the result that since the dawn of Islam Muslims have been asking for right answers from any well-known students of religion they meet, without binding themselves to any specific teacher. Therefore Islam does not recognize as legitimate any tendency to imitate a given school of thought. All those who have legitimately used their discretion have warned others against copying their example unless they have been convinced by proof of the validity of their findings. They have said, "If this talk proves untrue, then it is just my own theory, and it is up to you to disregard all that I have said."

Thus it is understood that the men who hold religious positions in Islam, such as the Caliph or Imam, have no monopoly on thinking and understanding, nor are they immune from making errors, nor do they receive revelation or special inspiration. Such leaders can only advise, and guide, and administer justice within the limits of Islamic laws. The Caliph or Imam is elected to his office by the nation, and he represents the nation while in office. So long as he discharges his functions within the framework of God’s orders, the nation aids and obeys him -- and it deposes him if he deviates from the right course.

The position of the Judge (Qadi), or the Mufti, the Shaikh of Islam, and the Mullak is similar to that of the Caliph in matters of understanding and legislation. The Judge’s responsibility is limited to passing judgment on disputes between parties in accordance with the laws of Islam. The Mufti’s function is to explain questions put to him. If he happens to be a man of discretion, the Mufti expresses his own views; otherwise he copies someone else’s opinions. However, his answers to questions are not binding on those who resort to him; they have the right to insist on proof that the answers are correct and his tradition is authentic, and they are entitled to ask the same or other questions of someone else in whose knowledge they have confidence.

Shaikh of Islam and Mullah are titles which gained popularity among Muslims in certain regions and eras, conferred on men who distinguished themselves in religious and legislative knowledge. Neither of them is depended upon for decisions in legislative matters, and they are not immune from committing mistakes. Islam does not recognize one Shaikh or one Mullah who has authority in Islamic knowledge, and certain religious sects which claim such leadership are deviations from Islamic teachings far from being in order.

Within the area in which private discretion is appropriate, whoever believed himself competent to think clearly did his best to understand the correct implications of Islamic teachings, each thinker following his own style of study and inference. Some thinkers confined themselves to a limited number of prophetic sayings, because of the spread of invented sayings which cast doubt on many widely accepted sayings. They preferred to rely upon general rules and the spirit of Islamic legislation. Such thinkers are known in the history of Islamic jurisprudence as rationalists, or men of thought. Others, known as students of the prophetic sayings, convinced themselves of the authenticity of the transmission of many more of the prophetic sayings and preferred to rely upon them for their decisions. Other thinkers based their judgments on the traditions prevailing in Medina because it was the environment where legislation was made at the time of the Prophet and during the first two Caliphates before the outbreak of the sedition.

Out of such varying uses of the right of private discretion there grew up schools of religious thought which in time gained popularity in Islam and were allowed to spread. In modern times there are four of these schools of interpretation, or schools of Islamic law, which are found living amicably together in the Islamic world. The Hanafi ‘school was founded by Imam al-Nu‘man Ibn Thabit, who died in Baghdad in the year 150 (AD. 767), based on the teachings of Abu Hanifah; the Maliki school was founded by Malik Ibn Anas, who died in Medina in 179 (AD. 795 the Shafi‘i school was founded by Muhammad Ibn Idris al-Shafi‘i, a native of Gaza who died m Cairo in 205 (AD. 820); and the Hanbali school was founded by Imam Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, a Persian who died in Baghdad in 241 (AD. 855).

These four schools of thought are still taught in most institutions of learning in Islamic countries. The Hanafi school is found chiefly in India, the countries which were under the Ottoman Turks, and China; the Maliki school is found today in North Africa and Upper Egypt; the Shafi‘is are found in Indonesia, southern Arabia, lower Egypt, and parts of Syria; the Hanbali school is influential in Saudi Arabia.

The fact that Islam has permitted individual as well as communal discretion -- limited only by the original definite legislation of the Qur’an and the Sunnah, which define the roads to justice -- enabled students of the Islamic code to choose freely the laws regulating the affairs of Islamic society. Such toleration has been the basis for the everlasting usefulness of the Islamic code and for its fitness to regulate the affairs of life everywhere and at all times.

Chapter 2: Ideas and Movements in Islamic History, by Shafik Ghorbal

(Shafik Ghorbal teaches at the Institute of Higher Arabic Studies of the Arab League, Cairo, Egypt)

Al-Ghazali, the great mystical philosopher, in his book The Rescuer from Error gives a vivid account of the spiritual crisis he endured until, by the mercy of God, his way was enlightened and he regained the power to guide himself to the truth. When he studied the lives of those who gave themselves to the search for truth, he saw that they might be classified in four groups: the scholastic theologians, who proclaimed themselves the followers of reason and speculation; the Isma‘ilis and other Shi‘as who held that to reach truth one must have an infallible living teacher, and that there always is such a teacher; the philosophers, who relied on logical and rational proofs; and the Sufis, who held that they, the chosen of God, could reach knowledge of Him directly in mystical insight and ecstasy. In his perceptive classification of the searchers for truth al-Ghazali has gone right to the heart of the matter. We will be guided by his classification in this discussion of the ideas and movements in Islamic history.

Both the Muslim and the Christian have sought to bring as much as possible of the worldly affairs of their communities under the rule of the divine law and to make effective what their faiths teach about the origin and destiny of human society. It is generally admitted that the realization of this hope has always been imperfect, or even, in the view of some members of their communities, undesirable. But the fact that the realization of this hope has been as imperfect in Islamic society as in Western Christian society is usually not clearly grasped. The real difference between the two societies has been the tendency in the Islamic world to condemn or ignore the secular factors. One of the consequences of this attitude is the absence of terms for many human activities and relationships, such as church, secular, lay, ecclesiastical, state, political, social. Such key terms either do not exist or are rendered as approximately as possible, although people are aware of the existence of what these words stand for. In the course of this discussion we shall meet this difficulty and shall have to use such terms as "the ruling institution" and "the religious institution."

Professor H. A. R. Gibb has called attention to the fact that Islam spread in a series of rapid bounds. In slightly more than a century, between the years io and 133 (A.D. 632-750), the armies of the Caliphate carried the rule of Islam from Central Asia in the east to Morocco and Spain in the extreme west. Islam remained confined within these boundaries for some two and one-half centuries, and then between 400 and 500 (ca. A.D. 1000- 1100) Muslim domination was extended to West Africa, Asia Minor, Central Asia and Northern India. Two centuries later there was another wave of expansion thrusting out into the Balkan Peninsula, the steppes of Russia and Siberia, the rest of India, and into Indonesia. Thus by the beginning of the ninth century (A.D. 1400), the map of Islam was very much the same as it is today, except for the total disappearance of Islam from the Iberian Peninsula and Sicily, and except for minor advances which have been made since that time, chiefly in Africa.

It is significant to note that the faith and practice of Islam were fully matured in the period between 133 and 400 (A.D. 750-1000). Since that is the case, the regions to which Islam spread subsequent to that period cannot claim to have made an original contribution to the development of Islamic culture. That is why Islam in Indonesia and in Africa south of the Sahara have been dealt with separately here.

The Foundation of Islamic Society

The First and Second Centuries of the Hijrah (A.D. 622-750)

The Prophet Muhammad lived most of his life in the city of Mecca in the Hijaz region of the Arabian peninsula. He was forty years old when he began to preach that Allah is the only God, the Almighty, the Creator of everything, the Lord of the Worlds, the Beneficent, the Merciful, the Sovereign of the Day of Judgment.

Mecca in the days of the Prophet was a city-state, a commercial republic, and also a great religious center built around the Ka‘ba, which at that time attracted many pilgrims who came to worship the idols housed there. The Meccans made detailed arrangements for the safety of the pilgrimage routes to the city, for the sale of supplies to the visitors, and for the order and propriety of the elaborate rituals at the Ka‘ba. Since the care of the pilgrims and the conduct of commercial transactions were the main occupations of the Meccans, the life of the city was dominated by a class of able administrators and negotiators, men who distrusted violence and were suspicious of enthusiasm.

Mecca remained a city-state because Arabia had never been effectively controlled by a central authority. The influence of the geographic environment has always militated against the growth of centralized control in the Arabian peninsula. The chief characteristics of that environment have been the unstable relations between a settled and a nomadic society, the constant interpenetration of those two societies, the extension of those conditions northward into the desert areas between Syria and Iraq, and finally, the international relations of the Arabian fringes of the peninsula with the outside world and the transpeninsular traffic created by those fringe areas.

The distinction between the commercial and agricultural settlements and the nomadic way of life is due mainly to climatic conditions. Nomadic life is tribally organized, with the tribal unit being neither too large nor too small for the conditions of existence in the desert. While a tribe is held together by ties of blood relationship, strangers can be attached to a tribe as "clients" or "allies." Because of the mobility and instability of the nomadic society, the settlements are greatly affected by what happens to their Bedouin neighbors. Usually, the people of the established communities have descended from nomadic tribes which settled down. After they have settled as traders or agriculturists they try to control by force and persuasion the neighboring Bedouin tribes in an effort to maintain some measure of peace and order. While they may succeed for some time, they often are overpowered by a new wave of nomadic unrest and the settled community is engulfed in nomadism. Sometimes the nomadic conquerors settle down and adopt the way of life of the conquered -- and the cycle starts again.

It is important to remember that even when the Bedouins have settled down to a new way of life they preserve many of their old ways and much of their old instability of character. There are many illustrations of their nostalgic attachment to the old ways, such as their tendency to escape into the desert for sports and physical and spiritual refreshment, the practice of sending their children to be reared in Bedouin encampments to protect them from the effects of city life, and the legends of the desert which beguile their evening hours.

It is important to note the role of the interpenetration of the settled and the nomadic life because it is not confined to Arabia or to the days before Islam. It runs through the history of Islamic society. The history of Islamic North Africa, or Egypt, Syria, or Iraq cannot be understood without a clear understanding of the role which this interpenetration has played.

Mecca, the birthplace of Muhammad, is a good illustration of the phenomenon of interpenetration. The clans of Mecca belonged to the tribe of Quraish, which traced its descent to Ishmael, son of Abraham, both of whom are recognized in the Qur’an as prophets of God. The building of the Ka‘ba as a House of the Lord and sanctuary and place of pilgrimage is attributed to Ishmael and Abraham. The clan of the Prophet was descended from Hashim, and a closely related clan was descended from his brother Umayyah. The Umayyads were more wealthy and influential than the Hashimids. It was Abu Talib, the leader of the Hashimids, who cared for Muhammad in his youth; his son, Ali, one of the first converts to Islam, married Muhammad’s daughter, Fatimah, and was one of the stalwart champions of Islam. He and his descendants were destined to occupy a unique place m the history of Islam. Another uncle of Muhammad was Abbas, the ancestor of the Abbasids who were Caliphs of Islam for five centuries.

In order to understand the position of Mecca in the days of the Prophet, it is necessary to consider not only the role of the nomads and their clans but also to know something of the external relations of Arabia. Arabia provided the neighboring areas with such desired products as frankincense and livestock, and Arabian ports were links in international trade, with goods moving back and forth between Mediterranean areas and India by transpeninsular trade routes, many of which went through Mecca. The instability of Arabian nomadic society and the rivalry between Persia and the Byzantine Empire caused those two powers to create satellite states on their borders for the security of their frontiers and as a means of intervening in Arabian politics. The Byzantine Empire sought to counteract Persian influence in eastern Arabia, and to advance Christianity by overcoming Judaism in southern Arabia by encouraging Abyssinia to invade the Yemen. As is well known, the Abyssinians used the Yemen as the basis for an attempted attack on Mecca to destroy the Ka’ba. By divine mercy the expedition was an utter failure. Because the Abyssinians used African elephants in the attack, the year of the expedition is known as the "Year of the Elephant." It is the year of the Prophet’s birth, according to some sources.

It is clear, therefore, that Mecca was not a cultural backwater at the time of the Prophet. Its leaders were men who had traveled far conducting important commercial transactions, who had dealt with Roman and Persian officials as well as with their sophisticated fellow Arabs, and were skilled in managing Bedouin tribesmen. There were Christian and Jewish communities in many parts of Arabia; Medina, which figured prominently in the life of the Prophet, was particularly influenced by the Jews who settled there.

The tradition of Islam refers to the age in which the Prophet was born as the age of ignorance, Jahiliya, but the ignorance here is not to be taken as the antithesis of knowledge. Rather, it is used in the sense of "lawlessness" or "not being aware of something better." Some scholars have thought that the word refers to a relapse into barbarian or nomadic customs some time before the apostleship of Muhammad, but it should be taken to mean the falling away from the pure monotheism of Abraham and Ishmael to the idolatry which, more than anything else, the Prophet denounced with all his power.

This aspect of the situation in Mecca at the time of the Prophet must be clearly understood if one is to see the mission of the Prophet in the right perspective. For while his message was a reaffirmation and renewing of what earlier prophets, named and unnamed, had been instructed to convey to various peoples, in a very special sense it was a restoration of the religion of Abraham. The central theme of his message was above all the creation of a community dedicated to the worship of Allah and to righteousness. It was Muhammad’s ardent hope that his own people, the Quraish, could be transformed into a community which would restore the Ka‘ba to its pristine purity.

But it was not to be, for the Meccans did not respond to his preaching. In fact, they were temperamentally opposed to religious zeal and, being businessmen, tried to make Muhammad see sense by placing the Hashimids under an economic and social boycott! The weak and lowly among the early converts to Islam were subjected to physical torture, but the Meccans did not dare inflict such punishment on those who had strong connections. It is a measure of the strength of kinship solidarity that men stood by their converted relatives even when they disapproved of their change of religion. Muhammad eventually saw that it was hopeless to expect the conversion of the Quraish, and withdrew to Medina.

Muhammad in Medina went on with the building up of the community under a new set of circumstances. His objective, his cherished ideal, was to make Mecca the spiritual center of the community and to extend the community to include all humanity. To achieve this end he merged two constituent elements, the Meccan emigrants (Muhajirun) and the Medinese helpers (Ansar), into the brotherhood of Islam, a new relationship which was destined to transcend every other relationship of family, clan, tribe, or nation. The community was to be made secure by an elaborate system of alliances based on a recognition of mutual interests and even by covenants with non-Muslims. Until the brotherhood of Islam should include all humanity, the "striving" to make the Word of Allah supreme over all should never cease. But "striving" never meant compulsion. In the thought of the Founder, and after him in the thought of the community, the main objective is the security and supremacy of the Islamic community. Any particular good must be subjected to the general good. The treatment of non-Muslims within the community or outside it, the relations of peace and war with the rest of the world -- all must be governed by the supreme good of the community as a whole.

For ten years the Prophet toiled to turn his followers into a society of the Select, the community described in the Qur’an, "You are the best community that hath been raised up for mankind. You enjoin what is right and forbid what is reproachable, and you believe in Allah." The Qur’an embodied the tenets of the faith, the principles of righteous living and social relations. The Prophet, by word and deed, sought to set before his followers the living model, never sparing himself, never finding anything too trivial for his attention. The system of traditions created by his sayings and deeds, the spirit which permeates all that he did, and the outlook on things sacred and profane which was revealed in his life form the Sunnah of the Prophet, the binding force of Islamic society.

Eight years after the Prophet’s withdrawal from Mecca (in A.D. 629) he returned to his native town in triumph. During those eight years he had managed by war and diplomacy to isolate Mecca so that it fell into his power like ripe fruit. He forgave his people for their past bitterness and cleared all the idols from the Ka‘ba; then he returned to Medina, his adopted home. He died in Medina in the tenth year of the Hijrah (A.D. 632), after a short illness. Muhammad was a great-hearted man of supreme vision, the greatness of his vision equaled only by the extent of his delicacy of feeling and genuine humility.

The responsibility for guiding the fortunes of the community in the difficult times following the death of the Prophet fell to two men, Abu Bakr and Umar, who, although different from each other in almost everything, were singularly united in outlook and aim. Abu Bakr "succeeded" the Prophet as guide and leader and was known as "successor (or Caliph) to the Apostle of God." It was abundantly clear that general opinion in the community would accept only Abu Bakr as the first successor to the Prophet. Two years after he became the leader he designated Umar as his successor and the two men carried the evolution of the community a stage further.

Abu Bakr declared war to the bitter end against the assertion of some of the tribes that their covenants with the Prophet were not valid after his death and that therefore they were free to shape their attitude toward the community as they saw fit. He denounced such claims and crushed by force those who made them. In addition, he began the policy of expansion outside Arabia which was carried on so vigorously under Umar, and under the third Caliph, Uthman, that within ten years the Arabs became masters of Syria, Iraq, Upper Mesopotamia, Armenia, Persia, Egypt, and Cyrenaica. These conquests served later as bases for further expansion in the east into Central Asia and the Indus Valley, and in the west to North Africa, Spain, and some of the islands of the Mediterranean.

Abu Bakr and Umar continued the work of the Prophet in founding the Islamic community, looking upon their responsibilities as a trust, a calling to guidance and leadership, with the supreme authority residing in the community. They were undoubtedly chosen by the general agreement of the community. They belonged to two of the less powerful clans of Mecca. There was general reluctance to have as Caliph a man belonging to the Umayyads or the Hashimids, for it was feared that a Caliph enjoying the support of the Umayyads or the prestige of the Hashimids would have too much power. Abu Bakr and Umar showed a combination of just dealing and severity in their relations with the others who had been close associates of the Prophet. Umar, particularly, did not hesitate to break any man who fell short of the required standards of integrity and devotion to duty. The two men had their way because it was obvious that in not sparing others they spared themselves least in serving the community.

Abu Bakr and Umar were faced with many problems of which the most pressing were the question of the position of the community after Mecca had become the spiritual center, the decisions as to the kind of governmental organization to be adopted, and the necessity for striking a balance between conservatism and change in the conduct of practical affairs. They met the first problem by deciding on a policy of expansion which resulted in the creation of an Islamic world reaching from Spain to the Indus. In evaluating their motives it is impossible to ignore the view that the desirability of employing the newly converted tribesmen in military expeditions outside Arabia influenced the decision of the Caliphs. It is also necessary to consider the view that Meccan statesmanship counseled expansion. But the chief motive that led to the dispatch of the expeditions was the fact that the security and prosperity of a community confined to the Hijaz would have been precarious indeed unless their domain was extended to the bordering Arab territories which were under Byzantine and Persian control. It was the surprising ease of the earliest conquests which encouraged Umar and the Meccan generals to extend the operations much further afield.

It is important to note the great care with which the Caliphs and generals prevented the economic ruin of the conquered territories. They refused to partition the agricultural lands among the Arabian tribesmen, for those Bedouins would have ruined the land and impoverished the treasury. Care was taken to isolate the Arabian conquerors in garrison towns and to provide them with regular pensions and their share of the spoils of war. Some of the new garrison towns were founded on direct desert routes communicating with Medina, such as Basra and Kufa in southern Iraq, or Fustat just south of modern Cairo; others were old Syrian cities like Homs.

Although Islam theoretically denounced the loyalties of the pagan society of the age of ignorance, the tribal structure with its internal strength and its method of adopting strangers was too useful to be done away with. Thus the fighting forces were organized on tribal lines and the quarters in the garrison towns were allotted according to tribal divisions. The newly converted provincials were brought into Islam not merely as members of the community, but were affiliated with the tribes as clients, or mawali, who did not find themselves treated as equals by their Arabian brethren of the faith. This problem of the mawali, the provincial converts who were affiliated with the Arab tribal structure, continued to plague Islamic society until the advent of the Abbasid Caliphs, when the tribal structure inherited from the days of Umar broke down.

Those of the provincials who preferred to keep their Christian or Jewish or Zoroastrian faith were included in the social organization as zimmi, or protected persons, subject to special taxes and various restrictions. They were second-class citizens -- a category which is regarded by historians as having been injurious to the first-class citizens as well. Although the problem of the provincial converts, the mawali, was solved by the disappearance of the tribal structure, the problem of the protected persons, the zimmi, has been solved in the Muslim states of modern times simply by deviating from the practice of old Islamic society.

In spite of the expansion of the Islamic domain, the two Caliphs tried to get along with a very simple form of government. They would ask this or that Companion to do whatever was needed. Very early they found it necessary to establish a central treasury and a recorder of the pensions granted, and other offices were created as required. As the new issues arose the two Caliphs faced every new situation with a tremendous searching of heart. They sought to avoid being innovators as they would a mortal sin, but once they were satisfied that a new step must be taken, they would not shirk their responsibility.

Abu Bakr and Umar had worked closely together for two years when Abu Bakr died, leaving Umar the responsibility of carrying on as second Caliph. Umar himself was stabbed to death by a Persian slave who thought that the Caliph did not give him a fair deal against his exacting taskmaster and who seems to have felt deeply the defeat and enslavement of Persia. Before he died, in 23 (A.D. 644), Umar appointed a panel of six senior Companions of the Prophet to select the next Caliph from among themselves.

The Companions chose Uthman for the third Caliph because he belonged to the powerful Umayyad clan but was a mild old man. The combination of mildness and membership in a powerful clan caused his undoing, however, since there was jealousy of the power of the Umayyads and he was too gentle to protect that power. His reign witnessed the Sedition (Fitna) when the firm leadership established by Umar failed to function. The charges brought against Uthman, such as nepotism, were not so heinous as to justify the march of malcontents from the garrison towns against him at Medina or their penetration of his house and their brutal murder of the aged man in his room. It is an indication of the spirit of the early Caliphate that the head of the Islamic community which ruled a domain extending from the Indus almost to the Atlantic had no bodyguard to protect his person.

Uthman met his end gently and resignedly. He was perplexed, for he could not understand why his people should not be friendly and happy. He had good reason to count on the gratitude of the community because he was an early convert to Islam who had contributed of his fortune to the needs of the community, he had married successively two of the daughters of the Prophet, under his rule the domain of Islam had been further extended, and he had established the authorized, written version of the Qur’an. But he was murdered, and in his grave was buried the ideal of a leadership that tried to rule without the sanctions of force.

The Sedition was possible only because the kind of leadership established by Umar was based on a climate of opinion, a standard of morality, and a degree of discipline which were rapidly vanishing. Uthman did not receive from his fellow Companions the same collaboration and obedience that Umar knew how to get, for they were torn by private animosities and jealousies and did not rally to his support. He was faced with the undisciplined men from the provinces, some of whom were Bedouin tribesmen who turned the faith of Islam into a weapon of Bedouin instability, while others were men who were moved by anti-Umayyad prejudice. Even his kinsman Mu‘awiya, the Umayyad governor of Syria, did not bring his forces to Medina to defend him.

For a time it looked as if opinion would support Ali, another of the senior Companions, an early convert, a cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet, the father of the Prophet’s only grandchildren, and a respected warrior-ascetic. But, alas, the forces let loose by the Sedition could not be brought under control. Ali now paid in full for his attitude of reserve during the attack on his predecessor, when he did not come out openly as a defender of law and order. Some of the people held him responsible for the murder of Uthman and demanded that he should prove his noncomplicity by punishing the perpetrators of the outrage. He could not do so, not because he was an accomplice, but simply because the responsibility for what happened was so diffuse. Others were sincerely aggrieved by the resort to the horrors of civil war and pressed for arbitration between Ali and Mu‘awiya, the Umayyad governor of Syria. When Ali agreed, a section of his followers seceded in protest against what they took to be his admission of the invalidity of his title to the Caliphate. Thus began the party of Kharijism.

In essence, Kharijism represents the literal adherence to ideas with utter disregard for reality. The Kharijites’ doctrine, which led the community to treat them as outlaws, was that people who disagreed with them concerning the consequence of committing a mortal sin should no longer be accepted as Muslims and should be killed on sight. Some Kharijites went even further and held that the children of such renegade Muslims were to be killed with their parents. The Kharijites held that the Caliph was to be elected by the whole Muslim community and could be deposed by the will of the people. He need not belong to any special family or tribe; he might even be a slave, so long as he was a good Muslim ruler. Some of them even denied the need for a Caliph at all, and held that the Muslim community could rule itself. Kharijism thus represents the reaction of the slender stock of ideas and experience of the tribesmen of Arabia to the impact of Islam. But so great was the force of Kharijism that it led to two important reactions. It led the community, out of fear of anarchy, to acquiesce in the doctrine that the actual possession of power suffices to make it legitimate. It also led to the doctrine of irja, that is, to the postponement of judgment on the actions of believers, a doctrine of acquiescence and convenient latitudinarianism.

The Caliph Ali tried to crush the Kharijites by force and actually slaughtered thousands of them in battle, but at too great cost, for in the year 40 (A.D. 66o) he was assassinated by a Kharijite.

It should be noted that it was only after the death of Ali that the development of Shi‘ism began. We say "after his death" purposely, for Shi‘ism is not merely the desire to proclaim Ali as Caliph and to claim that only the descendants of the family of the Prophet should be Caliph. Shi‘ism grew up after the death of Ali because it involved a view of Ali’s claim to the Caliphate which the early community did not hold and it involved the endorsement of the person of Ali with a timeless significance which was not held by his generation. Shi‘ism also inculcated a conception of the function of the Caliphate which was developed later; it is based on a reconstruction of historical events and personal tragedies, and thus has to be later than these events. It should also be noted that there have been descendants of Ali on Muslim thrones, as in Iraq and Morocco today, who were not followers of Shi‘a doctrines. The story of the rise of Shi‘a and its role in Islamic history is told more fully in another chapter of this book.

After the death of Ali, Mu‘awiya stepped into the void. He was already in possession of considerable power as the governor of Syria and the community accepted him as Caliph, even if some hated the necessity of doing so. Mu‘awiya -- skillful, liberal, moderate, and sagacious -- represented the Meccan aristocracy at its best. He healed for a time the ills of Islamic society, but he healed them by political methods which took man at his worst, and he did not hesitate to suppress by force or to win support by an appeal to cupidity. He saw that there was no alternative to the establishment of the dynastic principle if civil war was to be avoided in the selection of successors to the Caliphate, Beginning with Mu‘awiya, the Umayyads ruled from Damascus for nearly one hundred years, until 133 (A.D. 750).

The Umayyads have been represented as a reproduction on a larger scale of the old Arabian dynasties of Petra and Palmyra which in pre-Islamic days combined Arabian traditions with a Hellenistic, Byzantine, or Persian veneer. Superficially it seems so, but there was enough of Arabism and of Islam in the Umayyad state to enable the rulers to adapt to the needs of the Islamic society of their day what they copied from their neighbors and the conquered provincials. The machinery of government was organized with the help of the provincials and, at the opportune moment, was Arabicized. A coinage was introduced, the foundations of intellectual pursuits were laid down, and adaptations of art and architecture were made to serve Arabian taste and Islamic needs. Spain was added to the domain of Islam.

The Maturing of Islamic Society

The Second to the Fifth Centuries of the Hijrah (A.D. 750- 1055)

The period covered by this section begins with the assumption of the Caliphate by descendants of Abbas, an uncle of the Prophet, and ends with the Seljug Turkish Sultan Tughrul, who assumed effective management of the affairs of the capital of the Abbasid Caliphs. It is a period in which the Congregation founded by the Prophet and expanded by the skillfully conducted warfare of Arabian tribesmen became an Islamic Society with a formulated creed, a system of law derived from the source of its beliefs and ideals, a ruling institution, and a brotherhood which transcends accidents of race and station in life. The maturing of the Islamic Society in these three centuries was not complete, for some issues continued in all their urgency, but much of the pattern for later times was determined in this fascinating period of Islamic history.

The most important development of the early centuries of Islam is beyond doubt the Sunnah. It is not merely a doctrine, it is also a way, an outlook, a temperament; it is the way a Muslim should view law, or dogmatics, or ethics, or ritual. The chief characteristic of the Sunnah is that it must be as universal as possible. It attained its universality from the generations of men who lived in the Hijaz, in the new cities of the Islamic world, and in the old cities of Iraq, Syria, Egypt, and elsewhere; it was developed there by the will of the Congregation and not imposed by force, nor was it associated with any earthly authority. The Sunnah was the most important force which bound together in a spiritual unity the communities in Asia, Africa, and Europe -- communities without a common geographical environment or a common racial inheritance, but with common social forms and institutions.

Another characteristic of the Sunnah is its traditionalism, based on a desire to protect the Prophetic Revelation from modifications by establishing the authority of social tradition, institutional forms, and orthodox theology and law.

A third characteristic of the Sunnah is that it has been orally transmitted by men who have voluntarily devoted themselves to gaining religious knowledge and to teaching it.

Such, in brief, are the chief characteristics of the Sunnah. By the end of the Umayyad rule the Sunnah was substantial enough to stand up to Kharijism and the heresies which arose from pre-Islamic sects, and to provide the ruling powers with principles of law to guide them. Although the upholders of the Sunnah did not have a program of dynastic or political change, they supported the parties which actively worked for an end of the Umayyad rule.

The Umayyads deserved well of the community. After the murder of the Caliph Uthman, the civil war, and the murder of the Caliph Ali, it is difficult to see any alternative to the assumption of the Caliphate by Mu‘awiya and the establishment of the principle of hereditary succession. The dynasty which he established lived up to the tradition of the Meccan aristocracy with some notable feats of constructive statesmanship. But there were fatal weaknesses in their position which led to their downfall. The Umayyads were too deeply involved in the tribal feuds of the first century; they could not offer a better justification for their rule than the fact that the founder had stepped in to fill a void; and they could not find a satisfactory settlement for the strained relations between the Arab and non-Arab Muslims. As a consequence, they were assailed from many quarters and could not defend their position by better means than ruthless suppression and naked force.

The fall of the Umayyads was due to a successful conspiracy led by a Persian aristocrat, Abu Muslim al-Khurasani, whose motives are still a mystery. He organized a fighting force made up of Arab colonists of Khurasan and converted Persian landowners. Ostensibly he worked to establish a Caliph who was a "member of the house of the Prophet," without specifying a particular person, so as to have the support of the Alids, the descendants of Ali. Secretly, his candidate was a descendant of Abbas, an uncle of the Prophet. Abu Muslim’s revolt was successful. The last Umayyad was defeated, pursued, and murdered. Abu Ali-Abbas al-Saffah assumed the title of Caliph, beginning a new dynasty which held the Caliphate for five hundred years.

Before anything else, the new rulers were state-builders. Without meaning to reflect on the sincerity of their beliefs, we must note that religion for the Abbasids was no more than an element in a well-organized, well-administered society. They saw the absolute necessity of the Islamization of society and did all they could to help it. They encouraged religious leaders, lawyers, scholars; they organized heretic hunts; they carried out periodic campaigns against the bordering territories of the Eastern Roman Empire; they helped to destroy the distinction between the Arabs and the non-Arab Muslim converts; they destroyed the tribal structure of the armies. One of the Abbasid Caliphs, al-Ma’mun, tried to give state support to the doctrines of the Mu‘tazilites -- rationalist theologians (to be discussed later) -- but he failed. One of the Persian converts to Islam, the famous man of letters Ibn al-Muqaffa, advised the Caliph al-Mansur, who founded the new capital at Baghdad, to promulgate a code of Islamic law, but the lawyers, theologians and scholars, inspired by the general sense of the community, resisted all such attempts at control of belief by the ruling powers.

In another direction, the policy of the Abbasids went in direct opposition to the spirit of Islam. They built up an elaborate machinery of state despotism modeled on the old Persian monarchy with all its paraphernalia of an elaborate bureaucracy, court etiquette and ceremonial, fulsome flattery, and seclusion of the monarch. With this went an utter disregard of the Muslim’s rights of life, honor, and property.

The despotic ruling power established by the Abbasids had Important consequences for the development of Islam. In the eyes of the devout the "secular affairs" became so tainted that they were condemned out of hand or ignored, and the creative spiritual and intellectual movements became entirely otherworldly and divorced from reality or went into open revolt against the community, aiming at destroying rather than reforming it. It is true that the patronage of the rulers contributed to a considerable flourishing of the arts and sciences, but this does not qualify the judgment that the vital creative forces of the community were divorced from or in open revolt against society.

The core of the Sunnah is the Qur’an as explained and interpreted by the acts and sayings of the Prophet. Two sciences grew up in connection with the Qur’an and the Sunnah: Tafsir, exegesis, or explanation, or commentary; and Hadith, Tradition. The schools of Tafsir have been classified in many ways; one of the most useful is by Goldziher. There is the Tafsir based on materials ascribed to the Prophet and his Companions and handed down from generation to generation, such as the great work done by al-Tabari (224-311; A.D. 838-923); the Tafsir, or commentary, made by men primarily interested in dogmatics, such as al-Zamakhshari (467-538; A.D. 1074-1143); the Tafsir as written by the mystics, illustrated by the wide range of attitudes toward the Qur’an of men like Ibn Arabi on the one hand and al-Ghazali on the other; the Tafsir as written by the sectarians, such as the commentaries

on the Qur’an by the Shi’as of the Imami and Isma‘ili persuasions; and the Tafsir as written by the modernists such as two twentieth-century Shaikhs, Muhammad Abduh and Muhammad Rashid Rida. The choice among these various schools of commentary on the Qur’an and Sunnah depends on one’s attitude with respect to three basic issues: the credence to be attached to historical tradition; the weight to be given to the claim for a hidden meaning in the Qur’an; the amount of subjectivity to be allowed in interpretation.

As for the Hadith, the Tradition, it is remarkable to note the facility with which even men of undoubted piety did not hesitate to attribute to the Prophet sayings made up by themselves to promote sectarian interests. It is difficult to explain the popularity of that practice when it was obvious that it had been so abused as to expose even genuine sayings to suspicion. At any rate, in obedience to the firm resolution of the community to uphold the Hadith as a foundation for faith and practice, the learned men did their best to establish principles of criticism and grades of authenticity to serve as a guide in accepting true traditions. Two collections of "genuine" sayings have become particularly celebrated: those of al-Bukhari (195-257; A.D. 810-70) and Muslim (206?-62; A.D. 821?-75).

The two disciplines of Tafsir and Hadith -- learned commentary and study of traditions -- served the development of theology and law, but before turning to them a few words must be said about the auxiliary disciplines needed by Tafsir and Hadith. These auxiliary disciplines were chiefly linguistic and historical. Thc language of the Qur’an and the Hadith is Arabic, which was not the mother tongue of the early generations of converts. Grammar, script, and lexicography were developed to preserve Arabic and to make it teachable. It was necessary for the purpose of lexicography to accumulate as much as possible of the legendary and poetic lore of pre-Islamic Arabia, thus bringing this heritage to a certain extent into the cultural patrimony of every lettered Muslim, whether of Arab or non-Arab descent. It is not quite true to say that this Arabian past became the past of all Muslims, that Islam, for example, obliterated for the Muslim Egyptian his Pharaonic past. As a matter of fact, the Egyptian was a Christian before he became a Muslim, and Pharaoh was damned in the Christian writings before he was damned in the Qur’an. The lore in which the cultured Muslim was brought up was presented to him in an Arabic garb, but it was an amalgam of the wisdom literature drawn from divers sources, of historical narratives of prophets and kings, of the wonders of every clime, and of the pre-Islamic Arabian legends. To the unlettered Muslim, the folk literature was a composite of many strands, of which the pre-Islamic Arabian was the least.

More remarkable than the fashioning of linguistic tools was the creation of an Arabic prose style beautifully adapted to serve the needs of the Islamic society whose maturing we have been trying to describe. It was perfected by men of non-Arab as well as of Arab origin and proved its adequacy as a medium of expression in theology and philosophy and for describing the mystic’s experience and aspirations, as well as in the precise statement of the lawyer’s formulae and the observations of scientists.

In the field of law we note the same impulse toward Islamization. Going back to the beginning, we note that the Qur’an contains varied prescriptions concerning religious, ritual, military, political, family, and other practical matters. The Prophet, in his lifetime, interpreted and carried into effect by his acts and sayings the legislation of the Qur’an. After his death, his immediate successors endeavored, in agreement with the most eminent of the Companions of the Prophet, to direct the community in the path which they believed to be the "straight path" by adhering to the letter and the spirit of the Prophet’s practice. At the same time, a body of customary law, derived from the usage of the communities before they became amalgamated with the Islamic Society, was administered by the officials of the Caliphate.

As time went on, however, the religious impulse led certain of the learned men living in the Hijaz, Iraq, Syria, and Egypt to construct an ideal picture of what the law in an Islamic Society should be. Four founders of systems of jurisprudence (fiqh), who created the four systems of law which have persisted to the present day, are Abu Hanifah of Iraq (80-150; A.D. 699-767), Malik of Hijaz (died 179; A.D. 795), al-Shafi’i of Egypt (died 205; AD. 820), and Ibn Hanbal of Iraq (died 241; AD. 855). Space does not permit elucidation of the specific principles on which they worked, but it may suffice for our purpose to note that the law, the shari‘a, as built up by the founders and generations of commentators, embraces all the rules of God’s prescription for the conduct of men -- domestic life, political and social activities, religious and ritual duties. It is restricted, of course, to the external relations of the Muslim to his fellow men and to God, as distinct from matters of conscience.

The place of the shari‘a in the history of Islamic Society is not easy to define. If one considers only the forms in which it was transmitted, the methods used by the legalists, the material of its content, and the restricted field of its application as the whole field of positive law, then its role is quite limited. But looked at as a common ideal to be realized by the Muslim communities everywhere, or as a standard by which state policy and acts are judged, its role has been great. But it is not enough to use it, as it is used in our day, as a rallying cry in battles which, strictly speaking, have nothing much to do with religion, or to put it on a pedestal to be admired, or in a spirit of haphazard eclecticism to pick and choose from the shari‘a only the material which pleases us most. What is required is to relate the shari‘a to the great world-currents of legislation which predominate in our day. It is clear that this is a task of immense difficulty. It is perhaps the greatness of the difficulty which caused the Turkish Republic in our time to exclude the shari‘a altogether from its society!

Before turning to a brief consideration of some of the forms taken by the community to express its spiritual and intellectual yearnings -- those adopted by the Mu‘tazilites, Shi‘ites, and Sufis -- we should stop to remind ourselves of the background against which these developments took place. It is necessary to remember, in the first place, that two distinct worlds were brought together for the first time within the Islamic Society: the ancient and diversified Mediterranean tradition of Rome, Greece, Israel, and the Near East; and the original civilization of Persia with its distinctive pattern of life and thought and its fruitful contacts with the great civilizations of the Far East.

It should be borne in mind, in the second place, that there continued to exist within the Islamic Society churches, monasteries, synagogues, and temples serving Christians, Jews, Zoroastrians, and others; that all these survived, not as ghost communities or depressed classes, but as communities of living men and women who pursued their callings, professed their faith openly, and entered into polemics in defense of it; who continued to develop their religious, philosophical, and scientific legacies; and who were at all times in communication with their Muslim neighbors. One aspect of this Islamic phase of their history, if we may so describe it, was their adoption of Arabic for their daily life and for theological, devotional, historical, and other writings.

A third point to be remembered is that there is no trustworthy evidence to justify the tendency of some scholars to impugn the sincerity of the converts to Islam, or to attribute to some of the mystics or philosophers or founders of sects a deliberate intention to corrupt or destroy Islam. A good example of this is the current representation of Isma‘ilism (Shi‘a) as a conspiracy initiated with devilish cunning by one individual. It is much more probable to imagine generations of Muslims agitated by the same mysteries, moved by the same yearnings, troubled by the same questionings and doubts, and aspiring to the same peace as had generations of their ancestors who lived in the same environment. It is a proof of their sincere adherence to Islam that they sought to find within Islam the solutions of their problems. It should also be pointed out that, in the areas to which Islam spread, the termination of one chapter of existence and the beginning of the new Islamic culture, with all that this change entailed in the forming of new relationships and acceptance of basic ideas, restored the vigor and revived the energies of nations which had been weighed down by age and tradition.

The Hellenic material which was transmitted to Islam was used for the advancement of philosophical and scientific speculations and for many practical applications. But that material was, as Duncan B. Macdonald has ably noted, a tangled system," "a welter of translations and pseudographs." Men like al-Farabi (died 339; A.D. 950) and Ibn Sina (died 429; A.D. 1037), who is known in the West as Avicenna, wholeheartedly devoted themselves to the study of those materials, and generations of men toiled and managed, sometimes by sheer brainpower, to reject nonsense and falsehood. It is a matter of supreme regret that the transmission of the classical legacy was not accompanied by the development of even a rudimentary method of textual and historical criticism. Even so, the Greek patrimony contributed to the development of the mystical outlook and had a great deal to do with the elaboration of the Muslim system of belief.

Against that background of a variety of intellectual, religious, and racial traditions the Islamic community created several distinctive ways of expressing its spiritual and intellectual yearnings. The followers of the orthodox Sunnah became known as Sunnis; a brief introduction to the Sunnah has already been given. To complete this picture of the maturing of Islamic society a few words must be said about three strands woven into the fabric of the community of Muslims: the Mu‘tazilites, with their emphasis on reason; the Sufis, who are the mystics and ecstatics of Islam; and the Shi‘ites, who have placed special emphasis on Ali and his descendants as spiritual guides.

The early attempts at elaborating the Muslim system of belief grew out of the issues raised by Kharijism -- due to the impact of Islam on the Arab Bedouin society -- and the perplexities of the non-Arab communities which were gathered under the banner of Islam. The individuals who, impelled by a genuine piety, attempted to meet the difficulties of the times are known as Mu‘tazilites. Their thought is not a unified body of doctrine but a collection of distinct interpretations. Their central doctrine was an insistence on the unity and justice of God. They taught that the qualities attributed to God are in danger of being hypostatized, of being regarded as distinct persons like those in the Christian Trinity; they taught that the Qur’an was created; and they insisted on man’s free will.

It is their teaching about the Qur’an which is the core of their system, for, if accepted, all kinds of very grave conclusions could be drawn. A Book which has existed from all eternity is a Logos, unalterable. But a book which has been created could have a human and a divine side, and things which it seemed desirable to omit or change in it could be ascribed to the human side. It was in order to modify some of the teachings of the Qur’an that the Abbasid Caliph al-Ma’mun, seeking to impose by force what he conceived to be an "enlightened" religion, issued a decree in 212 (A.D. 827) proclaiming the doctrine of the creation of the Qur’an as the only truth, binding on all Muslims. This was a truly revolutionary decree because by it a Caliph attempted to usurp for himself a function which Islam reserved for the whole community. Al-Ma’mun insisted that those who held that the Qur’an was uncreated sinned against the unity of God, and he established a test of views on the Qur’an which had to be passed by all judges and by all witnesses in court before their testimony would be accepted. Those who refused the test were punished as idolaters and polytheists. This policy was continued under al-Ma’mun’s successor but was given up in 234 (AD. 848). It was never repeated.

The glory of standing against this test through imprisonment and scourging belongs to Ibn Hanbal, the founder of one of the four schools of law. For him, the tradition handed down from the forefathers was the only basis on which the Qur’an could be explained. This Hanbalite position represents a main strand in Sunni Islam. Another strand is represented by the position taken by al-Ash‘ari (died 324; AD. 935), a prominent Mu‘tazilite who used the same dialectical methods as his teachers did but came to the conclusion that their position was wrong, and on the basis of his teaching the Ash‘arite theology of Sunni Islam was formulated.

Mu‘tazilite trends continued in Shi‘a Islam. Shi‘a is based on the belief that to reach truth one must have an infallible teacher in the person of the Imam, the carrier of the divine light-spark transmitted from Adam through Muhammad and his cousin and son-in-law, Ali, and the descendants of Ali. Mu‘tazilism, with its insistence on the use of reason to reach truth, finds a place in Shi‘ism because the occult relation with the Imam allows a great deal of latitude for the exercise of individual reasoning.

The three main divisions of Shi‘ism today are the Zaidis, now living chiefly in Yemen; the Imamis, or Twelvers, now living chiefly in Iran, Iraq, India, Pakistan, Lebanon, Syria; and the Isma‘ilis, or Seveners, now living in India, Arabia, and East Africa. The numbers refer to a difference in belief about the order of succession among Ali’s descendants.

Historically, the Isma‘ilis have played a dazzling and substantial role. Out of Isma‘ilism was born the widespread Qarmatian movement of revolt against Sunni authority which was at one time in control of the Holy City of Mecca (316-17; AD. 928-29). We have suspiciously tendentious reports of the way the Qarmatian community organized itself spiritually and socially. A more solid outcome of Isma‘ilism is the Fatimid Caliphate which began in Tunisia in 298 (AD. 910), extended its sway into Egypt, founded there the city of Cairo and the mosque of Al Azhar in 363 (AD. 973) and continued to rule Egypt and parts of Syria and the Hijaz until 567 (AD 1171). Whatever may have been the social implications of Isma‘ilism -- and scholars claim a good deal -- the doctrines of the Fatimid Caliphate did not appreciably affect the procedures of the Egyptian administrative system, and Egypt emerged from two hundred years of Isma‘ili rule and intensive indoctrination as solidly Sunni as before the coming of the Fatimids. Perhaps this indicates the possibility that we are apt to look at the differences between Sunnism and Shi‘ism from an overly intellectual point of view, emphasizing the differences with a degree of subtlety that may well never have been imagined by their common adherents.

There can be no doubt of the supreme importance of Sufism in molding the attitude toward life of the individual Muslim. Sufism as an organized system with teachers, pupils, and rules of discipline appeared in the latter part of the third century of the Hijrah (after AD. 865). Since that time, the mystics and ecstatics of Sufism have, as we shall see, done much to shape the beliefs and practices of the Islamic world. It may be that the supremacy of Sufism represents the victory of the common man over the earthly mighty and the learned professors and scholars. For under Sufism the common man finally managed to live in a world of ideas and emotions of his own construction, and to have the satisfaction of seeing the powerful and the learned bow before the uncouth ‘‘saintly’’ vagabond and beggar.

To conclude this section on the maturing of the Islamic Society, some account must be given of the rise of autonomous dynasties in the provinces of the Caliphate. The movement is indicative of the maturing process in the sense that it is a passing from the earlier phase in which the Islamic world was made up of Arab settlers and Arab garrison towns set apart from the native peoples of the provinces. In the new phase, the distinction between Arab and provincial fades away, and provinces and regions regain their individuality and autonomy within the consciously recognized Islamic unity.

Spain was the earliest region to be separated from the Caliphate. When the Umayyads fell, one of the princes of that house escaped to Spain and after many adventures established the Amirate of Cordova in 139 (AD. 756). The Amirate was turned into a Caliphate in 316 (AD. 928) which produced some brilliant achievements before it fell in 423 (AD. 1031) and was split into petty principalities. In the meantime a great Berber power, the Almoravids, had arisen in North Africa. The Almoravids added Spain to their North African Empire and later lost it to another Berber dynasty, the Almohads. Both dynasties were the outcome of movements of religious revival in Berber tribes.

In Tunisia the Aghlabids, who became autonomous in 184 (AD. 800), were interested in maritime expansion and conquered Sicily in 216 (AD. 831). Sicily was a center of Islamic civilization under Islamic rule until it was conquered by the Normans, beginning in 452 (AD. 1060).

In Egypt, Ahmad Ibn Tulun founded an autonomous dynasty in 256 (AD. 869). His rule, though brief, was brilliant. The rise and fall of the Fatimids has been noted. Moving eastward from Egypt, we note the Hamdanids, an Arab dynasty whose capital was Aleppo. The Hamdanids gained fame for their warfare against Byzantium and for the brilliant circle which was gathered at Aleppo, including the famous philosopher al-Farabi.

In the eastern provinces of the Caliphate a brilliant dynasty arose in Transoxiana in the third century of the Hijrah (ninth century AD.) under the Samanids, whose rule was adorned by the life and work of Ibn Sina (Avicenna). A century later they were succeeded by the Ghaznavids who are famous for their conquests in India under Sultan Mahmud. His court is remembered as the residence of that great master of many sciences, al-Biruni (died 440; AD. 1048), and Firdawsi, the famous author of the Persian epic The Book of Kings.

The Caliphs themselves came under the control of a Shi‘ite dynasty which ruled Iraq and western Persia from their Baghdad court from 338 to 447 (AD. 949-1055) when they were dislodged by the Seljuq Turks. With the coming to power of the Turks we enter a new phase of the development of Islamic society.

The power of the various dynasties in this period was based on the command of a war band, the support of a tribal or national sense of solidarity, or religious sectarianism. It was a characteristic of the dynasties of Egypt and eastward that they tried to copy as much as possible the Abbasid court and organization in Baghdad. The rulers were generous patrons of the poets, scientists, philosophers, and theologians of their areas, for these men shed lustre on their courts and enhanced their prestige. The fact that the intellectual pursuits of the times were not concentrated in one center made it difficult and at times impossible for political or religious authority to control the intellectual movements.

The Contributions of The Berbers and Turks and the Invasions of the Crusaders and Mongols

The Fifth to the Tenth Century of the Hijrah (Eleventh to Sixteenth Century AD.)

The fifth century of the Hijrah (eleventh century AD.) was of critical importance in the Islamic community which was at that time organized around the three Caliphates -- the Umayyad of Cordova, the Fatimid of Cairo, and the Abbasid of Baghdad -- together with the various provincial dynasties which had grown up. But the decline of the Caliphates, the apparent disruption of the society through revolutionary activities and unrestrained speculation, and in the case of Spain, the advance of Christian power to reconquer the peninsula, led to the resurgence of nomadic power in western Asia and North Africa. This resurgence of nomadism took place among the Arabs, Berbers, and Turks.

The new wave of nomadism which occurred on the borderlands of Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Persia was of the unobtrusive, cumulative kind which continued until well into the fourteenth century (nineteenth century AD.) with such strength that the established authority in those countries could just manage to keep it partially under control. Far more sensational and fateful was the wild, destructive activity of the Bedouin tribesmen of North Africa and the constructively planned action of the Turks in western Asia and the Berbers in Morocco and Spain. Of the activities of the Bedouins in Tunisia it need be noted only that they and their descendants gave active support to their co-religionists in the expanding arena of conflict between Christendom and Islam.

The Berber movement grew from a religious revival which began in the Sahara and crystallized in the establishment of a dynasty of religious warriors, the Almoravids. The dynasty extended its power to Spain, where it defeated the Christians and stopped their advance for a time. As happens regularly in Islamic history, the dynasty lost its vigor and gave way to a new one, this time the Almohads (Unitarians), another revivalist movement. The Almohads also built up a Morocco-Spanish Empire. While they maintained a literalist system of law and dogmatics, they were quite willing to allow individuals liberty for philosophical pursuits so long as they maintained proper outward discretion. Ibn Rushd, the great Arabic philosopher known in the West as Averroes, flourished under the Almohads.

The Turks, like the Berbers, had nomadic origins, but they differed from them in that the nucleus of Turkish power was a folk, or a nation, rather than a tribe or confederation of tribes. The Turks were known as Seljuqs after their leader who settled his people near Bukhara and went over with them to Islam. While the Turks had a religious policy which played an important part in their activities, they did not owe their rise to power to a religious founder as did the two Berber dynasties. The cultural tradition of the Turks, going back to the pre-Islamic Persia of the Sasanids, was far richer than that of their Berber contemporaries. Also, the social and political organization of the Turks was more advanced than that brought to North Africa and Spain by the Berbers.

The Seljuqs stepped into the center of the picture when their Sultan Tughrul entered Baghdad in 447 (AD. 1055) and liberated the Caliph from the tutelage of the Shi‘ites, thus asserting the central point in the Seljuq policy -- the championship of Sunni Islam. In their dedication to the service of Islam, the Seljuqs expanded the domain for the first time in Anatolia. In 464 (AD. 1071) they defeated the Byzantine Emperor. It was this defeat and the expansion of Turkish power into Syria and Palestine, the control of Jerusalem, and the reports of their harsh treatment of the Christian pilgrims that inflamed feeling in Christendom and favored the extension of the holy war from Spain and Sicily to the Holy Land.

Seljuq institutions were essentially military in character, not only because of the kind of life the Turks had lived in their original steppe environment, but also because the Turks adopted a role in the Islamic Society which necessitated such an organization. They made themselves the champions of Sunni Islam; they sought to expand and defend the domain of Islam and to extirpate the forces of material, moral, and intellectual anarchy. This led to two important results. In the first place, the sultanate claimed the right to rule and control the affairs of men. Naturally, it sought a formal sanction from the Caliphate, for what it was worth, but the sultans were confident of the legitimacy of their claim. This is important, for it provided the historical basis and model for the Islamic states of the last century. It is interesting to note that Ibn Khaldun (died 809; AD. 1406), the great Tunisian historian, dealt in the Prolegomena of his universal history with these non-Caliphate sultanates and institutions as existing in their own right.

A second important result of the Seljuq rule was that the sultans paid great attention to the creation and elaboration of social institutions. They created a ruling institution for purposes of war and government which was based on the division of the empire into military fiefs; a chancery for the preparation of state documents and communication throughout the empire; and a religious institution which, in addition to maintaining the legal and cult services, was expected through the control of education to be an instrument of social cohesion.

Under the Seljuqs, colleges, or madrasas, were founded and endowed to carry out a carefully graded program of instruction in the religious sciences and humanities. Subjects were classified as being taught for their intrinsic worth or as tools for the study of the main subjects. In these colleges the professors received regular stipends and students were given board and lodging. No effort was spared to attract outstanding scholars to teach in these colleges. Al-Ghazali was a professor for a while and later, when he wanted to withdraw and lead a life of contemplation, he was almost compelled to go back for a time to his chair. Outside the madrasas there were independent teachers and a free cultivation of studies was allowed, but their influence was limited. The official organization of higher education, although it achieved the immediate end of the restoration of order, unfortunately led to those characteristics of Islamic education which have come down almost to our time -- the addiction to memorization of prescribed texts and study of the same materials in generation after generation. The result was that any hope for a creative intellectual movement had to be looked for outside the regular institutions of learning.

The major trends in the intellectual life of Islam from the sixth century of the Hijrah (twelfth century AD.) to modern times begin with the influence of al-Ghazali (died 505; AD. 1111). He brought Islam back to its fundamental and historical facts as found in the Word of God and the tradition of the Prophet; he aroused new interest in philosophy; and he gave a place in his system to the emotional religious life. But it is rare to find the same balanced and harmonious combination in contemporary and later thinkers. After al-Ghazali what do we find? We find some men -- the Sufis -- putting their faith in the "unveiling" of the mystic, others placing theirs in the transmitted tradition, and the philosophers continuing their old neglect of the objective study of the outside world. It is no wonder that the Sufis were accused of heresy by the traditionalists and the traditionalists were charged by the Sufis with formalism, hypocrisy, and the inability to reason logically.

Sufism had its speculative philosophers, such as Ibn Arabi (died 638; AD. 1240), and its poets, such as Ibn Farid (died 633; AD. 1235), but its greatest influence was not in its speculations or poetry or emotional outpourings. By the sixth century after the Hijrah (twelfth century AD.) Sufism had become an all-embracing social institution which gave ample scope for the exercise of talents and satisfied all levels of individual aspirations. This was the Sufism of the orders such as the darwishes and faqirs. There are many distinctions noted between the various Sufi orders -- as to whether they observed seemliness or extravagance in their exercises, whether they were urban or rural, whether they tried to propagate the faith among non-Muslims or wandered about with no particular mission, whether they set up new dynasties dedicated to holy war or the extirpation of heresy, and the like. Important as these distinctions are, there is a great deal of uniformity in the Sufi attitude toward life, and this attitude has permeated the Muslim’s character and outlook throughout the world of Islam. Most of the superficial labels attached to Islam by Europeans derive from the more obvious Sufi characteristics.

Although no one individual could really be typical of a movement of such wide ramifications and subtle shades as the Sufi brotherhoods, it is possible to recognize in the Egyptian al-Sha‘rani (died 973; AD. 1565) characteristics which can be found in different proportions in all Sufi brothers, except that he is no representative of the extremely discreditable orders -- and these are not representative of Sufis in general. Al-Sha‘rani has gathered in his attitude and writings all the elements which constitute the Sufi legacy. He was superstitious and at the same time a man of high ethical principles, humble in social life and arrogant in intellectual affairs. To al-Sha‘rani the Jinn and Angels were most intense realities with whom he held familiar converse. He believed in a hierarchy of saints who held dominion over the divisions of the world of Islam, saints who had their jealousies, conflicts, and divided loyalties and were kept in check by a balance of power. The reality of this way of looking at the world can be gathered by anyone who studies the historical material of this age, and remnants of it can be found in memories which linger to the present day.

But the mystics were not the only influence in the intellectual development of this period. Ibn Taymiyya (died, Damascus, 729; AD. 1328) fought against what he considered to be the idolatry of saint worship, pilgrimage to holy shrines, vows, offerings, and invocations with all his might, and paid for his courage with imprisonment. Mystics, philosophers, and scholastic theologians all fell under the lash of his denunciations. He bowed to no earthly authority and drew his arguments from the traditions and practices of early Islam. Curiously enough, Ibn Taymiyya, who fought the worship of saints so vehemently has become a saint in spite of himself.

Ibn Taymiyya’s doctrine based on traditionalism was carried on by Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1115-1207; AD. 1703 -92) and serves as the doctrinal basis of the movement known as Wahhabism, which has been influential in the last two centuries.

The ruling authorities, while personally more sympathetic to the Sufis, tried to prevent the antipathies between the Sufis and the Traditionalists (Salafiya) from breaking out into open clashes. In their attempts to prevent extremism they were true to the Seljuq program of stability and discipline.

The Seljuqs were the prototype of later Muslim dynasties. Their immediate successors were the Ayyubids in Syria, Egypt, and western Arabia, a dynasty founded by the famous Saladin (died 589; AD. 1193). The Ayyubid Sultanate was seized by warriors of slave origin, setting up the dynasty of the Mamluks.

The Ottoman dynasty began in Seljuq territory in Asia Minor and conquered Asia Minor, the Balkan Peninsula, Hungary, Arabia, Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and North Africa as far as Morocco to become the chief Islamic power in the modern age.

The story of the dynasties which derive from the Seljuqs is inextricably involved in the resurgence of active hostilities with Christendom. These new hostilities are fundamentally a western European movement, quite distinct from the wars between Islam and the Byzantine Empire. This European drive against the Islamic world had several objectives. It sought to expand the papal power against the "infidels," the Muslims, and against the schismatics, the Greek Orthodox and eastern churches. It also sought the establishment of the commercial domination of the Italian republics and the carving out of principalities for the feudal lords of western Europe (as it has been expressively put, it attempted the solution of the problem of the landless younger sons); and the Crusades also provided scope for all who desired to strike a blow for the faith or do penance by enduring the hardships of a holy war.

Historically, the roots of the crusading movement lie in the fight to restore Spain to Christendom. The movement was given a great impetus by the success of the Normans in destroying Muslim power in Sicily. The appeals of Byzantium for help and the alarm aroused by Seljuq victories in Anatolia provided the occasion for the call made by the papacy for a crusade. The so-called "First Crusade" achieved the entry of the Crusaders into Jerusalem in 493 (AD. 1099) and the foundation of the Latin principalities on the Lebanese coast. It is not part of our purpose to trace the fortunes of these European foundations in the Levant, but we should note that the theatre of operations was by no means restricted to the Levant. It involved Egypt, Tunisia, the islands of the eastern Mediterranean, the Balkan Peninsula, and Constantinople. Islam was not the sole enemy, for the Fourth Crusade was directed against the Byzantine Empire and led to the foundation of a Latin Empire in Constantinople and Italian and other West European principalities in the Balkans.

Although Saladin regained Jerusalem for Islam in 583 (AD. 1187) and a century later the Crusaders were expelled from their last stronghold in the Levant, the memories of the Crusades continued to cloud the relations between Islam and Christendom. Christians and Muslims may have learned some things from each other during that time, but fundamentally they continued for centuries to look upon each other as mortal enemies.

The Crusades also helped to stiffen the principle of holy war as the main justification for the existence of dynasties and states with large military forces. The advent of Saladin, his destruction of the Fatimids in Egypt, and his building up of an Egyptian-Syrian state were aimed solely at the deliverance of Islam. The Mamluk, or Slave, Sultans could claim no other justification for their power than the necessity to protect Islam. In this we have the main reason for the depression of the nonmilitary classes of Islamic society. Since much of the military was recruited from certain races outside the domain of Islam and the main body of the Muslim people made up the nonmilitary class -- especially in the Arab countries -- we can easily see how the Islamic society came to be made up of a minority of war-lords and a majority of mere subjects. There can also be no doubt that the course of the holy war against the European forces speeded up the process of separating the Islamic Society into an Arabic western portion and Persian and Turkish eastern portions. The eruption of the Mongols into the domain of Islam completed that process.

The first big wave of Mongol advance into western Asia was that led by Genghis Khan early in the seventh century (thirteenth century AD.), but the wave which left the deepest mark was that of Hulagu whose forces captured Baghdad and executed the last Abbasid Caliph in 656 (AD. 1258). The Mongols were stopped by the Mamluk Sultans of Egypt before they could establish themselves in Syria, but some of those Sultans were certainly influenced by Mongol ideas and practices. The Mongol Timur (Tamerlane, died 808; AD. 1405) tried again after his conversion to Islam to conquer Anatolia and Syria, but, although he had military successes against the Ottoman and Mamluk Sultans, he turned back eastward to India and even planned to go on to China. It was left to his descendant Babar to have the honor of founding in the next century the celebrated Mughal dynasty of India.

Although the Mongols did cause a good deal of destruction, it was not as extensive or irreparable as is usually represented. Iraq suffered most, not only because of the destruction by Hulagu, but also because no dynasty arose to establish a settled order again. The country became a prey to nomadic Arab, Kurdish, and Turkoman groups, and to the rivalries of the Ottoman and Persian Empires.

The Mongol eruption and its aftermath created a new phase of Asiatic and world history, extending beyond the area of Islamic Society. Out of those disturbed times grew up the Ottoman Turkish Sultanate, beginning in northwestern Anatolia as a Seljuq dependency and expanding into the Balkans, capturing Constantinople in 857 (AD. 1453), extinguishing the Byzantine Empire, and finally conquering Egypt and Syria in 922-23 (AD. 1516-17). At about the same time Persia emerged as a Shi‘a state under the Safavid dynasty and the Great Mughals established their rule in India. With these three dynasties Islamic society entered a new phase of its history.

The Islamic Society in the Modern Age

The Tenth to the Fourteenth Century of the Hijrah (Sixteenth to Twentieth Century AD.)

By the tenth century of the Hijrah (sixteenth century AD.) there were three major Muslim powers: the Ottoman Empire, the Persian Monarchy, and the Mughal Empire of India. The Ottoman Empire extended into central Europe, from Iraq to the frontiers of Morocco, and southward to the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea and Aden. With the exception of Morocco and most of the Arabian Peninsula, it included among its subjects all of the Arabs. The great cities of Arab culture -- Baghdad, Damascus, Aleppo, and Cairo -- were under its rule, and the great sanctuaries of Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem were under the special care of its sultans. They were conscious of their great Islamic prestige during all these centuries and developed gradually an Islamic policy which came to an end only with the dissolution of the empire at the end of the first World War.

One element of the policy of the Ottoman Sultans was their championship of Sunnism, which brought them into conflict with the monarchs of Persia who had adopted the creed of Imami Shi‘ism as the religion of their government. Persian history from the tenth century of the Hijrah onward, in spite of transient imperial episodes on the Afghan and Central Asian borders, became more and more the history of a national state, thus anticipating a development which has become the dominant feature of present-day Islam.

The Mughal Empire in India shared many religious and cultural features with the other two powers, but it was destined to lose its sovereignty much earlier than they did, leaving the great body of Indian Muslims in a situation very different from that of their co-religionists in the Ottoman Empire and Persia.

In the tenth century (sixteenth century AD.) the great geographical discoveries, the navigation of the ocean routes, and the building up of the European colonial empires brought a turning-point in modern history. The European powers which had hitherto been encircled by the world of Islam broke through in this century and encircled Islam. As a result of these changes, some of the Islamic areas passed under direct European rule, notably in Southeast Asia and in East and West Africa. But until the last century such Christian rule in Muslim lands did not penetrate very deeply and therefore did not call forth the reactions of later times.

In the territories of the Ottoman, Persian, and Indian Empires, the European powers generally followed the policy of building up enclaves based on extraterritorial rights and of establishing connections with the non-Muslim communities. In some cases they encouraged Christian proselytizing and in others they sought to bring the schismatics into the Roman Catholic fold, but their aim was always to create a "clientele" of the European power. Until the beginning of the last century, these enclaves did not strike a deep root, except in the case of the Mughal Empire where the East India Company was supplanting the Emperors as the paramount power.

Because of the decline of the central authority in the three empires during this early period (to the beginning of the last century), the local tribal leaders, adventurers, and leaders of war bands tried to build up autonomous rule in the provinces and sometimes sought aid from European powers. Conscious of the dangers from Europe and from their own ambitious subordinates, the central authorities began to take measures to reaffirm their authority and increase their power, but their political activities did not greatly concern the common people. The movements of revival and reconstruction which were born out of the experience of the common people were more significant than the actions of their rulers.

There was renewed activity of the Sufi orders in the twelfth century (eighteenth century A.D.), but the most notable movement was that of Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab. We have already seen how al-Wahhab adopted the ideas and spirit of Ibn Taymiyya -- the return to the Qur’an and the traditions of early Islam, and the revolt against the strict application of the shari‘a. Ibn Abd al-Wahhab converted to his views certain Arab leaders, the Saudi barons of Dar‘uya, who dedicated themselves to the realization of his doctrines, Toward the end of the twelfth and for the first two decades of the thirteenth century (eighteenth and nineteenth centuries AD.), they were in control of the Holy City of Mecca and Medina and of the territories extending to the Persian Gulf and the southern borders of Iraq and Syria.

The activities of these early Wahhabis, however, shocked the sense of the community and exposed them to punitive action on the part of the Ottoman Empire and the viceroy of Egypt, Muhammad Ali. By 1236 (AD. 1820) the power of the Wahhabis had been destroyed, but not their doctrines. Wahhabism influenced Islam in the Arab countries and India in the last century in fruitful ways.

Since the beginning of the last century, the Islamic Society has found itself in a critical stage of its development. The period of a hundred and fifty years which began with the French invasion of Egypt in 1213 (AD. 1798) witnessed the merging of our Islamic Society into the world society of the present era. We, the members of the Islamic Society, have not been fully aware of all the implications of the events of this period. To become aware of these implications is, in my view, the greatest single problem of the Islamic Society of our day.

This merging into a world society was a process which occupied only a relatively short span of time, a mere century and a half. During this time, until the conclusion of the second World War, practically all of the Islamic people were under some degree of effective control by a European power. Also during this time the life of all the Islamic people has been influenced materially and morally by contacts with Western civilization. The influence has been so great that even when the Islamic people have regained their political independence they have found that a return to the traditional way of life was not possible -- even if it were desirable. It needs to be emphasized that such a return is not deemed desirable even when lip-service is paid to the glorious traditions of the past.

If we look around in modern times for representatives of al-Ghazali’s four categories of the searchers for truth, we cannot say that they can be found anywhere in the Muslim world. There are, of course, scholars who deal with theology, philosophy, and mysticism, but they deal with them only as historical expositions. Modern authors write to prove that Islam is this or Islam is that, that it does not hinder progress, or is socialism, but the search for truth in al-Ghazali’s sense is not found. In the field of action, the religion of Islam has been used to promote causes such as nationalism, or fascism; religious associations do not exist to promote spiritual fellowship -- they seek to realize the aims we associate with political clubs or parties.

These developments can be understood in the light of the circumstances in which the Islamic Society has lived for the past century and a half. But it must be realized that although the long history of Islam has bequeathed to modern times a rich legacy, no society can meet the needs of our times by drawing on its inner resources alone. The Islamic Society -- as well as all other societies -- must recognize the inadequacy of its own resources and its duties to humanity at large. The possession of a world religion is not only a privilege, it is also a responsibility.

Islam in the Sudan and East Africa. Although Islam in the Sudan and East Africa lay somewhat outside the main stream of events, it has grown to include many millions of Muslims. Most of the area of Africa below the countries of North Africa is controlled by European colonial powers, but for our purposes it is more convenient to refer to the traditional divisions of the Sudan -- Eastern, Central, and Western. Western Sudan contains the basin of the Senegal, the Gambia, and the Middle Niger; Central Sudan includes the basin of Lake Chad; Eastern Sudan lies in the Nile basin and covers what is now the newly-constituted independent Sudanese Republic.

Islam reached Western Sudan through the Berbers of the Sahara. The vast movement of religious revival which took place in the fifth century of the Hijrah (eleventh century A.D.) and led to the establishment of the Almoravid dynasty in Morocco and Spain gave a strong impetus to the spread of Islam among the subjects of the great pagan African Ghana Empire, whose sway extended at one time over the gold mines of the Upper Senegal and over the majority of the Berber tribes of the Sahara. In the seventh century (thirteenth century AD.) Timbuktu was the center of Islamic culture. Five centuries later Muslim expansion received a new impetus with the founding of Sokoto State and the subjugation of the major portion of Western Sudan with the help of the Moroccan Sufi brotherhood, the Tijani order.

In Central Sudan, along Lake Chad, Islam was introduced as early as the fifth century (eleventh century AD.) but did not gain a firm foothold until some five centuries later.

Eastern Sudan, bordering on southern Egypt, retained its independence and Christianity long after Egypt became a province of the Islamic Empire in the first century after the Hijrah. While there were no intimate relations between Eastern Sudan and the Muslim world of Egypt, North Africa, and Arabia, there was enough communication to prevent complete isolation. There was active intervention in the affairs of the Sudan by the Mamluk Sultans of Egypt in the seventh century (thirteenth century AD.), but the conversion of the Sudanese Christians and pagans to Islam was the direct result of the settlement in the Sudan of Arab tribesmen who had left their homes in Egypt. It is surmised that they were seeking a more congenial place to live after the government of Egypt passed into the hands of Turkish rulers.

The ruling house in Eastern Sudan from the tenth through the twelfth century (sixteenth-eighteenth century AD.), called the Funj, claimed descent from the famous Umayyads, but they are believed to have been of African stock and relatively recent converts to Islam. Their power rested on slave armies recruited from African tribes. When the Sudan was united with Egypt in the last century, the process of Europeanization and innovation that was going on in Egypt was extended to the Sudan area. There was a brief period of revolt in the last century; then the Sudan came under British colonial power until recently. Islamic society in Eastern Sudan was characterized by the survival of pre-Islamic African ideas and practices, by the permeation of their religious life by the ritual of the Sufi brotherhoods, by a zeal to acquire religious learning and by efforts to secure the settlement there of holy and learned men.

The East African coastal areas, extending from Cape Guardafui in the north to Delagoa Bay in the south, have from pre-Islamic times been for Arabian, Persian, and Indian seafarers a field for cooperative action which resulted in the creation of prosperous communities and the blending of their diverse cultural traditions. Those early seafarers explored the west Indian Ocean and colonized the East African coast. They usually built their towns on islands adjoining the mainland for purposes of defense against the tribes of the hinterland, settled down and married African women, and traded in gold, slaves, ivory, and other African products.

The intimate relations with Arabia, Persia, and India resulted in the propagation of Islam in East Africa. The area became a land of refuge and settlement for certain sects which in other lands could not resist absorption in the conformist mass around them. Thus we find in East Africa today Isma‘ili, Imamite Shi‘a, and Ibadi groups enjoying mutual toleration and leading prosperous lives. There is also a tendency toward blending the cultural elements of their diverse origins in one whole, as is evidenced in the building up of the Swahili language and culture out of Arabic and African elements. Swahili is now one of the cultural languages of the Muslim world and bids fair to become the common language of East Africa.

The early prosperity of the East African settlements was soon ended by the coming of the Portuguese. Following the new route to India around the Cape of Good Hope, the Portuguese pioneers set about subjugating the Islamic settlements in East Africa, seeking to acquire strategic bases, further their commercial interests, and carry out their commitment to an anti-Islam crusade. Portuguese domination was replaced by British, and the partition of Africa in the last century brought into the area French, German, and Italian colonial powers as well. In modern times, the position of Islam in East Africa is similar to that in Western Sudan. Here, too, the people are subject to European domination, and divided into many areas of varying size, with differing cultural traditions.

Islam in Malaya and Indonesia. Long before the preaching of Islam, Arab seafarers had made settlements along the trade routes between the Arabian Peninsula and China. These trade activities were given an added impetus when the Arabians were converted to Islam -- and when they were joined in the propagation of the faith by Indian converts. We hear of Arabian merchants and mariners who were sufficiently strong to sack Canton in South China as early as 141 (AD. 758). We hear also of Muslims from India settling in several ports on the routes to China, winning the favor of the local chieftains by suitable gifts and the confidence of the common people by the distribution of amulets. Thus they acquired a reputation for affluence and magical knowledge and, on the strength of their claim to "noble birth," obtained the daughters of the local chieftains in marriage.

It is due to the Islamization and rise to power of Malacca on the Malayan Peninsula that Islam was firmly established in both Malaya and Indonesia. Malacca, which began as a center for piracy, managed to force all vessels passing through the straits to put into its harbor for passes and became the center for the spice trade of the East. The rulers of Malacca became Muslim in the ninth century (fifteenth century AD.) and encouraged the intimate relations with the Javanese which led to their conversion to Islam. The army and the trade were in the hands of the large Javanese colony in Malacca. The Muslims of Malacca also propagated Islam in the Malay Peninsula and along the coasts of the island of Sumatra.

The Portuguese conquered Malacca in 917 (AD. 1511), but Islam continued to spread throughout Malaya and the islands of Indonesia. Portuguese domination gave way to the British and Dutch colonial empires, and thus Malayan and Indonesian Muslims were subjected to European control earlier than in other parts of the Islamic world. However, in evaluating the effect of the colonial control a distinction should be made between the early centuries and the gradual transformation during the last century into an intensive system of planned penetration. In the earlier phase the European colonial powers were not in a position to establish complete control over immense regions so remote from their shores. They sought to monopolize commerce, to exercise control indirectly through native rulers, and to secure their position by naval power and fortresses. The Portuguese were pledged to a crusade against both Islam and Theravada Buddhism, but their missionaries had little success. The Dutch and British made no attempt before the last century to interfere with established religion. France, on the other hand, launched at one time a grandiose scheme of missionary enterprise. But it did not accomplish much.

The last century brought a new era in the relations of Europeans with the people of Malaya and Indonesia, characterized by a policy of capital investment and economic development, and by introduction of elementary education and social Services on Western lines. Provinces became dependent upon external markets, agricultural indebtedness increased; and there were large-scale migrations of Chinese and Indians to Malaya and Indonesia. The effects of these changes upon Islamic Society were great. One positive reaction was a tendency of the Muslims of Southeast Asia to turn to the mother society for revivification. The chief method adopted was to send out students for intensive study in the Holy Cities of the Hijaz and in Al Azhar University in Cairo. On their return home, these men were active in the Islamic educational program in its broadest sense. This attachment to the older Islamic centers accounts for the marked enthusiasm of the Indonesians for the pilgrimage to Mecca.

THE MUSLIM WORLD TODAY

In this chapter we have traced the spread of Islam from Mecca and Medina west to the Atlantic Ocean and east to the Pacific. Only on the fringes of Europe has Islam been expelled from areas where the people had accepted the teachings of the Prophet. Although there has been no exact census of the Muslim population of the world, conservative estimates indicate that today there are more than four hundred million Muslims. The following table shows the distribution of the Muslim population by countries.

Far East 42,005,000

China & Korea 42,000,000

Japan 5,000



Southeast Asia
79,180,000

Indonesia 74,200,000

Philippines 250,000

Malaya 3,300,000

Thailand 640,000



Pakistan-India
107,450,000

Pakistan 66,000,000

India 40,200,000

Burma 750,000

Ceylon 500,000



Turkish areas
64,250,000

Sinkiang 3,000,000

Afghanistan 12,000,000

Turkey 23,600,000

Soviet Union 22,000,000

Albania 700,000

Yugoslavia 1,900,000

Bulgaria 800,000

Greece 200,000

Romania 50,000



Iran
20,700,000



Arabic areas
64,200,000

Iraq 5,000,000

Arabian Peninsula 12,500,000

Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Israel

5,000,000

Egypt 20,000,000

Libya 1,100,000

Tunisia 3,200,000

Algeria 8,000,000

Morocco 9,400,000



Africa
35,000,000

Somaliland 1,800,000

Ethiopia 3,200,000

Tanganyika 1,500,000

Sudan 7,000,000

French Equatorial Africa1,500,000

French West Africa 6,300,000

Other African countries 13,700,000



Western countries
800,000



Total 413,585,000

These figures are only estimates based on the available census figures and informed guesses as to the percentage of Muslims in the population. Chief reliance has been placed on census figures of the United Nations and the figures given in Atlas of Islamic History, compiled by Harry W. Hazard; Unity and Variety of Muslim Civilization, edited by Gustave E. von Grunebaum; and Annuaire du Monde Musulman, 1954, edited by Louis Massignon.

There is little agreement as to the number of Muslims in China. The official figure given by the present government is 10,000,000 but that seems to include only the recognized racial minorities of Huis, Uighurs, Kazakhs, Khalkhas, Tadziks, Tartars, Uzbeks, Tunghsiangs, Salas, and Paoans, and takes no account of the Chinese who call themselves Muslims. The figure of 42,000,000 for China and Korea is based on the estimates as to the size of the Muslim community before the present government came into power, with a conservative allowance for population increase. Chinese Muslims estimate the total as at least 50,000,000.

The Turkish area includes those Muslims whose ties are closer to Turkey than to the Arab or Iranian world. Not all the Muslims in the Soviet Union fall properly in that classification since more than 2,000,000 of them look to Iran as their cultural center. The figure for the Soviet Union is open to question because it has not been possible in recent years to get accurate information concerning the fate of Islam under Communism and it is known that efforts have been made to curtail Islam, partly for ideological reasons and partly to break the ties of the Muslims with the Turkish and Iranian areas.

Because of the recent shifts of population in the Near East, the figures for Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Israel have been grouped together. The estimates for Africa vary widely, with the figure chosen representing a conservative judgment. The figure for the Western countries includes 350,000 Algerian Muslims who have settled in France.

These figures indicate that the Muslim population of the world may be conservatively estimated at around 400,000,000. Approximately half of the Muslims of the world live in eastern Asia, from China and Indonesia to Pakistan. The largest Muslim country is Indonesia, followed closely by Pakistan.

There are five major cultural areas in the Islamic world. The Indonesia-Malaya area can claim more than 75,000,000 Muslims; their chief relations with the Muslims of other areas have been with the Arab world, although recently they have shown a new interest in China. The Pakistan-India area, including Burma and Ceylon, is the largest with more than 105,000,000 Muslims using Urdu as a language fairly widely known; their ties have been more with the Arab and Iranian areas than with others. The Iranian area includes some 3,000,000 Shi‘as in Iraq, 1,100,000 in Afghanistan, and 1,400,000 in Tadzhik, in the Soviet Union. If the Shi‘as in Pakistan, India, Arabia, and Africa are included, the total area of Iranian influence would include more than 30,000,000 Muslims. The Turkish area extends from Sinkiang to the Balkans and includes most of the Muslims in the Soviet Union, some 60,000,000 Muslims. The Arab world, where the Arabic language and culture is dominant, includes more than 60,000,000 Muslims. In addition, the African Muslims, some 35,000,000 of them, tend to look to the Arab world for leadership. The Chinese Muslims have had little contact with their brothers in the rest of the Islamic world, but have had some ties with Arabia, Egypt, and the Turkish area.

It is interesting to note that almost half of the Turkish Muslims, a tenth of the Iranian, and all the Chinese Muslims -- a total of 71,000,000 -- are in Communist-dominated areas.

Chapter 1: The Origin of Islam by Mohammad Abd Allah Draz

(Mohammad Abd Allah Draz is a member of the Grand Ulama, Professor of Interpretation of the Qur’an, Al Ashar University, Cairo, Egypt.)

In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate

Praise belongs to God, the Lord of all Being,

the All-merciful, the All-compassionate,

the Master of the Day of Doom.

Thee only we serve; to Thee alone we pray for succour.

Guide us in the straight path,

the path of those whom Thou hast blessed,

not of those against whom Thou art wrathful,

nor of those who are astray.

(The first Surah of the Qur’an,

Arberry translation)

The straight path of Islam requires submission to the will of God as revealed in the Qur’an, and recognition of Muhammad as the Messenger of God who in his daily life interpreted and exemplified that divine revelation which was given through him. The believer who follows that straight path is a Muslim.

The word Islam literally means "peaceful submission to the will of God -- without resistance." This complete submission presupposes as an acceptable minimum a firm belief in the truth and justice of all that God has revealed in human history. In the Qur’an it is made clear that from most ancient times the word Islam has been used by all divine messengers and their followers as the name for their religion. Islam is thus the generic term applicable to every revealed religion so long as that religion is not altered by men. The Qur’an assures us of the intimate relation of its revelation to the previous revelations: "God has ordained for you that religion which He has already commended to Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus" (Surah XLII, 13).

Thus it is that Noah declared, "I was commanded to be among the Muslims" (Surah X, 73). Abraham and Ishmael, (Isma’il), when they were constructing the Ka‘ba as a place of worship at Mecca, addressed God in these words: "Our Lord! Make us Muslims unto Thee and of our seed a nation of Muslims unto Thee" (Surah II, 128). Jacob gave his sons this counsel: " . . and die only as good Muslims" (Surah II, 132). His sons reassured him with their reply, "We do worship thy Lord, the unique God, the God of thy fathers Abraham, Ishmael, Noah, and Isaac, and we are good Muslims" (Surah II, 133). When Moses was instructing his people, he said, "Trust yourselves to God if you are true Muslims" (Surah X, 85). The disciples of Jesus avowed, "We have believed and you can be witness that we are Muslims" (Surah V, 111).

The Qur’an makes it clear that Islam is the only religion acceptable to God when it says, "Lo! religion with God is Islam" (Surah III, 19). That is, religion is submission to God’s will and guidance. Again the Qur’an says, "And who seeketh as religion other than Islam, it will not be accepted from him" (Surah III, 85). Thus there has been but one true religion on earth, the religion of God, to which believing men have belonged at all times and places. Each of the holy messengers of God who has taken part in revealing the nature of the religion of God has been a stone in the building of that edifice. For the Qur’an this unity of believing humanity is not only a fact, it is above all an essential part of religious belief.

The prophets are required to show mutual recognition and acknowledgment of each other. The believers must accept and respect all revealed books and all messengers of God without distinction between them. To show preference among the revelations of God is to be guilty of a mortal sin which destroys the very basis of our belief. "Those who wish to separate God from his envoys, those who say we believe in some and do not believe in others, those are all the true infidels, and we have prepared for the infidels a terrible torture" (Surah IV, 150- 51). Showing preference among the revelations of God is infidelity because it makes our own desire, our own passion and fanaticism, a criterion and principle of belief; because it resists the will of God which has been authenticated by the divine signs which appear with each one of His messengers.

The fundamental mission of the messengers of God has been to teach true belief about the one God and to establish justice among men. The unity of this belief springs from the one God and creates a union of the prophets and of their followers, who together form a unique spiritual nation, Islam. Thus, after enumerating the prophets from Noah to Jesus, the Qur’an says, "Here is your nation, one and united, and I am your Lord. Worship me, then" (Surah XXI, 92).

The belief in the divine revelation and in the spiritual peace which comes from submission to God is expressed in daily life by obeying His commandments and avoiding that which is forbidden. A humble obedience to the divine commandments is a second essential part of Islam, completing the act of faith -- which is belief in God’s revelation -- by obeying God’s commandments in practical affairs. For example, in our personal life we are commanded in the Qur’an to act with righteousness, to be straightforward in speech, to control our passions, and to purify our souls. In family life, we are commanded to treat women kindly, with full regard for their rights, and to be generous in our dealings with them. In social life, God commands that all cases shall be judged with equity; justice and charity are required; no injustices shall be done to people because of hatred toward them; all life is made sacred by God and may not be ended except through justice. In spiritual life, the Muslims must have always present in their minds the idea of God and must never despair of the forgiveness of the Lord; it is in God that believers must put their trust.

"The Muslim," said Muhammad, "is he who spares others all his bad words and evil deeds." Thus, Islam is external peace and internal peace, peace with God and peace with all creatures, the peace which comes through submission to God. It is noteworthy, however, that historically speaking the meaning of the term Islam has undergone a continuous and gradual evolution in the successive divine revelations. Each new book and each new prophet constitutes a new element to be added to our creed. The most complete revelation has naturally been reserved for the latest revelation which summarizes and confirms all the others. It is thus justified to consider those who accept the last revelation as the Muslims. It is in that spirit that Qur’an calls them not only Muslims, but the Muslims.

God’s latest revelation is given in the Qur’an; therefore, it is necessary to know the Qur’an in order to follow the straight path of Islam. The message of the Qur’an, however, is better understood by those who know the Prophet Muhammad who was the Messenger of God, the interpreter of the Qur’an and its living example.

Muhammad

Muhammad, the son of an illustrious Arab family known for its religious accomplishments and political activities, was born in Mecca on Monday, the ninth of the month Rabi Awwal (April 20, A.D. 571), in the fifty-third year before the beginning of the Muslim Era. His father died before the child was born. When Muhammad lost his mother in his sixth year he was taken into the house of his grandfathers who foresaw for him a splendid future. The grandfather died two years later, leaving him to be cared for and educated by his uncle Abu Talib who had always shown a fatherly interest in him.

The affectionate bond between the young lad and his uncle was so strong that he often traveled with him on caravan journeys. Tradition says that when he was twelve he accompanied his uncle on a commercial journey to Syria, where they met a Syrian monk called Bahira who recognized in the young man the characteristics of a prophet. He advised the uncle to take good care of Muhammad always, and to mistrust especially the Jews who might wish him ill if ever they learned of the prophetic mission he would be called to fulfill.

Muhammad spent his youth in humble circumstances, much of the time working as a shepherd. As he later pointed out, herding sheep was also the occupation of many other prophets, Moses and David in particular.

As a young man he distinguished himself by his refined manners, his extreme shyness, his absolute chastity, and his avoidance of the easy pleasures pursued by other young men of his community. All those who knew him showed complete confidence in him for he fully deserved the name by which he was called, al-Amin, which means the true and reliable one. When he was only twenty years old he was called to sit with the most venerable shaikhs of the Fudul league, an association which cared for the weak and helpless and sought to assure peace between the tribes.

At the age of twenty-five he married the rich and virtuous Khadijah, and in his married life he revealed to his family and the community his excellent human qualities. The trade which he carried on with his wife’s funds kept them in comfortable circumstances, but he used his resources only as a means of spreading happiness. For instance, in order to repay his uncle for having taken care of him in his youth, he took responsibility for the education of Abu Talib’s son, Ali.

Muhammad remained a faithful, loving husband during the quarter-century of his marriage to Khadijah, and after her death he was so fond of recalling the sweet memories of their married life that he caused not a little naive jealousy in his second marriage. He was an excellent father and grandfather, showing an ideal tenderness toward his children and grandchildren. He allowed them to hang on his neck or to mount on his back, even while he was praying; he interrupted his speeches in order to greet them and made them sit with him on his chair. Some Bedouins, seeing him kiss one of his grandchildren, said, "You kiss the children? We never do that." To which the Prophet replied, "What can I do if God has deprived your hearts of all human feeling? God does not grant His mercy to those who are not merciful." (al-Bukhari, Al Adab, Chapter 18).

His most famous action between the time of his marriage and his prophetic calling came when he was thirty-five years old. The sacred shrine in Mecca, the Ka‘ba, was being rebuilt, and when the time came to place the Black Stone (the revered angular stone of the traditional monument), there was a furious competition among the Arab tribes for the honor of lifting it into position. The controversy was about to break out into a fight, with swords drawn, when Muhammad was seen to enter. The crowd started shouting, "al-Amin, al-Amin!" and all submitted to the arbitration of the true and reliable one. With his remarkable presence of mind and the impartiality which he always showed, Muhammad spread his coat on the ground, put the Black Stone on it, and asked the chiefs of the principal tribes to grasp the edges of the coat and together lift the stone to the required height. Then he took the stone and placed it with his own hands, thus resolving the dispute and restoring harmony among the tribes.

By this time Muhammad was physically, intellectually, and morally a mature person, endowed with those characteristics which made him a leader throughout the rest of his life. His figure was taller than average, solidly built, with a large chest and shoulders. He had a noble and always serene countenance, a large mouth with white, slightly separated teeth, black eyes set in a somewhat bloodshot background, a white, rosy skin, and black, wavy hair falling just below his ears. His walk was lively yet dignified. He wore simple clothes which were always clean and well-groomed.

He was very sober and normally restrained; he talked little, but always agreeably and with good humor. His sweet temperament and extreme delicacy would never allow him to force the pace of a conversation with anyone, nor would he ever show a desire to finish a discussion. He never withdrew his hand first from a handshake. While he was inflexible and impartial in applying justice to others, he was indulgent and yielding when his personal rights were involved.

When he later became sole master of the state he was not tempted by earthly wealth but remained as simple and frugal as he had always been, deliberately avoiding all luxury and pomp for his family as well as for himself. After his death his few possessions were not inherited by his relatives but were distributed among the poor.

In his fortieth year he approached the decisive event which wrought a complete change in his life and in the history of mankind.

The first sign of his prophetic vocation, according to his own words, was the discovery that everything which he dreamed happened in his waking hours precisely as he had foreseen it. After a time he felt a strong inclination to seek solitude and withdrew to Mount Hira, or the Mount of Light, north of Mecca. This was a spiritual withdrawal, broken only occasionally by visits to the town for food.

Muhammad received his first revelation on the seventeenth day of Ramadan (February, A.D. 610) in the thirteenth year before the beginning of the Muslim Era. This revelation took the form of a discussion between teacher and pupil, between the Archangel Gabriel and Muhammad.

"Read!" commanded Gabriel. "I am not of those who know how to read," replied Muhammad. "Read!" Gabriel repeated. "What shall I read?" asked the astonished pupil. "Read!" insisted Gabriel. "But how shall I read?" asked the solitary hermit. The Archangel then recited the first five verses of Surah XCVI:

Read: In the name of thy Lord who createth,

Createth man from a clot.

Read: And thy Lord is the most Bounteous,

Who teacheth by the pen,

Teacheth man that which he knew not.

This is the first fragment of the Qur’an. The Angel then disappeared and Muhammad, completely overcome, was starting to leave the grotto when he heard a voice calling to him. He lifted up his head and saw the Angel filling all the horizon in its immensity, and heard the Angel tell him, "O Muhammad: Really, you are the messenger of God, and I am Gabriel." After that, Muhammad saw nothing else.

When he reached home he told Khadijah of these happenings and expressed his fears. His devoted wife reassured him with wise and consoling words, "No," she said, "do not worry. God would surely not do you any harm, nor heap shame upon you, for you have never done harm. You always speak the truth, you help the feeble, you always assist those who suffer for a just cause." To comfort him further she accompanied him on a visit to her cousin, Waraqa Ibn Nawfal, who said to him, "This is good news which should fill you with rejoicing. I declare that you are the prophet announced by Jesus. Oh, that I could live until your countrymen will chase you, Muhammad, from your country." "How is it," cried Muhammad, "that they will chase me from here?" "Of course," replied Waraqa, "never has a man brought his fellow-men what you brought with you without becoming the object of persecution and hostility."

Muhammad often returned to the grotto where he had received his first message to seek another revelation. He placed himself in the same condition, he walked the mountains, he turned his eyes in all directions. Days passed, weeks went by, month followed month, one year was gone, another began, and according to the account of al-Cha’bi even a third year came without another revelation. His only comfort was that each time when he felt himself on the brink of despair he heard, "O Muhammad, you are the messenger of God, and I am Gabriel," but without hearing the message he so ardently expected.

By this time Muhammad was forty-three years old. He continued to wake up almost every night in the hope of hearing this "heavy and grave" promised word. Each year he withdrew to Mount Hira in the month of Ramadan. Finally one day, when he had finished his retreat and was descending to the town, he heard someone calling him. He looked around, to the right, to the left, and behind him, but saw no one. Then he lifted his eyes toward heaven and recognized the Angel whom he had seen at Mount Hira. The suddenness of the apparition, the majestic immensity of the heavenly being, struck him so strongly that he could not remain standing. The sublime visitor then gave him the decree which invested him with his second responsibility: "Oh you, who cover yourself carefully, get up, and spread your announcement" (Surah LXXIV, 1-2).

Thus Muhammad must not only receive his divine knowledge, he must also transmit it to the people. To his role of Prophet was added that of Apostle.

After this second message, the revelations succeeded each other without the long interruption which came between the first and second.

Muhammad’s career as the Messenger of Islam lasted for twenty years, with ten years in Mecca before the Hijrah (the move from Mecca to Medina in A.D. 622, which is the starting date for the Muslim Era) and ten years at Medina before his death.

He began his preaching in Mecca by discreetly speaking only in his most intimate circles. Abu Bakr was the first man to be converted to Islam and Khadijah the first woman; All was the first young man. The first foreigners were Zaid Ibn Haritha, the Yemenite; Bilal Ibn Rabah, the Abyssinian; and Sohaib Ibn Sinan, the Roman. Islam spread slowly in Mecca, privately at first, and then, in the tenth year before the Hijrah the calling to Islam became public. At first it was kind and courteous and evoked no animosity among the unbelieving. But when the message became reproachful of paganism the Arabs rose in opposition and showed their hatred.

The opposition of the Arabs was at first directed mainly toward the Prophet. It was relatively mild toward those of his believers who had a distinguished family or tribal position, but tended to be cruel toward the humble and the powerless. Therefore, in the middle of the ninth year before the Hijrah the Prophet allowed eleven men and four women to seek refuge with the King of Abyssinia, who received them well and was himself converted to Islam. By the beginning of the eighth year before the Hijrah there were scarcely forty men and about ten women who were Muslims in Mecca, and they met in secret. The conversion of such important people as Hamzah and Umar in this year gave such strong support and encouragement to the followers that they were able to say their prayers openly near the Ka‘ba, and the new religion began to spread more rapidly.

This new growth of Islam aroused the unbelieving to redouble their violence and persecutions and in the seventh year before the Hijrah a second contingent of refugees, eighty-three men and eighteen women, emigrated to Abyssinia. The Prophet himself became the target of a conspiracy but was protected by the two family branches most closely related to him, the Bani Hashim and the Bani al-Muttalib, who rallied around him in the Hashimid quarter. The other branches and tribes thereupon banded together in opposition and took a written oath to boycott the protecting quarters until Muhammad was handed over to them. They maintained their severe boycott for three years, abandoning it in the fourth year before the Hijrah.

The ending of the boycott would have been a great relief to the Prophet if it had not been that just at this time he suffered two cruel losses: the death of his uncle Abu Talib and shortly afterward the death of his wife Khadijah. The Prophet calls this year "the year of suffering." Having become a widower without the consoling intimacy of a wife, he married Sawdah, a courageous believer whose suffering during the persecution and emigration had just been crowned by the loss of her husband after their return from Abyssinia. Accordingly, this marriage must be considered more a compensation for her than for him.

When Muhammad lost the support which his uncle afforded him in Mecca, he left the town to look elsewhere for allies and adherents. He spent ten unsuccessful days with the tribe of Thaqif, at at-Ta’if, but he was received badly and returned disappointed to Mecca to devote his proselytizing efforts to the pilgrims’ encampment at the Ka‘ba. Toward the end of the third year before the Hijrah he saw a faint hope in six men from Medina. These good men, who had heard the message of the Prophet during a brief encounter at Mina, responded enthusiastically to his appeal and carried the holy message to Medina where they made many converts.

Toward the end of the following year, the second before the Hijrah, five of those men from Medina with seven new converts visited the Prophet and took an oath to abstain from any polytheistic cult, from all vices, and to observe strict discipline. A year later, seventy-five men from Medina came to swear allegiance, confess their faith, and declare their submission. They also promised to defend the Prophet and their Muslim brothers if they should choose Medina as their refuge. This represents the first defense treaty in Islamic history.

Immediately after receiving this promise from the men of Medina the Prophet authorized and even obliged those men among his followers who had sufficient means to settle in Medina with their new brothers. Those who insisted upon remaining in Mecca without valid reason were to be regarded as hypocrites. But the Prophet himself did not hasten to leave his post and join the community of his faithful followers. He awaited an express authorization by revelation, an authorization which came after three months, on the day before the unfaithful had planned to carry out a plot against him.

Before the Hijrah, when Muhammad joined his followers in Medina, the Muslims did not form a nation or even a community; they did not even have a majority in Mecca. In Mecca they occupied no post of authority. They could not make a solemn call to prayer or come together for a public gathering. In Medina, however, Muslims could settle openly and Islam could develop. Communal prayer was observed solemnly even before the arrival of the Prophet. The day after his arrival in Medina the Prophet assumed full authority, started forming the state, and began the building of the great mosque.

Muhammad’s authority in Medina was of an entirely new and original kind: it was at the same time absolute and consultative, theocratic and socialist. It was religious and absolute in its framework, based on revealed commandments and general rules, but socialistic and consultative in the details and the application of the rules.

The Muslim state which the Prophet created in Medina remains the model of every Muslim state worthy of the name. It is unique in human history, for although this Muslim state was fundamentally religious, it established two principles which are not found elsewhere except in a nonreligious state or in a religion which has no state government associated with it. The first is the principle of freedom of religion, a freedom which the Muslim state not only admits and authorizes but must even defend and guarantee. The second is the principle which defines the idea of fatherland or nation in the most tolerant and human sense, a principle which guarantees equality of rights and national duties for those of all races, colors, languages, and ideologies existing in the country.

The first year and a half after the Hijrah were entirely devoted to purely pacific and constructive activities, to the development of religious and social institutions such as fasting, almsgiving, fraternization of the immigrants with the original inhabitants, agreements between tribes, and the like. Thus far nothing suggested the use of force. It was only because they wanted to be indemnified for the loss of their houses and worldly goods, which had been left behind in the hands of their enemies in Mecca, and because they wanted to put an end to the persecution and violence which the enemies were inflicting upon their brethren in Mecca that the Muslims tried several times, unsuccessfully, to intercept enemy caravans passing near Medina.

In Ramadan of the second year after the Hijrah the pagans reacted to these fruitless attempts to intercept the caravans by declaring an offensive against Medina. The Muslims thereupon sought to defend themselves, in a rather improvised manner, and although inferior in numbers and weapons they obtained a decisive victory. In the month of Shawwal in the third year the Meccans took their revenge, and for the next few years actions and counteractions followed until in the sixth year a ten-year truce was concluded. This truce was very favorable for the growth of Islam. Not only did it spread among the Arabs of the Hijaz -- the western side of the Arabian peninsula -- who were in frequent contact with the Muslims, but during this time the Prophet sent his messages and messengers to the Roman Emperor Heraclios, and to the kings and princes in Persia, Egypt, Bahrein, and Yemen.

In the year A.H. 8 the Meccans broke the truce, and this time the Prophet marched victoriously into the capital. The indulgent and merciful character of the Prophet, which he had always shown, was clear to all the people of Mecca after this conquest when, without repressive action or loss of life, he generously pardoned all his former persecutors. The conversion and submission of the whole Arab peninsula came soon after the conquest of Mecca, but in the northern part of the peninsula the Romans (Byzantines) prepared themselves for a strong attack against the young religion. In A.H. 9 the Prophet himself led an expedition as far as Tabouk (halfway between Medina and Damascus) which made the Romans renounce their enterprise. When the Prophet returned to Medina he had concluded non-aggression treaties with the neighboring countries to the north.

It was also in the ninth year of the Hijrah that the Prophet ordered Abu Bakr, his closest disciple, to lead the pilgrims to Mecca and to proclaim that the approach to the Ka‘ba from that time onward was to be forbidden to all pagans and polytheists.

In the tenth year after the Hijrah the pilgrimage to Mecca was led by the Prophet himself. This is known as the "farewell pilgrimage," during which the Prophet received the divine message that his mission was fulfilled and foresaw that the end of his life was near. "This day have I perfected your religion for you and completed My favor unto you, and have approved for you as religion AL-ISLAM" (Surah V, 3).

Those who heard his sermon on Arafa day in the tenth year recognized that they were hearing his last will and testament. With great emphasis he reminded all human beings of their brotherly love, their common origin, their equality without distinction except by means of virtue. With clear authority he commanded respect for the person, the family, and for property. With kindly compassion he recommended gentleness toward women. With great vision he enjoined his listeners to retain and transmit his message to all those who have not heard it, for, he said, "Who knows? Maybe I shall not see you again after this year." Finally, addressing himself to the pilgrims who had come from all the surroundings countries in such numbers that they reached the horizon and spread over all the desert, he said, "God will ask you about me: did I transmit to you His message?" "Yes! Yes!" Thereupon, looking toward heaven and pointing his fingers, Muhammad prayed in a loud voice, "My God, be witness."

Less than three months after this sermon, on the twelfth day of Rabi Awwal, A.H. 11 (June 7, A.D. 632), Muhammad’s soul returned to his eternal resting place.

The question of miracles in relation to Muhammad has often been debated. Did he perform miracles other than the Qur’an?

The Qur’an, revealed to the world by the voice of Muhammad, is a miracle -- yes, rather THE Miracle. Everything proves it: its style, its contents, the extraordinary events by which it was revealed, taught, and written down; its constant conformity with past, present, and future truth; its transcendent character which never shows a trace of a particular man, of any one society or epoch of history or specific region of the globe. The Qur’an is not a passing event in history which appears one day and disappears the next, to be known only by more or less correct hearsay reports. No, it is a fact, stable and durable, which remains unchanged and eternally present for the admiring contemplation of all men.

The Qur’an is not a temporary wonder which deceives the mind and is alien to the new knowledge which it has come to influence. It is the truth, the truth which proves itself, and while it appeals to reason it transcends reason and thus shows its divine origin.

The recognition of the Qur’an as THE Miracle does not diminish the value of other material and tangible miracles, known through our senses. These miracles, too, can very well bring us conviction; they are often the best means to reinforce our faith. That is why our earlier prophets have performed miracles.

Was it the same with the Prophet of Islam? Has he performed miracles other than the transmission of the Qur’an?

There are current tendencies toward answering in the negative, pretending to find proof in the Qur’an itself. The Qur’an, it is said, tells us that the Prophet Muhammad systematically refused to satisfy those who asked him to produce miracles.

And they say: We will not put faith in thee till thou

cause a spring to gush forth from the earth for us;

Or thou have a garden of date-palms and grapes, and

cause flyers to gush forth therein abundantly ...

Or thou have a house of gold; or thou ascend up into

heaven, and even then we will put no faith in thine

ascension till thou bring down for us

a book that we can read. (Surah XVII, 90-93)

And they say: Why are not signs sent down upon him

from his Lord? Say: Signs are with Allah only,

and I am but a plain warner.

Is it not enough for them that We have sent down unto

thee the Scripture which is read unto them?

Lo! herein verily is mercy, and a reminder for

folk who believe. (Surah XXIX, 50-51)

At the basis of the theory that the Prophet refused to perform miracles we find a grave misinterpretation, not only of the meaning of these quotations, but more so of the Islamic conception of the author of miracles in general. In those quotations the possibility of a miracle is not denied. Rather, they point out that miracles come from the supreme authority which alone is capable of any form of creation, and above all of creating supernatural things. It is a matter of demarking the frontier which separates human and divine power. The man is not yet possessed of the true Islamic faith who confounds those two powers, believing that the prophets themselves created their miracles. For the prophets are only human; they cannot overcome physical laws nor can they overcome the laws of the mind. God alone does so, if and when He wants to, in order to prove the divine origins of the message which the prophets transmit.

Therefore, it was not Moses who transformed the stick into a living snake, for this transmutation took place to his great surprise. It was not Jesus, either, who by his own power revived the dead; he did it only by the authority of the Lord. And when he refused the demands of those who once asked him to produce a sign from heaven, does this mean that he no longer performed miracles? Evidently not!

It is the same with Muhammad in his refusal to comply with certain pagan requests. The answer with which he avowed his own incapability to perform miracles is the same which he gave concerning the Qur’an. It is not Muhammad who is the author of the Qur’an, but it is "the faithful spirit"; it is the Archangel Gabriel who, on God’s command, brought the Qur’an down from heaven and deposited it in Muhammad’s heart so that it may guide and rejoice those who believe in it. Not only could Muhammad not modify an iota of it, he did not even expect to be its bearer and was not sure that he would continue to receive it.

Thus no miracles, material or spiritual, are of human origin, for all are exclusively within God’s domain and competence. All prophets have avowed that they are subject to the same limitations. Neither they nor the people to whom they were sent could demand a certain miracle or substitute one miracle for another according to their preferences. God gives His mandate to whomsoever He wills, in the form which He deems proper to persuade any epoch of history or any age of humanity. To each epoch its book. To each people, its guide.

And verily We sent messengers (to mankind) before thee,

and We appointed for them wives and offspring,

and it was not (given) to any messenger that he should

bring a sign save by Allah’s leave.

To each epoch, its book.

(Surah XIII, 38)

In Islamic terminology a miracle is most often defined as a fact contrary to general rules, opposed to the normal course of events, with a cause which escapes human comprehension; and this fact is also a challenge to anyone who doubts it. Now the only fact which most obviously fulfills all these conditions is, of course, the Qur’an, which repeatedly and in many ways cries out its challenge to all beings visible and invisible and predicts their impotence to prove that it is not the miraculous message of God. It invites them first to imitate its text in its entirety, then to create ten Surahs similar to those in the Qur’an or to create but a single similar Surah, and finally asks but for a Surah only slightly resembling one in the Qur’an.

The question as to whether or not the Prophet performed any miracle other than the revelation of the Qur’an thus depends on the definition of a miracle. If it is required that such a challenge must have been explicitly expressed, then it must be said that in Islam there has been no miracle other than the Qur’an. But once we eliminate the arbitrary stipulation that the challenge must have been expressed, we find an uncountable number of miracles performed by the Prophet.

Some of those miracles are mentioned in the Qur’an itself:

The Prophet’s journey made by supernatural means from Mecca to Jerusalem in a single moment of the night; a journey during which he saw many divine signs, and distinguished clearly all topographical details of the place, details which he later described, to the surprise of all (Surah XVII, 1).

The prediction of a cleavage on the surface of the moon, a celestial phenomenon which indeed took place immediately in the presence of the crowd of people he was addressing and which was observed and confirmed by travelers (Surah LIV, z). The miraculous victory over the army of his enemies which was accomplished by a small number of faithful, poorly armed followers, but men who were assisted by divine power (Surah VIII, 17).

The fact that the society in Medina, which had been divided and eaten by hatred and civil war for dozens of years, became overnight a united group of intimate friends -- a sudden change of mind which could not have been accomplished by earthly forces (Surah III, 103; VIII, 63).

The revelation by the Prophet of secret facts which had been carefully hidden from his knowledge (Surah IV, 113; LXVI, 3). Innumerable predictions fulfilled, such as the announcement of the precise date of a coming victory of the Romans over the Persians (Surah XXX, 2-6).

Also innumerable truthful reports of historic facts which were unknown to him and his people (Surah XI, 49; XII, 102; XXVIII, 44-46).

Among other miracles not mentioned in the Qur’an only a few can be cited here. The knowledge of these miracles, performed publicly by the Prophet, has been transmitted from generation to generation by reporters who have been identified and are known to be trustworthy historians. These examples are taken from the first chapter of al-Bukhari’s Alamate El Noboua:

The prediction that the Roman and Persian empires would cease to exist immediately after the death of their emperors who were contemporaries of the Prophet.

The announcement of the death of the King of Abyssinia on the date of his death.

The assurance he gave that, after the battle against the pagans of Mecca in the fifth year of the Hijrah, the Meccans would never again march against Medina and that Mecca would be conquered by the Muslims.

The prediction that his grandson al-Hasan would re-establish unity and end the conflict between two great parties of Islam, a prediction which was fulfilled in the days of Mu‘awiya, the fifth Caliph.

A miracle which was often repeated during times of drought and general thirst in the army was the production of an abundant yield of water from a little vessel which the Prophet blessed by putting his fingers in it. Fifteen hundred soldiers were able to quench their thirst, perform their ablutions, and water their animals with the water from that little vessel.

During a Friday sermon, when a Bedouin complained about the continuing dry weather and the famine which would ensue, the Prophet prayed for rain, and storm-clouds gathered from all directions, bringing rain which continued until the following Friday.

The next Friday the same Bedouin complained of the destruction being caused by the rain, and after the Prophet prayed the sky above Medina cleared immediately.

Once when the Prophet had been sitting on a tree stump and then abandoned it for a higher seat in order that the increased number of listeners might hear him better, all the audience heard the wailing complaint of the stump, a wailing which continued until the Prophet took the stump in his arms and consoled it as one would console a baby.

These are only a few of the many authenticated examples of miracles, other than the great miracle of receiving the revelation of the Qur’an, which were performed by the Prophet Muhammad, the Messenger of God.

The Qur’an

The greatest miracle was the revelation of the Qur’an which was transmitted by the Prophet in passages of unequal length at different times over a period of twenty-three years.

As soon as the Prophet received each inspired message he recited it to his audience and they in turn repeated it to the community, which was made up of people who were fond of literature and eagerly awaited each new message, whether they were partisans or adversaries.

As the Prophet dictated each new passage it was written down by the scribes on anything within reach, on thin white stones, pieces of parchment, wood, leather, or whatever was available. Tradition counts up to twenty-nine different persons in Medina who served as secretaries; a lesser number of scribes recorded the revelations received in Mecca. From the very beginning the faithful never failed to record the revealed messages, even during the persecutions. Among these scribes were included the first five Caliphs: Abu Bakr, Umar, Uthman, Mi, and Mu’awiya.

Thus the holy book of Islam became known in both an oral and written form. In its oral form it was called Qur’an, that is, Recital. In its written form it was called Kitab, or Scripture.

At the beginning the written extracts were not put in order or even gathered together, for other messages were expected.

As time went on several groups of verses began to grow up and tended to become independent unities as new verses were added according to the instructions given by the Prophet, who was following the orders of the Revealer Spirit. Although the text was originally scattered in its written form, it always had a definite order in the Prophet’s mind and in the minds of the faithful, with each verse or group of verses fitting into its proper place in the structure of the whole. In the Prophet’s lifetime there were hundreds of his Companions, called "Qur’an bearers," who were specialists in reciting the Book and knew by heart every Surah in its proper place in the structure.

At the death of the Prophet the Qur’an was preserved in the memories of the faithful as well as in writing. While in its oral form every Surah was complete and in its proper place in the order known today, in its written form it was nothing but scattered documents written on many different materials. During the year following the death of the Prophet no one worried about the written form because there were innumerable oral witnesses among them as living copies of the Qur’an complete in its final form. But about a year after the Prophet’s death seventy of the Qur’an bearers were killed in the battle with Musailima, the false prophet, and it became clear that it would be necessary to guard against the loss of the oral tradition by gathering the written documents into a book easy to handle and use for reference. The idea of preparing the book was suggested by Umar and carried out by Zaid Ibn Thabit, a Qur’an bearer who had attended the last recital of the Qur’an by the Prophet and a man known for his intelligence, integrity, and competence.

Under the guidance of Zaid Ibn Thabit the correct written form of the Qur’an was determined by including only those passages which were verified by two witnesses as having been written down at the dictation of the Prophet and as being in the oral text of the last recital by the Prophet. This official collection is distinguished from the other personal, oral versions by an absolute rigorism which excluded from the text any explanatory notes and even eliminated the Surah titles. ‘When the written form was completed it was given to the first Caliph, Abu Bakr, who entrusted it to Umar when he designated him the second Caliph. Since the third Caliph had not been chosen at the time of Umar’s death, he gave it to his daughter Hafsah who was one of the widows of the Prophet.

The universal authority of the written form of the Qur’an dates from its publication by the third Caliph, Uthman, who received it from Hafsah and ordered four secretaries to write as many copies of the document as there were big towns in the Islamic Empire. From that time the Uthman edition has been the only one in use in the Islamic world.

Ever since the earliest days the question has been raised as to whether the Qur’an was of divine or human origin. The explicit and implicit testimony of the Qur’an is that the author is God Himself. It is never the Prophet who speaks in the Qur’an. The Scripture either refers to him in the third person or addresses him directly -- O Prophet, O Messenger, We reveal to thee, We send thee, do this, recite this; such is the language of the Qur’an.

The direct proof of the divine origin of the Qur’an is manifest all through the Scripture itself. It is also shown by the peculiar phenomena which accompanied every revelation of the Qur’an, according to the testimony of the true tradition. The Prophet’s contemporaries were objective witnesses of the visible, tangible, and audible signs of the mysterious accompanying phenomena which made evident the real source of the Qur’an and opened the eyes of the truth-seekers. In the presence of the Revealer Spirit the Prophet’s inspired face was illumined, like a mirror; there was silence; conversation stopped as if in moments of absence of mind; his body relaxed as if in sleep and a mysterious buzz was heard around him -- as in a telephone conversation where the one listening is the only one who can hear distinctly enough to understand. There was nothing voluntary about these phenomena, for the Prophet could neither avoid them when they came nor bring them into being when he earnestly desired to receive a message. On many occasions the Prophet sought a revelation but it was not given; then, sometimes after an interval as long as a month, the mysterious phenomena would come, appearing suddenly and vanishing abruptly, after which the people with him would listen to the wonderful text.

The literary style and contents of that text are conclusive evidence of the divine origin of the Qur’an, but before considering that evidence let us turn to the arguments by which attempts have been made to prove that the origins were human. It is to the honor of Islam that the Qur’an records all hypotheses, reasonable or absurd, by which the contemporaries of the Prophet attempted to establish human origins for the Scripture. If the origins were human, they must have come from Muhammad’s environment, from other religions in that environment, or from the meditations and reasoning of the human author. Let us examine the activities of the Prophet before and during his apostolate and see what he could have learned from his surroundings or from his own meditations.

It is scarcely necessary to point out that at the beginning of Islam neither the ideas nor the practices of the people of Mecca show any resemblance to the teachings of the Qur’an. There is no relation between the pure unitarian system, the most perfect and refined ethics of the Holy Book of Islam, and the ignorance, paganism, superstitious idolatry, arrogant materialism, infanticide, prostitution, incest, dowry extortion, oppression of orphans, disregard for the poor, and scorn of the weak which were characteristics of Mecca in those times.

An effort has been made to show that the teachings of the Qur’an are similar to those of the Sabians, a sect well-known in Mecca at that time. But the Sabians were idolatrous and polytheistic, worshiping the stars and angels with a mixture of pagan, Christian, and other rites. Their pilgrimage was not to the Ka‘ba, but to Harran in Iraq, and their prayers were to the stars at sunrise, at noon, and at sunset -- three times when prayer is prohibited in Islam.

It was also suggested that Muhammad might have been influenced by the travelers and immigrants who came to Mecca: the Abyssinians or Romans, the laborers or wine merchants. It is clear that our Personage could not have known the vulgar class of immigrants for he lived either alone, in complete solitude, or as a shepherd, or as a big merchant in a caravan, or in the high society with the leaders of the community. Even if he had any contact with such people, their lack of religious knowledge would have been evident, and as the Qur’an points out, their foreign language would have made communication impossible (Surah XVI, 103).

It has been argued that in Muhammad’s travels he became acquainted with Arab tribes which had been converted to Christianity and got his ideas from them. Many scholars, ancient and modern, have pointed out that such contact with Christianity is unlikely but that, even if it did happen, the Christianity practiced in that part of the world was so debased that it was indistinguishable from paganism. The fourth Caliph, Ali, said that the tribe Taghlib had taken from Christianity nothing but the habit of drinking wine. Wherever Muhammad traveled he found beliefs to be rectified, deviations to be brought back to the right way. Nowhere did he find a moral or religious model which could have been copied for his work of reform.

Again, it has been suggested that the Prophet gleaned his teachings from the reading of books recording previous revelations. But the Qur’an categorically denies that he knew how to read or write (Surah XXIX, 48). Furthermore, the Bible was not available in Arabic until many centuries after the Prophet’s time, and the Bible in other languages was out of reach of the common people. The few biblical ideas which may have circulated among the common people were so vague and often contradictory that they cannot be the basis for the precision, extensiveness, unity, and vigor of the material in the Qur’an.

Nor can it be argued that Muhammad was influenced by Jewish teachings after he came to Medina, where he was in contact with Jewish scholars. Even before the Hijrah the Holy History had been revealed in all its true details in the Meccan Surahs, and the Qur’an had condemned the believers in the Pentateuch as followers of satanic inspiration, unworthy of being accepted as teachers or examples (Surah XVI, 63). In the revelations in Medina the Qur’an goes even further in its condemnation of the followers of the Pentateuch (Surah II, 79-80; III, 75; IV, 161). The psychological attitudes on both sides made Jewish influence on Islamic thought practically impossible. The majority of the Jewish scholars adopted an antagonistic position which was far from the benevolent attitude of teachers. Those of the Israelite scholars who were impartial enthusiastically welcomed the Prophet in Medina and declared their conversion to Islam, thereafter as disciples recognizing him as their Master. Between the two categories of the hostile or the submissive, there was no place for a third group of friendly tutors.

Thus it is clear that the teachings of the Qur’an cannot be attributed to the influence of the environment on Muhammad. There remains the question as to whether or not he could have created the Qur’an by himself through the use of meditation and reason. To a limited extent, reason could have revealed the falseness of idolatry and the senselessness of superstition, but how could it know how to replace them? It is not by mere thinking that facts can be known, that previous events can be described, yet the Qur’an was always in perfect accord with the essential data of the Bible, even those hidden from Muhammad by scholars. Mere intellect by itself could not have given such details. The Qur’an confirms that before the revelation Muhammad did not know any book nor even the meaning of faith (Surah XLII, 52). He could not possibly have guided others, for he did not even know how to guide himself in religious matters. He was ignorant of all the legislative, moral, social, and ritual details which are included in the revelation of the Qur’an. It was not by reason, or by the study of books, but only by revelation that Muhammad could know the creative God and the divine attributes. Only as it was revealed to him could he define the relation between God and the visible and invisible worlds and specify the future reserved to man after death.

We have seen that the Qur’an could not have human origins traceable either to the experience of Muhammad in the environment of his time or to his ability to construct the Holy Book by use of his reason. We have seen that the divine origin of the Qur’an is attested by the mysterious phenomena which always preceded a revelation. Now let us look further and consider the internal evidence for the divine origin in the literary form and contents of the Qur’an.

The literary form of the Qur’an is distinguished clearly from all other forms, whether they be poetry, rhythmic or non-rhythmic prose, the style of the common people, or that of the Prophet himself. The exceptional eloquence of Muhammad was always acknowledged and is known to us in countless instructions which he gave after careful thought, or dictated as non-Quranic insights. In all such passages there is not the slightest resemblance between them and the revealed messages.

We feel such ascendant power in the revealed texts that they penetrate the soul. The infidels in the time of the Prophet considered the form of the text such an extraordinary phenomenon that they used to call it magic. Even in modern times those who can understand the Arabic text recognize its sublime character without being able to explain it.

In our lectures on exegesis at Al Azhar University in Cairo -- the oldest university in the world -- the following analysis is used to point out the ways in which the literary form of the Qur’an transcends the powers of man and defies imitation.

The form of the Qur’an reflects neither the sedentary softness of the townsman nor the nomadic roughness of the Bedouin. It possesses in right measure the sweetness of the former and the vigor of the latter.

The rhythm of the syllables is more sustained than in prose and less patterned than in poetry. The pauses come neither in prose form nor in the manner of poetry, but with a harmonious and rhythmic symmetry.

The words chosen neither transgress by their banality nor by their extreme rarity, but are recognized as expressing admirable nobility.

The sentences are constructed in a dignified manner which uses the smallest possible number of words to express ideas of utmost richness.

The brevity of expression, the conciseness, attains such a striking clearness that the least learned man can understand the Qur’an without difficulty.

At the same time there is such a profundity, flexibility, suggestivity, and radiance in the Qur’an that it serves as the basis of the principles and rules for the Islamic sciences and arts, for theology, and for the juridical schools. Thus it is almost impossible in each case to express the ideas of a text by one interpretation only, either in Arabic or in a foreign language, even with the greatest care.

Quranic speech appears to be superhuman in its transcendence of the psychological law that intellect and feeling are always found in inverse proportion to each other. In the Qur’an we find constant cooperation between the two antagonistic powers of reason and emotion, for we find that in the narrations, arguments, doctrines, laws, and moral principles the words have both a persuasive teaching and an emotive force. Throughout the whole Qur’an the speech maintains a surprising solemnity and powerful majesty which nothing can disturb.

Finally, when we pass from the structure of a sentence, or a group of sentences dealing with the same subject, to the structure of the Surah and of the Qur’an as a whole, we find an over-all plan which could not have been created by man.

We know that the Qur’an was revealed in long and short fragments over a period of twenty-three years and that they have been arranged according to neither their chronological order nor their subject matter but in an independent, complicated order which appears to be arbitrary. As each revelation appeared it was placed in its fixed place, given its number among the verses, and its place was never changed. Thus, for every revealed verse there are two different orders, the chronological order based on the date of its revelation and the architectural order which determined its place in the composition of the Book. Throughout the long period of the revelations these two orders were strictly followed for every verse, every Surah, and the whole work.

In the chronological order, every revelation meets the need of the hour and links with the previous and following ones in a gradual progress in teaching and legislation. For instance, consider the main outline of these successive stages: it begins with the simple command, "Read!" (Surah XCVI, 1); then goes on to the apostolic charge, "Preach!" (Surah LXXIV, 2); then the call at first to the near relatives only (Surah XXVI, 214), extended next to the whole town (Surah XXVIII, 59), then to the neighboring towns (Surah VI, 92), and at last to humanity (Surah XXI, 107). Consider also the general outline of the progress in teaching in its two big divisions: first the fundamental bases of the work in the Surahs of Mecca; then the codified application of those general principles in the Surahs of Medina. This long course of events continued from the day of the grotto, when Muhammad was simply warned that he would receive a divine teaching, until the day of the last pilgrimage, when he was told that his mission was accomplished and he had nothing else to do on earth. After receiving the revelations for twenty-three years, he was called back.

Nothing, therefore, has been improvised in the Qur’an. Everything was foreseen and formed as a whole and in every detail, from the beginning to the end, including the death of the Prophet. Who could have formed and carried out such a complete plan? Who other than God from whom came this heavenly mission?

In addition to the chronological order there is the architectural order in the Qur’an. The very texts which follow in the chronological order the most wise educational plan were taken from their historical positions and fixed in the architectural order, every one in a definite frame already built to receive it, taking its place in those units of different length called Surahs. What makes it so wonderful is that once each Surah is completed from those scattered parts it is a unit faultlessly formed, artistically, linguistically, and logically. A special musical rhythm runs equally through all parts of the speech; there is a common, harmonious style, and a logical plan in the development of the ideas expressed.

It is clear that to establish such a scheme in advance the author would have had to foresee not only the problems which would arise from the events of the next twenty-three years, and their solutions, but also the literary form, the musical tone and rhythm in which it would be expressed, the appropriate structure for all the revelations yet to come, and the precise spot in that framework where each revelation would be fixed.

It must be confessed that no man or any other creature is capable of knowing the future in such detail or creating such a Book. Only the Divine Omniscience could be the creator of the Qur’an.

The teachings of the Qur’an are universal, addressed to all people throughout the world regardless of their origins and revealed to mankind to enlighten man’s spirit, to purify his morals, to unify his society, and to replace the domination by the powerful with justice and fraternity. As is confirmed in Surah XVI, 89, all human problems can be solved through the Qur’an, either directly or indirectly: "And We reveal the Scripture unto thee as an exposition of all things."

This revelation in the Qur’an deals primarily with the Supreme Truth and with virtue. All the rest of the contents of the text -- such as knowledge of the soul, the sciences of the nature of the heavens and the earth, history, prophecy, warnings, and the like -- are only means to strengthen the message of the Qur’an, to give it more weight and conviction. The great theologian al-Ghazali, who died A.H. 505 (AD 1111), pointed out in his Pearls of the Qur’an that 763 verses are concerned with knowledge, and 741 verses with guidance in virtue. For him these 1504 verses represent the most precious substance of the Book, while the remaining 5112 verses are, so to speak, the envelope or shell of the teachings.

According to the Qur’an, the act of faith must include these three elements:

Belief in God

Belief in His messages addressed to humanity

Belief in the Day of Judgment.

The starting point in Islam is belief in God, the Almighty, the Benefactor, the Creator of everything, the only proper object of worship. In the attempts to persuade the polytheists to accept this pure monotheism, the chief point at issue is the question of the proper object of worship. The Qur’an in many passages points out that the pagans confess that there is but one Creator and Administrator of the universe (Surah XLIII, 9), but their mortal mistake is that in their worship they associate secondary gods with God and claim that those secondary gods are capable of interceding with Him on their behalf and winning His favor. The Qur’an uses arguments based on reason and on tradition to bring back those who have strayed from monotheism into polytheism.

In the rational arguments directed at the polytheists, the Qur’an emphasizes their agreement that creation and providence are attributed exclusively to God and seeks to persuade them to the exclusive worship of God. How can one equate the creature to the Creator? Is it conceivable that the being which has created nothing equals the One who has created everything? (Surah XVI, 17). Is it not illogical to invoke that which never answers us, which never even hears our appeal? (Surah XLVI, 5). Is it not ungrateful on our part to forget the Benefactor who grants us our happiness, the Benefactor to whom we address all our supplications in times of disaster? Is it not ungrateful to associate with Him in worship others who are incapable of either good or evil actions? (Surah XVI, 53-54). And finally, those polytheists who pretend that any man or saint or other being has the power of mediation or intercession with the great God must prove that it can be done (Surah II, 255; XIII, 33; XXXIX, 3).

In addition to the rational arguments against polytheistic worship, the Qur’an points to the unanimous testimony of the prophetic traditions. "There has not been one previous prophet to whom We have not revealed this truth that there is no God but Me, therefore worship Me" (Surah XXI, 25). "Ask the divine messengers who preceded you: Have We allowed them to worship other gods than the Merciful?" (Surah XLIII, 45).

While the starting point of faith is belief in God as the Creator, the Benefactor, and the only object of worship, it must be recognized that God is also the Legislator. He commands our actions and our emotions. He requires our trust and obedience. This truth can be known by natural intelligence, by common sense and conscience, and also by the confirmation given in the Qur’an. God has given man the natural power to discern good and evil, justice and injustice (Surah XCI, 7-8), but the experience of all time shows that passions, work, and material and worldly preoccupations sometimes turn our minds away from the highest ideals and lead us to erroneous judgments and practical mistakes. Therefore the Divine Mercy did not abandon us to our natural intelligence alone. To check any tendency in us toward declining our responsibilities, God has reinforced our natural intelligence with revealed Truths (Surah XXIV, 35).

In order that His commandments might be known to men without dependence on reason alone, God chose among men and Angels those worthy of receiving and transmitting the divine light, sending to every nation or large tribe His warning (Surah XVI, 36). Those who refuse to believe in any spokesman of God refuse to believe in God himself, for every divine messenger has been given proof of the divine origin of his revelations (Surah LVII, 25).

The first two elements in the faith of Islam -- belief in God and in His messages -- are not complete without the third: belief in the Day of Judgment. God is Creator, God is Legislator, and God is also the supreme Judge. He is the beginning and the end; to Him all men must turn to give an account of their deeds and to receive from Him equitable retribution according to their merits (Surah XL, 16; LVII, 3; II, 281). The doctrine of life after death includes belief in the survival of the soul and the resurrection of the body. The belief in the survival of the soul did not give rise to difficulties, but the impious objected with irony to the doctrine of the resurrection of the body: "Give us back our fathers if you speak the truth!" (Surah XLIV, 36).

The Qur’an opposed such superficial reasoning by pointing out the argument from nature, how the earth is at one time dead and dry and then living and fertile. (Surah XXII, 5-7; XXX, 50). The Qur’an establishes that resurrection is not only possible, it is certain. It is certain because God has promised it, and it is certain because it is required by wisdom and justice in order to give to each creature a just retribution for his deeds. Otherwise, the creation of man would have been in vain. "Deemed ye then that We had created you for naught, and that ye would not be returned unto Us?" (Surah XXIII, 115). Nor should it be thought that good and bad men would be treated in the same way, giving them similar life and death (Surah XLV, 21). In the Day of Judgment, justice will be given to all men.

Belief in God the Creator, God the Legislator, and God the Judge is not enough in itself. The Qur’an teaches that a genuine believer must have that faith and must also observe the law; it requires sincere belief and laborious obedience. In giving its commandments it awakens in us a sense of good and evil, of beauty and ugliness. "God could not order indecent things" (Surah VII, z8). "Tell them: My Lord forbids only what is indecent done in public or in private; deeds of the limbs or of the heart, such as any impious action and any unjustified violence" (Surah VII, 33). "The faithful do not defame the reputation of those who are absent. Would any one of you like to eat his dead brother’s flesh?" (Surah XLIX, 12). The Qur’an points out that such ideals of universal duty were always taught by wise men and the saints. The names of Abraham, Isaac, Ishmael, Jacob, Moses, and Jesus are often mentioned as having taught such virtues and the necessity for prayer, charity, fasting, and the like.

Thus it is clear that the Qur’an has preciously preserved these previous teachings concerning virtue which were true, but we must notice that the Qur’an does not synthesize the sometimes divergent previous teachings; it marks out its own way by a spontaneous impulse. While it preserves the religious and moral patrimony, it adorns it more, crowning the divine building on which all the prophets have collaborated. By means of a variety of proofs convincing to the mind and attractive to the heart, the teaching concerning the divine attributes, the destiny of the soul, and the moral duties of man is much more developed in the Qur’an than anywhere else.

For instance, instead of only prohibiting drunkenness, the Qur’an stops the evil at its source by strictly forbidding the use of all intoxicants. Again, after reconciling the two apparently opposed principles of the Old and New Testaments, the principles of Justice and Charity, the Qur’an adds quite a new dimension which can be called the Code of Politeness, Discretion, and Propriety (Surah IV, 86; XXIV, 27 -28, 31, 58-62). With the Decalogue of Moses, we are still in the fundamental and elementary laws, as if on the ground floor of morality. With the Sermon on the Mount we already find ourselves on a very high level at which charity excels justice and the heavenly kingdom scorns the earthly realm. Finally, through the laws of the Qur’an we reach the summit where charity and justice are combined and there is a total disinterestedness which aims at the absolute Good which is God. It is God Himself who must be borne in mind while carrying out His will by living a virtuous life.

In the revelations of the Qur’an, as in every previous revelation, a new and original contribution is added to the earlier ones. It is the purpose of the Qur’an to "confirm and to safeguard the former books" (Surah V, 48). "Safeguard," in that verse, means to discard the alterations and false interpretations unjustly attributed to the earlier revelations (Surah XVI, 63-64). The text of the Qur’an itself is safeguarded against any additions or changes because God Himself promised to be its protector (Surah XV, 9). As for the other books, they were written by men and left to their protection (Surah V, 44).

In addition to the Qur’an’s primary aim of revealing religious and moral truths, there arc secondary objectives designed to strengthen faith in the Creator or to support the faithful in their hope. It is striking to discover the extent to which the explanations of the natural world, God’s creation, correspond precisely with the latest discoveries of cosmology, anatomy, physiology, and the rest of the positive sciences. For instance, consider these remarkable examples of scientific knowledge: the sphericity of the earth (XXXIX, 5), the formation of rain (XXX, 48), fertilization by the wind (XV, 22), the aquatic origin of all living creatures (XXI, 30), the duality in the sex of plants and other creatures, then unknown (XXXVI, 35), the collective life of animals (VI, 38), the mode of life of the bees (XVI, 69), the successive phases of the child in his mother’s womb (XXII, 5; XXIII, 14).

A constant support to the faithful in their hope is the fulfillment of prophecies. In a short passage in Surah XLIV the Qur’an predicted accurately the different stages through which the Islamic preaching would pass and the different attitudes toward it which would be taken by the first adversaries, how they would at first be heedless and careless, then conciliatory and interested, and finally opposed and obviously hostile. At the same time it was predicted that the ungrateful town of Mecca would at first endure an awful misery which would bring some of the people from incredulity to an attraction of their souls toward heaven, then it would have prosperity which would make them forget God, and finally Mecca would suffer a humiliating defeat in the first battle (Surah XLIV, 9-16). Other verses announce the triumph of Islam, the permanence of its doctrine, the growth of the empire of young Islam, and the inability of any earthly power to annihilate Islam (XIII, 18; XIV, 24; XXIV, 55; VIII, 36).

The Qur’an also predicted the eternal schism in Christendom (V, 14), the dispersion of the Israelites (VII, 168), their world (VII, 167), their everlasting need of a protecting ally (III, 112) , and the dominance until the day of resurrection persecution until the end of the world (VII, 167), their everlasting need of a protecting ally(III, 112), and the dominance of the Christians over the Jews until the day of resurrection (III, 55).

It must be noted that not only have the prophecies of the Qur’an been confirmed, but the Qur’an has thrown out this challenge: nothing can ever contradict the prophecies of the Qur’an, neither in the past, the present, nor the future (XLI, 42).

Who could ever give guarantees against space and time other than the Master of Space and Time Himself?

The divine origin of the Qur’an is evident for all the reasons which have been considered in this discussion. The possibility of human origin has been eliminated. Nowhere in the Qur’an is the personal character of the Prophet reflected, nowhere is there an echo of his daily joys and sorrows or of his earthly surroundings. There are no indications of geographical, atmospherical, racial, tribal, or individual peculiarities in the subjects treated. Only that which is necessary for the education of humanity is found in the Qur’an. The revelations were accompanied by visible signs of their divine origin. The linguistic and stylistic form of the Qur’an give positive signs of its divinity. The religious and moral teachings are clear evidence of its divine origin, free from the possibility of borrowing from other books.

It is for this reason that the Qur’an holds the highest place in Islam. For Muslims, the Qur’an is not only the text of prayers, the instrument of prophecy, the food for the spirit, the favorite canticle of the soul; it is at the same time the fundamental law, the treasure of the sciences, the mirror of the ages. It is the consolation for the present and the hope for the future.

In what it affirms or denies, the Qur’an is the criterion of truth. In what it orders or prohibits, it is the best model for behavior. In what it judges, its judgment is always correct. In what it discusses, it gives the decisive argument. In what it says, it is the purest and most beautiful expression possible in speech. It calms or incites most effectively.

Since the Qur’an is the direct expression of the divine will, it holds supreme authority for all men. The obedience due to our parents, our superiors, our community, or the Prophet himself is given only when it is based on a principle found in the Book of God. Their commands are obligations to us only so long as they transmit the divine commandment or do not contradict it.

It is edifying to know how the Prophet himself regarded the text of the Qur’an. He could not by his own will retouch it in the slightest; he interpreted it exactly as any commentator would a text which was not his own. And when he postponed carrying out any of its commandments even for a short time, in order to treat kindly the souls of the faithful and to forestall the objections of adversaries, we see the Revelation reproaching him most severely. Those reproaches he accepted with resignation and left engraved forever in the text (Surah XXXIII, 37). This constantly humble, submissive, and reverential attitude toward the words of God is sincerely confessed in the Qur’an itself: "Recite: my prayer, my acts of devotion, my life and my death belong exclusively to God, the Ruler of the Universe, lone Ruler and without partner. Of this I received the order and I am the first of the submissives" (Surah VI, 163-64).

Sunnah

The prophetic teachings outside the Qur’an are called the Sunnah, the Traditions. The base of Islam, as we have seen, is the Qur’an, and nothing is believed or commanded which is contrary to any revelation in the Holy Book. The Sunnah is the derived law of Islam which every Muslim is obliged to obey.

The Prophet taught in three ways: by oral instructions; by the example of his personal behavior; and by his silence, his tacit approval of other people’s actions, by letting others do as they pleased without comment or reproach. These three aspects of the Prophet’s teaching -- speaking, acting, and approving -- are the basis for the Muslim tradition called the Sunnah, and are considered to be the second source of Islamic legislation and instruction.

The Prophet draws this triple authority from the Qur’an itself, for it commands us to obey the Messenger’s orders (Surah IV, 59; XXIV, 56), tells us that he who obeys the Prophet obeys the very commandments of God (Surah IV, 80), and recommends that we follow his example (Surah XXXIII, 21). In the Qur’an the Prophet is commanded to behave in such a way that his behavior will be a model for believers (Surah XXXIII, 37). It also describes the Prophet as one who gave to mankind all good instructions and forbade all bad actions; therefore, the action he does not forbid is permitted (Surah VII, 157).

The great majority of Muslim learned men hold, with good reason, that the Prophet’s teachings follow either the directive of divine, though nontextual, inspiration or, if it was a personal, purely human effort, he applied the very essence or spirit of the law of the Qur’an. If in his instruction as a human being, without specific revelation, he ever was in error, he was immediately brought back to the truth through a revelation (Surah IV, 106-13; VIII, 67; IX, 43, 113). In the absence of such correcting revelations, all his orders, permissions. judgments, and behavior are rightly considered as implicitly approved and having full legislative and educative authority, subject only to the condition that they have been transmitted through authentic and strictly verified sources. Thus the Muslim tradition in Islam is related to the Qur’an as a nation’s laws are related to its constitution.

It is a significant fact that regarding our two most essential practical duties -- prayer, which is our obligation to God, and alms, which is a duty to our fellow men -- the Qur’an refers us directly to tradition for detailed instruction. Speaking of prayer, the Qur’an says explicitly, "Do that which God has taught you" (Surah II, 239). Again, speaking of alms, it says that it is a "precise and known" right of the needy to receive a share of the possessions of pious men (Surah LXX, 24-25). And similar references are found concerning the season of pilgrimage and the sacred months. Now, in the absence in the Qur’an of any further elaboration on these subjects, any clear details as to how these duties are to be performed, it is obvious that through these references the Qur’an establishes the authority of the Sunnah, and grants to it the right to elaborate and define the general precepts of the Qur’an. Without the Sunnah, these texts would have been incomprehensible, stating as known things which were not known.

The role of the Sunnah is not limited to clarifying the duties implied in general commandments revealed in the Qur’an. Often the Sunnah establishes new obligations and prohibitions for which no clear reference can be found in the Qur’an. This is not, however, an addition to the legislation of the Qur’an, for a careful study will show that each of these traditions expresses the spirit of a more general teaching in the Book, even though the ties connecting each tradition with its appropriate foundation in the Qur’an are not easily discovered.

For example, the Qur’an made compulsory the alms deducted from gold, silver, and the crops, using also the more general terms "possessions," and "things granted by God"; the Prophet added the requirement that alms should be deducted from the herd. The Qur’an instituted the fast during the month of Ramadan as training in piety and patience and an opportunity to express thankfulness for divine blessings; the Prophet added the requirement that alms be given at the end of the fast of Ramadan as an act which is an additional means of accomplishing those purposes. The Qur’an forbids usury; the Sunnah forbids those usurious sales in which the increase in price has the same effect. Since such sales, halfway between a legitimate sale and forbidden usury, fell within a doubtful and suspect area of business activity, tradition rightly forbids them under the legislation of the Qur’an which recommends that we abstain from any action when in doubt. Again, the Qur’an prescribes scourging as the punishment for lewdness, while the Sunnah specifies scourging for unmarried persons and calls for death by stoning for adultery -- justified by the passage in the Qur’an which says that the punishment for lewdness in women should be confinement to the house up to death, until the time when another punishment should be revealed.

The Sunnah, based on the verified traditions concerning the teachings, actions, and tacit approval of the Prophet, is justifiably binding on all Muslims. Since the Qur’an gave the Prophet full power to enlighten men concerning the meaning of the revelations, he was the best qualified to legislate in matters requiring clarification. The Prophet knew better than any other possible legislator the essence and spirit of the Law. Therefore, it is not surprising that he took new legislative steps, creating the Sunnah, the Traditions binding on all Muslims, through legislation by analogy, by precise definition, and by extension of the revelations given in the Qur’an.

Conclusion

We now see how Muslims regard the Qur’an and the Prophet.

The Qur’an is a purely divine work, a textual revelation which reached the world through a heavenly Messenger, the Faithful Spirit, the Archangel Gabriel, who deposited it in the heart of Muhammad.

Muhammad’s role was limited to receiving the revelation, learning it, writing it down, transmitting, explaining, and applying it. Muhammad could not go beyond or change or modify the Qur’an in any way, nor can any other believer. Any human work can be discussed, controverted, or contradicted by events in the past, present, or future. But the Qur’an, the Word of God, is perfection itself; it is unchallengably true, infallibly just, and inimitably good and beautiful.

The Prophet Muhammad was but a man, of a purely human nature. He was neither a great god, nor a small god, nor a sub-god, nor even an auxiliary of God. He could not acquire any good or avoid any evil except through God’s will. He knew only so much of the past or the future as God revealed to him. He was infallible in his judgments only when sustained by revelation. But he was set apart from the rest of mankind by an excellent inborn morality, by the divine knowledge granted to him, and by the dignity of his apostleship: he is the head of all believers. As the faithful interpreter and living example of the Qur’an, we owe him obedience, respect, and love. The Qur’an urges us to treat him with particular reverence.

The Prophet led us out of the darkness of ignorance into the light of truth. Lost and vicious as we were, he brought us back to the straight path of Islam. But however great our respect for him may be, and however deeply we may love him, in our eyes he is not raised above the level of man. Muhammad never aspired to the rank of divinity; he was God’s apostle and servant. In our confession of faith, the Prophet’s role as a servant surpasses his role as apostle. For us, he is not an object of worship; we do not pray to him, but pray to God for him, asking God to heap blessings on him.

Islam’s monotheistic system is infinitely pure and unmixed.

There is no God but Allah.

Muhammad is his servant and apostle.

All men are brothers.

Such are the three elements of the Muslim creed, as they are stated in three successive Surahs of the Qur’an (XLVII, 19; XLVIII, 29; XLIX, 13). Such is the straight path of Islam, the path of those who submit to the will of God as revealed in the Qur’an, God’s Word as given by the Archangel Gabriel to Muhammad, the Messenger of God.

Preface

The faith of Islam, and the consequences of that faith, are described in this book by devout Muslim scholars. This is not a comparative study, nor an attempt to defend Islam against what Muslims consider to be Western misunderstandings of their religion; it is simply a concise presentation of the history and spread of Islam and of the beliefs and obligations of Muslims as interpreted by outstanding Muslim scholars of our time.

The method used in the writing of this book is the same as that used in the preparation of the two previous volumes -- The Religion of the Hindus and The Path of the Buddha -- which I have edited in an attempt to present to Western readers the major religions of the world from the point of view of the followers of those faiths. First, an outline was prepared for a book designed to present Islam to Western readers. Then that outline was checked with Muslim scholars in Turkey, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Indonesia, and with refugee scholars from China, by asking them whether a book written to that outline would give a fair and representative picture of Islam, and who, in their opinion, would be the best writer for each chapter. In the light of their suggestions the outline was extensively modified and the men most highly recommended and most frequently mentioned by their fellow Muslims were asked to write. They recognized that they were not writing independent essays but were creating sections of a carefully planned volume and were aware that their fellow Muslims looked over their shoulders as they Wrote.

The eleven able scholars, recommended by their fellow Muslims to speak for the contemporary Muslim world, have given generously of their time and counsel in the creation of this book. Shaikh Mohammad Abd Allah Draz is a Member of the Body of the Grand Ulama, and Professor of Interpretation of the Qur’an at Al Azhar University in Cairo. Shaikh Draz, who received his doctorate at the Sorbonne, is recognized as one of the leading authorities in the Muslim world on the Qur’an and the life of the Prophet.

Dr. Shafik Ghorbal, who has now retired from university teaching and from government service, is the head of the Institute of Higher Arabic Studies of the Arab League, in Cairo. His work as a teacher and writer of history and as an administrator in the Ministry of Education of the Government of Egypt has made him one of the most highly honored scholars of Egypt today.

Shaikh Mahmud Shaltout is a Member of the Body of the Grand Ulama and Professor of Comparative Law at Al Azhar University. He is famous in the Arab world for his radio broadcasts on Islam and for his fearless and outspoken interpretations of Islamic law.

Professor A. E. Affifi, Professor of Islamic Philosophy at the University of Alexandria, is recognized as one of Egypt’s leading scholars and a specialist in the Muslim rationalists and mystics.

Professor Mahmood Shehabi, Professor of Jurisprudence in the Faculty of Law and Professor of Eastern Philosophy in the Faculty of Theology at the University of Tehran, is recognized among the Shi‘as as qualified to speak for them because of his great learning and his deep devotion to the faith.

Dr. Ishak Musa Husaini is Professor of Arabic Literature both at the Institute of Higher Arabic Studies of the Arab League and at the American University at Cairo. He comes from an old Palestinian family which has long been known for its scholarly leadership in Islam; until recently he was a teacher at the American University at Beirut. Muslims from several Arab countries recommended him as one of the scholars ably qualified to speak for the Arab Muslims.

Hasan Basri Çantay of Istanbul is a retired scholar who has recently translated the Qur’an into Turkish. Even in his retirement many people come to him for instruction and guidance in Islam, for he is highly regarded as a learned and devout Muslim who is representative of the best in Islam in Turkey today.

Mazheruddin Siddiqi, who, like Dr. Husaini, has studied at McGill University in Montreal, is Reader and Head of the Department of Muslim History at the University of Sind, Hyderabad, Pakistan. As editor of the monthly journal Islamic Literature, and a contributor to other Islamic publications in Pakistan, he has become widely known as one of the leaders in Muslim thought in his country.

Dawood C. M. Ting, at present a member of the Consulate of the Republic of China at Beirut, was a leader of the Muslim community in China before moving to Taiwan. He has studied at Al Azhar in Cairo, has served on several diplomatic missions for the Republic of China, and is one of the chief spokesmen for the Chinese Muslims.

Dr. P. A. Djajadiningrat is Professor of Islam on the Faculty of Literature at the University of Indonesia. He was formerly Professor of Islamic Law in the High School of Law at Djakarta, a Member of the Council of Netherlands India, Director of the Department of Education of Indonesia, and Secretary of State for Education in Indonesia. He is the senior Muslim scholar of Indonesia, highly respected and honored by his countrymen.

Dr. Mohammad Rasjidi is the Indonesian Ambassador to Pakistan and one of Indonesia’s leading Muslim scholars. He has studied at Al Azhar in Cairo and received his doctorate from the Sorbonne. He served on diplomatic missions in Egypt and Iran before going to Pakistan and has traveled widely throughout the Muslim world. Few Muslims can equal Hadji Rasjidi’s first-hand knowledge of Muslim culture in both the Far East and the Middle East.

Each of these men has generously undertaken the writing of his chapter in addition to the heavy obligations of his regular work. Not only have they faced the difficulties of language, but they have all been required to cover in a few pages material which could scarcely be covered adequately in a whole book, and to fit that material into a common outline. Their competence, patience, and diligence have amply justified the confidence of their fellow Muslims who recommended them so highly. The unity of Muslims throughout the world is clearly shown in the chapters they have written. Where there are differences on minor points, they should be recognized as inevitable minor variations which have developed through the centuries in a religion which has found its home from Morocco to Indonesia and China.

The eleven chapters of this book were written in seven different languages: Two, Four, Eight, and Eleven in English; One in French; Three and Six in Arabic; Five in Persian; Seven in Turkish; Nine in Chinese; and Ten in Dutch. After they were all available in English they were carefully checked with each writer to make sure that there were no misunderstandings; then they were extensively edited so the book would read as a unified whole and be clear to Western readers. After the editing, each writer approved his chapter as it appears in the book.

For the sake of simplicity the generally accepted Arabic spelling of names and technical terms has been followed, although in a few cases it seemed to do less violence to follow a form which has gained wide acceptance in a particular Muslim country. When a new word is introduced for the first time it is italicized and defined but after that it is used as if it were a part of the vocabulary of the reader. Definitions may be found either in the glossary or through the first reference in the index. Diacritical marks have been omitted in the text, but are used in the index. The quotations from the Qur’an are either from Pickthall’s The Meaning of the Glorious Koran, or are translated by the writer of the chapter in which they are found. All quotations from the Qur’an which vary from Pickthall are the writer’s unless specific credit is given; verse references follow the numbering in Pickthall, which sometimes varies slightly from other versions. It should also be noted that Islam is not referred to as Muhammadanism since Muslims do not like to use a word which might imply that they look upon Muhammad as divine or place him above the Qur’an.

The dates are given first according to the Hijrah Era, followed by the date according to the Christian calendar. The Hijrah Era starts with July 15, AD. 622, as established by Caliph Umar. The Muslim year is a lunar year divided into twelve months with the odd months having thirty days and the even having twenty-nine, with 354 days most years, but 355 days eleven years in each cycle of thirty. Since the lunar year begins roughly eleven days earlier each solar year, any one month may eventually fall at any season of the year.

Among the many people who helped in the preparation of this book, I am especially indebted to Professor Resid Ayda of Istanbul, Mr. Hussain Yurdaydin of the Theological Faculty at Ankara, Dr. Aly Ansari of the Ministry of Education in Cairo, and Miss Christine Laurens of the Faculty of Literature of the University of Indonesia.

In the preparation of the three volumes on Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam many of the Fellows of The National Council on Religion in Higher Education have given valuable counsel and encouragement. The writing of these books was made possible by grants from The Edward W. Hazen Foundation.

The Oxford University Press has generously given permission to quote from The Legacy of Islam by T. W. Arnold and A. Guillaume. The passages from Pickthall’s classic translation, The Meaning of the Glorious Koran, have been used with the permission of George Allen & Unwin Ltd., publishers of the clothbound edition, and of the New American Library, publishers of the paper-backed edition.

Hamilton, New York

H.E. 1377, A.D. 1958

Kenneth W. Morgan

Postscript

In writing my concluding lecture I had to aim so much at simplification that I fear that my general philosophic position received so scant a statement as hardly to be intelligible to some of my readers. I therefore add this epilogue, which must also be so brief as possibly to remedy but little the defect. In a later work I may be enabled to state my position more amply and consequently more clearly.

Originality cannot be expected in a field like this, where all the attitudes and tempers that are possible have been exhibited in literature long ago, and where any new writer can immediately be classed under a familiar head. If one should make a division of all thinkers into naturalists and supernaturalists, I should undoubtedly have to go, along with most philosophers, into the supernaturalist branch. But there is a crasser and a more refined supernaturalism, and it is to the refined division that most philosophers at the present day belong. If not regular transcendental idealists, they at least obey the Kantian direction enough to bar out ideal entities from interfering casually in the course of phenomenal events. Refined supernaturalism is universalistic supernaturalism; for the "crasser" variety "piecemeal" supernaturalism would perhaps be the better name. It went with that older theology which today is supposed to reign only among uneducated people, or to be found among the few belated professors of the dualisms which Kant is thought to have displaced. It admits miracles and providential leadings, and finds no intellectual difficulty in mixing the ideal and the real worlds together by interpolating influences from the ideal region among the forces that causally determine the real world’s details. In this the refined supernaturalists think that it muddles disparate dimensions of existence. For them the world of the ideal has no efficient causality, and never bursts into the world of phenomena at particular points. The ideal world, for them, is not a world of facts, but only of the meaning of facts; it is a point of view for judging facts. It appertains to a different "-ology," and inhabits a different dimension of being altogether from that in which existential propositions obtain. It cannot get down upon the flat level of experience and interpolate itself piecemeal between distinct portions of nature, as those who believe, for example, in divine aid coming in response to prayer, are bound to think it must.

Notwithstanding my own inability to accept either popular Christianity or scholastic theism, I suppose that my belief that in communion with the Ideal new force comes into the world, and new departures are made here below, subjects me to being classed among the supernaturalists of the piecemeal or crasser type. Universalistic supernaturalism surrenders, it seems to me, too easily to naturalism. It takes the facts of physical science at their face-value, and leaves the laws of life just as naturalism finds them, with no hope of remedy, in case their fruits are bad. It confines itself to sentiments about life as a whole, sentiments which may be admiring and adoring, but which need not be so, as the existence of systematic pessimism proves. In this universalistic way of taking the ideal world, the essence of practical religion seems to me to evaporate. Both instinctively and for logical reasons, I find it hard to believe that principles can exist which make no difference in facts. (Transcendental idealism, of course, insists that its ideal world makes this difference, that facts exist. We owe it to the Absolute that we have a world of fact at all. "A world" of fact! -- that exactly is the trouble. An entire world is the smallest unit with which the Absolute can work, whereas to our finite minds work for the better ought to be done within this world, setting in at single points. Our difficulties and our ideals are all piecemeal affairs, but the Absolute can do no piecework for us; so that all the interests which our poor souls compass raise their heads too late. We should have spoken earlier, prayed for another world absolutely, before this world was born. It is strange, I have heard a friend say, to see this blind corner into which Christian thought has worked itself at last, with its God who can raise no particular weight whatever, who can help us with no private burden, and who is on the side of our enemies as much as he is on our own. Odd evolution from the God of David’s psalms!) But all facts are particular facts, and the whole interest of the question of God’s existence seems to me to lie in the consequences for particulars which that existence may be expected to entail. That no concrete particular of experience should alter its complexion in consequence of a God being there seems to me an incredible proposition, and yet it is the thesis to which (implicitly at any rate) refined supernaturalism seems to cling. It is only with experience en bloc, it says, that the Absolute maintains relations. It condescends to no transactions of detail.

I am ignorant of Buddhism and speak under correction, and merely in order the better to describe my general point of view; but as I apprehend the Buddhistic doctrine of Karma, I agree in principle with that. All supernaturalists admit that facts are under the judgment of higher law; but for Buddhism as I interpret it, and for religion generally so far as it remains unweakened by transcendentalistic metaphysics, the word "judgment" here means no such bare academic verdict or platonic appreciation as it means in Vedantic or modern absolutist systems; it carries, on the contrary, execution with it, is in rebus as well as post rem, and operates "causally" as partial factor in the total fact. The universe becomes a gnosticism (See my Will to Believe and other Essays in Popular Philosophy, 1897, p. 165.) pure and simple on any other terms. But this view that judgment and execution go together is that of the crasser supernaturalist way of thinking, so the present volume must on the whole be classed with the other expressions of that creed.

I state the matter thus bluntly, because the current of thought in academic circles runs against me, and I feel like a man who must set his back against an open door quickly if he does not wish to see it closed and locked. In spite of its being so shocking to the reigning intellectual tastes, I believe that a candid consideration of piecemeal supernaturalism and a complete discussion of all its metaphysical bearings will show it to be the hypothesis by which the largest number of legitimate requirements are met. That of course would be a program for other books than this; what I now say sufficiently indicates to the philosophic reader the place where I belong.

If asked just where the differences in fact which are due to God’s existence come in, I should have to say that in general I have no hypothesis to offer beyond what the phenomenon of "prayerful communion," especially when certain kinds of incursion from the subconscious region take part in it, immediately suggests. The appearance is that in this phenomenon something ideal, which in one sense is part of ourselves and in another sense is not ourselves, actually exerts an influence, raises our centre of personal energy, and produces regenerative effects unattainable in other ways. If, then, there be a wider world of being than that of our every-day consciousness, if in it there be forces whose effects on us are intermittent, if one facilitating condition of the effects be the openness of the "subliminal" door, we have the elements of a theory to which the phenomena of religious life lend plausibility. I am so impressed by the importance of these phenomena that I adopt the hypothesis which they so naturally suggest. At these places at least, I say, it would seem as though transmundane energies, God, if you will, produced immediate effects within the natural world to which the rest of our experience belongs.

The difference in natural "fact" which most of us would assign as the first difference which the existence of a God ought to make would, I imagine, be personal immortality. Religion, in fact, for the great majority of our own race means immortality, and nothing else. God is the producer of immortality; and whoever has doubts of immortality is written down as an atheist without farther trial. I have said nothing in my lectures about immortality or the belief therein, for to me it seems a secondary point. If our ideals are only cared for in "eternity," I do not see why we might not be willing to resign their care to other hands than ours. Yet I sympathize with the urgent impulse to be present ourselves, and in the conflict of impulses, both of them so vague yet both of them noble, I know not how to decide. It seems to me that it is eminently a case for facts to testify. Facts, I think, are yet lacking to prove "spirit-return," though I have the highest respect for the patient labors of Messrs. Myers, Hodgson, and Hyslop, and am somewhat impressed by their favorable conclusions. I consequently leave the matter open, with this brief word to save the reader from a possible perplexity as to why immortality got no mention in the body of this book.

The ideal power with which we feel ourselves in connection, the "God" of ordinary men, is, both by ordinary men and by philosophers, endowed with certain of those metaphysical attributes which in the lecture on philosophy I treated with such disrespect. He is assumed as a matter of course to be "one and only" and to be "infinite"; and the notion of many finite gods is one which hardly any one thinks it worth while to consider, and still less to uphold. Nevertheless, in the interests of intellectual clearness, I feel bound to say that religious experience, as we have studied it, cannot be cited as unequivocally supporting the infinitist belief. The only thing that it unequivocally testifies to is that we can experience union with something larger than ourselves and in that union find our greatest peace. Philosophy, with its passion for unity, and mysticism with its monoideistic bent, both "pass to the limit" and identify the something with a unique God who is the all-inclusive soul of the world. Popular opinion, respectful to their authority, follows the example which they set.

Meanwhile the practical needs and experiences of religion seem to me sufficiently met by the belief that beyond each man and in a fashion continuous with him there exists a larger power which is friendly to him and to his ideals. All that the facts require is that the power should be both other and larger than our conscious selves. Anything larger will do, if only it be large enough to trust for the next step. It need not be infinite, it need not be solitary. It might conceivably even be only a larger and more godlike self, of which the present self would then be but the mutilated expression, and the universe might conceivably be a collection of such selves, of different degrees of inclusiveness, with no absolute unity realized in it at all. (Such a notion is suggested in my Ingersoll Lecture On Human Immortality, Boston and London, 1899.)Thus would a sort of polytheism return upon us- a polytheism which I do not on this occasion defend, for my only aim at present is to keep the testimony of religious experience clearly within its proper bounds.

Upholders of the monistic view will say to such a polytheism (which, by the way, has always been the real religion of common people, and is so still to-day) that unless there be one all-inclusive God, our guarantee of security is left imperfect. In the Absolute, and in the Absolute only, all is saved. If there be different gods, each caring for his part, some portion of some of us might not be covered with divine protection, and our religious consolation would thus fail to be complete. It goes back to what was said in Lectures VI and VII, about the possibility of there being portions of the universe that may irretrievably be lost. Common sense is less sweeping in its demands than philosophy or mysticism have been wont to be, and can suffer the notion of this world being partly saved and partly lost. The ordinary moralistic state of mind makes the salvation of the world conditional upon the success with which each unit does its part. Partial and conditional salvation is in fact a most familiar notion when taken in the abstract, the only difficulty being to determine the details. Some men are even disinterested enough to be willing to be in the unsaved remnant as far as their persons go, if only they can be persuaded that their cause will prevail -- all of us are willing, whenever our activity-excitement rises sufficiently high. I think, in fact, that a final philosophy of religion will have to consider the pluralistic hypothesis more seriously than it has hitherto been willing to consider it. For practical life at any rate, the chance of salvation is enough. No fact in human nature is more characteristic than its willingness to live on a chance. The existence of the chance makes the difference, as Edmund Gurney says, between a life of which the keynote is resignation and a life of which the keynote is hope. (Tertium Quid, 1887, p. 99.) But all these statements are unsatisfactory from their brevity, and I can only say that I hope to return to the same questions in another book.

Lecture 20: Conclusions

The material of our study of human nature is now spread before us; and in this parting hour, set free from the duty of description, we can draw our theoretical and practical conclusions. In my first lecture, defending the empirical method, I foretold that whatever conclusions we might come to could be reached by spiritual judgments only, appreciations of the significance for life of religion, taken "on the whole." Our conclusions cannot be as sharp as dogmatic conclusions would be, but I will formulate them, when the time comes, as sharply as I can.

Summing up in the broadest possible way the characteristics of the religious life, as we have found them, it includes the following beliefs: --

1. That the visible world is part of a more spiritual universe from which it draws its chief significance;

2. That union or harmonious relation with that higher universe is our true end;

3. That prayer or inner communion with the spirit thereof -- be that spirit "God" or "law" -- is a process wherein work is really done, and spiritual energy flows in and produces effects, psychological or material, within the phenomenal world.

Religion includes also the following psychological characteristics: --

4. A new zest which adds itself like a gift to life, and takes the form either of lyrical enchantment or of appeal to earnestness and heroism.

5. An assurance of safety and a temper of peace, and, in relation to others, a preponderance of loving affections.

In illustrating these characteristics by documents, we have been literally bathed in sentiment. In re-reading my manuscript, I am almost appalled at the amount of emotionality which I find in it. After so much of this, we can afford to be dryer and less sympathetic in the rest of the work that lies before us.

The sentimentality of many of my documents is a consequence of the fact that I sought them among the extravagances of the subject. If any of you are enemies of what our ancestors used to brand as enthusiasm, and are, nevertheless, still listening to me now, you have probably felt my selection to have been sometimes almost perverse, and have wished I might have stuck to soberer examples. I reply that I took these extremer examples as yielding the profounder information. To learn the secrets of any science, we go to expert specialists, even though they may be eccentric persons, and not to commonplace pupils. We combine what they tell us with the rest of our wisdom, and form our final judgment independently. Even so with religion. We who have pursued such radical expressions of it may now be sure that we know its secrets as authentically as any one can know them who learns them from another; and we have next to answer, each of us for himself, the practical question: what are the dangers in this element of life? and in what proportion may it need to be restrained by other elements, to give the proper balance?

But this question suggests another one which I will answer immediately and get it out of the way, for it has more than once already vexed us. Ought it to be assumed that in all men the mixture of religion with other elements should be identical? Ought it, indeed, to be assumed that the lives of all men should show identical religious elements? In other words, is the existence of so many religious types and sects and creeds regrettable?

To these questions I answer "No" emphatically. And my reason is that I do not see how it is possible that creatures in such different positions and with such different powers as human individuals are, should have exactly the same functions and the same duties. No two of us have identical difficulties, nor should we be expected to work out identical solutions. Each, from his peculiar angle of observation, takes in a certain sphere of fact and trouble, which each must deal with in a unique manner. One of us must soften himself, another must harden himself; one must yield a point, another must stand firm -- in order the better to defend the position assigned him. If an Emerson were forced to be a Wesley, or a Moody forced to be a Whitman, the total human consciousness of the divine would suffer. The divine can mean no single quality, it must mean a group of qualities, by being champions of which in alternation, different men may all find worthy missions. Each attitude being a syllable in human nature’s total message, it takes the whole of us to spell the meaning out completely. So a "god of battles" must be allowed to be the god for one kind of person, a god of peace and heaven and home, the god for another. We must frankly recognize the fact that we live in partial systems, and that parts are not interchangeable in the spiritual life. If we are peevish and jealous, destruction of the self must be an element of our religion; why need it be one if we are good and sympathetic from the outset? If we are sick souls, we require a religion of deliverance; but why think so much of deliverance, if we are healthy-minded? (From this point of view, the contrasts between the healthy and the morbid mind, and between the once-born and the twice-born types, of which I spoke in earlier lectures cease to be the radical antagonisms which many think them. The twice-born look down upon the rectilinear consciousness of life of the once-born as being "mere morality," and not properly religion. "Dr. Channing," an orthodox minister is reported to have said, "is excluded from the highest form of religious life by the extraordinary rectitude of his character." It is indeed true that the outlook upon life of the twice-born -- holding as it does more of the element of evil in solution -- is the wider and completer. The "heroic" or "solemn" way in which life comes to them is a "higher synthesis" into which healthy-mindedness and morbidness both enter and combine. Evil is not evaded, but sublated in the higher religious cheer of these persons. But the final consciousness which each type reaches of union with the divine has the same practical significance for the individual; and individuals may well be allowed to get to it by the channels which lie most open to their several temperaments. In the cases which were quoted in Lecture IV, of the mind-cure form of healthy-mindedness, we found abundant examples of regenerative process. The severity of the crisis in this process is a matter of degree. How long one shall continue to drink the consciousness of evil, and when one shall begin to short-circuit and get rid of it, are also matters of amount and degree, so that in many instances it is quite arbitrary whether we class the individual a once-born or a twice-born subject) Unquestionably, some men have the completer experience and the higher vocation, here just as in the social world; but for each man to stay in his own experience, whate’er it be, and for others to tolerate him there, is surely best.

But, you may now ask, would not this one-sidedness be cured if we should all espouse the science of religions as our own religion? In answering this question I must open again the general relations of the theoretic to the active life.

Knowledge about a thing is not the thing itself. You remember what Al-Ghazzali told us in the Lecture on Mysticism -- that to understand the causes of drunkenness, as a physician understands them, is not to be drunk. A science might come to understand everything about the causes and elements of religion, and might even decide which elements were qualified, by their general harmony with other branches of knowledge, to be considered true; and yet the best man at this science might be the man who found it hardest to be personally devout. Tout savoir c’est tout pardonner. The name of Renan would doubtless occur to many persons as an example of the way in which breadth of knowledge may make one only a dilettante in possibilities, and blunt the acuteness of one’s living faith. (Compare, e.g., the quotation from Renan above.) If religion be a function by which either God’s cause or man’s cause is to be really advanced, then he who lives the life of it, however narrowly, is a better servant than he who merely knows about it, however much. Knowledge about life is one thing; effective occupation of a place in life, with its dynamic currents passing through your being, is another.

For this reason, the science of religions may not be an equivalent for living religion; and if we turn to the inner difficulties of such a science, we see that a point comes when she must drop the purely theoretic attitude, and either let her knots remain uncut, or have them cut by active faith. To see this, suppose that we have our science of religions constituted as a matter of fact. Suppose that she has assimilated all the necessary historical material and distilled out of it as its essence the same conclusions which I myself a few moments ago pronounced. Suppose that she agrees that religion, wherever it is an active thing, involves a belief in ideal presences, and a belief that in our prayerful communion with them, work is done, and something real comes to pass. She has now to exert her critical activity, and to decide how far, in the light of other sciences and in that of general philosophy, such beliefs can be considered true.

Dogmatically to decide this is an impossible task. Not only are the other sciences and the philosophy still far from being completed, but in their present state we find them full of conflicts. The sciences of nature know nothing of spiritual presences, and on the whole hold no practical commerce whatever with the idealistic conceptions towards which general philosophy inclines. The scientist, so-called, is, during his scientific hours at least, so materialistic that one may well say that on the whole the influence of science goes against the notion that religion should be recognized at all. And this antipathy to religion finds an echo within the very science of religions itself. The cultivator of this science has to become acquainted with so many groveling and horrible superstitions that a presumption easily arises in his mind that any belief that is religious probably is false. In the "prayerful communion" of savages with such mumbo-jumbos of deities as they acknowledge, it is hard for us to see what genuine spiritual work -- even though it were work relative only to their dark savage obligations -- can possibly be done.

The consequence is that the conclusions of the science of religions are as likely to be adverse as they are to be favorable to the claim that the essence of religion is true. There is a notion in the air about us that religion is probably only an anachronism, a case of "survival," an atavistic relapse into a mode of thought which humanity in its more enlightened examples has outgrown; and this notion our religious anthropologists at present do little to counteract.

This view is so widespread at the present day that I must consider it with some explicitness before I pass to my own conclusions. Let me call it the "Survival theory," for brevity’s sake.

The pivot round which the religious life, as we have traced it, revolves, is the interest of the individual in his private personal destiny. Religion, in short, is a monumental chapter in the history of human egotism. The gods believed in -- whether by crude savages or by men disciplined intellectually -- agree with each other in recognizing personal calls. Religious thought is carried on in terms of personality, this being, in the world of religion, the one fundamental fact. Today, quite as much as at any previous age, the religious individual tells you that the divine meets him on the basis of his personal concerns.

Science, on the other hand, has ended by utterly repudiating the personal point of view. She catalogues her elements and records her laws indifferent as to what purpose may be shown forth by them, and constructs her theories quite careless of their bearing on human anxieties and fates. Though the scientist may individually nourish a religion, and be a theist in his irresponsible hours, the days are over when it could be said that for Science herself the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth his handiwork. Our solar system, with its harmonies, is seen now as but one passing case of a certain sort of moving equilibrium in the heavens, realized by a local accident in an appalling wilderness of worlds where no life can exist. In a span of time which as a cosmic interval will count but as an hour, it will have ceased to be. The Darwinian notion of chance production, and subsequent destruction, speedy or deferred, applies to the largest as well as to the smallest facts. It is impossible, in the present temper of the scientific imagination, to find in the driftings of the cosmic atoms, whether they work on the universal or on the particular scale, anything but a kind of aimless weather, doing and undoing, achieving no proper history, and leaving no result. Nature has no one distinguishable ultimate tendency with which it is possible to feel a sympathy. In the vast rhythm of her processes, as the scientific mind now follows them, she appears to cancel herself. The books of natural theology which satisfied the intellects of our grandfathers seem to us quite grotesque,

(How was it ever conceivable, we ask, that a man like Christian Wolff, in whose dry-as-dust head all the learning of the early eighteenth century was concentrated, should have preserved such a baby-like faith in the personal and human character of Nature as to expound her operations as he did in his work on the uses of natural things? This, for example, is the account he gives of the sun and its utility: --

"We see that God has created the sun to keep the changeable conditions on the earth in such an order that living creatures, men and beasts, may inhabit its surface. Since men are the most reasonable of creatures, and able to infer God’s invisible being from the contemplation of the world, the sun in so far forth contributes to the primary purpose of creation: without it the race of man could not be preserved or continued. . . . The sun makes daylight, not only on our earth, but also on the other planets; and daylight is of the utmost utility to us; for by its means we can commodiously carry on those occupations which in the night-time would either be quite impossible, or at any rate impossible without our going to the expense of artificial light. The beasts of the field can find food by day which they would not be able to find at night. Moreover we owe it to the sunlight that we are able to see everything that is on the earth’s surface, not only near by, but also at a distance, and to recognize both near and far things according to their species, which again is of manifold use to us not only in the business necessary to human life, and when we are traveling, but also for the scientific knowledge of Nature, which knowledge for the most part depends on observations made with the help of sight, and, without the sunshine, would have been impossible. If any one would rightly impress on his mind the great advantages which he derives from the sun, let him imagine himself living through only one mouth, and see how it would be with all his undertakings, if it were not day but night. He would then be sufficiently convinced out of his own experience, especially if he had much work to carry on in the street or in the fields. . . . From the sun we learn to recognize when it is midday, and by knowing this point of time exactly, we can set our clocks right, on which account astronomy owes much to the sun. . . . By help of the sun one can find the meridian. . . . But the meridian is the basis of our sun-dials, and generally speaking, we should have no sun-dials if we had no sun." Vernünftige Gedanken von den Absichten der natürlichen Dinge, 1782, pp. 74-84.

Or read the account of God’s beneficence in the institution of "the great variety throughout the world of men’s faces, voices, and handwriting," given in Derham’s Physico-theology, a book that had much vogue in the eighteenth century. "Had Man’s body," says Dr. Derham, "been made according to any of the Atheistical Schemes, or any other Method than that of the infinite Lord of the World, this wise Variety would never have been: but Men’s Faces would have been cast in the same, or not a very different Mould, their Organs of Speech would have sounded the same or not so great a Variety of Notes; and the same Structure of Muscles and Nerves would have given the Hand the same Direction in Writing. And in this Case, what Confusion, what Disturbance, what Mischiefs would the world eternally have lain under! No Security could have been to our persons; no Certainty, no Enjoyment of our Possessions; no Justice between Man and Man; no Distinction between Good and Bad, between Friends and Foes, between Father and Child, Husband and Wife, Male or Female; but all would have been turned topsy-turvy, by being exposed to the Malice of the Envious and ill-Natured, to the Fraud and Violence of Knaves and Robbers, to the Forgeries of the crafty Cheat, to the Lusts of the Effeminate and Debauched, and what not! Our Courts of Justice can abundantly testify the dire Effects of Mistaking Men’s Faces, of counterfeiting their Hands, and forging Writings. But now as the infinitely wise Creator and Ruler hath ordered the Matter, every man’s Face can distinguish him in the Light, and his Voice in the Dark; his Hand-writing can speak for him though absent, and be his Witness, and secure his Contracts in future Generations. A manifest as well as admirable Indication of the divine Superintendence and Management."

A God so careful as to make provision even for the unmistakable signing of bank checks and deeds was a deity truly after the heart of eighteenth century Anglicanism.

I subjoin, omitting the capitals, Derham’s "Vindication of God by the Institution of Hills and Valleys," and Wolff’s altogether culinary account of the Institution of Water: --

"The uses," says Wolff, "which water serves in human life are plain to see and need not be described at length. Water is a universal drink of man and beasts. Even though men have made themselves drinks that are artificial, they could not do this without water. Beer is brewed of water and malt, and it is the water in it which quenches thirst. Wine is prepared from grapes, which could never have grown without the help of water; and the same is true of those drinks which in England and other places they produce from fruit. . . . Therefore since God so planned the world that men and beasts should live upon it and find there everything required for their necessity and convenience, he also made water as one means whereby to make the earth into so excellent a dwelling. And this is all the more manifest when we consider the advantages which we obtain from this same water for the cleaning of our household utensils, of our clothing, and of other matters. . . . When one goes into a grinding-mill one sees that the grindstone must always be kept wet and then one will get a still greater idea of the use of water."

Of the hills and valleys, Derham, after praising their beauty, discourses as follows: "Some constitutions are indeed of so happy a strength, and so confirmed an health, as to be indifferent to almost any place or temperature of the air. But then others are so weakly and feeble, as not to be able to bear one, but can live comfortably in another place. With some the more subtle and finer air of the hills doth best agree, who are languishing and dying in the feculent and grosser air of great towns, or even the warmer and vaporous air of the valleys and waters. But contrariwise, others languish on the hills, and grow lusty and strong in the warmer air of the valleys.

"So that this opportunity of shifting our abode from the hills to the vales, is an admirable easement, refreshment, and great benefit to the valetudinarian, feeble part of mankind; affording those an easy and comfortable life, who would otherwise live miserably, languish, and pine away.

"To this salutary conformation of the earth we may add another great convenience of the hills, and that is affording commodious places for habitation, serving (as an eminent author wordeth it) as screens to keep off the cold and nipping blasts of the northern and easterly winds, and reflecting the benign and cherishing sunbeams, and so rendering our habitations both more comfortable and more cheerly in winter.

"Lastly, it is to the hills that the fountains owe their rise and the rivers their conveyance, and consequently those vast masses and lofty piles are not, as they are charged, such rude and useless excrescences of our ill-formed globe; but the admirable tools of nature, contrived and ordered by the infinite Creator, to do one of its most useful works. For, was the surface of the earth even and level, and the middle parts of its islands and continents not mountainous and high as now it is, it is most certain there could be no descent for the rivers, no conveyance for the waters; but, instead of gliding along those gentle declivities which the higher lands now afford them quite down to the sea, they would stagnate and perhaps stink, and also drown large tracts of land.

"[Thus] the hills and vales, though to a peevish and weary traveler they may seem incommodious and troublesome, yet are a noble work of the great Creator, and wisely appointed by him for the good of our sublunary world.")

representing, as they did, a God who conformed the largest things of nature to the paltriest of our wants. The God whom science recognizes must be a God who does a wholesale, not a retail business. He cannot accommodate his processes to the convenience of individuals. The bubbles on the foam which coats a stormy sea are floating episodes, made and unmade by the forces of the wind and the water. Our private selves are like those bubbles -- epiphenomena, as Clifford, I believe, ingeniously called them; their destinies weigh nothing and determine nothing in the world’s irremediable currents of events.

You see how natural it is, from this point of view, to treat religion as a mere survival, for religion does in fact perpetuate the traditions of the most primeval thought. To coerce the spiritual powers, or to square them and get them on our side, was, during enormous tracts of time, the one great object in our dealings with the natural world. For our ancestors, dreams, hallucinations, revelations, and cock-and-bull stories were inextricably mixed with facts. Up to a comparatively recent date such distinctions as those between what has been verified and what is only conjectured, between the impersonal and the personal aspects of existence, were hardly suspected or conceived. Whatever you imagined in a lively manner, whatever you thought fit to be true, you affirmed confidently; and whatever you affirmed, your comrades believed. Truth was what had not yet been contradicted, most things were taken into the mind from the point of view of their human suggestiveness, and the attention confined itself exclusively to the aesthetic and dramatic aspects of events.

(Until the seventeenth century this mode of thought prevailed. One need only recall the dramatic treatment even of mechanical questions by Aristotle, as, for example, his explanation of the power of the lever to make a small weight raise a larger one. This is due, according to Aristotle, to the generally miraculous character of the circle and of all circular movement. The circle is both convex and concave; it is made by a fixed point and a moving line, which contradict each other; and whatever moves in a circle moves in opposite directions. Nevertheless, movement in a circle is the most ‘natural’ movement; and the long arm of the lever, moving, as it does, in the larger circle, has the greater amount of this natural motion, and consequently requires the lesser force. Or recall the explanation by Herodotus of the position of the sun in winter: It moves to the south because of the cold which drives it into the warm parts of the heavens over Libya. Or listen to Saint Augustine’s speculations: "Who gave to chaff such power to freeze that it preserves snow buried under it, and such power to warm that it ripens green fruit? Who can explain the strange properties of fire itself, which blackens all that it burns, though itself bright, and which, though of the most beautiful colors, discolors almost all that it touches and feeds upon, and turns blazing fuel into grimy cinders? . . . Then what wonderful properties do we find in charcoal, which is so brittle that a light tap breaks it, and a slight pressure pulverizes it, and yet is so strong that no moisture rots it, nor any time causes it to decay." City of God, book xxi. ch. iv.

Such aspects of things as these, their naturalness and unnaturalness, the sympathies and antipathies of their superficial qualities, their eccentricities, their brightness and strength and destructiveness, were inevitably the ways in which they originally fastened our attention.

If you open early medical books, you will find sympathetic magic invoked on every page. Take, for example, the famous vulnerary ointment attributed to Paracelaus. For this there were a variety of receipts, including usually human fat, the fat of either a bull, a wild boar, or a bear; powdered earthworms, the usnia, or mossy growth on the weathered skull of a hanged criminal, and other materials equally unpleasant -- the whole prepared under the planet Venus if possible, but never under Mars or Saturn. Then, if a splinter of wood, dipped in the patient’s blood, or the bloodstained weapon that wounded him, be immersed in this ointment, the wound itself being tightly bound up, the latter infallibly gets well -- I quote now Van Helmont’s account -- for the blood on the weapon or splinter, containing in it the spirit of the wounded man, is roused to active excitement by the contact of the ointment, whence there results to it a full commission or power to cure its cousin-german, the blood in the patient’s body. This it does by sucking out the dolorous and exotic impression from the wounded part. But to do this it has to implore the aid of the bull’s fat, and other portions of the unguent. The reason why bull’s fat is so powerful is that the bull at the time of slaughter is full of secret reluctancy and vindictive murmurs, and therefore dies with a higher flame of revenge about him than any other animal. And thus we have made it out, says this author, that the admirable efficacy of the ointment ought to be imputed, not to any auxiliary concurrence of Satan, but simply to the energy of the posthumous character of Revenge remaining firmly impressed upon the blood and concreted fat in the unguent. J.B. Van Helmont: A Ternary of Paradoxes, translated by Walter Charleton, London, 1650. -- I much abridge the original in my citations.

The author goes on to prove by the analogy of many other natural facts that this sympathetic action between things at a distance is the true rationale of the case. "If," he says, "the heart of a horse, slain by a witch, taken out of the yet reeking carcase, be impaled upon an arrow and roasted, immediately the whole witch becomes tormented with the insufferable pains and cruelty of the fire, which could by no means happen unless there preceded a conjunction of the spirit of the witch with the spirit of the horse. In the reeking and yet panting heart, the spirit of the witch is kept captive, and the retreat of it prevented by the arrow transfixed. Similarly hath not many a murdered carcase at the coroner’s inquest suffered a fresh hemorrhage or cruentation at the presence of the assassin? -- the blood being, as in a furious fit of anger, enraged and agitated by the impress of revenge conceived against the murderer, at the instant of the soul’s compulsive exile from the body. So, if you have dropsy, gout, or jaundice, by including some of your warm blood in the shell and white of an egg, which, exposed to a gentle heat, and mixed with a bait of flesh, you shall give to a hungry dog or hog, the disease shall instantly pass from you into the animal, and leave you entirely. And similarly again, if you burn some of the milk either of a cow or of a woman, the gland from which it issued will dry up. A gentleman at Brussels had his nose mowed off in a combat, but the celebrated surgeon Tagliacozzus digged a new nose for him out of the skin of the arm of a porter at Bologna. About thirteen months after his return to his own country, the engrafted nose grew cold, putrefied, and in a few days dropped off, and it was then discovered that the porter had expired, near about the same punctilio of time. There are still at Brussels eye-witnesses of this occurrence," says Van Helmont; and adds, "I pray what is there in this of superstition or of exalted imagination?"

Modern mind-cure literature -- the works of Prentice Mulford, for example -- of sympathetic magic.)

How indeed could it be otherwise? The extraordinary value, for explanation and prevision, of those mathematical and mechanical modes of conception which science uses, was a result that could not possibly have been expected in advance. Weight, movement, velocity, direction, position, what thin, pallid, uninteresting ideas! How could the richer animistic aspects of Nature, the peculiarities and oddities that make phenomena picturesquely striking or expressive, fail to have been first singled out and followed by philosophy as the more promising avenue to the knowledge of Nature’s life? Well, it is still in these richer animistic and dramatic aspects that religion delights to dwell, It is the terror and beauty of phenomena, the ‘promise’ of the dawn and of the rainbow, the ‘voice’ of the thunder, the ‘gentleness’ of the summer rain, the ‘sublimity’ of the stars, and not the physical laws which these things follow, by which the religious mind still continues to be most impressed; and just as of yore, the devout man tells you that in the solitude of his room or of the fields he still feels the divine presence, that inflowings of help come in reply to his prayers, and that sacrifices to this unseen reality fill him with security and peace.

Pure anachronism! says the survival-theory; -- anachronism for which deanthropomorphization of the imagination is the remedy required. The less we mix the private with the cosmic, the more we dwell in universal and impersonal terms, the truer heirs of Science we become.

In spite of the appeal which this impersonality of the scientific attitude makes to a certain magnanimity of temper, I believe it to be shallow, and I can now state my reason in comparatively few words. That reason is that, so long as we deal with the cosmic and the general, we deal only with the symbols of reality, but as soon as we deal with private and personal phenomena as such, we deal with realities in the completest sense of the term. I think I can easily make clear what I mean by these words.

The world of our experience consists at all times of two parts, an objective and a subjective part, of which the former may be incalculably more extensive than the latter, and yet the latter can never be omitted or suppressed. The objective part is the sum total of whatsoever at any given time we may be thinking of, the subjective part is the inner "state" in which the thinking comes to pass. What we think of may be enormous -- the cosmic times and spaces, for example -- whereas the inner state may be the most fugitive and paltry activity of mind. Yet the cosmic objects, so far as the experience yields them, are but ideal pictures of something whose existence we do not inwardly possess but only point at outwardly, while the inner state is our very experience itself; its reality and that of our experience are one. A conscious field plus its object as felt or thought of plus an attitude towards the object plus the sense of a self to whom the attitude belongs -- such a concrete bit of personal experience may be a small bit, but it is a solid bit as long as it lasts; not hollow, not a mere abstract element of experience, such as the "object" is when taken all alone. It is a full fact, even though it be an insignificant fact; it is of the kind to which all realities whatsoever must belong; the motor currents of the world run through the like of it; it is on the line connecting real events with real events. That unsharable feeling which each one of us has of the pinch of his individual destiny as he privately feels it rolling out on fortune’s wheel may be disparaged for its egotism, may be sneered at as unscientific, but it is the one thing that fills up the measure of our concrete actuality, and any would-be existent that should lack such a feeling, or its analogue, would be a piece of reality only half made up. (Compare Lotze’s doctrine that the only meaning we can attach to the notion of a thing as it is "in itself" is by conceiving it as it is for itself; i. e., as a piece of full experience with a private sense of "pinch" or inner activity of some sort going with it.)

If this be true, it is absurd for science to say that the egotistic elements of experience should be suppressed. The axis of reality runs solely through the egotistic places -- they are strung upon it like so many beads. To describe the world with all the various feelings of the individual pinch of destiny, all the various spiritual attitudes, left out from the description -- they being as describable as anything else -- would be something like offering a printed bill of fare as the equivalent for a solid meal. Religion makes no such blunder. The individual’s religion may be egotistic, and those private realities which it keeps in touch with may be narrow enough; but at any rate it always remains infinitely less hollow and abstract, as far as it goes, than a science which prides itself on taking no account of anything private at all.

A bill of fare with one real raisin on it instead of the word "raisin," with one real egg instead of the word "egg," might be an inadequate meal, but it would at least be a commencement of reality. The contention of the survival-theory that we ought to stick to non-personal elements exclusively seems like saying that we ought to be satisfied forever with reading the naked bill of fare. I think, therefore, that however particular questions connected with our individual destinies may be answered, it is only by acknowledging them as genuine questions, and living in the sphere of thought which they open up, that we become profound. But to live thus is to be religious; so I unhesitatingly repudiate the survival-theory of religion, as being founded on an egregious mistake. It does not follow, because our ancestors made so many errors of fact and mixed them with their religion, that we should therefore leave off being religious at all. (Even the errors of fact may possibly turn out not to be as wholesale as the scientist assumes. We saw in Lecture IV how the religious conception of the universe seems to many mind-curers "verified" from day to day by their experience of fact. "Experience of fact" is a field with so many things in it that the sectarian scientist, methodically declining, as he does, to recognize such ‘facts’ as mind-curers and others like them experience, otherwise than by such rude heads of classification as "bosh," "rot," "folly," certainly leaves out a mass of raw fact which, save for the industrious interest of the religious in the more personal aspects of reality, would never have succeeded in getting itself recorded at all. We know this to be true already in certain cases; it may, therefore, be true in others as well. Miraculous healings have always been part of the supernaturalist stock in trade, and have always been dismissed by the scientist as figments of the imagination. But the scientist’s tardy education in the facts of hypnotism has recently given him an apperceiving mass for phenomena of this order, and he consequently now allows that the healings may exist, provided you expressly call them effects of "suggestion." Even the stigmata of the cross on Saint Francis’s hands and feet may on these terms not be a fable. Similarly, the time-honored phenomenon of diabolical possession is on the point of being admitted by the scientist as a fact, now that he has the name of "hystero-demonopathy" by which to apperceive it. No one can foresee just how far this legitimation of occultist phenomena under newly found scientist titles may proceed -- even "prophecy," even "levitation," might creep into the pale.

Thus the divorce between scientist facts and religious facts may not necessarily be as eternal as it at first sight seems, nor the personalism and romanticism of the world, as they appeared to primitive thinking, be matters so irrevocably outgrown. The final human opinion may, in short, in some manner now impossible to foresee, revert to the more personal style, just as any path of progress may follow a spiral rather than a straight line. If this were so, the rigorously impersonal view of science might one day appear as having been a temporarily useful eccentricity rather than the definitively triumphant position which the sectarian scientist at present so confidently announces it to be.)

By being religious we establish ourselves in possession of ultimate reality at the only points at which reality is given us to guard. Our responsible concern is with our private destiny, after all.

You see now why I have been so individualistic throughout these lectures, and why I have seemed so bent on rehabilitating the element of feeling in religion and subordinating its intellectual part. Individuality is founded in feeling; and the recesses of feeling, the darker, blinder strata of character, are the only places in the world in which we catch real fact in the making, and directly perceive how events happen, and how work is actually done. (Hume’s criticism has banished causation from the world of physical objects, and "Science" is absolutely satisfied to define cause in terms of concomitant change -- read Mach, Pearson, Ostwald. The "original" of the notion of causation is in our inner personal experience, and only there can causes in the old-fashioned sense be directly observed and described.) Compared with this world of living individualized feelings, the world of generalized objects which the intellect contemplates is without solidity or life. As in stereoscopic or kinetoscopic pictures seen outside the instrument, the third dimension, the movement, the vital element, are not there. We get a beautiful picture of an express train supposed to be moving, but where in the picture, as I have heard a friend say, is the energy or the fifty miles an hour?

(When I read in a religious paper words like these: "Perhaps the best thing we can say of God is that he is the Inevitable Inference," I recognize the tendency to let religion evaporate in intellectual terms. Would martyrs have sung in the flames for a mere inference, however inevitable it might be? Original religious men, like Saint Francis, Luther, Behmen, have usually been enemies of the intellect’s pretension to meddle with religious things. Yet the intellect, everywhere invasive, shows everywhere its shallowing effect. See how the ancient spirit of Methodism evaporates under those wonderfully able rationalistic booklets (which every one should read) of a philosopher like Professor Bowne (The Christian Revelation, The Christian Life, The Atonement: Cincinnati and New York, 1898, 1899, 1900). See the positively expulsive purpose of philosophy properly so called:-- "Religion," writes M. Vacherot [La Religion, Paris, 1869, pp. 313, 436, et passim], "answers to a transient state or condition, not to a permanent determination of human nature, being merely an expression of that stage of the human mind which is dominated by the imagination. . . . Christianity has but a single possible final heir to its estate, and that is scientific philosophy."

In a still more radical vein, Professor Ribot (Psychologie des Sentiments, p. 310) describes the evaporation of religion. He sums it up in a single formula -- the ever-growing predominance of the rational intellectual element, with the gradual fading out of the emotional element, this latter tending to enter into the group of purely intellectual sentiments. "Of religions sentiment properly so called, nothing survives at last save a vague respect for the unknowable x which is a last relic of the fear, and a certain attraction towards the ideal, which is a relic of the love, that characterized the earlier periods of religious growth. To state this more simply, religion tends to turn into religious philosophy. -- These are psychologically entirely different things, the one being a theoretic construction of ratiocination, whereas the other is the living work of a group of persons, or of a great inspired leader, calling into play the entire thinking and feeling organism of man."

I find the same failure to recognize that the stronghold of religion lies in individuality in attempts like those of Professor Baldwin [Mental Development, Social and Ethical Interpretations, ch. x.] and Mr. H. R. Marshall [Instinct and Reason, chaps. viii. to xii.] to make it a purely "conservative social force.")

Let us agree, then, that Religion, occupying herself with personal destinies and keeping thus in contact with the only absolute realities which we know, must necessarily play an eternal part in human history. The next thing to decide is what she reveals about those destinies, or whether indeed she reveals anything distinct enough to be considered a general message to mankind. We have done as you see, with our preliminaries, and our final summing up can now begin.

I am well aware that after all the palpitating documents which I have quoted, and all the perspectives of emotion-inspiring institution and belief that my previous lectures have opened, the dry analysis to which I now advance may appear to many of you like an anti-climax, a tapering-off and flattening out of the subject, instead of a crescendo of interest and result. I said awhile ago that the religious attitude of Protestants appears poverty-stricken to the Catholic imagination. Still more poverty-stricken, I fear, may my final summing up of the subject appear at first to some of you. On which account I pray you now to bear this point in mind, that in the present part of it I am expressly trying to reduce religion to its lowest admissible terms, to that minimum, free from individualistic excrescences, which all religions contain as their nucleus, and on which it may be hoped that all religious persons may agree. That established, we should have a result which might be small, but would at least be solid; and on it and round it the ruddier additional beliefs on which the different individuals make their venture might be grafted, and flourish as richly as you please. I shall add my own over-belief (which will be, I confess, of a somewhat pallid kind, as befits a critical philosopher), and you will, I hope, also add your over-beliefs, and we shall soon be in the varied world of concrete religious constructions once more. For the moment, let me dryly pursue the analytic part of the task.

Both thought and feeling are determinants of conduct, and the same conduct may be determined either by feeling or by thought. When we survey the whole field of religion, we find a great variety in the thoughts that have prevailed there; but the feelings on the one hand and the conduct on the other are almost always the same, for Stoic, Christian, and Buddhist saints are practically indistinguishable in their lives. The theories which Religion generates, being thus variable, are secondary; and if you wish to grasp her essence, you must look to the feelings and the conduct as being the more constant elements. It is between these two elements that the short circuit exists on which she carries on her principal business, while the ideas and symbols and other institutions form loop-lines which may be perfections and improvements, and may even some day all be united into one harmonious system, but which are not to be regarded as organs with an indispensable function, necessary at all times for religious life to go on. This seems to me the first conclusion which we are entitled to draw from the phenomena we have passed in review.

The next step is to characterize the feelings. To what psychological order do they belong?

The resultant outcome of them is in any case what Kant calls a "sthenic" affection, an excitement of the cheerful, expansive, "dynamogenic" order which, like any tonic, freshens our vital powers. In almost every lecture, but especially in the lectures on Conversion and on Saintliness, we have seen how this emotion overcomes temperamental melancholy and imparts endurance to the Subject, or a zest, or a meaning, or an enchantment and glory to the common objects of life. The name of "faith-state," by which Professor Leuba designates it, is a good one. (American Journal of Psychology, vii. 345.) It is a biological as well as a psychological condition, and Tolstoy is absolutely accurate in classing faith among the forces by which men live. The total absence of it, anhedonia, means collapse.

The faith-state may hold a very minimum of intellectual content. We saw examples of this in those sudden raptures of the divine presence, or in such mystical seizures as Dr. Bucke described. It may be a mere vague enthusiasm, half spiritual, half vital, a courage, and a feeling that great and wondrous things are in the air.

(Example: Henri Perreyve writes to Gratry: "I do not know how to deal with the happiness which you aroused in me this morning. It overwhelms me; I want to do something, yet I can do nothing and am fit for nothing. . . . I would fain do great things." Again, after an inspiring interview, he writes: "I went homewards, intoxicated with joy, hope, and strength. I wanted to feed upon my happiness in solitude, far from all men. It was late; but, unheeding that, I took a mountain path and went on like a madman, looking at the heavens, regardless of earth. Suddenly an instinct made me draw hastily back- I was on the very edge of a precipice, one step more and I must have fallen. I took fright and gave up my nocturnal promenade." A. Gratry: Henri Perreyve, London, 1872, pp. 92, 89.

This primacy, in the faith-state, of vague expansive impulse over direction is well expressed in Walt Whitman’s lines [Leaves of Grass, 1872, p. 190]: --

"O to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and animals do. . . .

Dear Camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our destination,

Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell’d and defeated."

This readiness for great things, and this sense that the world by its importance, wonderfulness, etc., is apt for their production, would seem to be the undifferentiated germ of all the higher faiths. Trust in our own dreams of ambition, or in our country’s expansive destinies, and faith in the providence of God, all have their source in that onrush of our sanguine impulses, and in that sense of the exceedingness of the possible over the real.)

When, however, a positive intellectual content is associated with a faith-state, it gets invincibly stamped in upon belief, (Compare Leuba: Loc. Cit., pp. 346-349.) and this explains the passionate loyalty of religious persons everywhere to the minutest details of their so widely differing creeds. Taking creeds and faith-state together, as forming ‘religions,’ and treating these as purely subjective phenomena, without regard to the question of their ‘truth,’ we are obliged, on account of their extraordinary influence upon action and endurance, to class them amongst the most important biological functions of mankind. Their stimulant and anaesthetic effect is so great that Professor Leuba, in a recent article, (The Contents of Religious Consciousness, in The Monist, xi. 536, July, 1901.) goes so far as to say that so long as men can use their God, they care very little who he is, or even whether he is at all. "The truth of the matter can be put," says Leuba, "in this way: God is not known, he is not understood; he is used -- sometimes as meat-purveyor, sometimes as moral support, sometimes as friend, sometimes as an object of love. If he proves himself useful, the religious consciousness asks for no more than that. Does God really exist? How does he exist? What is he? are so many irrelevant questions. Not God, but life, more life, a larger, richer, more satisfying life, is, in the last analysis, the end of religion. The love of life, at any and every level of development, is the religious impulse. (Loc. cit., pp. 571, 572, abridged. See, also, this writer’s extraordinarily true criticism of the notion that religion primarily seeks to solve the intellectual mystery of the world. Compare what W. Bender says [in his Wesen der Religion, Bonn, 1888, pp. 85, 38]: "Not the question about God, and not the inquiry into the origin and purpose of the world is religion, but the question about Man. All religious views of life are anthropocentric." "Religion is that activity of the human impulse towards self-preservation by means of which Man seeks to carry his essential vital purposes through against the adverse pressure of the world by raising himself freely towards the world’s ordering and governing powers when the limits of his own strength are reached." The whole book is little more than a development of these words.)

At this purely subjective rating, therefore, Religion must be considered vindicated in a certain way from the attacks of her critics. It would seem that she cannot be a mere anachronism and survival, but must exert a permanent function, whether she be with or without intellectual content, and whether, if she have any, it be true or false.

We must next pass beyond the point of view of merely subjective utility, and make inquiry into the intellectual content itself.

First, is there, under all the discrepancies of the creeds, a common nucleus to which they bear their testimony unanimously?

And second, ought we to consider the testimony true?

I will take up the first question first, and answer it immediately in the affirmative. The warring gods and formulas of the various religions do indeed cancel each other, but there is a certain uniform deliverance in which religions all appear to meet. It consists of two parts: --

1. An uneasiness; and

2. Its solution.

1. The uneasiness, reduced to its simplest terms, is a sense that there is something wrong about us as we naturally stand.

2. The solution is a sense that we are saved from the wrongness by making proper connection with the higher powers.

In those more developed minds which alone we are studying, the wrongness takes a moral character, and the salvation takes a mystical tinge. I think we shall keep well within the limits of what is common to all such minds if we formulate the essence of their religious experience in terms like these:--

The individual, so far as he suffers from his wrongness and criticizes it, is to that extent consciously beyond it, and in at least possible touch with something higher, if anything higher exist. Along with the wrong part there is thus a better part of him, even though it may be but a most helpless germ. With which part he should identify his real being is by no means obvious at this stage; but when stage 2 (the stage of solution or salvation) arrives, (Remember that for some men it arrives suddenly, for others gradually, whilst others again practically enjoy it all their life.) the man identifies his real being with the germinal higher part of himself; and does so in the following way. He becomes conscious that this higher part is conterminous and continuous with a more of the same quality, which is operative in the universe outside of him, and which he can keep in working touch with, and in a fashion get on board of and save himself when all his lower being has gone to pieces in the wreck.

It seems to me that all the phenomena are accurately describable in these very simple general terms. (The practical difficulties are: 1, to "realize the reality" of one’s higher part; 2, to identify one’s self with it exclusively; and 3, to identify it with all the rest of ideal being.) They allow for the divided self and the struggle; they involve the change of personal centre and the surrender of the lower self; they express the appearance of exteriority of the helping power and yet account for our sense of union with it; ("When mystical activity is at its height, we find consciousness possessed by the sense of a being at once excessive and identical with the self: great enough to be God; interior enough to be me. The "objectivity" of it ought in that case to be called excessivity, rather, or exceedingness." Récéjac: Essai sur les fondements de la conscience mystique, 1897, p. 46.) and they fully justify our feelings of security and joy. There is probably no autobiographic document, among all those which I have quoted, to which the description will not well apply. One need only add such specific details as will adapt it to various theologies and various personal temperaments, and one will then have the various experiences reconstructed in their individual forms. --

So far, however, as this analysis goes, the experiences are only psychological phenomena. They possess, it is true, enormous biological worth. Spiritual strength really increases in the subject when he has them, a new life opens for him, and they seem to him a place of conflux where the forces of two universes meet; and yet this may be nothing but his subjective way of feeling things, a mood of his own fancy, in spite of the effects produced. I now turn to my second question: What is the objective "truth" of their content? (The word "truth" is here taken to mean something additional to bare value for life, although the natural propensity of man is to believe that whatever has great value for life is thereby certified as true.)

The part of the content concerning which the question of truth most pertinently arises is that "More of the same quality" with which our own higher self appears in the experience to come into harmonious working relation. Is such a "more" merely our own notion, or does it really exist? If so, in what shape does it exist? Does it act, as well as exist? And in what form should we conceive of that "union" with it of which religious geniuses are so convinced?

It is in answering these questions that the various theologies perform their theoretic work, and that their divergencies most come to light. They all agree that the "more" really exists; though some of them hold it to exist in the shape of a personal god or gods, while others are satisfied to conceive it as a stream of ideal tendency embedded in the eternal structure of the world. They all agree, moreover, that it acts as well as exists, and that something really is effected for the better when you throw your life into its hands. It is when they treat of the experience of "union" with it that their speculative differences appear most clearly. Over this point pantheism and theism, nature and second birth, works and grace and karma, immortality and reincarnation, rationalism and mysticism, carry on inveterate disputes.

At the end of my lecture on Philosophy I held out the notion that an impartial science of religions might sift out from the midst of their discrepancies a common body of doctrine which she might also formulate in terms to which physical science need not object. This, I said, she might adopt as her own reconciling hypothesis, and recommend it for general belief. I also said that in my last lecture I should have to try my own hand at framing such an hypothesis.

The time has now come for this attempt. Who says "hypothesis" renounces the ambition to be coercive in his arguments. The most I can do is, accordingly, to offer something that may fit the facts so easily that your scientific logic will find no plausible pretext for vetoing your impulse to welcome it as true.

The "more," as we called it, and the meaning of our "union" with it, form the nucleus of our inquiry. Into what definite description can these words be translated, and for what definite facts do they stand? It would never do for us to place ourselves offhand at the position of a particular theology, the Christian theology, for example, and proceed immediately to define the "more" as Jehovah, and the "union" as his imputation to us of the righteousness of Christ. That would be unfair to other religions, and, from our present standpoint at least, would be an over-belief.

We must begin by using less particularized terms; and, since one of the duties of the science of religions is to keep religion in connection with the rest of science, we shall do well to seek first of all a way of describing the ‘more,’ which psychologists may also recognize as real. The subconscious self is nowadays a well-accredited psychological entity; and I believe that in it we have exactly the mediating term required. Apart from all religious considerations, there is actually and literally more life in our total soul than we are at any time aware of. The exploration of the transmarginal field has hardly yet been seriously undertaken, but what Mr. Myers said in 1892 in his essay on the Subliminal Consciousness (Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, vol. vii. p. 305. For a full statement of Mr. Myers’s views, I may refer to his posthumous work, "Human Personality in the Light of Recent Research," which is already announced by Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. as being in press. Mr. Myers for the first time proposed as a general psychological problem the exploration of the subliminal region of consciousness throughout its whole extent, and made the first methodical steps in its topography by treating as a natural series a mass of subliminal facts hitherto considered only as curious isolated facts, and subjecting them to a systematized nomenclature. How important this exploration will prove, future work upon the path which Myers has opened can alone show. Compare my paper: "Frederic Myers’s Services to Psychology," in the said Proceedings, part xlii., May, 1901.) is as true as when it was first written: "Each of us is in reality an abiding psychical entity far more extensive than he knows -- an individuality which can never express itself completely through any corporeal manifestation. The Self manifests through the organism; but there is always some part of the Self unmanifested; and always, as it seems, some power of organic expression in abeyance or reserve." Much of the content of this larger background against which our conscious being stands out in relief is insignificant. Imperfect memories, silly jingles, inhibitive timidities, "dissolutive" phenomena of various sorts, as Myers calls them, enter into it for a large part. But in it many of the performances of genius seem also to have their origin; and in our study of conversion, of mystical experiences, and of prayer, we have seen how striking a part invasions from this region play in the religious life.

Let me then propose, as an hypothesis, that whatever it may be on its farther side, the "more" with which in religious experience we feel ourselves connected is on its hither side the subconscious continuation of our conscious life. Starting thus with a recognized psychological fact as our basis, we seem to preserve a contact with "science" which the ordinary theologian lacks. At the same time the theologian’s contention that the religious man is moved by an external power is vindicated, for it is one of the peculiarities of invasions from the subconscious region to take on objective appearances, and to suggest to the Subject an external control. In the religious life the control is felt as "higher"; but since on our hypothesis it is primarily the higher faculties of our own hidden mind which are controlling, the sense of union with the power beyond us is a sense of something, not merely apparently, but literally true.

This doorway into the subject seems to me the best one for a science of religions, for it mediates between a number of different points of view. Yet it is only a doorway, and difficulties present themselves as soon as we step through it, and ask how far our transmarginal consciousness carries us if we follow it on its remoter side. Here the over-beliefs begin: here mysticism and the conversion-rapture and Vedantism and transcendental idealism bring in their monistic interpretations and tell us that the finite self rejoins the absolute self, for it was always one with God and identical with the soul of the world. (One more expression of this belief, to increase the reader’s familiarity with the notion of it: --

"If this room is full of darkness for thousands of years, and you come in and begin to weep and wail, ‘Oh, the darkness,’ will the darkness vanish? Bring the light in, strike a match, and light comes in a moment. So what good will it do you to think all your lives, ‘Oh, I have done evil, I have made many mistakes’? It requires no ghost to tell us that. Bring in the light, and the evil goes in a moment. Strengthen the real nature, build up yourselves, the effulgent, the resplendent, the ever pure, call that up in every one whom you see. I wish that every one of us had come to such a state that even when we see the vilest of human beings we can see the God within, and instead of condemning, say, ‘Rise, thou effulgent One, rise thou who art always pure, rise thou birthless and deathless, rise almighty, and manifest your nature.". . . This is the highest prayer that the Advaita teaches. This is the one prayer: remembering our nature.". . . "Why does man go out to look for a God? . . . It is your own heart beating, and you did not know, you were mistaking it for something external. He, nearest of the near, my own self, the reality of my own life, my body and my soul. -- I am Thee and Thou art Me. That is your own nature. Assert it, manifest it. Not to become pure, you are pure already. You are not to be perfect, you are that already. Every good thought which you think or act upon is simply tearing the veil, as it were, and the purity, the Infinity, the God behind, manifests itself -- the eternal Subject of everything, the eternal Witness in this universe, your own Self. Knowledge is, as it were, a lower step, a degradation. We are It already; how to know It?" Swami Vivekananda: Addresses, No. XII., Practical Vedanta, part iv. pp. 172, 174, London, 1897; and Lectures, The Real and the Apparent Man, p. 24, abridged.)

Here the prophets of all the different religions come with their visions, voices, raptures, and other openings, supposed by each to authenticate his own peculiar faith.

Those of us who are not personally favored with such specific revelations must stand outside of them altogether and, for the present at least, decide that, since they corroborate incompatible theological doctrines, they neutralize one another and leave no fixed result. If we follow any one of them, or if we follow philosophical theory and embrace monistic pantheism on non-mystical grounds, we do so in the exercise of our individual freedom, and build out our religion in the way most congruous with our personal susceptibilities. Among these susceptibilities intellectual ones play a decisive part. Although the religious question is primarily a question of life, of living or not living in the higher union which opens itself to us as a gift, yet the spiritual excitement in which the gift appears a real one will often fail to be aroused in an individual until certain particular intellectual beliefs or ideas which, as we say, come home to him, are touched.

(For instance, here is a case where a person exposed from her birth to Christian ideas had to wait till they came to her clad in spiritistic formulas before the saving experience set in: --

"For myself I can say that spiritualism has saved me. It was revealed to me at a critical moment of my life, and without it I don’t know what I should have done. It has taught me to detach myself from worldly things and to place my hope in things to come. Through it I have learned to see in all men, even in those most criminal, even in those from whom I have most suffered, undeveloped brothers to whom I owed assistance, love, and forgiveness. I have learned that I must lose my temper over nothing, despise no one, and pray for all. Most of all I have learned to pray! And although I have still much to learn in this domain, prayer ever brings me more strength, consolation, and comfort. I feel more than ever that I have only made a few steps on the long road of progress; but I look at its length without dismay, for I have confidence that the day will come when all my efforts shall be rewarded. So Spiritualism has a great place in my life, indeed it holds the first place there." Flournoy Collection.)

These ideas will thus be essential to that individual’s religion;- which is as much as to say that over-beliefs in various directions are absolutely indispensable, and that we should treat them with tenderness and tolerance so long as they are not intolerant themselves. As I have elsewhere written, the most interesting and valuable things about a man are usually his overbeliefs.

Disregarding the over-beliefs, and confining ourselves to what is common and generic, we have in the fact that the conscious person is continuous with a wider self through which saving experiences come, ("The influence of the Holy Spirit, exquisitely called the Comforter, is a matter of actual experience, as solid a reality as that of electro-magnetism." W. C. Brownell, Scribner’s Magazine, vol. xxx. p. 112.) a positive content of religious experience which, it seems to me, is literally and objectively true as far as it goes. If I now proceed to state my own hypothesis about the farther limits of this extension of our personality, I shall be offering my own over-belief -- though I know it will appear a sorry under-belief to some of you -- for which I can only bespeak the same indulgence which in a converse case I should accord to yours.

The further limits of our being plunge, it seems to me, into an altogether other dimension of existence from the sensible and merely "understandable" world. Name it the mystical region, or the supernatural region, whichever you choose. So far as our ideal impulses originate in this region (and most of them do originate in it, for we find them possessing us in a way for which we cannot articulately account), we belong to it in a more intimate sense than that in which we belong to the visible world, for we belong in the most intimate sense wherever our ideals belong. Yet the unseen region in question is not merely ideal, for it produces effects in this world. When we commune with it, work is actually done upon our finite personality, for we are turned into new men, and consequences in the way of conduct follow in the natural world upon our regenerative change. (That the transaction of opening ourselves, otherwise called prayer, is a perfectly definite one for certain persons, appears abundantly in the preceding lectures. I append another concrete example to reinforce the impression on the reader’s mind: --

"Man can learn to transcend these limitations [of finite thought] and draw power and wisdom at will. . . . The divine presence is known through experience. The turning to a higher plane is a distinct act of consciousness. It is not a vague, twilight or semi-conscious experience. It is not an ecstasy; it is not a trance. It is not super-consciousness in the Vedantic sense. It is not due to self-hypnotization. It is a perfectly calm, sane, sound, rational, common-sense shifting of consciousness from the phenomena of sense-perception to the phenomena of seership, from the thought of self to a distinctively higher realm. . . . For example, if the lower self be nervous, anxious, tense, one can in a few moments compel it to be calm. This is not done by a word simply. Again I say, it is not hypnotism. It is by the exercise of power. One feels the spirit of peace as definitely as heat is perceived on a hot summer day. The power can be as surely used as the sun’s rays can be focused and made to do work, to set fire to wood." The Higher Law, vol. iv. pp. 4, 6, Boston, August, 1901.) But that which produces effects within another reality must be termed a reality itself, so I feel as if we had no philosophic excuse for calling the unseen or mystical world unreal.

God is the natural appellation, for us Christians at least, for the supreme reality, so I will call this higher part of the universe by the name of God. (Transcendentalists are fond of the term "Over-soul," but as a rule they use it in an intellectualist sense, as meaning only a medium of communion. "God" is a causal agent as well as a medium of communion, and that is the aspect which I wish to emphasize.) We and God have business with each other; and in opening ourselves to his influence our deepest destiny is fulfilled. The universe, at those parts of it which our personal being constitutes, takes a turn genuinely for the worse or for the better in proportion as each one of us fulfills or evades God’s demands. As far as this goes I probably have you with me, for I only translate into schematic language what I may call the instinctive belief of mankind: God is real since he produces real effects.

The real effects in question, so far as I have as yet admitted them, are exerted on the personal centres of energy of the various subjects, but the spontaneous faith of most of the subjects is that they embrace a wider sphere than this. Most religious men believe (or "know," if they be mystical) that not only they themselves, but the whole universe of beings to whom the God is present, are secure in his parental hands. There is a sense, a dimension, they are sure, in which we are all saved, in spite of the gates of hell and all adverse terrestrial appearances. God’s existence is the guarantee of an ideal order that shall be permanently preserved. This world may indeed, as science assures us, some day burn up or freeze; but if it is part of his order, the old ideals are sure to be brought elsewhere to fruition, so that where God is, tragedy is only provisional and partial, and shipwreck and dissolution are not the absolutely final things. Only when this farther step of faith concerning God is taken, and remote objective consequences are predicted, does religion, as it seems to me, get wholly free from the first immediate subjective experience, and bring a real hypothesis into play. A good hypothesis in science must have other properties than those of the phenomenon it is immediately invoked to explain, otherwise it is not prolific enough. God, meaning only what enters into the religious man’s experience of union, falls short of being an hypothesis of this more useful order. He needs to enter into wider cosmic relations in order to justify the subject’s absolute confidence and peace.

That the God with whom, starting from the hither side of our own extra-marginal self, we come at its remoter margin into commerce should be the absolute world-ruler, is of course a very considerable over-belief. Over-belief as it is, though, it is an article of almost every one’s religion. Most of us pretend in some way to prop it upon our philosophy, but the philosophy itself is really propped upon this faith. What is this but to say that Religion, in her fullest exercise of function, is not a mere illumination of facts already elsewhere given, not a mere passion, like love, which views things in a rosier light. It is indeed that, as we have seen abundantly. But it is something more, namely, a postulator of new facts as well. The world interpreted religiously is not the materialistic world over again, with an altered expression; it must have, over and above the altered expression, a natural constitution different at some point from that which a materialistic world would have. It must be such that different events can be expected in it, different conduct must be required.

This thoroughly "pragmatic" view of religion has usually been taken as a matter of course by common men. They have interpolated divine miracles into the field of nature, they have built a heaven out beyond the grave. It is only transcendentalist metaphysicians who think that, without adding any concrete details to Nature, or subtracting any, but by simply calling it the expression of absolute spirit, you make it more divine just as it stands. I believe the pragmatic way of taking religion to be the deeper way. It gives it body as well as soul, it makes it claim, as everything real must claim, some characteristic realm of fact as its very own. What the more characteristically divine facts are, apart from the actual inflow of energy in the faith-state and the prayer-state, I know not. But the over-belief on which I am ready to make my personal venture is that they exist. The whole drift of my education goes to persuade me that the world of our present consciousness is only one out of many worlds of consciousness that exist, and that those other worlds must contain experiences which have a meaning for our life also; and that although in the main their experiences and those of this world keep discrete, yet the two become continuous at certain points, and higher energies filter in. By being faithful in my poor measure to this over-belief, I seem to myself to keep more sane and true. I can, of course, put myself into the sectarian scientist’s attitude, and imagine vividly that the world of sensations and of scientific laws and objects may be all. But whenever I do this, I hear that inward monitor of which W. K. Clifford once wrote, whispering the word "bosh!" Humbug is humbug, even though it bear the scientific name, and the total expression of human experience, as I view it objectively, invincibly urges me beyond the narrow "scientific" bounds. Assuredly, the real world is of a different temperament -- more intricately built than physical science allows. So my objective and my subjective conscience both hold me to the over-belief which I express. Who knows whether the faithfulness of individuals here below to their own poor over-beliefs may not actually help God in turn to be more effectively faithful to his own greater tasks?

Lecture 19: Other Characteristics

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

The first point I will speak of is the part which the aesthetic life plays in determining one’s choice of a religion. Men, I said awhile ago, involuntarily intellectualize their religious experience. They need formulas, just as they need fellowship in worship. I spoke, therefore, too contemptuously of the pragmatic uselessness of the famous scholastic list of attributes of the deity, for they have one use which I neglected to consider. The eloquent passage in which Newman enumerates them (Idea of a University, Discourse III. § 7) puts us on the track of it. Intoning them as he would intone a cathedral service, he shows how high is their aesthetic value. It enriches our bare piety to carry these exalted and mysterious verbal additions just as it enriches a church to have an organ and old brasses, marbles and frescoes and stained windows. Epithets lend an atmosphere and overtones to our devotion. They are like a hymn of praise and service of glory, and may sound the more sublime for being incomprehensible. Minds like Newman’s (Newman’s imagination so innately craved an ecclesiastical system that he can write: "From the age of fifteen, dogma has been the fundamental principle of my religion: I know no other religion; I cannot enter into the idea of any other sort of religion." And again, speaking of himself about the age of thirty, he writes "I loved to act as feeling myself in my Bishop’s sight, as if it were the sight of God." Apologia, 1897, pp. 48, 50.) grow as jealous of their credit as heathen priests are of that of the jewelry and ornaments that blaze upon their idols.

Among the buildings-out of religion which the mind spontaneously indulges in, the æsthetic motive must never be forgotten. I promised to say nothing of ecclesiastical systems in these lectures. I may be allowed, however, to put in a word at this point on the way in which their satisfaction of certain aesthetic needs contributes to their hold on human nature. Although some persons aim most at intellectual purity and simplification, for others richness is the supreme imaginative requirement. (The intellectual difference is quite on a par in practical importance with the analogous difference in character. We saw, under the head of Saintliness, how some characters resent confusion and must live in purity, consistency, simplicity. For others, on the contrary, superabundance, over-pressure, stimulation, lots of superficial relations, are indispensable. There are men who would suffer a very syncope if you should pay all their debts, bring it about that their engagements had been kept, their letters answered, their perplexities relieved, and their duties fulfilled, down to one which lay on a clean table under their eyes with nothing to interfere with its immediate performance. A day stripped so startlingly bare would be for them appalling. So with ease, elegance, tributes of affection, social recognitions -- some of us require amounts of these things which to others would appear a mass of lying and sophistication.) When one’s mind is strongly of this type, an individual religion will hardly serve the purpose. The inner need is rather of something institutional and complex, majestic in the hierarchic interrelatedness of its parts, with authority descending from stage to stage, and at every stage objects for adjectives of mystery and splendor, derived in the last resort from the Godhead who is the fountain and culmination of the system. One feels then as if in presence of some vast incrusted work of jewelry or architecture; one hears the multitudinous liturgical appeal; one gets the honorific vibration coming from every quarter. Compared with such a noble complexity, in which ascending and descending movements seem in no way to jar upon stability, in which no single item, however humble, is insignificant, because so many august institutions hold it in its place, how flat does evangelical Protestantism appear, how bare the atmosphere of those isolated religious lives whose boast it is that "man in the bush with God may meet." (In Newman’s Lectures on Justification, Lecture VIII. § 6, there is a splendid passage expressive of this aesthetic way of feeling the Christian scheme. It is unfortunately too long to quote. ) What a pulverization and leveling of what a gloriously piled-up structure! To an imagination used to the perspectives of dignity and glory, the naked gospel scheme seems to offer an almshouse for a palace.

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

The strength of these æsthetic sentiments makes it rigorously impossible, it seems to me, that Protestantism, however superior in Spiritual profundity it may be to Catholicism, should at the present day succeed in making many converts from the more venerable ecclesiasticism. The latter offers a so much richer pasturage and shade to the fancy, has so many cells with so many different kinds of honey, is so indulgent in its multiform appeals to human nature, that Protestantism will always show to Catholic eyes the almshouse physiognomy. The bitter negativity of it is to the Catholic mind incomprehensible. To intellectual Catholics many of the antiquated beliefs and practices to which the Church gives countenance are, if taken literally, as childish as they are to Protestants. But they are childish in the pleasing sense of "childlike," -- innocent and amiable, and worthy to be smiled on in consideration of the undeveloped condition of the dear people’s intellects. To the Protestant, on the contrary, they are childish in the sense of being idiotic falsehoods. He must stamp out their delicate and lovable redundancy, leaving the Catholic to shudder at his literalness. He appears to the latter as morose as if he were some hard-eyed, numb, monotonous kind of reptile. The two will never understand each other- their centres of emotional energy are too different. Rigorous truth and human nature’s intricacies are always in need of a mutual interpreter. (Compare the informality of Protestantism, where the "meek lover of the good," alone with his God, visits the sick, etc., for their own sakes, with the elaborate "business" that goes on in Catholic devotion, and carries with it the social excitement of all more complex businesses. An essentially worldly-minded Catholic woman can become a visitor of the sick on purely coquettish principles, with her confessor and director, her "merit" storing up, her patron saints, her privileged relation to the Almighty, drawing his attention as a professional devote, her definite "exercises," and her definitely recognized social pose in the organization.) So much for the æsthetic diversities in the religious consciousness.

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

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

In regard to Confession I will also be most brief, saying my word about it psychologically, not historically. Not nearly as widespread as sacrifice, it corresponds to a more inward and moral stage of sentiment. It is part of the general system of purgation and cleansing which one feels one’s self in need of, in order to be in right relations to one’s deity. For him who confesses, shams are over and realities have begun; he has exteriorized his rottenness If he has not actually got rid of it, he at least no longer smears it over with a hypocritical show of virtue -- he lives at least upon a basis of veracity. The complete decay of the practice of confession in Anglo-Saxon communities is a little hard to account for. Reaction against popery is of course the historic explanation, for in popery confession went with penances and absolution, and other inadmissible practices. But on the side of the sinner himself it seems as if the need ought to have been too great to accept so summary a refusal of its satisfaction. One would think that in more men the shell of secrecy would have had to open, the pent-in abscess to burst and gain relief, even though the ear that heard the confession were unworthy. The Catholic church, for obvious utilitarian reasons, has substituted auricular confession to one priest for the more radical act of public confession. We English-speaking Protestants, in the general self-reliance and unsociability of our nature, seem to find it enough if we take God alone into our confidence. (A fuller discussion of confession is contained in the excellent work by Frank Granger: The Soul of a Christian, London, 1900, ch. xii.)

The next topic on which I must comment is Prayer -- and this time it must be less briefly. We have heard much talk of late against prayer, especially against prayers for better weather and for the recovery of sick people. As regards prayers for the sick, if any medical fact can be considered to stand firm, it is that in certain environments prayer may contribute to recovery, and should be encouraged as a therapeutic measure. Being a normal factor of moral health in the person, its omission would be deleterious. The case of the weather is different. Notwithstanding the recency of the opposite belief, (Example: "The minister at Sudbury, being at the Thursday lecture in Boston, heard the officiating clergyman praying for rain. As soon as the service was over, he went to the petitioner and said, ‘You Boston ministers, as soon as a tulip wilts under your windows, go to church and pray for rain, until all Concord and Sudbury are under water.’" R.W. Emerson: Lectures and Biographical Sketches, p. 363.) every one now knows that droughts and storms follow from physical antecedents, and that moral appeals cannot avert them. But petitional prayer is only one department of prayer; and if we take the word in the wider sense as meaning every kind of inward communion or conversation with the power recognized as divine, we can easily see that scientific criticism leaves it untouched.

Prayer in this wide sense is the very soul and essence of religion. "Religion," says a liberal French theologian, "is an intercourse, a conscious and voluntary relation, entered into by a soul in distress with the mysterious power upon which it feels itself to depend, and upon which its fate is contingent. This intercourse with God is realized by prayer. Prayer is religion in act; that is, prayer is real religion. It is prayer that distinguishes the religious phenomenon from such similar or neighboring phenomena as purely moral or aesthetic sentiment. Religion is nothing if it be not the vital act by which the entire mind seeks to save itself by clinging to the principle from which it draws its life. This act is prayer, by which term I understand no vain exercise of words, no mere repetition of certain sacred formulæ, but the very movement itself of the soul, putting itself in a personal relation of contact with the mysterious power of which it feels the presence -- it may be even before it has a name by which to call it. Wherever this interior prayer is lacking, there is no religion; wherever, on the other hand, this prayer rises and stirs the soul, even in the absence of forms or of doctrines, we have living religion. One sees from this why "natural religion, so-called, is not properly a religion. It cuts man off from prayer. It leaves him and God in mutual remoteness, with no intimate commerce, no interior dialogue, no interchange, no action of God in man, no return of man to God. At bottom this pretended religion is only a philosophy. Born at epochs of rationalism, of critical investigations, it never was anything but an abstraction. An artificial and dead creation, it reveals to its examiner hardly one of the characters proper to religion." (Auguste Sabatier: Esquisse d’une Philosophie de la Religion, 2me éd., 1897, pp. 24-26, abridged.)

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

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

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

"I am glad that you have asked me about prayer, because I have rather strong ideas on the subject. First consider what are the facts. There exists around us a spiritual universe, and that universe is in actual relation with the material. From the spiritual universe comes the energy which maintains the material; the energy which makes the life of each individual spirit. Our spirits are supported by a perpetual indrawal of this energy, and the vigor of that indrawal is perpetually changing, much as the vigor of our absorption of material nutriment changes from hour to hour.

"I call these ‘facts’ because I think that some scheme of this kind is the only one consistent with our actual evidence; too complex to summarize here. How, then, should we act on these facts? Plainly we must endeavor to draw in as much spiritual life as possible, and we must place our minds in any attitude which experience shows to be favorable to such indrawal. Prayer is the general name for that attitude of open and earnest expectancy. If we then ask to whom to pray, the answer (strangely enough) must be that that does not much matter. The prayer is not indeed a purely subjective thing; -- it means a real increase in intensity of absorption of spiritual power or grace; -- but we do not know enough of what takes place in the spiritual world to know how the prayer operates; who is cognizant of it, or through what channel the grace is given. Better let children pray to Christ, who is at any rate the highest individual spirit of whom we have any knowledge. But it would be rash to say that Christ himself hears us; while to say that God hears us is merely to restate the first principle -- that grace flows in from the infinite spiritual world."

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

His method was to let his general wants be publicly known, but not to acquaint other people with the details of his temporary necessities. For the relief of the latter, he prayed directly to the Lord, believing that sooner or later prayers are always answered if one have trust enough. "When I lose such a thing as a key," he writes, "I ask the Lord to direct me to it, and I look for an answer to my prayer; when a person with whom I have made an appointment does not come, according to the fixed time, and I begin to be inconvenienced by it, I ask the Lord to be pleased to hasten him to me, and I look for an answer; when I do not understand a passage of the word of God, I lift up my heart to the Lord that he would be pleased by his Holy Spirit to instruct me, and I expect to be taught, though I do not fix the time when, and the manner how it should be; when I am going to minister in the Word, I seek help from the Lord, and... am not cast down, but of good cheer because I look for his assistance." -

Müller’s custom was to never run up bills, not even for a week. "As the Lord deals out to us by the day,... the week’s payment might become due and we have no money to meet it; and thus those with whom we deal might be inconvenienced by us, and we be found acting against the commandment of the Lord: ‘Owe no man anything.’ From this day and henceforward whilst the Lord gives to us our supplies by the day, we purpose to pay at once for every article as it is purchased, and never to buy anything except we can pay for it at once, however much it may seem to be needed, and however much those with whom we deal may wish to be paid only by the week."

The articles needed of which Müller speaks were the food, fuel, etc., of his orphanages. Somehow, near as they often come to going without a meal, they hardly ever seem actually to have done so." Greater and more manifest nearness of the Lord’s presence I have never had than when after breakfast there were no means for dinner for more than a hundred persons; or when after dinner there were no means for the tea, and yet the Lord provided the tea; and all this without one single human being having been informed about our need.... Through Grace my mind is so fully assured of the faithfulness of the Lord, that in the midst of the greatest need, I am enabled in peace to go about my other work. Indeed, did not the Lord give me this, which is the result of trusting in him, I should scarcely be able to work at all; for it is now comparatively a rare thing that a day comes when I am not in need for one or another part of the work." (The Life of Trust; Being a Narrative of the Lord’s Dealings with George Müller, New American edition, N.Y., Crowell, pp. 228, 194, 219.)

In building his orphanages simply by prayer and faith, Müller affirms that his prime motive was "to have something to point to as a visible proof that our God and Father is the same faithful God that he ever was,- as willing as ever to prove himself the living God, in our day as formerly, to all that put their trust in him." (Ibid., p. 126.) For this reason be refused to borrow money for any of his enterprises. "How does it work when we thus anticipate God by going our own way? We certainly weaken faith instead of increasing it; and each time we work thus a deliverance of our own we find it more and more difficult to trust in God, till at last we give way entirely to our natural fallen reason and unbelief prevails. How different if one is enabled to wait God’s own time, and to look alone to him for help and deliverance! When at last help comes, after many seasons of prayer it may be, how sweet it is, and what a present recompense! Dear Christian reader, if you have never walked in this path of obedience before, do so now, and you will then know experimentally the sweetness of the joy which results from it." (Op. cit., p. 383, abridged.)

When the supplies came in but slowly, Müller always considered that this was for the trial of his faith and patience. When his faith and patience had been sufficiently tried, the Lord would send more means. "And thus it has proved,"-- I quote from his diary -- "for to-day was given me the sum of 2050 pounds, of which 2000 are for the building fund [of a certain house], and 50 for present necessities. It is impossible to describe my joy in God when I received this donation. I was neither excited nor surprised; for I look out for answers to my prayers. I believe that God hears me. Yet my heart was so full of joy that I could only sit before God, and admire him, like David in 2 Samuel vii. At last I cast myself flat down upon my face and burst forth in thanksgiving to God and in surrendering my heart afresh to him for his blessed service." (Ibid., p. 323.)

George Müller’s is a case extreme in every respect, and in no respect more so than in the extraordinary narrowness of the man’s intellectual horizon. His God was, as he often said, his business partner. He seems to have been for Müller little more than a sort of supernatural clergyman interested in the congregation of tradesmen and others in Bristol who were his saints, and in the orphanages and other enterprises, but unpossessed of any of those vaster and wilder and more ideal attributes with which the human imagination elsewhere has invested him. Müller, in short, was absolutely unphilosophical. His intensely private and practical conception of his relations with the Deity continued the traditions of the most primitive human thought. (I cannot resist the temptation of quoting an expression of an even more primitive style of religious thought, which I find in Arber’s English Garland, vol. vii. p. 440. Robert Lyde, an English sailor, along with an English boy, being prisoners on a French ship in 1689, set upon the crew, of seven Frenchmen, killed two, made the other five prisoners, and brought home the ship. Lyde thus describes how in this feat he found his God a very present help in time of trouble: --

"With the assistance of God I kept my feet when they three and one more did strive to throw me down. Feeling the Frenchman which hung about my middle hang very heavy, I said to the boy, ‘Go round the binnacle, and knock down that man that hangeth on my back.’ So the boy did strike him one blow on the head which made him fall. . . . Then I looked about for a marlin spike or anything else to strike them withal. But seeing nothing, I said, ‘Lord! what shall I do?’ Then casting up my eye upon my left side, and seeing a marlin spike hanging, I jerked my right arm and took hold, and struck the point four times about a quarter of an inch deep into the skull of that man that had hold of my left arm. [One of the Frenchmen then hauled the marlin spike away from him.] But through God’s wonderful providence! it either fell out of his hand, or else he threw it down, and at this time the Almighty God gave me strength enough to take one man in one hand, and throw at the other’s head: and looking about again to see anything to strike them withal, but seeing nothing, I said, ‘Lord! what shall I do now?’ And then it pleased God to put me in mind of my knife in my pocket. And although two of the men had hold of my right arm, yet God Almighty strengthened me so that I put my right hand into my right pocket, drew out the knife and sheath,... put it between my legs and drew it out, and then cut the man’s throat with it that had his back to my breast: and he immediately dropt down, and scarce ever stirred after." -- I have slightly abridged Lyde’s narrative.) When we compare a mind like his with such a mind as, for example, Emerson’s or Phillips Brooks’s, we see the range which the religious consciousness covers.

There is an immense literature relating to answers to petitional prayer. The evangelical journals are filled with such answers, and books are devoted to the subject, ( As, for instance, In Answer to Prayer, by the Bishop of Ripon and others, London, 1898; Touching Incidents and Remarkable Answers to Prayer, Harrisburg, Pa., 1898 [?]; H.L. Hastings: The Guiding Hand, or Providential Direction, illustrated by Authentic Instances, Boston, 1898 [?]). but for us Müller’s case will suffice.

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

"That books and words (and sometimes people) come to one’s cognizance just at the very moment in which one needs them; that one glides over great dangers as if with shut eyes, remaining ignorant of what would have terrified one or led one astray, until the peril is past- this being especially the case with temptations to vanity and sensuality; that paths on which one ought not to wander are, as it were, hedged off with thorns; but that on the other side great obstacles are suddenly removed; that when the time has come for something, one suddenly receives a courage that formerly failed, or perceives the root of a matter that until then was concealed, or discovers thoughts, talents, yea, even pieces of knowledge and insight, in one’s self, of which it is impossible to say whence they come; finally, that persons help us or decline to help us, favor us or refuse us, as if they had to do so against their will so that often those indifferent or even unfriendly to us yield us the greatest service and furtherance. (God takes often their worldly goods, from those whom he leads, at just the right moment, when they threaten to impede the effort after higher interests.)

"Besides all this, other noteworthy things come to pass, of which it is not easy to give account. There is no doubt whatever that now one walks continually through ‘open doors’ and on the easiest roads, with as little care and trouble as it is possible to imagine.

"Furthermore one finds one’s self settling one’s affairs neither too early nor too late, whereas they were wont to be spoiled by untimeliness, even when the preparations had been well laid. In addition to this, one does them with perfect tranquility of mind, almost as if they were matters of no consequence, like errands done by us for another person, in which case we usually act more calmly than when we act in our own concerns. Again, one finds that one can wait for everything patiently, and that is one of life’s great arts. One finds also that each thing comes duly, one thing after the other, so that one gains time to make one’s footing sure before advancing farther. And then everything occurs to us at the right moment, just what we ought to do, etc., and often in a very striking way, just as if a third person were keeping watch over those things which we are in easy danger of forgetting.

"Often, too, persons are sent to us at the right time, to offer or ask for what is needed, and what we should never have had the courage or resolution to undertake of our own accord.

"Through all these experiences one finds that one is kindly and tolerant of other people, even of such as are repulsive, negligent, or ill-willed, for they also are instruments of good in God’s hand, and often most efficient ones. Without these thoughts it would be hard for even the best of us always to keep our equanimity. But with the consciousness of divine guidance, one sees many a thing in life quite differently from what would otherwise be possible.

"All these are things that every human being knows, who has had experience of them; and of which the most speaking examples could be brought forward. The highest resources of worldly wisdom are unable to attain that which, under divine leading, comes to us of its own accord." (C. Hilty: Glück, Dritter Theil, 1900, pp. 92 ff.)

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

Such a spirit was that of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. ("Good Heaven!" says Epictetus, "any one thing in the creation is sufficient to demonstrate a Providence, to a humble and grateful mind. The mere possibility of producing milk from grass, cheese from milk, and wool from skins; who formed and planned it? Ought we not, whether we dig or plough or eat, to sing this hymn to God? Great is God, who has supplied us with these instruments to till the ground; great is God, who has given us hands and instruments of digestion; who has given us to grow insensibly and to breathe in sleep. These things we ought forever to celebrate. . . . But because the most of you are blind and insensible, there must be some one to fill this station, and lead, in behalf of all men, the hymn to God; for what else can I do, a lame old man, but sing hymns to God? Were I a nightingale, I would act the part of a nightingale; were I a swan, the part of a swan. But since I am a reasonable creature, it is my duty to praise God . . . and I call on you to join the same song." Works, book i. ch. xvi., Carter-Higginson translation, abridged.) It is that of mind-curers, of the transcendentalists, and of the so-called "liberal" Christians. As an expression of it, I will quote a page from one of Martineau’s sermons: --

"The universe, open to the eye to-day, looks as it did a thousand years ago: and the morning hymn of Milton does but tell the beauty with which our own familiar sun dressed the earliest fields and gardens of the world. We see what all our fathers saw. And if we cannot find God in your house or in mine, upon the roadside or the margin of the sea; in the bursting seed or opening flower; in the day duty or the night musing; in the general laugh and the secret grief; in the procession of life, ever entering afresh, and solemnly passing by and dropping off; I do not think we should discern him any more on the grass of Eden, or beneath the moonlight of Gethsemane. Depend upon it, it is not the want of greater miracles, but of the soul to perceive such as are allowed us still, that makes us push all the sanctities into the far spaces we cannot reach. The devout feel that wherever God’s hand is, there is miracle: and it is simply an indevoutness which imagines that only where miracle is, can there be the real hand of God. The customs of Heaven ought surely to be more sacred in our eyes than its anomalies; the dear old ways, of which the Most High is never tired, than the strange things which he does not love well enough ever to repeat. And he who will but discern beneath the sun, as he rises any morning, the supporting finger of the Almighty, may recover the sweet and reverent surprise with which Adam gazed on the first dawn in Paradise. It is no outward change, no shifting in time or place; but only the loving meditation of the pure in heart, that can reawaken the Eternal from the sleep within our souls: that can render him a reality again, and reassert for him once more his ancient name of ‘the Living God.’" (James Martineau: end of the sermon ‘Help Thou Mine Unbelief,’ in Endeavours after a Christian Life, 2d series. Compare with this page the extract from Voysey, above, and those from Pascal and Madame Guyon on p. 281.)

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

"If we occupy ourselves in summing up all the mercies and bounties we are privileged to have, we are overwhelmed by their number (so great that we can imagine ourselves unable to give ourselves time even to begin to review the things we may imagine we have not). We sum them and realize that we are actually killed with God’s kindness; that we are surrounded by bounties upon bounties, without which all would fall. Should we not love it; should we not feel buoyed up by the Eternal Arms?"

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

"One day I had a moment of consolation, because I met with something which seemed to me ideally perfect. It was a poor drummer beating the tattoo in the streets of Paris. I walked behind him in returning to the school on the evening of a holiday. His drum gave out the tattoo in such a way that, at that moment at least, however peevish I were, I could find no pretext for fault-finding. It was impossible to conceive more nerve or spirit, better time or measure, more clearness or richness, than were in this drumming. Ideal desire could go no farther in that direction. I was enchanted and consoled; the perfection of this wretched act did me good. Good is at least possible, I said, since the ideal can thus sometimes get embodied." (Souvenirs de ma Jeunesse, 1897, p. 122.)

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

"It was the strongest expression of desire it was the first perfume of the year. I felt all the happiness destined for man. This unutterable harmony of souls, the phantom of the ideal world, arose in me complete. I never felt anything so great or so instantaneous. I know not what shape, what analogy, what secret of relation it was that made me see in this flower a limitless beauty. . . . I shall never inclose in a conception this power, this immensity that nothing will express; this form that nothing will contain; this ideal of a better world which one feels, but which, it seems, nature has not made actual." (Op. cit., Letter XXX.)

We heard in previous lectures of the vivified face of the world as it may appear to converts after their awakening. (Above, Lecture X. Compare the withdrawal of expression from the world, in Melancholiacs, p. 151.) As a rule, religious persons generally assume that whatever natural facts connect themselves in any way with their destiny are significant of the divine purposes with them. Through prayer the purpose, often far from obvious, comes home to them, and if it be "trial," strength to endure the trial is given. Thus at all stages of the prayerful life we find the persuasion that in the process of communion energy from on high flows in to meet demand, and becomes operative within the phenomenal world. So long as this operativeness is admitted to be real, it makes no essential difference whether its immediate effects be subjective or objective. The fundamental religious point is that in prayer, spiritual energy, which otherwise would slumber, does become active, and spiritual work of some kind is effected really.

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

The last aspect of the religious life which remains for me to touch upon is the fact that its manifestations so frequently connect themselves with the subconscious part of our existence. You may remember what I said in my opening lecture about the prevalence of the psychopathic temperament in religious biography. You will in. point of fact hardly find a religious leader of any kind in whose life there is no record of automatisms. I speak not merely of savage priests and prophets, whose followers regard automatic utterance and action as by itself tantamount to inspiration, I speak of leaders of thought and subjects of intellectualized experience. Saint Paul had his visions, his ecstasies, his gift of tongues, small as was the importance he attached to the latter. The whole array of Christian saints and heresiarchs, including the greatest, the Bernards, the Loyolas, the Luthers, the Foxes, the Wesleys, had their visions, voices, rapt conditions, guiding impressions, and "openings." They had these things, because they had exalted sensibility, and to such things persons of exalted sensibility are liable. In such liability there lie, however, consequences for theology. Beliefs are strengthened wherever automatisms corroborate them. Incursions from beyond the transmarginal region have a peculiar power to increase conviction. The inchoate sense of presence is infinitely stronger than conception, but strong as it may be, it is seldom equal to the evidence of hallucination. Saints who actually see or bear their Saviour reach the acme of assurance. Motor automatisms, though rarer, are, if possible, even more convincing than sensations. The subjects here actually feel themselves played upon by powers beyond their will. The evidence is dynamic; the God or spirit moves the very organs of their body. (A friend of mine, a first-rate psychologist, who is a subject of graphic automatism, tells me that the appearance of independent actuation in the movements of his arm, when he writes automatically, is so distinct that it obliges him to abandon a psychophysical theory which he had previously believed in, the theory, namely, that we have no feeling of the discharge downwards of our voluntary motor-centres. We must normally have such a feeling, he thinks, or the sense of an absence would not be so striking as it is in these experiences. Graphic automatism of a fully developed kind is rare in religious history, so far as my knowledge goes. Such statements as Antonia Bourignon’s, that "I do nothing but lend my hand and spirit to another power than mine," is shown by the context to indicate inspiration rather than directly automatic writing. In some eccentric sects this latter occurs. The most striking instance of it is probably the bulky volume called, "Oahspe, a new Bible in the Words of Jehovah and his angel ambassadors," Boston and London, 1891, written and illustrated automatically by Dr. Newbrough of New York, whom I understand to be now, or to have been lately, at the head of the spiritistic community of Shalam in New Mexico. The latest automatically written book which has come under my notice is "Zertoulem’s Wisdom of the Ages," by George A. Fuller, Boston, 1901.)

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

"How, one after another, the same features are reproduced in the prophetic books. The process is always extremely different from what it would be if the prophet arrived at his insight into spiritual things by the tentative efforts of his own genius. There is something sharp and sudden about it. He can lay his finger, so to speak, on the moment when it came. And it always comes in the form of an overpowering force from without, against which he struggles, but in vain. Listen, for instance, [to] the opening of the book of Jeremiah. Read through in like manner the first two chapters of the prophecy of Ezekiel.

"It is not, however, only at the beginning of his career that the prophet passes through a crisis which is clearly not self-caused. Scattered all through the prophetic writings are expressions which speak of some strong and irresistible impulse coming down upon the prophet, determining his attitude to the events of his time, constraining his utterance, making his words the vehicle of a higher meaning than their own. For instance, this of Isaiah’s: ‘The Lord spake thus to me with a strong hand,’-- an emphatic phrase which denotes the overmastering nature of the impulse -- ‘and instructed me that I should not walk in the way of this people.’. . . Or passages like this from Ezekiel: ‘The hand of the Lord God fell upon me,’ ‘The hand of the Lord God was strong upon me.’ The one standing characteristic of prophet is that he speaks with the authority of Jehovah himself. Hence it is that the prophets one and all preface their addresses so confidently, ‘The Word of the Lord,’ or ‘Thus saith the Lord.’ They have even the audacity to speak in the first person, as if Jehovah himself were speaking. As in Isaiah: ‘Hearken unto me, O Jacob, and Israel my called; I am He, I am the First, I also am the last,’-- and so on. The personality of the prophet sinks entirely into the background; he feels himself for the time being the mouthpiece of the Almighty." (W. Sanday: The Oracles of God, London, 1892, pp. 49-56, abridged.)

"We need to remember that prophecy was a profession, and that the prophets formed a professional class. There were schools of the prophets, in which the gift was regularly cultivated. A group of young men would gather round some commanding figure -- a Samuel or an Elisha -- and would not only record or spread the knowledge of his sayings and doings, but seek to catch themselves something of his inspiration. It seems that music played its part in their exercises. . . . It is perfectly clear that by no means all of these Sons of the prophets ever succeeded in acquiring more than a very small share in the gift which they sought. It was clearly possible to ‘counterfeit’ prophecy. Sometimes this was done deliberately. . . . But it by no means follows that in all cases where a false message was given, the giver of it was altogether conscious of what he was doing." (Op. cit., p. 91. This author also cites Moses’s and Isaiah’s commissions, given in Exodus, chaps. iii. and iv., and Isaiah, chap. vi.)

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

"Sometimes, when I have come to my work empty, I have suddenly become full; ideas being in an invisible manner showered upon me, and implanted in me from on high; so that through the influence of divine inspiration, I have become greatly excited, and have known neither the place in which I was, nor those who were present, nor myself, nor what I was saying, nor what I was writing; for then I have been conscious of a richness of interpretation, an enjoyment of light, a most penetrating insight, a most manifest energy in all that was to be done; having such effect on my mind as the clearest ocular demonstration would have on the eyes." (Quoted by Augustus Clissold: The Prophetic Spirit in Genius and Madness, 1870, p. 67. Mr. Clissold is a Swedenborgian. Swedenborg’s case is of course the palmary one of audita et visa, serving as a basis of religious revelation.)

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

"Mohammed is said to have answered that sometimes he heard a knell as from a bell, and that this had the strongest effect on him; and when the angel went away, he had received the revelation. Sometimes again he held converse with the angel as with a man, so as easily to understand his words. The later authorities, however,... distinguish still other kinds. In the Itgân (103) the following are enumerated: 1, revelations with sound of bell, 2, by inspiration of the holy spirit in M.’s heart, 3, by Gabriel in human form, 4, by God immediately, either when awake (as in his journey to heaven) or in dream. . . . In Almawâhib alladunîya the kinds are thus given: 1, Dream, 2, Inspiration of Gabriel in the Prophet’s heart, 3, Gabriel taking Dahya’s form, 4, with the bell-sound, etc., 5, Gabriel in propria persona (only twice), 6, revelation in heaven, 7, God appearing in person, but veiled, 8, God revealing himself immediately without veil. Others add two other stages, namely: 1, Gabriel in the form of still another man, 2, God showing himself personally in dream." (Nöldeke, Geschichte des Qorâns, 1860, p. 16. Compare the fuller account in Sir William Muir’s Life of Mahomet, 3d ed., 1894, ch. iii.)

In none of these cases is the revelation distinctly motor. In the case of Joseph Smith (who had prophetic revelations innumerable in addition to the revealed translation of the gold plates which resulted in the Book of Mormon), although there may have been a motor element, the inspiration seems to have been predominantly sensorial. He began his translation by the aid of the "peepstones" which he found, or thought or said that he found, with the gold plates -- apparently a case of "crystal gazing." For some of the other revelations he used the peep-stones, but seems generally to have asked the Lord for more direct instruction. (The Mormon theocracy has always been governed by direct revelations accorded to the President of the Church and its Apostles. From an obliging letter written to me in 1899 by an eminent Mormon, I quote the following extract: --

"It may be very interesting for you to know that the President [Mr. Snow] of the Mormon Church claims to have had a number of revelations very recently from heaven. To explain fully what these revelations are, it is necessary to know that we, as a people, believe that the Church of Jesus Christ has again been established through messengers sent from heaven. This Church has at its head a prophet, seer, and revelator, who gives to man God’s holy will. Revelation is the means through which the will of God is declared directly and in fullness to man. These revelations are got through dreams of sleep or in waking visions of the mind, by voices without visional appearance or by actual manifestations of the Holy Presence before the eye. We believe that God has come in person and spoken to our prophet and revelator.")

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

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

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

Lecture 18: Philosophy

The subject of Saintliness left us face to face with the question, Is the sense of divine presence a sense of anything objectively true? We turned first to mysticism for an answer, and found that although mysticism is entirely willing to corroborate religion, it is too private (and also too various) in its utterances to be able to claim a universal authority. But philosophy publishes results which claim to be universally valid if they are valid at all, so we now turn with our question to philosophy. Can philosophy stamp a warrant of veracity upon the religious man’s sense of the divine?

I imagine that many of you at this point begin to indulge in guesses at the goal to which I am tending. I have undermined the authority of mysticism, you say, and the next thing I shall probably do is to seek to discredit that of philosophy. Religion, you expect to hear me conclude, is nothing but an affair of faith, based either on vague sentiment, or on that vivid sense of the reality of things unseen of which in my second lecture and in the lecture on Mysticism I gave so many examples. It is essentially private and individualistic; it always exceeds our powers of formulation; and although attempts to pour its contents into a philosophic mould will probably always go on, men being what they are, yet these attempts are always secondary processes which in no way add to the authority, or warrant the veracity, of the sentiments from which they derive their own stimulus and borrow whatever glow of conviction they may themselves possess. In short, you suspect that I am planning to defend feeling at the expense of reason, to rehabilitate the primitive and unreflective, and to dissuade you from the hope of any Theology worthy of the name.

To a certain extent I have to admit that you guess rightly. I do believe that feeling is the deeper source of religion, and that philosophic and theological formulas are secondary products, like translations of a text into another tongue. But all such statements are misleading from their brevity, and it will take the whole hour for me to explain to you exactly what I mean.

When I call theological formulas secondary products, I mean that in a world in which no religious feeling had ever existed, I doubt whether any philosophic theology could ever have been framed. I doubt if dispassionate intellectual contemplation of the universe, apart from inner unhappiness and need of deliverance on the one hand and mystical emotion on the other, would ever have resulted in religious philosophies such as we now possess. Men would have begun with animistic explanations of natural fact, and criticized these away into scientific ones, as they actually have done. In the science they would have left a certain amount of "psychical research," even as they now will probably have to re-admit a certain amount. But high-flying speculations like those of either dogmatic or idealistic theology, these they would have had no motive to venture on, feeling no need of commerce with such deities. These speculations must, it seems to me, be classed as over-beliefs, buildings-out performed by the intellect into directions of which feeling originally supplied the hint.

But even if religious philosophy had to have its first hint supplied by feeling, may it not have dealt in a superior way with the matter which feeling suggested? Feeling is private and dumb, and unable to give an account of itself. It allows that its results are mysteries and enigmas, declines to justify them rationally, and on occasion is willing that they should even pass for paradoxical and absurd. Philosophy takes just the opposite attitude. Her aspiration is to reclaim from mystery and paradox whatever territory she touches. To find an escape from obscure and wayward personal persuasion to truth objectively valid for all thinking men has ever been the intellect’s most cherished ideal. To redeem religion from unwholesome privacy, and to give public status and universal right of way to its deliverances, has been reason’s task.

I believe that philosophy will always have opportunity to labor at this task. (Compare Professor W. Wallace’s Gifford Lectures, in Lectures and Essays, Oxford, 1898, pp. 17 ff.) We are thinking beings, and we cannot exclude the intellect from participating in any of our functions. Even in soliloquizing with ourselves, we construe our feelings intellectually. Both our personal ideals and our religious and mystical experiences must be interpreted congruously with the kind of scenery which our thinking mind inhabits. The philosophic climate of our time inevitably forces its own clothing on us. Moreover, we must exchange our feelings with one another, and in doing so we have to speak, and to use general and abstract verbal formulas. Conceptions and constructions are thus a necessary part of our religion; and as moderator amid the clash of hypotheses, and mediator among the criticisms of one man’s constructions by another, philosophy will always have much to do. It would be strange if I disputed this, when these very lectures which I am giving are (as you will see more clearly from now onwards) a laborious attempt to extract from the privacies of religious experience some general facts which can be defined in formulas upon which everybody may agree.

Religious experience, in other words, spontaneously and inevitably engenders myths, superstitions, dogmas, creeds, and metaphysical theologies, and criticisms of one set of these by the adherents of another. Of late, impartial classifications and comparisons have become possible, alongside of the denunciations and anæthemas by which the commerce between creeds used exclusively to be carried on. We have the beginnings of a "Science of Religions," so-called; and if these lectures could ever be accounted a crumb-like contribution to such a science, I should be made very happy.

But all these intellectual operations, whether they be constructive or comparative and critical, presuppose immediate experiences as their subject-matter. They are interpretative and inductive operations, operations after the fact, consequent upon religious feeling, not coordinate with it, not independent of what it ascertains.

The intellectualism in religion which I wish to discredit pretends to be something altogether different from this. It assumes to construct religious objects out of the resources of logical reason alone, or of logical reason drawing rigorous inference from non-subjective facts. It calls its conclusions dogmatic theology, or philosophy of the absolute, as the case may be; it does not call them science of religions. It reaches them in an a priori way, and warrants their veracity.

Warranted systems have ever been the idols of aspiring souls. All-inclusive, yet simple; noble, clean, luminous, stable, rigorous, true; -- what more ideal refuge could there be than such a system would offer to spirits vexed by the muddiness and accidentally of the world of sensible things? Accordingly, we find inculcated in the theological schools of to-day, almost as much as in those of the fore-time, a disdain for merely possible or probable truth, and of results that only private assurance can grasp. Scholastics and idealists both express this disdain. Principal John Caird, for example, writes as follows in his Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion: --

"Religion must indeed be a thing of the heart; but in order to elevate it from the region of subjective caprice and waywardness, and to distinguish between that which is true and false in religion, we must appeal to an objective standard. That which enters the heart must first be discerned by the intelligence to be true. It must be seen as having in its own nature a right to dominate feeling, and as constituting the principle by which feeling must be judged. (Op. cit., p. 174, abridged.) In estimating the religious character of individuals, nations, or races, the first question is, not how they feel, but what they think and believe -- not whether their religion is one which manifests itself in emotions, more or less vehement and enthusiastic, but what are the conceptions of God and divine things by which these emotions are called forth. Feeling is necessary in religion, but it is by the content or intelligent basis of a religion, and not by feeling, that its character and worth are to be determined." (Ibid., p. 186, abridged.)

Cardinal Newman, in his work, The Idea of a University, gives more emphatic expression still to this disdain for sentiment. (Discourse II. § 7.) Theology, he says, is a science in the strictest sense of the word. I will tell you, he says, what it is not -- not ‘physical evidences’ for God, not ‘natural religion,’ for these are but vague subjective interpretations: --

"If," he continues, "the Supreme Being is powerful or skillful, just so far as the telescope shows power, or the microscope shows skill, if his moral law is to be ascertained simply by the physical processes of the animal frame, or his will gathered from the immediate issues of human affairs, if his Essence is just as high and deep and broad as the universe and no more; if this be the fact, then will I confess that there is no specific science about God, that theology is but a name, and a protest in its behalf an hypocrisy. Then, pious as it is to think of Him, while the pageant of experiment or abstract reasoning passes by, still such piety is nothing more than a poetry of thought, or an ornament of language, a certain view taken of Nature which one man has and another has not, which gifted minds strike out, which others see to be admirable and ingenious, and which all would be the better for adopting. It is but the theology of Nature, just as we talk of the philosophy or the romance of history, or the poetry of childhood, or the picturesque or the sentimental or the humorous, or any other abstract quality which the genius or the caprice of the individual, or the fashion of the day, or the consent of the world, recognizes in any set of objects which are subjected to its contemplation. I do not see much difference between avowing that there is no God, and implying that nothing definite can be known for certain about Him."

What I mean by Theology, continues Newman, is none of these things: "I simply mean the Science of God, or the truths we know about God, put into a system, just as we have a science of the stars and call it astronomy, or of the crust of the earth and call it geology."

In both these extracts we have the issue clearly set before us: Feeling valid only for the individual is pitted against reason valid universally. The test is a perfectly plain one of fact. Theology based on pure reason must in point of fact convince men universally. If it did not, wherein would its superiority consist? If it only formed sects and schools, even as sentiment and mysticism form them, how would it fulfill its programme of freeing us from personal caprice and waywardness? This perfectly definite practical test of the pretensions of philosophy to found religion on universal reason simplifies my procedure today. I need not discredit philosophy by laborious criticism of its arguments. It will suffice if I show that as a matter of history it fails to prove its pretension to be "objectively" convincing. In fact, philosophy does so fail. It does not banish differences; it founds schools and sects just as feeling does. I believe, in fact, that the logical reason of man operates in this field of divinity exactly as it has always operated in love, or in patriotism, or in politics, or in any other of the wider affairs of life, in which our passions or our mystical intuitions fix our beliefs beforehand. It finds arguments for our conviction, for indeed it has to find them. It amplifies and defines our faith, and dignifies it and lends it words and plausibility. It hardly ever engenders it; it cannot now secure it. (As regards the secondary character of intellectual constructions, and the primacy of feeling and instinct in founding religious beliefs, see the striking work of H. Fielding, The Hearts of Men, London, 1902, which came into my hands after my text was written. "Creeds," says the author, "are the grammar of religion, they are to religion what grammar is to speech. Words are the expression of our wants; grammar is the theory formed afterwards. Speech never proceeded from grammar, but the reverse. As speech progresses and changes from unknown causes, grammar must follow" (p. 313). The whole book, which keeps unusually close to concrete facts, is little more than an amplification of this text.)

Lend me your attention while I run through some of the points of the older systematic theology. You find them in both Protestant and Catholic manuals, best of all in the innumerable text-books published since Pope Leo’s Encyclical recommending the study of Saint Thomas. I glance first at the arguments by which dogmatic theology establishes God’s existence, after that at those by which it establishes his nature. (For convenience’ sake, I follow the order of A. Stockl’s Lehrbuch der Philosophie, 5te Auflage, Mainz, 1881, Band ii. B. Boedder’s Natural Theology, London, 1891, is a handy English Catholic Manual; but an almost identical doctrine is given by such Protestant theologians as C. Hodge: Systematic Theology, New York, 1873, or A.H. Strong: Systematic Theology, 5th edition, New York, 1896.)

The arguments for God’s existence have stood for hundreds of years with the waves of unbelieving criticism breaking against them, never totally discrediting them in the ears of the faithful, but on the whole slowly and surely washing out the mortar from between their joints. If you have a God already whom you believe in, these arguments confirm you. If you are atheistic, they fail to set you right. The proofs are various. The "cosmological" one, so-called, reasons from the contingence of the world to a First Cause which must contain whatever perfections the world itself contains. The "argument from design" reasons, from the fact that Nature’s laws are mathematical, and her parts benevolently adapted to each other, that this cause is both intellectual and benevolent. The "moral argument" is that the moral law presupposes a lawgiver. The "argument ex consensu gentium" is that the belief in God is so widespread as to be grounded in the rational nature of man, and should therefore carry authority with it.

As I just said, I will not discuss these arguments technically. The bare fact that all idealists since Kant have felt entitled either to scout or to neglect them shows that they are not solid enough to serve as religion’s all-sufficient foundation. Absolutely impersonal reasons would be in duty bound to show more general convincingness. Causation is indeed too obscure a principle to bear the weight of the whole structure of theology. As for the argument from design, see how Darwinian ideas have revolutionized it. Conceived as we now conceive them, as so many fortunate escapes from almost limitless processes of destruction, the benevolent adaptations which we find in Nature suggest a deity very different from the one who figured in the earlier versions of the argument.

(It must not be forgotten that any form of disorder in the world might, by the design argument, suggest a God for just that kind of disorder. The truth is that any state of things whatever that can be named is logically susceptible of teleological interpretation. The ruins of the earthquake at Lisbon, for example: the whole of past history had to be planned exactly as it was to bring about in the fullness of time just that particular arrangement of debris of masonry, furniture, and once living bodies. No other train of causes would have been sufficient. And so of any other arrangement, bad or good, which might as a matter of fact be found resulting anywhere from previous conditions. To avoid such pessimistic consequences and save its beneficent designer, the design argument accordingly invokes two other principles, restrictive in their operation. The first is physical: Nature’s forces tend of their own accord only to disorder and destruction, to heaps of ruins, not to architecture. This principle, though plausible at first sight, seems, in the light of recent biology, to be more and more improbable. The second principle is one of anthropomorphic interpretation. No arrangement that for us is "disorderly" can possibly have been an object of design at all. This principle is of course a mere assumption in the interests of anthropomorphic Theism.

When one views the world with no definite theological bias one way or the other, one sees that order and disorder, as we now recognize them, are purely human inventions. We are interested in certain types of arrangement, useful, aesthetic, or moral -- so interested that whenever we find them realized, the fact emphatically rivets our attention. The result is that we work over the contents of the world selectively. It is overflowing with disorderly arrangements from our point of view, but order is the only thing we care for and look at, and by choosing, one can always find some sort of orderly arrangement in the midst of any chaos. If I should throw down a thousand beans at random upon a table, I could doubtless, by eliminating a sufficient number of them, leave the rest in almost any geometrical pattern you might propose to me, and you might then say that that pattern was the thing prefigured beforehand, and that the other beans were mere irrelevance and packing material. Our dealings with Nature are just like this. She is a vast plenum in which our attention draws capricious lines in innumerable directions. We count and name whatever lies upon the special lines we trace, whilst the other things and the untraced lines are neither named nor counted. There are in reality infinitely more things "unadapted" to each other in this world than there are things "adapted’; infinitely more things with irregular relations than with regular relations between them. But we look for the regular kind of thing exclusively, and ingeniously discover and preserve it in our memory. It accumulates with other regular kinds, until the collection of them fills our encyclopedias. Yet all the while between and around them lies an infinite anonymous chaos of objects that no one ever thought of together, of relations that never yet attracted our attention.

The facts of order from which the physico-theological argument starts are thus easily susceptible of interpretation as arbitrary human products. So long as this is the case, although of course no argument against God follows, it follows that the argument for him will fail to constitute a knock-down proof of his existence. It will be convincing only to those who on other grounds believe in him already.)

The fact is that these arguments do but follow the combined suggestions of the facts and of our feeling. They prove nothing rigorously. They only corroborate our pre-existent partialities.

If philosophy can do so little to establish God’s existence, how stands it with her efforts to define his attributes? It is worth while to look at the attempts of systematic theology in this direction.

Since God is First Cause, this science of sciences says, he differs from all his creatures in possessing existence a se. From this "a-se-ity" on God’s part, theology deduces by mere logic most of his other perfections. For instance, he must be both necessary and absolute, cannot not be, and cannot in any way be determined by anything else. This makes Him absolutely unlimited from without, and unlimited also from within; for limitation is non-being; and God is being itself. This unlimitedness makes God infinitely perfect. Moreover, God is One, and Only, for the infinitely perfect can admit no peer. He is Spiritual, for were He composed of physical parts, some other power would have to combine them into the total, and his aseity would thus be contradicted. He is therefore both simple and non-physical in nature. He is simple metaphysically also, that is to say, his nature and his existence cannot be distinct, as they are in finite substances which share their formal natures with one another, and are individual only in their material aspect. Since God is one and only, his essentia and his esse must be given at one stroke. This excludes from his being all those distinctions, so familiar in the world of finite things, between potentiality and actuality, substance and accidents, being and activity, existence and attributes. We can talk, it is true, of God’s powers, acts, and attributes, but these discriminations are only "virtual," and made from the human point of view. In God all these points of view fall into an absolute identity of being.

This absence of all potentiality in God obliges Him to be immutable. He is actuality, through and through. Were there anything potential about Him, He would either lose or gain by its actualization, and either loss or gain would contradict his perfection. He cannot, therefore, change. Furthermore, He is immense, boundless; for could He be outlined in space, He would be composite, and this would contradict his indivisibility. He is therefore omnipresent, indivisibly there, at every point of space. He is similarly wholly present at every point of time -- in other words eternal. For if He began in time, He would need a prior cause, and that would contradict his aseity. If He ended, it would contradict his necessity. If He went through any succession, it would contradict his immutability.

He has intelligence and will and every other creature-perfection, for we have them, and effectus nequit superare causam. In Him, however, they are absolutely and eternally in act, and their object, since God can be bounded by naught that is external, can primarily be nothing else than God himself. He knows himself, then, in one eternal indivisible act, and wills himself with an infinite self-pleasure. (For the scholastics the facultas appetendi embraces feeling, desire, and will.) Since He must of logical necessity thus love and will himself, He cannot be called "free" ad intra, with the freedom of contrarieties that characterizes finite creatures. Ad extra, however, or with respect to his creation, God is free. He cannot need to create, being perfect in being and in happiness already. He wills to create, then, by an absolute freedom.

Being thus a substance endowed with intellect and will and freedom, God is a person; and a living person also, for He is both object and subject of his own activity, and to be this distinguishes the living from the lifeless. He is thus absolutely self-sufficient: his self-knowledge and self-love are both of them infinite and adequate, and need no extraneous conditions to perfect them.

He is omniscient, for in knowing himself as Cause He knows all creature things and events by implication. His knowledge is previsive, for He is present to all time. Even our free acts are known beforehand to Him, for otherwise his wisdom would admit of successive moments of enrichment, and this would contradict his immutability. He is omnipotent for everything that does not involve logical contradiction. He can make being -- in other words his power includes creation. If what He creates were made of his own substance, it would have to be infinite in essence, as that substance is; but it is finite: so it must be non-divine in substance. If it were made of a substance, an eternally existing matter, for example, which God found there to his hand, and to which He simply gave its form, that would contradict God’s definition as First Cause, and make Him a mere mover of something caused already. The things he creates, then, He creates ex nihilo, and gives them absolute being as so many finite substances additional to himself. The forms which he imprints upon them have their prototypes in his ideas. But as in God there is no such thing as multiplicity, and as these ideas for us are manifold, we must distinguish the ideas as they are in God and the way in which our minds externally imitate them. We must attribute them to Him only in a terminative sense, as differing aspects, from the finite point of view, of his unique essence.

God of course is holy, good, and just. He can do no evil, for He is positive being’s fullness, and evil is negation. It is true that He has created physical evil in places, but only as a means of wider good, for bonum totius præeminet bonum partis. Moral evil He cannot will, either as end or means, for that would contradict his holiness. By creating free beings He permits it only, neither his justice nor his goodness obliging Him to prevent the recipients of freedom from misusing the gift.

As regards God’s purpose in creating, primarily it can only have been to exercise his absolute freedom by the manifestation to others of his glory. From this it follows that the others must be rational beings, capable in the first place of knowledge, love, and honor, and in the second place of happiness, for the knowledge and love of God is the mainspring of felicity. In so far forth one may say that God’s secondary purpose in creating is love.

I will not weary you by pursuing these metaphysical determinations farther, into the mysteries of God’s Trinity, for example. What I have given will serve as a specimen of the orthodox philosophical theology of both Catholics and Protestants. Newman, filled with enthusiasm at God’s list of perfections, continues the passage which I began to quote to you by a couple of pages of a rhetoric so magnificent that I can hardly refrain from adding them, in spite of the inroad they would make upon our time. (Op. cit., Discourse III. § 7.) He first enumerates God’s attributes sonorously, then celebrates his ownership of everything in earth and Heaven, and the dependence of all that happens upon his permissive will. He gives us scholastic philosophy "touched with emotion," and every philosophy should be touched with emotion to be rightly understood. Emotionally, then, dogmatic theology is worth something to minds of the type of Newman’s. It will aid us to estimate what it is worth intellectually, if at this point I make a short digression.

What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. The Continental schools of philosophy have too often overlooked the fact that man’s thinking is organically connected with his conduct. It seems to me to be the chief glory of English and Scottish thinkers to have kept the organic connection in view. The guiding principle of British philosophy has in fact been that every difference must make a difference, every theoretical difference somewhere issue in a practical difference, and that the best method of discussing points of theory is to begin by ascertaining what practical difference would result from one alternative or the other being true. What is the particular truth in question known as? In what facts does it result? What is its cash-value in terms of particular experience? This is the characteristic English way of taking up a question. In this way, you remember, Locke takes up the question of personal identity. What you mean by it is just your chain of particular memories, says he. That is the only concretely verifiable part of its significance. All further ideas about it, such as the oneness or manyness of the spiritual substance on which it is based, are therefore void of intelligible meaning; and propositions touching such ideas may be indifferently affirmed or denied. So Berkeley with his "matter." The cash-value of matter is our physical sensations. That is what it is known as, all that we concretely verify of its conception. That, therefore, is the whole meaning of the term "matter" -- any other pretended meaning is mere wind of words. Hume does the same thing with causation. It is known as habitual antecedence, and as tendency on our part to look for something definite to come. Apart from this practical meaning it has no significance whatever, and books about it may be committed to the flames, says Hume. Dugald Stewart and Thomas Brown, James Mill, John Mill, and Professor Bain, have followed more or less consistently the same method; and Shadworth Hodgson has used the principle with full explicitness. When all is said and done, it was English and Scotch writers, and not Kant, who introduced "the critical method" into philosophy, the one method fitted to make philosophy a study worthy of serious men. For what seriousness can possibly remain in debating philosophic propositions that will never make an appreciable difference to us in action? And what could it matter, if all propositions were practically indifferent, which of them we should agree to call true or which false?

An American philosopher of eminent originality, Mr. Charles Sanders Peirce, has rendered thought a service by disentangling from the particulars of its application the principle by which these men were instinctively guided, and by singling it out as fundamental and giving to it a Greek name. He calls it the principle of pragmatism, and he defends it somewhat as follows (In an article, How to make our Ideas Clear, in the Popular Science Monthly for January, 1878, vol. xii. p. 286): --

Thought in movement has for its only conceivable motive the attainment of belief, or thought at rest. Only when our thought about a subject has found its rest in belief can our action on the subject firmly and safely begin. Beliefs, in short, are rules for action; and the whole function of thinking is but one step in the production of active habits. If there were any part of a thought that made no difference in the thought’s practical consequences, then that part would be no proper element of the thought’s significance. To develop a thought’s meaning we need therefore only determine what conduct it is fitted to produce; that conduct is for us its sole significance; and the tangible fact at the root of all our thought-distinctions is that there is no one of them so fine as to consist in anything but a possible difference of practice. To attain perfect clearness in our thoughts of an object, we need then only consider what sensations, immediate or remote, we are conceivably to expect from it, and what conduct we must prepare in case the object should be true. Our conception of these practical consequences is for us the whole of our conception of the object, so far as that conception has positive significance at all.

This is the principle of Peirce, the principle of pragmatism. Such a principle will help us on this occasion to decide, among the various attributes set down in the scholastic inventory of God’s perfections, whether some be not far less significant than others.

If, namely, we apply the principle of pragmatism to God’s metaphysical attributes, strictly so called, as distinguished from his moral attributes, I think that, even were we forced by a coercive logic to believe them, we still should have to confess them to be destitute of an intelligible significance. Take God’s aseity, for example; or his necessariness; his immateriality; his "simplicity" or superiority to the kind of inner variety and succession which we find in finite beings, his indivisibility, and lack of the inner distinctions of being and activity, substance and accident, potentiality and actuality, and the rest; his repudiation of inclusion in a genus; his actualized infinity; his "personality," apart from the moral qualities which it may comport; his relations to evil being permissive and not positive; his self-sufficiency, self-love, and absolute felicity in himself: -- candidly speaking, how do such qualities as these make any definite connection with our life? And if they severally call for no distinctive adaptations of our conduct, what vital difference can it possibly make to a man’s religion whether they be true or false?

For my own part, although I dislike to say aught that may grate upon tender associations, I must frankly confess that even though these attributes were faultlessly deduced, I cannot conceive of its being of the smallest consequence to us religiously that any one of them should be true. Pray, what specific act can I perform in order to adapt myself the better to God’s simplicity? Or how does it assist me to plan my behavior, to know that His happiness is anyhow absolutely complete? In the middle of the century just past, Mayne Reid was the great writer of books of out-of-door adventure. He was forever extolling the hunters and field-observers of living animals’ habits, and keeping up a fire of invective against the "closet-naturalists," as he called them, the collectors and classifiers, and handlers of skeletons and skins. When I was a boy, I used to think that a closet-naturalist must be the vilest type of wretch under the sun. But surely the systematic theologians are the closet-naturalists of the deity, even in Captain Mayne Reid’s sense. What is their deduction of metaphysical attributes but a shuffling and matching of pedantic dictionary-adjectives, aloof from morals, aloof from human needs, something that might be worked out from the mere word "God" by one of those logical machines of wood and brass which recent ingenuity has contrived as well as by a man of flesh and blood. They have the trail of the serpent over them. One feels that in the theologians’ hands, they are only a set of titles obtained by a mechanical manipulation of synonyms; verbality has stepped into the place of vision, professionalism into that of life. Instead of bread we have a stone; instead of a fish, a serpent. Did such a conglomeration of abstract terms give really the gist of our knowledge of the deity, schools of theology might indeed continue to flourish, but religion, vital religion, would have taken its flight from this world. What keeps religion going is something else than abstract definitions and systems of concatenated adjectives, and something different from faculties of theology and their professors. All these things are after-effects, secondary accretions upon those phenomena of vital conversation with the unseen divine, of which I have shown you so many instances, renewing themselves in sæcula sæculorum in the lives of humble private men.

So much for the metaphysical attributes of God! From the point of view of practical religion, the metaphysical monster which they offer to our worship is an absolutely worthless invention of the scholarly mind.

What shall we now say of the attributes called moral? Pragmatically, they stand on an entirely different footing. They positively determine fear and hope and expectation, and are foundations for the saintly life. It needs but a glance at them to show how great is their significance.

God’s holiness, for example: being holy, God can will nothing but the good. Being omnipotent, he can secure its triumph. Being omniscient, he can see us in the dark. Being just, he can punish us for what he sees. Being loving, he can pardon too. Being unalterable, we can count on him securely. These qualities enter into connection with our life, it is highly important that we should be informed concerning them. That God’s purpose in creation should be the manifestation of his glory is also an attribute which has definite relations to our practical life. Among other things it has given a definite character to worship in all Christian countries. If dogmatic theology really does prove beyond dispute that a God with characters like these exists, she may well claim to give a solid basis to religious sentiment. But verily, how stands it with her arguments?

It stands with them as ill as with the arguments for his existence. Not only do post-Kantian idealists reject them root and branch, but it is a plain historic fact that they never have converted any one who has found in the moral complexion of the world, as he experienced it, reasons for doubting that a good God can have framed it. To prove God’s goodness by the scholastic argument that there is no non-being in his essence would sound to such a witness simply silly.

No! the book of Job went over this whole matter once for all and definitively. Ratiocination is a relatively superficial and unreal path to the deity: "I will lay mine hand upon my mouth; I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee." An intellect perplexed and baffled, yet a trustful sense of presence -- such is the situation of the man who is sincere with himself and with the facts, but who remains religious still. (Pragmatically, the most important attribute of God is his punitive justice. But who, in the present state of theological opinion on that point, will dare maintain that hell fire or its equivalent in some shape is rendered certain by pure logic? Theology herself has largely based this doctrine upon revelation; and, in discussing it, has tended more and more to substitute conventional ideas of criminal law for a priori principles of reason. But the very notion that this glorious universe, with planets and winds, and laughing sky and ocean, should have been conceived and had its beams and rafters laid in technicalities of criminality, is incredible to our modern imagination. It weakens a religion to hear it argued upon such a basis.)

We must therefore, I think, bid a definitive good-by to dogmatic theology. In all sincerity our faith must do without that warrant. Modern idealism, I repeat, has said good-by to this theology forever. Can modern idealism give faith a better warrant, or must she still rely on her poor self for witness?

The basis of modern idealism is Kant’s doctrine of the Transcendental Ego of Apperception. By this formidable term Kant merely meant the fact that the consciousness "I think them" must (potentially or actually) accompany all our objects. Former skeptics had said as much, but the "I" in question had remained for them identified with the personal individual. Kant abstracted and depersonalized it, and made it the most universal of all his categories, although for Kant himself the Transcendental Ego had no theological implications.

It was reserved for his successors to convert Kant’s notion of Bewusstsein überhaupt, or abstract consciousness, into an infinite concrete self-consciousness which is the soul of the world, and in which our sundry personal self-consciousnesses have their being. It would lead me into technicalities to show you even briefly how this transformation was in point of fact effected. Suffice it to say that in the Hegelian school, which today so deeply influences both British and American thinking, two principles have borne the brunt of the operation.

The first of these principles is that the old logic of identity never gives us more than a post-mortem dissection of disjecta membra, and that the fullness of life can be construed to thought only by recognizing that every object which our thought may propose to itself involves the notion of some other object which seems at first to negate the first one.

The second principle is that to be conscious of a negation is already virtually to be beyond it. The mere asking of a question or expression of a dissatisfaction proves that the answer or the satisfaction is already imminent; the finite, realized as such, is already the infinite in posse.

Applying these principles, we seem to get a propulsive force into our logic which the ordinary logic of a bare, stark self-identity in each thing never attains to. The objects of our thought now act within our thought, act as objects act when given in experience. They change and develop. They introduce something other than themselves along with them; and this other, at first only ideal or potential, presently proves itself also to be actual. It supersedes the thing at first supposed, and both verifies and corrects it, in developing the fullness of its meaning.

The program is excellent; the universe is a place where things are followed by other things that both correct and fulfill them; and a logic which gave us something like this movement of fact would express truth far better than the traditional school-logic, which never gets of its own accord from anything to anything else, and registers only predictions and subsumptions, or static resemblances and differences. Nothing could be more unlike the methods of dogmatic theology than those of this new logic. Let me quote in illustration some passages from the Scottish transcendentalist whom I have already named.

"How are we to conceive," Principal Caird writes, "of the reality in which all intelligence rests?" He replies: "Two things may without difficulty be proved, viz., that this reality is an absolute Spirit, and conversely that it is only in communion with this absolute Spirit or Intelligence that the finite Spirit can realize itself. It is absolute; for the faintest movement of human intelligence would be arrested, if it did not presuppose the absolute reality of intelligence, of thought itself. Doubt or denial themselves presuppose and indirectly affirm it. When I pronounce anything to be true, I pronounce it, indeed, to be relative to thought, but not to be relative to my thought, or to the thought of any other individual mind. From the existence of all individual minds as such I can abstract; I can think them away. But that which I cannot think away is thought or self-consciousness itself, in its independence and absoluteness, or, in other words, an Absolute Thought or Self-Consciousness."

Here, you see, Principal Caird makes the transition which Kant did not make: he converts the omnipresence of consciousness in general as a condition of "truth" being anywhere possible, into an omnipresent universal consciousness, which he identifies with God in his concreteness. He next proceeds to use the principle that to acknowledge your limits is in essence to be beyond them; and makes the transition to the religious experience of individuals in the following words: --

"If [Man] were only a creature of transient sensations and impulses, of an ever coming and going succession of intuitions, fancies, feelings, then nothing could ever have for him the character of objective truth or reality. But it is the prerogative of man’s spiritual nature that he can yield himself up to a thought and will that are infinitely larger than his own. As a thinking, self-conscious being, indeed, he may be said, by his very nature, to live in the atmosphere of the Universal Life. As a thinking being, it is possible for me to suppress and quell in my consciousness every movement of self-assertion, every notion and opinion that is merely mine, every desire that belongs to me as this particular Self, and to become the pure medium of a thought that is universal -- in one word, to live no more my own life, but let my consciousness be possessed and suffused by the Infinite and Eternal life of spirit. And yet it is just in this renunciation of self that I truly gain myself, or realize the highest possibilities of my own nature. For whilst in one sense we give up self to live the universal and absolute life of reason, yet that to which we thus surrender ourselves is in reality our truer self. The life of absolute reason is not a life that is foreign to us."

Nevertheless, Principal Caird goes on to say, so far as we are able outwardly to realize this doctrine, the balm it offers remains incomplete. Whatever we may be in posse, the very best of us in actu falls very short of being absolutely divine. Social morality, love, and self-sacrifice even, merge our Self only in some other finite self or selves. They do not quite identify it with the Infinite. Man’s ideal destiny, infinite in abstract logic, might thus seem in practice forever unrealizable.

"Is there, then," our author continues, "no solution of the contradiction between the ideal and the actual? We answer, There is such a solution, but in order to reach it we are carried beyond the sphere of morality into that of religion. It may be said to be the essential characteristic of religion as contrasted with morality, that it changes aspiration into fruition, anticipation into realization; that instead of leaving man in the interminable pursuit of a vanishing ideal, it makes him the actual partaker of a divine or infinite life. Whether we view religion from the human side or the divine -- as the surrender of the soul to God, or as the life of God in the soul -- in either aspect it is of its very essence that the Infinite has ceased to be a far-off vision, and has become a present reality. The very first pulsation of the spiritual life, when we rightly apprehend its significance, is the indication that the division between the Spirit and its object has vanished, that the ideal has become real, that the finite has reached its goal and become suffused with the presence and life of the Infinite.

"Oneness of mind and will with the divine mind and will is not the future hope and aim of religion, but its very beginning and birth in the soul. To enter on the religious life is to terminate the struggle. In that act which constitutes the beginning of the religious life -- call it faith, or trust, or self-surrender, or by whatever name you will -- there is involved the identification of the finite with a life which is eternally realized. It is true indeed that the religious life is progressive; but understood in the light of the foregoing idea, religious progress is not progress towards, but within the sphere of the Infinite. It is not the vain attempt by endless finite additions or increments to become possessed of infinite wealth, but it is the endeavor, by the constant exercise of spiritual activity, to appropriate that infinite inheritance of which we are already in possession. The whole future of the religious life is given in its beginning, but it is given implicitly. The position of the man who has entered on the religious life is that evil, error, imperfection, do not really belong to him: they are excrescences which have no organic relation to his true nature: they are already virtually, as they will be actually, suppressed and annulled, and in the very process of being annulled they become the means of spiritual progress. Though he is not exempt from temptation and conflict, [yet] in that inner sphere in which his true life lies, the struggle is over, the victory already achieved. It is not a finite but an infinite life which the spirit lives. Every pulse-beat of its [existence] is the expression and realization of the life of God." (John Caird: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion, London and New York, 1880, pp. 243-250, and 291-299, much abridged.)

You will readily admit that no description of the phenomena of the religious consciousness could be better than these words of your lamented preacher and philosopher. They reproduce the very rapture of those crises of conversion of which we have been hearing; they utter what the mystic felt but was unable to communicate; and the saint, in hearing them, recognizes his own experience. It is indeed gratifying to find the content of religion reported so unanimously. But when all is said and done, has Principal Caird -- and I only use him as an example of that whole mode of thinking -- transcended the sphere of feeling and of the direct experience of the individual, and laid the foundations of religion in impartial reason? Has he made religion universal by coercive reasoning, transformed it from a private faith into a public certainty? Has he rescued its affirmations from obscurity and mystery?

I believe that he has done nothing of the kind, but that he has simply reaffirmed the individual’s experiences in a more generalized vocabulary. And again, I can be excused from proving technically that the transcendentalist reasonings fail to make religion universal, for I can point to the plain fact that a majority of scholars, even religiously disposed ones, stubbornly refuse to treat them as convincing. The whole of Germany, one may say, has positively rejected the Hegelian argumentation. As for Scotland, I need only mention Professor Fraser’s and Professor Pringle-Pattison’s memorable criticisms, with which so many of you are familiar. (A.C. Fraser: Philosophy of Theism, second edition, Edinburgh and London, 1899, especially part ii. chaps. vii. and viii.; A. Seth [Pringle-Pattison]: Hegelianism and Personality, Ibid., 1890, passim.

The most persuasive arguments in favor of a concrete individual Soul of the world, with which I am acquainted, are those of my colleague, Josiah Royce, in his Religious Aspect of Philosophy, Boston, 1885; in his Conception of God, New York and London, 1897; and lately in his Aberdeen Gifford Lectures, The World and the Individual, 2 vols., New York and London, 1901-02. I doubtless seem to some of my readers to evade the philosophic duty which my thesis in this lecture imposes on me, by not even attempting to meet Professor Royce’s arguments articulately. I admit the momentary evasion. In the present lectures, which are cast throughout in a popular mould, there seemed no room for subtle metaphysical discussion, and for tactical purposes it was sufficient, the contention of philosophy being what it is (namely, that religion can be transformed into a universally convincing science), to point to the fact that no religious philosophy has actually convinced the mass of thinkers. Meanwhile let me say that I hope that the present volume may be followed by another, if I am spared to write it, in which not only Professor Royce’s arguments, but others for monistic absolutism shall be considered with all the technical fullness which their great importance calls for. At present I resign myself to lying passive under the reproach of superficiality.) Once more, I ask, if transcendental idealism were as objectively and absolutely rational as it pretends to be, could it possibly fail so egregiously to be persuasive?

What religion reports, you must remember, always purports to be a fact of experience: the divine is actually present, religion says, and between it and ourselves relations of give and take are actual. If definite perceptions of fact like this cannot stand upon their own feet, surely abstract reasoning cannot give them the support they are in need of. Conceptual processes can class facts, define them, interpret them; but they do not produce them, nor can they reproduce their individuality. There is always a plus, a thisness, which feeling alone can answer for. Philosophy in this sphere is thus a secondary function, unable to warrant faith’s veracity, and so I revert to the thesis which I announced at the beginning of this lecture.

In all sad sincerity I think we must conclude that the attempt to demonstrate by purely intellectual processes the truth of the deliverances of direct religious experience is absolutely hopeless.

It would be unfair to philosophy, however, to leave her under this negative sentence. Let me close, then, by briefly enumerating what she can do for religion. If she will abandon metaphysics and deduction for criticism and induction, and frankly transform herself from theology into science of religions, she can make herself enormously useful.

The spontaneous intellect of man always defines the divine which it feels in ways that harmonize with its temporary intellectual prepossessions. Philosophy can by comparison eliminate the local and the accidental from these definitions. Both from dogma and from worship she can remove historic incrustations. By confronting the spontaneous religious constructions with the results of natural science, philosophy can also eliminate doctrines that are now known to be scientifically absurd or incongruous.

Sifting out in this way unworthy formulations, she can leave a residuum of conceptions that at least are possible. With these she can deal as hypotheses, testing them in all the manners, whether negative or positive, by which hypotheses are ever tested. She can reduce their number, as some are found more open to objection. She can perhaps become the champion of one which she picks out as being the most closely verified or verifiable. She can refine upon the definition of this hypothesis, distinguishing between what is innocent over-belief and symbolism in the expression of it, and what is to be literally taken. As a result, she can offer mediation between different believers, and help to bring about consensus of opinion. She can do this the more successfully, the better she discriminates the common and essential from the individual and local elements of the religious beliefs which she compares.

I do not see why a critical Science of Religions of this sort might not eventually command as general a public adhesion as is commanded by a physical science. Even the personally non-religious might accept its conclusions on trust, much as blind persons now accept the facts of optics -- it might appear as foolish to refuse them. Yet as the science of optics has to be fed in the first instance, and continually verified later, by facts experienced by seeing persons; so the science of religions would depend for its original material on facts of personal experience, and would have to square itself with personal experience through all its critical reconstructions. It could never get away from concrete life, or work in a conceptual vacuum. It would forever have to confess, as every science confesses, that the subtlety of nature flies beyond it, and that its formulas are but approximations. Philosophy lives in words, but truth and fact well up into our lives in ways that exceed verbal formulation. There is in the living act of perception always something that glimmers and twinkles and will not be caught, and for which reflection comes too late. No one knows this as well as the philosopher. He must fire his volley of new vocables out of his conceptual shotgun, for his profession condemns him to this industry, but he secretly knows the hollowness and irrelevancy. His formulas are like stereoscopic or kinetoscopic photographs seen outside the instrument; they lack the depth, the motion, the vitality. In the religious sphere, in particular, belief that formulas are true can never wholly take the place of personal experience.

In my next lecture I will try to complete my rough description of religious experience; and in the lecture after that, which is the last one, I will try my own hand at formulating conceptually the truth to which it is a witness.

Lectures 16 and 17: Mysticism

Over and over again in these lectures I have raised points and left them open and unfinished until we should have come to the subject of Mysticism. Some of you, I fear, may have smiled as you noted my reiterated postponements. But now the hour has come when mysticism must be faced in good earnest, and those broken threads wound up together. One may say truly, I think, that personal religious experience has its root and centre in mystical states of consciousness; so for us, who in these lectures are treating personal experience as the exclusive subject of our study, such states of consciousness ought to form the vital chapter from which the other chapters get their light. Whether my treatment of mystical states will shed more light or darkness, I do not know, for my own constitution shuts me out from their enjoyment almost entirely, and I can speak of them only at second hand. But though forced to look upon the subject so externally, I will be as objective and receptive as I can; and I think I shall at least succeed in convincing you of the reality of the states in question, and of the paramount importance of their function.

First of all, then, I ask, What does the expression "mystical states of consciousness" mean? How do we part off mystical states from other states?

The words "mysticism" and "mystical" are often used as terms of mere reproach, to throw at any opinion which we regard as vague and vast and sentimental, and without a base in either facts or logic. For some writers a "mystic" is any person who believes in thought-transference, or spirit-return. Employed in this way the word has little value: there are too many less ambiguous synonyms. So, to keep it useful by restricting it, I will do what I did in the case of the word "religion," and simply propose to you four marks which, when an experience has them, may justify us in calling it mystical for the purpose of the present lectures. In this way we shall save verbal disputation, and the recriminations that generally go therewith.

1. Ineffability.-- The handiest of the marks by which I classify a state of mind as mystical is negative. The subject of it immediately says that it defies expression, that no adequate report of its contents can be given in words. It follows from this that its quality must be directly experienced; it cannot be imparted or transferred to others. In this peculiarity mystical states are more like states of feeling than like states of intellect. No one can make clear to another who has never had a certain feeling, in what the quality or worth of it consists. One must have musical ears to know the value of a symphony; one must have been in love one’s self to understand a lover’s state of mind. Lacking the heart or ear, we cannot interpret the musician or the lover justly, and are even likely to consider him weak-minded or absurd. The mystic finds that most of us accord to his experiences an equally incompetent treatment.

2. Noetic quality. -- Although so similar to states of feeling, mystical states seem to those who experience them to be also states of knowledge. They are states of insight into depths of truth unplumbed by the discursive intellect. They are illuminations, revelations, full of significance and importance, all inarticulate though they remain; and as a rule they carry with them a curious sense of authority for after-time.

These two characters will entitle any state to be called mystical, in the sense in which I use the word. Two other qualities are less sharply marked, but are usually found. These are:--

3. Transiency. -- Mystical states cannot be sustained for long. Except in rare instances, half an hour, or at most an hour or two, seems to be the limit beyond which they fade into the light of common day. Often, when faded, their quality can but imperfectly be reproduced in memory; but when they recur it is recognized; and from one recurrence to another it is susceptible of continuous development in what is felt as inner richness and importance.

4. Passivity. -- Although the oncoming of mystical states may be facilitated by preliminary voluntary operations, as by fixing the attention, or going through certain bodily performances, or in other ways which manuals of mysticism prescribe; yet when the characteristic sort of consciousness once has set in, the mystic feels as if his own will were in abeyance, and indeed sometimes as if he were grasped and held by a superior power. This latter peculiarity connects mystical states with certain definite phenomena of secondary or alternative personality, such as prophetic speech, automatic writing, or the mediumistic trance. When these latter conditions are well pronounced, however, there may be no recollection whatever of the phenomenon and it may have no significance for the subject’s usual inner life, to which, as it were, it makes a mere interruption. Mystical states, strictly so called, are never merely interruptive. Some memory of their content always remains, and a profound sense of their importance. They modify the inner life of the subject between the times of their recurrence. Sharp divisions in this region are, however, difficult to make, and we find all sorts of gradations and mixtures.

These four characteristics are sufficient to mark out a group of states of consciousness peculiar enough to deserve a special name and to call for careful study. Let it then be called the mystical group.

Our next step should be to gain acquaintance with some typical examples. Professional mystics at the height of their development have often elaborately organized experiences and a philosophy based thereupon. But you remember what I said in my first lecture: phenomena are best understood when placed within their series, studied in their germ and in their over-ripe decay, and compared with their exaggerated and degenerated kindred. The range of mystical experience is very wide, much too wide for us to cover in the time at our disposal. Yet the method of serial study is so essential: for interpretation that if we really wish to reach conclusions we must use it. I will begin, therefore, with phenomena which claim no special religious significance, and end with those of which the religious pretensions are extreme.

The simplest rudiment of mystical experience would seem to be that deepened sense of the significance of a maxim or formula which occasionally sweeps over one. "I’ve heard that said all my life," we exclaim, "but I never realized its full meaning until now." "When a fellow-monk," said Luther, "one day repeated the words of the Creed: ‘I believe in the forgiveness of sins,’ I saw the Scripture in an entirely new light; and straightway I felt as if I were born anew. It was as if I had found the door of paradise thrown wide open." (Newman’s Securus judicat orbis terrarum is another instance.) This sense of deeper significance is not confined to rational propositions. Single words, ("Mesopotamia" is the stock comic instance. -- An excellent old German lady, who had done some traveling in her day, used to describe to me her Sehnsucht that she might yet visit "Philadelphia," whose wondrous name had always haunted her imagination. Of John Foster it is said that "single words (as chalcedony), or the names of ancient heroes, had a mighty fascination over him. ‘At any time the word hermit was enough to transport him.’ The words woods and forests would produce the most powerful emotion." Foster’s Life, by Ryland, New York, 1846, p. 3.) and conjunctions of words, effects of light on land and sea, odors and musical sounds, all bring it when the mind is tuned aright. Most of us can remember the strangely moving power of passages in certain poems read when we were young, irrational doorways as they were through which the mystery of fact, the wildness and the pang of life, stole into our hearts and thrilled them. The words have now perhaps become mere polished surfaces for us; but lyric poetry and music are alive and significant only in proportion as they fetch these vague vistas of a life continuous with our own, beckoning and inviting, yet ever eluding our pursuit. We are alive or dead to the eternal inner message of the arts according as we have kept or lost this mystical susceptibility.

A more pronounced step forward on the mystical ladder is found in an extremely frequent phenomenon, that sudden feeling, namely, which sometimes sweeps over us, of having "been here before," as if at some indefinite past time, in just this place, with just these people, we were already saying just these things. As Tennyson writes: --

"Moreover, something is or seems,

That touches me with mystic gleams,

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams --

"Of something felt, like something here;

Of something done, I know not where;

Such as no language may declare."

(The Two Voices. In a letter to Mr. B.P. Blood, Tennyson reports of himself as follows: --

"I have never had any revelations through anaesthetics, but a kind of waking trance -- this for lack of a better word -- I have frequently had, quite up from boyhood, when I have been all alone. This has come upon me through repeating my own name to myself silently, till all at once, as it were out of the intensity of the consciousness of individuality, individuality itself seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not a confused state but the clearest, the surest of the surest, utterly beyond words -- where death was an almost laughable impossibility -- the loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction, but the only true life. I am ashamed of my feeble description. Have I not said the state is utterly beyond words?"

Professor Tyndall, in a letter, recalls Tennyson saying of this condition: "By God Almighty! there is no delusion in the matter! It is no nebulous ecstasy, but a state of transcendent wonder, associated with absolute clearness of mind." Memoirs of Alfred Tennyson, ii. 473.)

Sir James Crichton-Browne has given the technical name of ‘dreamy states’ to these sudden invasions of vaguely reminiscent consciousness. (The Lancet, July 6 and 13, 1895, reprinted as the Cavendish Lecture, on Dreamy Mental States, London, Bailliere, 1895. They have been a good deal discussed of late by psychologists. See, for example, Bernard-Leroy: L’Illusion de Fausse Reconnaissance, Paris, 1898.) They bring a sense of mystery and of the metaphysical duality of things, and the feeling of an enlargement of perception which seems imminent but which never completes itself. In Dr. Crichton-Browne’s opinion they connect themselves with the perplexed and scared disturbances of self-consciousness which occasionally precede epileptic attacks. I think that this learned alienist takes a rather absurdly alarmist view of an intrinsically insignificant phenomenon. He follows it along the downward ladder, to insanity; our path pursues the upward ladder chiefly. The divergence shows how important it is to neglect no part of a phenomenon’s connections, for we make it appear admirable or dreadful according to the context by which we set it off.

Somewhat deeper plunges into mystical consciousness are met with in yet other dreamy states. Such feelings as these which Charles Kingsley describes are surely far from being uncommon, especially in youth: --

"When I walk the fields, I am oppressed now and then with an innate feeling that everything I see has a meaning, if I could but understand it. And this feeling of being surrounded with truths which I cannot grasp amounts to indescribable awe sometimes. . . . Have you not felt that your real soul was imperceptible to your mental vision, except in a few hallowed moments?" (Charles Kingsley’s Life, i. 55, quoted by Inge: Christian Mysticism, London, 1899, p. 341.)

A much more extreme state of mystical consciousness is described by J.A. Symonds; and probably more persons than we suspect could give parallels to it from their own experience.

"Suddenly," writes Symonds, "at church, or in company, or when I was reading, and always, I think, when my muscles were at rest, I felt the approach of the mood. Irresistibly it took possession of my mind and will, lasted what seemed an eternity, and disappeared in a series of rapid sensations which resembled the awakening from anaesthetic influence. One reason why I disliked this kind of trance was that I could not describe it to myself. I cannot even now find words to render it intelligible. It consisted in a gradual but swiftly progressive obliteration of space, time, sensation, and the multitudinous factors of experience which seem to qualify what we are pleased to call our Self. In proportion as these conditions of ordinary consciousness were subtracted, the sense of an underlying or essential consciousness acquired intensity. At last nothing remained but a pure, absolute, abstract Self. The universe became without form and void of content. But Self persisted, formidable in its vivid keenness, feeling the most poignant doubt about reality, ready, as it seemed, to find existence break as breaks a bubble round about it. And what then? The apprehension of a coming dissolution, the grim conviction that this state was the last state of the conscious Self, the sense that I had followed the last thread of being to the verge of the abyss, and had arrived at demonstration of eternal Maya or illusion, stirred or seemed to stir me up again. The return to ordinary conditions of sentient existence began by my first recovering the power of touch, and then by the gradual though rapid influx of familiar impressions and diurnal interests. At last I felt myself once more a human being; and though the riddle of what is meant by life remained unsolved, I was thankful for this return from the abyss -- this deliverance from so awful an initiation into the mysteries of skepticism.

"This trance recurred with diminishing frequency until I reached the age of twenty-eight. It served to impress upon my growing nature the phantasmal unreality of all the circumstances which contribute to a merely phenomenal consciousness. Often have I asked myself with anguish, on waking from that formless state of denuded, keenly sentient being, Which is the unreality -- the trance of fiery, vacant, apprehensive, skeptical Self from which I issue, or these surrounding phenomena and habits which veil that inner Self and build a self of flesh-and-blood conventionality? Again, are men the factors of some dream, the dream-like unsubstantiality of which they comprehend at such eventful moments? What would happen if the final stage of the trance were reached?" (H.F. Brown: J.A. Symonds, a Biography, London, 1895, pp. 29-31, abridged.)

In a recital like this there is certainly something suggestive of pathology. (Crichton-Browne expressly says that Symonds’s "highest nerve centres were in some degree enfeebled or damaged by these dreamy mental states which afflicted him so grievously." Symonds was, however, a perfect monster of many-sided cerebral efficiency, and his critic gives no objective grounds whatever for his strange opinion, save that Symonds complained occasionally, as all susceptible and ambitious men complain, of lassitude and uncertainty as to his life’s mission.) The next step into mystical states carries us into a realm that public opinion and ethical philosophy have long since branded as pathological, though private practice and certain lyric strains of poetry seem still to bear witness to its ideality. I refer to the consciousness produced by intoxicants and anæsthetics, especially by alcohol. The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour. Sobriety diminishes, discriminates and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes. It is in fact the great exciter of the Yes function in man. It brings its votary from the chill periphery of things to the radiant core. It makes him for the moment one with truth. Not through mere perversity do men run after it. To the poor and the unlettered it stands in the place of symphony concerts and of literature; and it is part of the deeper mystery and tragedy of life that whiffs and gleams of something that we immediately recognize as excellent should be vouchsafed to so many of us only in the fleeting earlier phases of what in its totality is so degrading a poisoning. The drunken consciousness is one bit of the mystic consciousness, and our total opinion of it must find its place in our opinion of that larger whole.

Nitrous oxide and ether, especially nitrous oxide, when sufficiently diluted with air, stimulate the mystical consciousness in an extraordinary degree. Depth beyond depth of truth seems revealed to the inhaler. This truth fades out, however, or escapes, at the moment of coming to; and if any words remain over in which it seemed to clothe itself, they prove to be the veriest nonsense. Nevertheless, the sense of a profound meaning having been there persists; and I know more than one person who is persuaded that in the nitrous oxide trance we have a genuine metaphysical revelation.

Some years ago I myself made some observations on this aspect of nitrous oxide intoxication, and reported them in print. One conclusion was forced upon my mind at that time, and my impression of its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It is that our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness, definite types of mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded. How to regard them is the question -- for they are so discontinuous with ordinary consciousness. Yet they may determine attitudes though they cannot furnish formulas, and open a region though they fail to give a map. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our accounts with reality. Looking back on my own experiences, they all converge towards a kind of insight to which I cannot help ascribing some metaphysical significance. The keynote of it is invariably a reconciliation. It is as if the opposites of the world, whose contradictoriness and conflict make all our difficulties and troubles, were melted into unity. Not only do they, as contrasted species, belong to one and the same genus, but one of the species, the nobler and better one, is itself the genus, and so soaks up and absorbs its opposite into itself . This is a dark saying, I know, when thus expressed in terms of common logic, but I cannot wholly escape from its authority. I feel as if it must mean something, something like what the hegelian philosophy means, if one could only lay hold of it more clearly. Those who have ears to hear, let them hear; to me the living sense of its reality only comes in the artificial mystic state of mind. (What reader of Hegel can doubt that that sense of a perfected Being with all its otherness soaked up into itself, which dominates his whole philosophy, must have come from the prominence in his consciousness of mystical moods like this, in most persons kept subliminal? The notion is thoroughly characteristic of the mystical level, and the Aufgabe of making it articulate was surely set to Hegel’s intellect by mystical feeling.)

I just now spoke of friends who believe in the anaesthetic revelation. For them too it is a monistic insight, in which the other in its various forms appears absorbed into the One.

"Into this pervading genius," writes one of them, "we pass, forgetting and forgotten, and thenceforth each is all, in God. There is no higher, no deeper, no other, than the life in which we are founded. ‘The One remains, the many change and pass;’ and each and every one of us is the One that remains. . . . This is the ultimatum. . . . As sure as being -- whence is all our care -- so sure is content, beyond duplexity, antithesis, or trouble, where I have triumphed in a solitude that God is not above."

(Benjamin Paul Blood: The Anaesthetic Revelation and the Gist of Philosophy, Amsterdam, N. Y., 1874, pp. 35, 36. Mr. Blood has made several attempts to adumbrate the anaesthetic revelation, in pamphlets of rare literary distinction, privately printed and distributed by himself at Amsterdam. Xenos Clark, a philosopher, who died young at Amherst in the ‘80’s, much lamented by those who knew him, was also impressed by the revelation. "In the first place," he once wrote to me, "Mr. Blood and I agree that the revelation. is, if anything, non-emotional. It is utterly flat. It is, as Mr. Blood says, ‘the one sole and sufficient insight why, or not why, but how, the present is pushed on by the past, and sucked forward by the vacuity of the future. Its inevitableness defeats all attempts at stopping or accounting for it. It is all precedence and presupposition, and questioning is in regard to it forever too late. It is an initiation of the past.’ The real secret would be the formula by which the ‘now’ keeps exfoliating out of itself, yet never escapes. What is it, indeed, that keeps existence exfoliating? The formal being of anything, the logical definition of it, is static. For mere logic every question contains its own answer -- we simply fill the hole with the dirt we dug out. Why are twice two four? Because, in fact, four is twice two. Thus logic finds in life no propulsion, only a momentum. It goes because it is a-going. But the revelation adds: it goes because it is and was a-going. You walk, as it were, round yourself in the revelation. Ordinary philosophy is like a hound hunting his own trail. The more he hunts the farther he has to go, and his nose never catches up with his heels, because it is forever ahead of them. So the present is already a foregone conclusion, and I am ever too late to understand it. But at the moment of recovery from anæsthesis, just then, before starting on life, I catch, so to speak, a glimpse of my heels, a glimpse of the eternal process just in the act of starting. The truth is that we travel on a journey that was accomplished before we set out; and the real end of philosophy is accomplished, not when we arrive at, but when we remain in, our destination (being already there) -- which may occur vicariously in this life when we cease our intellectual questioning. That is why there is a smile upon the face of the revelation, as we view it. It tells us that we are forever half a second too late -- that’s all. ‘You could kiss your own lips, and have all the fun to yourself,’ it says, if you only knew the trick. It would be perfectly easy if they would just stay there till you got round to them. Why don’t you manage it somehow?"

Dialectically minded readers of this farrago will at least recognize the region of thought of which Mr. Clark writes, as familiar. In his latest pamphlet, "Tennyson’s Trances and the Anaesthetic Revelation," Mr. Blood describes its value for life as follows: --

"The Anæsthetic Revelation is the Initiation of Man into the Immemorial Mystery of the Open Secret of Being, revealed as the Inevitable Vortex of Continuity. Inevitable is the word. Its motive is inherent -- it is what has to be. It is not for any love or hate, nor for joy nor sorrow, nor good nor ill. End, beginning, or purpose, it knows not of.

"It affords no particular of the multiplicity and variety of things; but it fills appreciation of the historical and the sacred with a secular and intimately personal illumination of the nature and motive of existence, which then seems reminiscent -- as if it should have appeared, or shall yet appear, to every participant thereof.

"Although it is at first startling in its solemnity, it becomes directly such a matter of course -- so old-fashioned, and so akin to proverbs, that it inspires exultation rather than fear, and a sense of safety, as identified with the aboriginal and the universal. But no words may express the imposing certainty of the patient that he is realizing the primordial, Adamic surprise of Life.

"Repetition of the experience finds it ever the same, and as if it could not possibly be otherwise. The subject resumes his normal consciousness only to partially and fitfully remember its occurrence, and to try to formulate its baffling import -- with only this consolatory afterthought: that he has known the oldest truth, and that he has done with human theories as to the origin, meaning, or destiny of the race. He is beyond instruction in ‘spiritual things.’

"The lesson is one of central safety: the Kingdom is within. All days are judgment days: but there can be no climacteric purpose of eternity, nor any scheme of the whole. The astronomer abridges the row of bewildering figures by increasing his unit of measurement: so may we reduce the distracting multiplicity of things to the unity for which each of us stands.

"This has been my moral sustenance since I have known of it. In my first printed mention of it I declared: ‘The world is no more the alien terror that was taught me. Spurning the cloud-grimed and still sultry battlements whence so lately Jehovan thunders boomed, my gray gull lifts her wing against the nightfall, and takes the dim leagues with a fearless eye.’ And now, after twenty-seven years of this experience, the wing is grayer, but the eye is fearless still, while I renew and doubly emphasize that declaration. I know- as having known- the meaning of Existence: the sane centre of the universe- at once the wonder and the assurance of the soul- for which the speech of reason has as yet no name but the Anaesthetic Revelation." -- I have considerably abridged the quotation.)

This has the genuine religious mystic ring! I just now quoted J.A. Symonds. He also records a mystical experience with chloroform, as follows: --

"After the choking and stifling had passed away, I seemed at first in a state of utter blankness; then came flashes of intense light, alternating with blackness, and with a keen vision of what was going on in the room around me, but no sensation of touch. I thought that I was near death; when, suddenly, my soul became aware of God, who was manifestly dealing with me, handling me, so to speak, in an intense personal present reality. I felt him streaming in like light upon me. . . . I cannot describe the ecstasy I felt. Then, as I gradually awoke from the influence of the anesthetics, the old sense of my relation to the world began to return, the new sense of my relation to God began to fade. I suddenly leapt to my feet on the chair where I was sitting, and shrieked out, ‘It is too horrible, it is too horrible, it is too horrible,’ meaning that I could not bear this disillusionment. Then I flung myself on the ground, and at last awoke covered with blood, calling to the two surgeons (who were frightened), ‘Why did you not kill me? Why would you not let me die?’ Only think of it. To have felt for that long dateless ecstasy of vision the very God, in all purity and tenderness and truth and absolute love, and then to find that I had after all had no revelation, but that I had been tricked by the abnormal excitement of my brain.

"Yet, this question remains, Is it possible that the inner sense of reality which succeeded, when my flesh was dead to impressions from without, to the ordinary sense of physical relations, was not a delusion but an actual experience? Is it possible that I, in that moment, felt what some of the saints have said they always felt, the undemonstrable but irrefragable certainty of God?"

(Op. cit., pp. 78-80, abridged. I subjoin, also abridging it, another interesting anæsthetic revelation communicated to me in manuscript by a friend in England. The subject, a gifted woman, was taking ether for a surgical operation.

"I wondered if I was in a prison being tortured, and why I remembered having heard it said that people ‘learn through suffering,’ and in view of what I was seeing, the inadequacy of this saying struck me so much that I said, aloud, ‘to suffer is to learn.’

"With that I became unconscious again, and my last dream immediately preceded my real coming to. It only lasted a few seconds, and was most vivid and real to me, though it may not be clear in words.

"A great Being or Power was traveling through the sky, his foot was on a kind of lightning as a wheel is on a rail, it was his pathway. The lightning was made entirely of the spirits of innumerable people close to one another, and I was one of them. He moved in a straight line, and each part of the streak or flash came into its short conscious existence only that he might travel. I seemed to be directly under the foot of God, and I thought he was grinding his own life up out of my pain. Then I saw that what he had been trying with all his might to do was to change his course, to bend the line of lightning to which he was tied, in the direction in which he wanted to go. I felt my flexibility and helplessness, and knew that he would succeed. He bended me, turning his corner by means of my hurt, hurting me more than I had ever been hurt in my life, and at the acutest point of this, as he passed, I saw, I understood for a moment things that I have now forgotten, things that no one could remember while retaining sanity. The angle was an obtuse angle, and I remember thinking as I woke that had he made it a right or acute angle, I should have both suffered and ‘seen’ still more, and should probably have died.

"He went on and I came to. In that moment the whole of my life passed before me, including each little meaningless piece of distress, and I understood them. This was what it had all meant, this was the piece of work it had all been contributing to do. I did not see God’s purpose, I only saw his intentness and his entire relentlessness towards his means. He thought no more of me than a man thinks of hurting a cork when he is opening wine, or hurting a cartridge when he is firing. And yet, on waking, my first feeling was, and it came with tears, ‘Domine non sum digna,’ for I had been lifted into a position for which I was too small. I realized that in that half hour under ether I had served God more distinctly and purely than I had ever done in my life before, or than I am capable of desiring to do. I was the means of his achieving and revealing something, I know not what or to whom, and that, to the exact extent of my capacity for suffering.

"While regaining consciousness, I wondered why, since I had gone so deep, I had seen nothing of what the saints call the love of God, nothing but his relentlessness. And then I heard an answer, which I could only just catch, saying, ‘Knowledge and Love are One, and the measure is suffering’ -- I give the words as they came to me. With that I came finally to (into what seemed a dream world compared with the reality of what I was leaving), and I saw that what would be called the ‘cause’ of my experience was a slight operation under insufficient ether, in a bed pushed up against a window, a common city window in a common city street. If I had to formulate a few of the things I then caught a glimpse of, they would run somewhat as follows: --

"The eternal necessity of suffering and its eternal vicariousness. The veiled and incommunicable nature of the worst sufferings; -- the passivity of genius, how it is essentially instrumental and defenseless, moved, not moving, it must do what it does; -- the impossibility of discovery without its price; -- finally, the excess of what the suffering ‘seer’ or genius pays over what his generation gains. (He seems like one who sweats his life out to earn enough to save a district from famine, and just as he staggers back, dying and satisfied, bringing a lac of rupees to buy grain with, God lifts the lac away, dropping one rupee, and says, ‘That you may give them. That you have earned for them. The rest is for ME.’) I perceived also in a way never to be forgotten, the excess of what we see over what we can demonstrate.

"And so on! -- these things may seem to you delusions, or truisms; but for me they are dark truths, and the power to put them into even such words as these has been given me by an ether dream.")

With this we make connection with religious mysticism pure and simple. Symonds’s question takes us back to those examples which you will remember my quoting in the lecture on the Reality of the Unseen, of sudden realization of the immediate presence of God. The phenomenon in one shape or another is not uncommon.

"I know," writes Mr. Trine, "an officer on our police force who has told me that many times when off duty, and on his way home in the evening, there comes to him such a vivid and vital realization of his oneness with this Infinite Power, and this Spirit of Infinite Peace so takes hold of and so fills him, that it seems as if his feet could hardly keep to the pavement, so buoyant and so exhilarated does he become by reason of this inflowing tide." (In Tune with the Infinite, p. 137.)

Certain aspects of nature seem to have a peculiar power of awakening such mystical moods.

(The larger God may then swallow, up the smaller one. I take this from Starbuck’s manuscript collection: --

"I never lost the consciousness of the presence of God until I stood at the foot of the Horseshoe Falls, Niagara. Then I lost him in the immensity of what I saw. I also lost myself, feeling that I was an atom too small for the notice of Almighty God."

I subjoin another similar case from Starbuck’s collection:--

"In that time the consciousness of God’s nearness came to me sometimes. I say God, to describe what is indescribable. A presence, I might say, yet that is too suggestive of personality, and the moments of which I speak did not hold the consciousness of a personality, but something in myself made me feel myself a part of something bigger than I, that was controlling. I felt myself one with the grass, the trees, birds, insects, everything in Nature. I exulted in the mere fact of existence, of being a part of it all -- the drizzling rain, the shadows of the clouds, the tree-trunks, and so on. In the years following, such moments continued to come, but I wanted them constantly. I knew so well the satisfaction of losing self in a perception of supreme power and love, that I was unhappy because that perception was not constant." The cases quoted in my third lecture, are still better ones of this type. In her essay, The Loss of Personality, in The Atlantic Monthly (vol. lxxxv. p. 195), Miss Ethel D. Puffer explains that the vanishing of the sense of self, and the feeling of immediate unity with the object, is due to the disappearance, in these rapturous experiences, of the motor adjustments which habitually intermediate between the constant background of consciousness (which is the Self) and the object in the foreground, whatever it may be. I must refer the reader to the highly instructive article, which seems to me to throw light upon the psychological conditions, though it fails to account for the rapture or the revelation-value of the experience in the Subject’s eyes.)

Most of the striking cases which I have collected have occurred out of doors. Literature has commemorated this fact in many passages of great beauty -- this extract, for example, from Amiel’s Journal Intime: --

"Shall I ever again have any of those prodigious reveries which sometimes came to me in former days? One day, in youth, at sunrise, sitting in the ruins of the castle of Faucigny; and again in the mountains, under the noonday sun, above Lavey, lying at the foot of a tree and visited by three butterflies; once more at night upon the shingly shore of the Northern Ocean, my back upon the sand and my vision ranging through the milky way; -- such grand and spacious, immortal, cosmogonic reveries, when one reaches to the stars, when one owns the infinite! Moments divine, ecstatic hours; in which our thought flies from world to world, pierces the great enigma, breathes with a respiration broad, tranquil, and deep as the respiration of the ocean, serene and limitless as the blue firmament; . . . instants of irresistible intuition in which one feels one’s self great as the universe, and calm as a god. . . . What hours, what memories! The vestiges they leave behind are enough to fill us with belief and enthusiasm, as if they were visits of the Holy Ghost." (Op. cit., i. 43-44.)

Here is a similar record from the memoirs of that interesting German idealist, Malwida von Meysenbug: --

"I was alone upon the seashore as all these thoughts flowed over me, liberating and reconciling; and now again, as once before in distant days in the Alps of Dauphiné, I was impelled to kneel down, this time before the illimitable ocean, symbol of the Infinite. I felt that I prayed as I had never prayed before, and knew now what prayer really is: to return from the solitude of individuation into the consciousness of unity with all that is, to kneel down as one that passes away, and to rise up as one imperishable. Earth, heaven, and sea resounded as in one vast world-encircling harmony. It was as if the chorus of all the great who had ever lived were about me. I felt myself one with them, and it appeared as if I heard their greeting: Thou too belongest to the company of those who overcome.’" (Memoiren einer Idealistin, 5te Auflage, 1900, iii. 166. For years she had been unable to pray, owing to materialistic belief.)

The well-known passage from Walt Whitman is a classical expression of this sporadic type of mystical experience. -

"I believe in you, my Soul . . .

Loaf with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat; . . .

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,

And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,

And that all the men ever born are also my brothers and the women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love."

(Whitman in another place expresses in a quieter way what was probably with him a chronic mystical perception: "There is," he writes, "apart from mere intellect, in the make-up of every superior human identity, a wondrous something that realizes without argument, frequently without what is called education (though I think it the goal and apex of all education deserving the name), an intuition of the absolute balance, in time and space, of the whole of this multifariousness, this revel of fools, and incredible make-believe and general unsettledness, we call the world; a soul-sight of that divine clue and unseen thread which holds the whole congeries of things, all history and time, and all events, however trivial, however momentous, like a leashed dog in the hand of the hunter. [Of] such soul-sight and root-centre for the mind mere optimism explains only the surface." Whitman charges it against Carlyle that he lacked this perception. Specimen Days and Collect, Philadelphia, 1882, p. 174.)

I could easily give more instances, but one will suffice. I take it from the Autobiography of J. Trevor. (My Quest for God, London, 1897, pp. 268, 269, abridged.)

"One brilliant Sunday morning, my wife and boys went to the Unitarian Chapel in Macclesfield. I felt it impossible to accompany them -- as though to leave the sunshine on the hills, and go down there to the chapel, would be for the time an act of spiritual suicide. And I felt such need for new inspiration and expansion in my life. So, very reluctantly and sadly, I left my wife and boys to go down into the town, while I went further up into the hills with my stick and my dog. In the loveliness of the morning, and the beauty of the hills and valleys, I soon lost my sense of sadness and regret. For nearly an hour I walked along the road to the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ and then returned. On the way back, suddenly, without warning, I felt that I was in Heaven -- an inward state of peace and joy and assurance indescribably intense, accompanied with a sense of being bathed in a warm glow of light, as though the external condition had brought about the internal effect -- a feeling of having passed beyond the body, though the scene around me stood out more clearly and as if nearer to me than before, by reason of the illumination in the midst of which I seemed to be placed. This deep emotion lasted, though with decreasing strength, until I reached home, and for some time after, only gradually passing away."

The writer adds that having had further experiences of a similar sort, he now knows them well.

"The spiritual life," he writes, "justifies itself to those who live it; but what can we say to those who do not understand? This, at least, we can say, that it is a life whose experiences are proved real to their possessor, because they remain with him when brought closest into contact with the objective realities of life. Dreams cannot stand this test. We wake from them to find that they are but dreams. Wanderings of an overwrought brain do not stand this test. These highest experiences that I have had of God’s presence have been rare and brief -- flashes of consciousness which have compelled me to exclaim with surprise -- God is here! -- or conditions of exaltation and insight less intense, and only gradually passing away. I have severely questioned the worth of these moments. To no soul have I named them, lest I should be building my life and work on mere phantasies of the brain. But I find that, after every questioning and test, they stand out today as the most real experiences of my life, and experiences which have explained and justified and unified all past experiences and all past growth. Indeed, their reality and their far-reaching significance are ever becoming more clear and evident. When they came, I was living the fullest, strongest, sanest, deepest life. I was not seeking them. What I was seeking, with resolute determination, was to live more intensely my own life, as against what I knew would be the adverse judgment of the world. It was in the most real seasons that the Real Presence came, and I was aware that I was immersed in the infinite ocean of God."

Even the least mystical of you must by this time be convinced of the existence of mystical moments as states of consciousness of an entirely specific quality, and of the deep impression which they make on those who have them. A Canadian psychiatrist, Dr. R.M. Bucke, gives to the more distinctly characterized of these phenomena the name of cosmic consciousness. "Cosmic consciousness in its more striking instances is not," Dr. Bucke says, "simply an expansion or extension of the self-conscious mind with which we are all familiar, but the superaddition of a function as distinct from any possessed by the average man as self-consciousness is distinct from any function possessed by one of the higher animals."

"The prime characteristic of cosmic consciousness is a consciousness of the cosmos, that is, of the life and order of the universe. Along with the consciousness of the cosmos there occurs an intellectual enlightenment which alone would place the individual on a new plane of existence- would make him almost a member of a new species. To this is added a state of moral exaltation, an indescribable feeling of elevation, elation, and joyousness, and a quickening of the moral sense, which is fully as striking, and more important than is the enhanced intellectual power. With these come what may be called a sense of immortality, a consciousness of eternal life, not a conviction that he shall have this, but the consciousness that he has it already." (Cosmic Consciousness: a study in the evolution of the human Mind, Philadelphia, 1901, p. 2.)

It was Dr. Bucke’s own experience of a typical onset of cosmic consciousness in his own person which led him to investigate it in others. He has printed his conclusions in a highly interesting volume, from which I take the following account of what occurred to him:--

"I had spent the evening in a great city, with two friends, reading and discussing poetry and philosophy. We parted at midnight. I had a long drive in a hansom to my lodging. My mind, deeply under the influence of the ideas, images, and emotions called up by the reading and talk, was calm and peaceful. I was in a state of quiet, almost passive enjoyment, not actually thinking, but letting ideas, images, and emotions flow of themselves, as it were, through my mind. All at once, without warning of any kind, I found myself wrapped in a flame-colored cloud. For an instant I thought of fire, an immense conflagration somewhere close by in that great city; the next, I knew that the fire was within myself. Directly afterward there came upon me a sense of exultation, of immense joyousness accompanied or immediately followed by an intellectual illumination impossible to describe. Among other things, I did not merely come to believe, but I saw that the universe is not composed of dead matter, but is, on the contrary, a living Presence; I became conscious in myself of eternal life. It was not a conviction that I would have eternal life, but a consciousness that I possessed eternal life then; I saw that all men are immortal; that the cosmic order is such that without any peradventure all things work together for the good of each and all; that the foundation principle of the world, of all the worlds, is what we call love, and that the happiness of each and all is in the long run absolutely certain. The vision lasted a few seconds and was gone; but the memory of it and the sense of the reality of what it taught has remained during the quarter of a century which has since elapsed. I knew that what the vision showed was true. I had attained to a point of view from which I saw that it must be true. That view, that conviction, I may say that consciousness, has never, even during periods of the deepest depression, been lost." (My quotation follows the privately printed pamphlet which preceded Dr. Bucke’s larger work, and differs verbally a little from the text of the latter.)

We have now seen enough of this cosmic or mystic consciousness, as it comes sporadically. We must next pass to its methodical cultivation as an element of the religious life. Hindus, Buddhists, Mohammedans, and Christians all have cultivated it methodically.

In India, training in mystical insight has been known from time immemorial under the name of yoga. Yoga means the experimental union of the individual with the divine. It is based on persevering exercise; and the diet, posture, breathing, intellectual concentration, and moral discipline vary slightly in the different systems which teach it. The yogi, or disciple, who has by these means overcome the obscurations of his lower nature sufficiently, enters into the condition termed samâdhi, "and comes face to face with facts which no instinct or reason can ever know." He learns --

"That the mind itself has a higher state of existence, beyond reason, a superconscious state, and that when the mind gets to that higher state, then this knowledge beyond reasoning comes. . . . All the different steps in yoga are intended to bring us scientifically to the superconscious state or Samâdhi. . . . Just as unconscious work is beneath consciousness, so there is another work which is above consciousness, and which, also, is not accompanied with the feeling of egoism. . . . There is no feeling of I, and yet the mind works, desireless, free from restlessness, objectless, bodiless. Then the Truth shines in its full effulgence, and we know ourselves -- for Samâdhi lies potential in us all -- for what we truly are, free, immortal, omnipotent, loosed from the finite, and its contrasts of good and evil altogether, and identical with the Atman or Universal Soul." (My quotations are from Vivekanada, Raja Yoga, London, 1896. The completest source of information on Yoga is the work translated by Vihari Lala Mitra: Yoga Vasishta Maha Ramayana, 4 vols., Calcutta. 1891-99.)

The Vedantists say that one may stumble into super-consciousness sporadically, without the previous discipline, but it is then impure. Their test of its purity, like our test of religion’s value, is empirical: its fruits must be good for life. When a man comes out of Samâdhi, they assure us that he remains "enlightened, a sage, a prophet, a saint, his whole character changed, his life changed, illumined." (A European witness, after carefully comparing the results of Yoga with those of the hypnotic or dreamy states artificially producible by us, says: "It makes of its true disciples good, healthy, and happy men. . . . Through the mastery which the yogi attains over his thoughts and his body, he grows into a ‘character.’ By the subjection of his impulses and propensities to his will, and the fixing of the latter upon the ideal of goodness, be becomes a ‘personality’ hard to influence by others, and thus almost the opposite of what we usually imagine a ‘medium’ so-called, or ‘psychic subject’ to be." Karl Kellner: Yoga: Eine Skizze, Munchen, 1896, p. 21.)

The Buddhists use the word "samâdhi" as well as the Hindus; but "dhyâna" is their special word for higher states of contemplation. There seem to be four stages recognized in dhyâna. The first stage comes through concentration of the mind upon one point. It excludes desire, but not discernment or judgment: it is still intellectual. In the second stage the intellectual functions drop off, and the satisfied sense of unity remains. In the third stage the satisfaction departs, and indifference begins, along with memory and self-consciousness. In the fourth stage the indifference, memory, and self-consciousness are perfected. [Just what "memory" and "self-consciousness" mean in this connection is doubtful. They cannot be the faculties familiar to us in the lower life.] Higher stages still of contemplation are mentioned -- a region where there exists nothing, and where the meditator says: "There exists absolutely nothing," and stops. Then he reaches another region where he says: "There are neither ideas nor absence of ideas," and stops again. Then another region where, "having reached the end of both idea and perception, he stops finally." This would seem to be, not yet Nirvâna, but as close an approach to it as this life affords. (I follow the account in C.F. Koeppen: Die Religion des Buddha, Berlin, 1857, i. 585 ff.)

In the Mohammedan world the Sufi sect and various dervish bodies are the possessors of the mystical tradition. The Sufis have existed in Persia from the earliest times, and as their pantheism is so at variance with the hot and rigid monotheism of the Arab mind, it has been suggested that Sufism must have been inoculated into Islam by Hindu influences. We Christians know little of Sufism, for its secrets are disclosed only to those initiated. To give its existence a certain liveliness in your minds, I will quote a Moslem document, and pass away from the subject.

Al-Ghazzali, a Persian philosopher and theologian, who flourished in the eleventh century, and ranks as one of the greatest doctors of the Moslem church, has left us one of the few autobiographies to be found outside of Christian literature. Strange that a species of book so abundant among ourselves should be so little represented elsewhere -- the absence of strictly personal confessions is the chief difficulty to the purely literary student who would like to become acquainted with the inwardness of religions other than the Christian.

M. Schmölders has translated a part of Al-Ghazzali’s autobiography into French: (For a full account of him, see D.B. Macdonald: The Life of Al-Ghazzali, in the Journal of the American Oriental Society, 1899, vol. xx p. 71.) --

"The Science of the Sufis," says the Moslem author, "aims at detaching the heart from all that is not God, and at giving to it for sole occupation the meditation of the divine being. Theory being more easy for me than practice, I read [certain books] until I understood all that can be learned by study and hearsay. Then I recognized that what pertains most exclusively to their method is just what no study can grasp, but only transport, ecstasy, and the transformation of the soul. How great, for example, is the difference between knowing the definitions of health, of satiety, with their causes and conditions, and being really healthy or filled. How different to know in what drunkenness consists -- as being a state occasioned by a vapor that rises from the stomach -- and being drunk effectively. Without doubt, the drunken man knows neither the definition of drunkenness nor what makes it interesting for science. Being drunk, he knows nothing; whilst the physician, although not drunk, knows well in what drunkenness consists, and what are its predisposing conditions. Similarly there is a difference between knowing the nature of abstinence, and being abstinent or having one’s soul detached from the world. -- Thus I had learned what words could teach of Sufism, but what was left could be learned neither by study nor through the ears, but solely by giving one’s self up to ecstasy and leading a pious life.

"Reflecting on my situation, I found myself tied down by a multitude of bonds -- temptations on every side. Considering my teaching, I found it was impure before God. I saw myself struggling with all my might to achieve glory and to spread my name. [Here follows an account of his six months’ hesitation to break away from the conditions of his life at Bagdad, at the end of which he fell ill with a paralysis of the tongue.] Then, feeling my own weakness, and having entirely given up my own will, I repaired to God like a man in distress who has no more resources. He answered, as he answers the wretch who invokes him. My heart no longer felt any difficulty in renouncing glory, wealth, and my children. So I quitted Bagdad, and reserving from my fortune only what was indispensable for my subsistence, I distributed the rest. I went to Syria, where I remained about two years, with no other occupation than living in retreat and solitude, conquering my desires, combating my passions, training myself to purify my soul, to make my character perfect, to prepare my heart for meditating on God -- all according to the methods of the Sufis, as I had read of them.

"This retreat only increased my desire to live in solitude, and to complete the purification of my heart and fit it for meditation. But the vicissitudes of the times, the affairs of the family, the need of subsistence, changed in some respects my primitive resolve, and interfered with my plans for a purely solitary life. I had never yet found myself completely in ecstasy, save in a few single hours; nevertheless, I kept the hope of attaining this state. Every time that the accidents led me astray, I sought to return; and in this situation I spent ten years. During this solitary state things were revealed to me which it is impossible either to describe or to point out. I recognized for certain that the Sufis are assuredly walking in the path of God. Both in their acts and in their inaction, whether internal or external, they are illumined by the light which proceeds from the prophetic source. The first condition for a Sufi is to purge his heart entirely of all that is not God. The next key of the contemplative life consists in the humble prayers which escape from the fervent soul, and in the meditations on God in which the heart is swallowed up entirely. But in reality this is only the beginning of the Sufi life, the end of Sufism being total absorption in God. The intuitions and all that precede are, so to speak, only the threshold for those who enter. From the beginning, revelations take place in so flagrant a shape that the Sufis see before them, whilst wide awake, the angels and the souls of the prophets. They hear their voices and obtain their favors. Then the transport rises from the perception of forms and figures to a degree which escapes all expression, and which no man may seek to give an account of without his words involving sin.

"Whoever has had no experience of the transport knows of the true nature of prophetism nothing but the name. He may meanwhile be sure of its existence, both by experience and by what he hears the Sufis say. As there are men endowed only with the sensitive faculty who reject what is offered them in the way of objects of the pure understanding, so there are intellectual men who reject and avoid the things perceived by the prophetic faculty. A blind man can understand nothing of colors save what he has learned by narration and hearsay. Yet God has brought prophetism near to men in giving them all a state analogous to it in its principal characters. This state is sleep. If you were to tell a man who was himself without experience of such a phenomenon that there are people who at times swoon away so as to resemble dead men, and who [in dreams] yet perceive things that are hidden, he would deny it [and give his reasons]. Nevertheless, his arguments would be refuted by actual experience. Wherefore, just as the understanding is a stage of human life in which an eye opens to discern various intellectual objects uncomprehended by sensation; just so in the prophetic the sight is illumined by a light which uncovers hidden things and objects which the intellect fails to reach. The chief properties of prophetism are perceptible only during the transport, by those who embrace the Sufi life. The prophet is endowed with qualities to which you possess nothing analogous, and which consequently you cannot possibly understand. How should you know their true nature, since one knows only what one can comprehend? But the transport which one attains by the method of the Sufis is like an immediate perception, as if one touched the objects with one’s hand." (A. Schmölders: Essai sur les écoles philosophiques chez les Arabes, Paris, 1842, pp. 54-68, abridged.)

This incommunicableness of the transport is the keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth exists for the individual who has the transport, but for no one else. In this, as I have said, it resembles the knowledge given to us in sensations more than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with its remoteness and abstractness, has often enough in the history of philosophy been contrasted unfavorably with sensation. It is a commonplace of metaphysics that God’s knowledge cannot be discursive but must be intuitive, that is, must be constructed more after the pattern of what in ourselves is called immediate feeling, than after that of proposition and judgment. But our immediate feelings have no content but what the five senses supply; and we have seen and shall see again that mystics may emphatically deny that the senses play any part in the very highest type of knowledge which their transports yield.

In the Christian church there have always been mystics. Although many of them have been viewed with suspicion, some have gained favor in the eyes of the authorities. The experiences of these have been treated as precedents, and a codified system of mystical theology has been based upon them, in which everything legitimate finds its place. (Görres’s Christliche Mystik gives a full account of the facts. So does Ribet’s Mystique Divine, 2 vols., Paris, 1890. A still more methodical modern work is the Mystica Theologia of Vallgornera, 2 vols., Turin, 1890.) The basis of the system is "orison" or meditation, the methodical elevation of the soul towards God. Through the practice of orison the higher levels of mystical experience may be attained. It is odd that Protestantism, especially evangelical Protestantism, should seemingly have abandoned everything methodical in this line. Apart from what prayer may lead to, Protestant mystical experience appears to have been almost exclusively sporadic. It has been left to our mind-curers to reintroduce methodical meditation into our religious life.

The first thing to be aimed at in orison is the mind’s detachment from outer sensations, for these interfere with its concentration upon ideal things. Such manuals as Saint Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises recommend the disciple to expel sensation by a graduated series of efforts to imagine holy scenes. The acme of this kind of discipline would be a semi-hallucinatory mono-ideism -- an imaginary figure of Christ, for example, coming fully to occupy the mind. Sensorial images of this sort, whether literal or symbolic, play an enormous part in mysticism. (M. Récéjac, in a recent volume, makes them essential. Mysticism he defines as "the tendency to draw near to the Absolute morally, and by the aid of Symbols." See his Fondements de la Connaissance mystique, Paris, 1897, p. 66. But there are unquestionably mystical conditions in which sensible symbols play no part.) But in certain cases imagery may fall away entirely, and in the very highest raptures it tends to do so. The state of consciousness becomes then insusceptible of any verbal description. Mystical teachers are unanimous as to this. Saint John of the Cross, for instance, one of the best of them, thus describes the condition called the "union of love," which, he says, is reached by "dark contemplation." In this the Deity compenetrates the soul, but in such a hidden way that the soul --

"finds no terms, no means, no comparison whereby to render the sublimity of the wisdom and the delicacy of the spiritual feeling with which she is filled. . . . We receive this mystical knowledge of God clothed in none of the kinds of images, in none of the sensible representations, which our mind makes use of in other circumstances. Accordingly in this knowledge, since the senses and the imagination are not employed, we get neither form nor impression, nor can we give any account or furnish any likeness, although the mysterious and sweet-tasting wisdom comes home so clearly to the inmost parts of our soul. Fancy a man seeing a certain kind of thing for the first time in his life. He can understand it, use and enjoy it, but he cannot apply a name to it, nor communicate any idea of it, even though all the while it be a mere thing of sense. How much greater will be his powerlessness when it goes beyond the senses! This is the peculiarity of the divine language. The more infused, intimate, spiritual, and supersensible it is, the more does it exceed the senses, both inner and outer, and impose silence upon them. . . . The soul then feels as if placed in a vast and profound solitude, to which no created thing has access, in an immense and boundless desert, desert the more delicious the more solitary it is. There, in this abyss of wisdom, the soul grows by what it drinks in from the well-springs of the comprehension of love, . . . and recognizes, however sublime and learned may be the terms we employ, how utterly vile, insignificant, and improper they are, when we seek to discourse of divine things by their means." (Saint John of the Cross: The Dark Night of the Soul, book ii. ch. xvii., in Vie et Oeuvres, 3me édition, Paris, 1893, iii. 428-432. Chapter xi. of book ii. of Saint John’s Ascent of Carmel is devoted to showing the harmfulness for the mystical life of the use of sensible imagery.)

I cannot pretend to detail to you the sundry stages of the Christian mystical life. (In particular I omit mention of visual and auditory hallucinations, verbal and graphic automatisms, and such marvels as "levitation," stigmatization, and the healing of disease. These phenomena, which mystics have often presented (or are believed to have presented), have no essential mystical significance, for they occur with no consciousness of illumination whatever, when they occur, as they often do, in persons of non-mystical mind. Consciousness of illumination is for us the essential mark of "mystical" states.) Our time would not suffice, for one thing; and moreover, I confess that the subdivisions and names which we find in the Catholic books seem to me to represent nothing objectively distinct. So many men, so many minds: I imagine that these experiences can be as infinitely varied as are the idiosyncrasies of individuals.

The cognitive aspects of them, their value in the way of revelation, is what we are directly concerned with, and it is easy to show by citation how strong an impression they leave of being revelations of new depths of truth. Saint Teresa is the expert of experts in describing such conditions, so I will turn immediately to what she says of one of the highest of them, the "orison of union."

"In the orison of union," says Saint Teresa, "the soul is fully awake as regards God, but wholly asleep as regards things of this world and in respect of herself. During the short time the union lasts, she is as it were deprived of every feeling, and even if she would, she could not think of any single thing. Thus she needs to employ no artifice in order to arrest the use of her understanding: it remains so stricken with inactivity that she neither knows what she loves, nor in what manner she loves, nor what she wills. In short, she is utterly dead to the things of the world and lives solely in God. . . . I do not even know whether in this state she has enough life left to breathe. It seems to me she has not; or at least that if she does breathe, she is unaware of it. Her intellect would fain understand something of what is going on within her, but it has so little force now that it can act in no way whatsoever. So a person who falls into a deep faint appears as if dead. . . .

"Thus does God, when he raises a soul to union with himself, suspend the natural action of all her faculties. She neither sees, hears, nor understands, so long as she is united with God. But this time is always short, and it seems even shorter than it is. God establishes himself in the interior of this soul in such a way, that when she returns to herself, it is wholly impossible for her to doubt that she has been in God, and God in her. This truth remains so strongly impressed on her that, even though many years should pass without the condition returning, she can neither forget the favor she received, nor doubt of its reality. If you, nevertheless, ask how it is possible that the soul can see and understand that she has been in God, since during the union she has neither sight nor understanding, I reply that she does not see it then, but that she sees it clearly later, after she has returned to herself, not by any vision, but by a certitude which abides with her and which God alone can give her. I knew a person who was ignorant of the truth that God’s mode of being in everything must be either by presence, by power, or by essence, but who, after having received the grace of which I am speaking, believed this truth in the most unshakable manner. So much so that, having consulted a half-learned man who was as ignorant on this point as she had been before she was enlightened, when he replied that God is in us only by ‘grace,’ she disbelieved his reply, so sure she was of the true answer; and when she came to ask wiser doctors, they confirmed her in her belief, which much consoled her. . . .

"But how, you will repeat, can one have such certainty in respect to what one does not see? This question, I am powerless to answer. These are secrets of God’s omnipotence which it does not appertain to me to penetrate. All that I know is that I tell the truth; and I shall never believe that any soul who does not possess this certainty has ever been really united to God." (The Interior Castle, Fifth Abode, ch. i., in Oeuvres, translated by Bouix, iii. 421-424.)

The kinds of truth communicable in mystical ways, whether these be sensible or supersensible, are various. Some of them relate to this world -- visions of the future, the reading of hearts, the sudden understanding of texts, the knowledge of distant events, for example; but the most important revelations are theological or metaphysical.

"Saint Ignatius confessed one day to Father Laynez that a single hour of meditation at Manresa had taught him more truths about heavenly things than all the teachings of all the doctors put together could have taught him. . . . One day in orison, on the steps of the choir of the Dominican church, he saw in a distinct manner the plan of divine wisdom in the creation of the world. On another occasion, during a procession, his spirit was ravished in God, and it was given him to contemplate, in a form and images fitted to the weak understanding of a dweller on the earth, the deep mystery of the holy Trinity. This last vision flooded his heart with such sweetness, that the mere memory of it in after times made him shed abundant tears." (Bartoli-Michel: Vie de Saint Ignace de Loyola, i. 34-36. Others have had illuminations about the created world, Jacob Boehme, for instance. At the age of twenty-five he was "surrounded by the divine light, and replenished with the heavenly knowledge; insomuch as going abroad into the fields to a green, at Görlitz, he there sat down, and viewing the herbs and grass of the field, in his inward light he saw into their essences, use, and properties, which was discovered to him by their lineaments, figures, and signatures." Of a later period of experience he writes: "In one quarter of an hour I saw and knew more than if I had been many years together at an university. For I saw and knew the being of all things, the Byss and the Abyss, and the eternal generation of the holy Trinity, the descent and original of the world and of all creatures through the divine wisdom. I knew and saw in myself all the three worlds, the external and visible world being of a procreation or extern birth from both the internal and spiritual worlds; and I saw and knew the whole working essence, in the evil and in the good, and the mutual original and existence; and likewise how the fruitful bearing womb of eternity brought forth. So that I did not only greatly wonder at it, but did also exceedingly rejoice, albeit I could very hardly apprehend the same in my external man and set it down with the pen. For I had a thorough view of the universe as in a chaos, wherein all things are couched and wrapt up, but it was impossible for me to explicate the same." Jacob Behmen’s Theosophic Philosophy, etc., by Edward Taylor, London, 1691, pp. 425, 427, abridged. So George Fox: "I was come up to the state of Adam in which he was before he fell. The creation was opened to me; and it was showed me, how all things had their names given to them, according to their nature and virtue. I was at a stand in my mind, whether I should practice physic for the good of mankind, seeing the nature and virtues of the creatures were so opened to me by the Lord." Journal, Philadelphia, no date, p. 69. Contemporary "Clairvoyance" abounds in similar revelations. Andrew Jackson Davis’s cosmogonies, for example, or certain experiences related in the delectable "Reminiscences and Memories of Henry Thomas Butterworth," Lebanon, Ohio, 1886.)

Similarly with Saint Teresa. "One day, being in orison," she writes, "it was granted me to perceive in one instant how all things are seen and contained in God. I did not perceive them in their proper form, and nevertheless the view I had of them was of a sovereign clearness, and has remained vividly impressed upon my soul. It is one of the most signal of all the graces which the Lord has granted me. . . . The view was so subtile and delicate that the understanding cannot grasp it." (Vie, pp. 581, 582.)

She goes on to tell how it was as if the Deity were an enormous and sovereignly limpid diamond, in which all our actions were contained in such a way that their full sinfulness appeared evident as never before. On another day, she relates, while she was reciting the Athanasian Creed --

"Our Lord made me comprehend in what way it is that one God can be in three Persons. He made me see it so clearly that I remained as extremely surprised as I was comforted, . . . and now, when I think of the holy Trinity, or hear It spoken of, I understand how the three adorable Persons form only one God and I experience an unspeakable happiness."

On still another occasion, it was given to Saint Teresa to see and understand in what wise the Mother of God had been assumed into her place in Heaven. (Loc. cit., p. 574.)

The deliciousness of some of these states seems to be beyond anything known in ordinary consciousness. It evidently involves organic sensibilities, for it is spoken of as something too extreme to be borne, and as verging on bodily pain. (Saint Teresa discriminates between pain in which the body has a part and pure spiritual pain [Interior Castle, 6th Abode, ch. xi.]. As for the bodily part in these celestial joys, she speaks of it as "penetrating to the marrow of the bones, whilst earthly pleasures affect only the surface of the senses. I think," she adds, "that this is a just description, and I cannot make it better." Ibid., 5th Abode, ch. i.). But it is too subtle and piercing a delight for ordinary words to denote. God’s touches, the wounds of his spear, references to ebriety and to nuptial union have to figure in the phraseology by which it is shadowed forth. Intellect and senses both swoon away in these highest states of ecstasy. "If our understanding comprehends," says Saint Teresa, "it is in a mode which remains unknown to it, and it can understand nothing of what it comprehends. For my own part, I do not believe that it does comprehend, because, as I said, it does not understand itself to do so. I confess that it is all a mystery in which I am lost." (Vie, p. 198.) In the condition called raptus or ravishment by theologians, breathing and circulation are so depressed that it is a question among the doctors whether the soul be or be not temporarily dissevered from the body. One must read Saint Teresa’s descriptions and the very exact distinctions which she makes, to persuade one’s self that one is dealing, not with imaginary experiences, but with phenomena which, however rare, follow perfectly definite psychological types.

To the medical mind these ecstasies signify nothing but suggested and imitated hypnoid states, on an intellectual basis of superstition, and a corporeal one of degeneration and hysteria. Undoubtedly these pathological conditions have existed in many and possibly in all the cases, but that fact tells us nothing about the value for knowledge of the consciousness which they induce. To pass a spiritual judgment upon these states, we must not content ourselves with superficial medical talk, but inquire into their fruits for life.

Their fruits appear to have been various. Stupefaction, for one thing, seems not to have been altogether absent as a result. You may remember the helplessness in the kitchen and schoolroom of poor Margaret Mary Alacoque. Many other ecstatics would have perished but for the care taken of them by admiring followers. The "other worldliness" encouraged by the mystical consciousness makes this over-abstraction from practical life peculiarly liable to befall mystics in whom the character is naturally passive and the intellect feeble; but in natively strong minds and characters we find quite opposite results. The great Spanish mystics, who carried the habit of ecstasy as far as it has often been carried, appear for the most part to have shown indomitable spirit and energy, and all the more so for the trances in which they indulged.

Saint Ignatius was a mystic, but his mysticism made him assuredly one of the most powerfully practical human engines that ever lived. Saint John of the Cross, writing of the intuitions and "touches" by which God reaches the substance of the soul, tells us that --

"They enrich it marvelously. A single one of them may be sufficient to abolish at a stroke certain imperfections of which the soul during its whole life had vainly tried to rid itself, and to leave it adorned with virtues and loaded with supernatural gifts. A single one of these intoxicating consolations may reward it for all the labors undergone in its life- even were they numberless. Invested with an invincible courage, filled with an impassioned desire to suffer for its God, the soul then is seized with a strange torment- that of not being allowed to suffer enough." (Œuvres, ii. 320.)

Saint Teresa is as emphatic, and much more detailed. You may perhaps remember a passage I quoted from her in my first lecture. There are many similar pages in her autobiography. Where in literature is a more evidently veracious account of the formation of a new centre of spiritual energy, than is given in her description of the effects of certain ecstasies which in departing leave the soul upon a higher level of emotional excitement?

"Often, infirm and wrought upon with dreadful pains before the ecstasy, the soul emerges from it full of health and admirably disposed for action... as if God had willed that the body itself, already obedient to the soul’s desires, should share in the soul’s happiness. . . . The soul after such a favor is animated with a degree of courage so great that if at that moment its body should be torn to pieces for the cause of God, it would feel nothing but the liveliest comfort. Then it is that promises and heroic resolutions spring up in profusion in us, soaring desires, horror of the world, and the clear perception of our proper nothingness. . . . What empire is comparable to that of a soul who, from this sublime summit to which God has raised her, sees all the things of earth beneath her feet, and is captivated by no one of them? How ashamed she is of her former attachments! How amazed at her blindness! What lively pity she feels for those whom she recognizes still shrouded in the darkness! . . . She groans at having ever been sensitive to points of honor, at the illusion that made her ever see as honor what the world calls by that name. Now she sees in this name nothing more than an immense lie of which the world remains a victim. She discovers, in the new light from above, that in genuine honor there is nothing spurious, that to be faithful to this honor is to give our respect to what deserves to be respected really, and to consider as nothing, or as less than nothing, whatsoever perishes and is not agreeable to God. . . . She laughs when she sees grave persons, persons of orison, caring for points of honor for which she now feels profoundest contempt. It is suitable to the dignity of their rank to act thus, they pretend, and it makes them more useful to others. But she knows that in despising the dignity of their rank for the pure love of God they would do more good in a single day than they would effect in ten years by preserving it. . . . She laughs at herself that there should ever have been a time in her life when she made any case of money, when she ever desired it. . . . Oh! if human beings might only agree together to regard it as so much useless mud, what harmony would then reign in the world! With what friendship we would all treat each other if our interest in honor and in money could but disappear from earth! For my own part, I feel as if it would be a remedy for all our ills." (Vie, pp. 229, 200, 231-233, 243.)

Mystical conditions may, therefore, render the soul more energetic in the lines which their inspiration favors. But this could be reckoned an advantage only in case the inspiration were a true one. If the inspiration were erroneous, the energy would be all the more mistaken and misbegotten. So we stand once more before that problem of truth which confronted us at the end of the lectures on saintliness. You will remember that we turned to mysticism precisely to get some light on truth. Do mystical states establish the truth of those theological affections in which the saintly life has its root?

In spite of their repudiation of articulate self-description, mystical states in general assert a pretty distinct theoretic drift. It is possible to give the outcome of the majority of them in terms that point in definite philosophical directions. One of these directions is optimism, and the other is monism. We pass into mystical states from out of ordinary consciousness as from a less into a more, as from a smallness into a vastness, and at the same time as from an unrest to a rest. We feel them as reconciling, unifying states. They appeal to the yes-function more than to the no-function in us. In them the unlimited absorbs the limits and peacefully closes the account. Their very denial of every adjective you may propose as applicable to the ultimate truth -- He, the Self, the Atman, is to be described by ‘No! no!’ only, say the Upanishads, (Müller’s translation, part ii. p. 180.) -- though it seems on the surface to be a no-function, is a denial made on behalf of a deeper yes. Whoso calls the Absolute anything in particular, or says that it is this, seems implicitly to shut it off from being that -- it is as if he lessened it. So we deny the "this," negating the negation which it seems to us to imply, in the interests of the higher affirmative attitude by which we are possessed. The fountain-head of Christian mysticism is Dionysius the Areopagite. He describes the absolute truth by negatives exclusively.

"The cause of all things is neither soul nor intellect; nor has it imagination, opinion, or reason, or intelligence; nor is it reason or intelligence; nor is it spoken or thought. It is neither number, nor order, nor magnitude, nor littleness, nor equality, nor inequality, nor similarity, nor dissimilarity. It neither stands, nor moves, nor rests.... It is neither essence, nor eternity, nor time. Even intellectual contact does not belong to it. It is neither science nor truth. It is not even royalty or wisdom; not one; not unity; not divinity or goodness; nor even spirit as we know it," etc., ad libitum. (T. Davidson’s translation, in Journal of Speculative Philosophy, 1893, vol. xxii. p. 399.)

But these qualifications are denied by Dionysius, not because the truth falls short of them, but because it so infinitely excels them. It is above them. It is super-lucent, super-splendent, super-essential, super-sublime, super everything that can be named. Like Hegel in his logic, mystics journey towards the positive pole of truth only by the "Methode der Absoluten Negativitat." ( "Deus propter excellentiam non immerito Nihil vocatur." Scotus Erigena, quoted by Andrew Seth: Two Lectures on Theism, New York, 1897, p. 55.)

Thus come the paradoxical expressions that so abound in mystical writings. As when Eckhart tells of the still desert of the Godhead, "where never was seen difference, neither Father, Son, nor Holy Ghost, where there is no one at home, yet where the spark of the soul is more at peace than in itself." (J. Royce: Studies in Good and Evil, p. 282.) As when Boehme writes of the Primal Love, that "it may fitly be compared to Nothing, for it is deeper than any Thing, and is as nothing with respect to all things, forasmuch as it is not comprehensible by any of them. And because it is nothing respectively, it is therefore free from all things, and is that only good, which a man cannot express or utter what it is, there being nothing to which it may be compared, to express it by." ( Jacob Behmen’s Dialogues on the Supersensual Life, translated by Bernard Holland, London, 1901, p. 48.) Or as when Angelus Silesius sings: --

"Gott ist ein lauter Nichts, ihn ruhrt kein Nun noch Hier;

Je mehr du nach ihm greiffst, je mehr entwind er dir."

(Cherubinischer Wandersmann, Strophe 25.)

To this dialectical use, by the intellect, of negation as a mode of passage towards a higher kind of affirmation, there is correlated the subtlest of moral counterparts in the sphere of the personal will. Since denial of the finite self and its wants, since asceticism of some sort, is found in religious experience to be the only doorway to the larger and more blessed life, this moral mystery intertwines and combines with the intellectual mystery in all mystical writings.

"Love," continues Behmen, is Nothing, for "when thou art gone forth wholly from the Creature and from that which is visible, and art become Nothing to all that is Nature and Creature, then thou art in that eternal One, which is God himself, and then thou shalt feel within thee the highest virtue of Love. . . . The treasure of treasures for the soul is where she goeth out of the Somewhat into that Nothing out of which all things may be made. The soul here saith, I have nothing, for I am utterly stripped and naked; I can do nothing, for I have no manner of power, but am as water poured out; I am nothing, for all that I am is no more than an image of Being, and only God is to me I AM; and so, sitting down in my own Nothingness, I give glory to the eternal Being, and will nothing of myself, that so God may will all in me, being unto me my God and all things." (Op. cit., pp. 42, 74, abridged.)

In Paul’s language, I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me. Only when I become as nothing can God enter in and no difference between his life and mine remain outstanding. (From a French book I take this mystical expression of happiness in God’s indwelling presence:--

"Jesus has come to take up his abode in my heart. It is not so much a habitation, an association, as a sort of fusion. Oh, new and blessed life! life which becomes each day more luminous. . . . The wall before me, dark a few moments since, is splendid at this hour because the sun shines on it. Wherever its rays fall they light up a conflagration of glory; the smallest speck of glass sparkles, each grain of sand emits fire; even so there is a royal song of triumph in my heart because the Lord is there. My days succeed each other; yesterday a blue sky; today a clouded sun; a night filled with strange dreams; but as soon as the eyes open, and I regain consciousness and seem to begin life again, it is always the same figure before me, always the same presence filling my heart. . . . Formerly the day was dulled by the absence of the Lord. I used to wake invaded by all sorts of sad impressions, and I did not find him on my path. Today he is with me; and the light cloudiness which covers things is not an obstacle to my communion with him. I feel the pressure of his hand, I feel something else which fills me with a serene joy; shall I dare to speak it out? Yes, for it is the true expression of what I experience. The Holy Spirit in not merely making me a visit; it is no mere dazzling apparition which may from one moment to another spread its wings and leave me in my night, it is a permanent habitation. He can depart only if he takes me with him. More than that; he is not other than myself: he is one with me. It is not a juxtaposition, it is a penetration, a profound modification of my nature, a new manner of my being." Quoted from the MS. ‘of an old man’ by Wilfred Monod: Il Vit: six meditations sur le mystère chrétien, pp. 280-283.)

This overcoming of all the usual barriers between the individual and the Absolute is the great mystic achievement. In mystic states we both become one with the Absolute and we become aware of our oneness. This is the everlasting and triumphant mystical tradition, hardly altered by differences of clime or creed. In Hinduism, in Neoplatonism, in Sufism, in Christian mysticism, in Whitmanism, we find the same recurring note, so that there is about mystical utterances an eternal unanimity which ought to make a critic stop and think, and which brings it about that the mystical classics have, as has been said, neither birthday nor native land. Perpetually telling of the unity of man with God, their speech antedates languages, and they do not grow old. (Compare M. Maeterlinck: L’Ornament des Noces spirituelles de Ruysbroeck, Bruxelles, 1891, Introduction, p. xix.)

"That art Thou!" say the Upanishads, and the Vedantists add: "Not a part, not a mode of That, but identically That, that absolute Spirit of the World." "As pure water poured into pure water remains the same, thus, O Gautama, is the Self of a thinker who knows. Water in water, fire in fire, ether in ether, no one can distinguish them; likewise a man whose mind has entered into the Self." (Upanishads, M. Müller’s translation, ii. 17, 334.) "‘Every man,’ says the Sufi Gulshan-Râz, whose heart is no longer shaken by any doubt, knows with certainty that there is no being save only One. . . . In his divine majesty the me, the we, the thou, are not found, for in the One there can be no distinction. Every being who is annulled and entirely separated from himself, hears resound outside of him this voice and this echo: I am God: he has an eternal way of existing, and is no longer subject to death.’" (Schmolders: Op. cit., p. 210.) In the vision of God, says Plotinus, "what sees is not our reason, but something prior and superior to our reason. . . . He who thus sees does not properly see, does not distinguish or imagine two things. He changes, he ceases to be himself, preserves nothing of himself. Absorbed in God, he makes but one with him, like a centre of a circle coinciding with another centre." (Enneads, Bouillier’s translation, Paris, 1861, iii. 561. Compare pp. 473-477, and vol. i. p. 27.) "Here," writes Suso, "the spirit dies, and yet is all alive in the marvels of the Godhead . . . and is lost in the stillness of the glorious dazzling obscurity and of the naked simple unity. It is in this modeless where that the highest bliss is to be found." ( Autobiography, pp. 309, 310.) "Ich bin so gross als Gott," sings Angelus Silesius again, "Er ist als ich so klein; Er kann nicht uber mich, ich unter ihm nicht sein." (Op. cit., Strophe 10.)

In mystical literature such self-contradictory phrases as "dazzling obscurity," "whispering silence," "teeming desert,’ are continually met with. They prove that not conceptual speech, but music rather, is the element through which we are best spoken to by mystical truth. Many mystical scriptures are indeed little more than musical compositions. -

"He who would hear the voice of Nada, ‘the Soundless Sound,’ and comprehend it, he has to learn the nature of Dharana. . . . When to himself his form appears unreal, as do on waking all the forms he sees in dreams; when he has ceased to hear the many, he may discern the ONE -- the inner sound which kills the outer. . . . For then the soul will hear, and will remember. And then to the inner ear will speak THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE. . . . And now thy Self is lost in SELF, thyself unto THYSELF, merged in that SELF from which thou first didst radiate. . . . Behold! thou hast become the Light, thou hast become the Sound, thou art thy Master and thy God. Thou art THYSELF the object of thy search: the VOICE unbroken, that resounds throughout eternities, exempt from change, from sin exempt, the seven sounds in one, the VOICE OF THE SILENCE. Om tat Sat." (H.P. Blavatsky: The Voice of the Silence.)

These words, if they do not awaken laughter as you receive them, probably stir chords within you which music and language touch in common. Music gives us ontological messages which non-musical criticism is unable to contradict, though it may laugh at our foolishness in minding them. There is a verge of the mind which these things haunt; and whispers therefrom mingle with the operations of our understanding, even as the waters of the infinite ocean send their waves to break among the pebbles that lie upon our shores.

"Here begins the sea that ends not till the world’s end. Where we stand,

Could we know the next high sea-mark set beyond these waves that gleam,

We should know what never man hath known, nor eye of man hath scanned....

Ah, but here man’s heart leaps, yearning towards the gloom with venturous glee,

From the shore that hath no shore beyond it, set in all the sea."

(Swinburne: On the Verge, in "A Midsummer Vacation.")

That doctrine, for example, that eternity is timeless, that our "immortality," if we live in the eternal, is not so much future as already now and here, which we find so often expressed to-day in certain philosophic circles, finds its support in a "hear, hear!" or an "amen," which floats up from that mysteriously deeper level. (Compare the extracts from Dr. Bucke, quoted earlier in this lecture.) We recognize the passwords to the mystical region as we hear them, but we cannot use them ourselves; it alone has the keeping of "the password primeval." ( As serious an attempt as I know to mediate between the mystical region and the discursive life is contained in an article on Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, by F.C.S. Schiller, in Mind, vol. ix., 1900.)

I have now sketched with extreme brevity and insufficiency, but as fairly as I am able in the time allowed, the general traits of the mystic range of consciousness. It is on the whole pantheistic and optimistic, or at least the opposite of pessimistic. It is anti-naturalistic, and harmonizes best with twice-bornness and so-called other-worldly states of mind.

My next task is to inquire whether we can invoke it as authoritative. Does it furnish any warrant for the truth of the twice-bornness and supernaturality and pantheism which it favors? I must give my answer to this question as concisely as I can.

In brief my answer is this -- and I will divide it into three parts: --

(1) Mystical states, when well developed, usually are, and have the right to be, absolutely authoritative over the individuals to whom they come.

(2) No authority emanates from them which should make it a duty for those who stand outside of them to accept their revelations uncritically.

(3) They break down the authority of the non-mystical or rationalistic consciousness, based upon the understanding and the senses alone. They show it to be only one kind of consciousness. They open out the possibility of other orders of truth, in which, so far as anything in us vitally responds to them, we may freely continue to have faith.

I will take up these points one by one.

1.

As a matter of psychological fact, mystical states of a well-pronounced and emphatic sort are usually authoritative over those who have them. (I abstract from weaker states, and from those cases of which the books are full, where the director [but usually not the subject] remains in doubt whether the experience may not have proceeded from the demon.) They have been "there," and know. It is vain for rationalism to grumble about this. If the mystical truth that comes to a man proves to be a force that he can live by, what mandate have we of the majority to order him to live in another way? We can throw him into a prison or a madhouse, but we cannot change his mind -- we commonly attach it only the more stubbornly to its beliefs. (Example: Mr. John Nelson writes of his imprisonment for preaching Methodism: "My soul was as a watered garden, and I could sing praises to God all day long; for he turned my captivity into joy, and gave me to rest as well on the boards, as if I had been on a bed of down. Now could I say, ‘God’s service is perfect freedom,’ and I was carried out much in prayer that my enemies might drink of the same river of peace which my God gave so largely to me." Journal, London, no date, p. 172.2) It mocks our utmost efforts, as a matter of fact, and in point of logic it absolutely escapes our jurisdiction. Our own more ‘rational’ beliefs are based on evidence exactly similar in nature to that which mystics quote for theirs. Our senses, namely, have assured us of certain states of fact; but mystical experiences are as direct perceptions of fact for those who have them as any sensations ever were for us. The records show that even though the five senses be in abeyance in them, they are absolutely sensational in their epistemological quality, if I may be pardoned the barbarous expression -- that is, they are face to face presentations of what seems immediately to exist.

The mystic is, in short, invulnerable, and must be left, whether we relish it or not, in undisturbed enjoyment of his creed. Faith, says Tolstoy, is that by which men live. And faith-state and mystic state are practically convertible terms.

2.

But I now proceed to add that mystics have no right to claim that we ought to accept the deliverance of their peculiar experiences, if we are ourselves outsiders and feel no private call thereto. The utmost they can ever ask of us in this life is to admit that they establish a presumption. They form a consensus and have an unequivocal outcome; and it would be odd, mystics might say, if such a unanimous type of experience should prove to be altogether wrong. At bottom, however, this would only be an appeal to numbers, like the appeal of rationalism the other way; and the appeal to numbers has no logical force. If we acknowledge it, it is for "suggestive," not for logical reasons: we follow the majority because to do so suits our life.

But even this presumption from the unanimity of mystics is far from being strong. In characterizing mystic states as pantheistic, optimistic, etc., I am afraid I over-simplified the truth. I did so for expository reasons, and to keep the closer to the classic mystical tradition. The classic religious mysticism, it now must be confessed, is only a "privileged case." It is an extract, kept true to type by the selection of the fittest specimens and their preservation in "schools." It is carved out from a much larger mass; and if we take the larger mass as seriously as religious mysticism has historically taken itself, we find that the supposed unanimity largely disappears. To begin with, even religious mysticism itself, the kind that accumulates traditions and makes schools, is much less unanimous than I have allowed. It has been both ascetic and antinomianly self-indulgent within the Christian church. (Ruysbroeck, in the work which Maeterlinck has translated, has a chapter against the antinomianism of disciples. H. Delacroix’s book (Essai sur le mysticisme spéculatif en Allemagne au XIVme Siècle, Paris, 1900) is full of antinomian material. Compare also A. JUNDT: Les Amis de Dieu au XIV Siécle, Thèse de Strasbourg, 1879.) It is dualistic in Sankhya, and monistic in Vedanta philosophy, I called it pantheistic; but the great Spanish mystics are anything but pantheists. They are with few exceptions non-metaphysical minds, for whom "the category of personality" is absolute. The "union" of man with God is for them much more like an occasional miracle than like an original identity. (Compare Paul Rousselot: Les Mystiques Espagnols, Paris, 1869, ch. xii.) How different again, apart from the happiness common to all, is the mysticism of Walt Whitman, Edward Carpenter, Richard Jefferies, and other naturalistic pantheists, from the more distinctively Christian sort. ( See Carpenter’s Towards Democracy, especially the latter parts, and Jefferies’s wonderful and splendid mystic rhapsody, The Story of my Heart.) The fact is that the mystical feeling of enlargement, union, and emancipation has no specific intellectual content whatever of its own. It is capable of forming matrimonial alliances with material furnished by the most diverse philosophies and theologies, provided only they can find a place in their framework for its peculiar emotional mood. We have no right, therefore, to invoke its prestige as distinctively in favor of any special belief, such as that in absolute idealism, or in the absolute monistic identity, or in the absolute goodness, of the world. It is only relatively in favor of all these things- it passes out of common human consciousness in the direction in which they lie.

So much for religious mysticism proper. But more remains to be told, for religious mysticism is only one half of mysticism. The other half has no accumulated traditions except those which the text-books on insanity, supply. Open any one of these, and you will find abundant cases in which "mystical ideas" are cited as characteristic symptoms of enfeebled or deluded states of mind. In delusional insanity, paranoia, as they sometimes call it, we may have a diabolical mysticism, a sort of religious mysticism turned upside down. The same sense of ineffable importance in the smallest events, the same texts and words coming with new meanings, the same voices and visions and leadings and missions, the same controlling by extraneous powers; only this time the emotion is pessimistic: instead of consolations we have desolations; the meanings are dreadful; and the powers are enemies to life. It is evident that from the point of view of their psychological mechanism, the classic mysticism and these lower mysticisms spring from the same mental level, from that great subliminal or transmarginal region of which science is beginning to admit the existence, but of which so little is really known. That region contains every kind of matter: "seraph and snake" abide there side by side. To come from thence is no infallible credential. What comes must be sifted and tested, and run the gauntlet of confrontation with the total context of experience, just like what comes from the outer world of sense. Its value must be ascertained by empirical methods, so long as we are not mystics ourselves.

Once more, then, I repeat that non-mystics are under no obligation to acknowledge in mystical states a superior authority conferred on them by their intrinsic nature. (In chapter i. of book ii. of his work Degeneration, ‘Max Nordau’ seeks to undermine all mysticism by exposing the weakness of the lower kinds. Mysticism for him means any sudden perception of hidden significance in things. He explains such perception by the abundant uncompleted associations which experiences may arouse in a degenerate brain. These give to him who has the experience a vague and vast sense of its leading further, yet they awaken no definite or useful consequent in his thought. The explanation is a plausible one for certain sorts of feeling of significance; and other alienists [Wernicke, for example, in his Grundriss der Psychiatrie, Theil ii., Leipzig, 1896] have explained ‘paranoiac’ conditions by a laming of the association-organ. But the higher mystical flights, with their positiveness and abruptness, are surely products of no such merely negative condition. It seems far more reasonable to ascribe them to inroads from the subconscious life, of the cerebral activity correlative to which we as yet know nothing.)

3.

Yet, I repeat once more, the existence of mystical states absolutely overthrows the pretension of non-mystical states to be the sole and ultimate dictators of what we may believe. As a rule, mystical states merely add a supersensuous meaning to the ordinary outward data of consciousness. They are excitements like the emotions of love or ambition, gifts to our spirit by means of which facts already objectively before us fall into a new expressiveness and make a new connection with our active life. They do not contradict these facts as such or deny anything that our senses have immediately seized. (They sometimes add subjective audita et visa to the facts, but as these are usually interpreted as transmundane, they oblige no alteration in the facts of sense.) It is the rationalistic critic rather who plays the part of denier in the controversy, and his denials have no strength, for there never can be a state of facts to which new meaning may not truthfully be added, provided the mind ascend to a more enveloping point of view. It must always remain an open question whether mystical states may not possibly be such superior points of view, windows through which the mind looks out upon a more extensive and inclusive world. The difference of the views seen from the different mystical windows need not prevent us from entertaining this supposition. The wider world would in that case prove to have a mixed constitution like that of this world, that is all. It would have its celestial and its infernal regions, its tempting and its saving moments, its valid experiences and its counterfeit ones, just as our world has them; but it would be a wider world all the same. We should have to use its experiences by selecting and subordinating and substituting just as is our custom in this ordinary naturalistic world; we should be liable to error just as we are now; yet the counting in of that wider world of meanings, and the serious dealing with it, might, in spite of all the perplexity, be indispensable stages in our approach to the final fullness of the truth.

In this shape, I think, we have to leave the subject. Mystical states indeed wield no authority due simply to their being mystical states. But the higher ones among them point in directions to which the religious sentiments even of non-mystical men incline. They tell of the supremacy of the ideal, of vastness, of union, of safety, and of rest. They offer us hypotheses, hypotheses which we may voluntarily ignore, but which as thinkers we cannot possibly upset. The supernaturalism and optimism to which they would persuade us may, interpreted in one way or another, be after all the truest of insights into the meaning of this life.

"Oh, the little more, and how much it is; and the little less, and what worlds away!" It may be that possibility and permission of this sort are all that the religious consciousness requires to live on. In my last lecture I shall have to try to persuade you that this is the case. Meanwhile, however, I am sure that for many of my readers this diet is too slender. If supernaturalism and inner union with the divine are true, you think, then not so much permission, as compulsion to believe, ought to be found. Philosophy has always professed to prove religious truth by coercive argument; and the construction of philosophies of this kind has always been one favorite function of the religious life, if we use this term in the large historic sense. But religious philosophy is an enormous subject, and in my next lecture I can only give that brief glance at it which my limits will allow.

Lectures 14 and 15: 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. Today 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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. Today 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.

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.

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 today 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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."

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.

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

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.

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.

"I fasted much," Fox says, "walked abroad in solitary places many days, and often took my Bible, and sat in hollow trees and lonesome places until night came on; and frequently in the night walked mournfully about by myself; for I was a man of sorrows in the time of the first workings of the Lord in me.

"During all this time I was never joined in profession of religion with any, but gave up myself to the Lord, having forsaken all evil company, taking leave of father and mother, and all other relations, and traveled up and down as a stranger on the earth, which way the Lord inclined my heart; taking a chamber to myself in the town where I came, and tarrying sometimes more, sometimes less in a place: for I durst not stay long in a place, being afraid both of professor and profane, lest, being a tender young man, I should be hurt by conversing much with either. For which reason I kept much as a stranger, seeking heavenly wisdom and getting knowledge from the Lord; and was brought off from outward things, to rely on the Lord alone. As I had forsaken the priests, so I left the separate preachers also, and those called the most experienced people; for I saw there was none among them all that could speak to my condition. And when all my hopes in them and in all men were gone so that I had nothing outwardly to help me, nor could tell what to do; then, oh then, I heard a voice which said, "There is one, even Jesus Christ, that can speak to thy condition." When I heard it, my heart did leap for joy. Then the Lord let me see why there was none upon the earth that could speak to my condition. I had not fellowship with any people, priests, nor professors, nor any sort of separated people. I was afraid of all carnal talk and talkers, for I could see nothing but corruptions. When I was in the deep, under all shut up, I could not believe that I should ever overcome; my troubles, my sorrows, and my temptations were so great that I often thought I should have despaired, I was so tempted. But when Christ opened to me how he was tempted by the same devil, and had overcome him, and had brushed his head; and that through him and his power, life, grace, and spirit, I should overcome also, I had confidence in him. If I had had a king’s diet, palace, and attendance, all would have been as nothing; for nothing gave me comfort but the Lord by his power. I saw professors, priests, and people were whole and at ease in that condition which was my misery, and they loved that which I would have been rid of. But the Lord did stay my desires upon himself, and my care was cast upon him alone." (George Fox: Journal, Philadelphia, 1800, pp. 59-61, abridged.)

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.

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 unborn 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.

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.

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.

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 Michelangelo, 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.

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.

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 cooperate 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.

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. (Christian saints have had their specialties of devotion, Saint Francis to Christ’s wounds; Saint Anthony of Padua to Christ’s childhood; Saint Bernard to his humanity; Saint Teresa to Saint Joseph, etc. The Shiite Mohammedans venerate Ali, the Prophet’s son-in-law, instead of Abu-bekr, his brother-in-law. Vambéry describes a dervish whom he met in Persia, "who had solemnly vowed, thirty years before, that he would never employ his organs of speech otherwise but in uttering, everlastingly, the name of his favorite, Ali, Ali. He thus wished to signify to the world that he was the most devoted partisan of that Ali who had been dead a thousand years. In his own home, speaking with his wife, children, and friends, no other word but ‘Ali!’ ever passed his lips. If he wanted food or drink or anything else, he expressed his wants still by repeating ‘Ali!’ Begging or buying at the bazaar, it was always ‘Ali!’ Treated ill or generously, he would still harp on his monotonous ‘Ali!’ Latterly his zeal assumed such tremendous proportions that, like a madman, he would race, the whole day, up and down the streets of the town, throwing his stick high up into the air, and shriek out, all the while, at the top of his voice, ‘Ali!’ This dervish was venerated by everybody as a saint, and received everywhere with the greatest distinction." Arminius Vambéry, his Life and Adventures, written by Himself, London, 1889, p. 69. On the anniversary of the death of Hussein, Ali’s son, the Shiite Moslems still make the air resound with cries of his name and Ali’s.]) The legends that gather round the lives of holy persons are fruits of this impulse to celebrate and glorify, The Buddha (Compare H.C. Warren: Buddhism in Translation, Cambridge, U.S., 1898, passim.) and Mohammed (Compare J.L. Merrick: The Life and Religion of Mohammed, as contained in the Sheeah traditions of the Hyat-ul-Kuloob, Boston, 1850, passim.) 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.

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.

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 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.

The blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque may serve as an example. -

"To be loved here upon the earth," her recent biographer exclaims: "to be loved by a noble, elevated, distinguished being; to be loved with fidelity, with devotion -- what enchantment! But to be loved by God! and loved by him to distraction [aimé jusqu’à la folie]! -- Margaret melted away with love at the thought of such a thing. Like Saint Philip of Neri in former times, or like Saint Francis Xavier, she said to God: ‘Hold back, O my God, these torrents which overwhelm me, or else enlarge my capacity for their reception.’ " (Bougaud: Hist. de la bienheureuse Marguerite Marie, Paris, 1894, p. 145.)

The most signal proofs of God’s love which Margaret Mary received were her hallucinations of sight, touch, and hearing, and the most signal in turn of these were the revelations of Christ’s sacred heart, "surrounded with rays more brilliant than the Sun, and transparent like a crystal. The wound which he received on the cross visibly appeared upon it. There was a crown of thorns round about this divine Heart, and a cross above it." At the same time Christ’s voice told her that, unable longer to contain the flames of his love for mankind, he had chosen her by a miracle to spread the knowledge of them. He thereupon took out her mortal heart, placed it inside of his own and inflamed it, and then replaced it in her breast, adding: "Hitherto thou hast taken the name of my slave, hereafter thou shalt be called the well-beloved disciple of my Sacred Heart."

In a later vision the Saviour revealed to her in detail the "great design" which he wished to establish through her instrumentality. "I ask of thee to bring it about that every first Friday after the week of holy Sacrament shall be made into a special holy day for honoring my Heart by a general communion and by services intended to make honorable amends for the indignities which it has received. And I promise thee that my Heart will dilate to shed with abundance the influences of its love upon all those who pay to it these honors, or who bring it about that others do the same."

"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." (Bougaud: Hist. de la bienheureuse Marguerite Marie, Paris, 1894, pp. 365, 241.) 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 --

"which grew upon her daily, rendering her more and more incapable of attending to external duties. They tried her in the infirmary, but without much success, although her kindness, zeal, and devotion were without bounds, and her charity rose to acts of such a heroism that our readers would not bear the recital of them. They tried her in the kitchen, but were forced to give it up as hopeless -- everything dropped out of her hands. The admirable humility with which she made amends for her clumsiness could not prevent this from being prejudicial to the order and regularity which must always reign in a community. They put her in the school, where the little girls cherished her, and cut pieces out of her clothes [for relics] as if she were already a saint, but where she was too absorbed inwardly to pay the necessary attention. Poor dear sister, even less after her visions than before them was she a denizen of earth, and they had to leave her in her heaven." (Bougaud: Op. cit., p. 267.)

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.

(Examples: "Suffering from a headache, she sought, for the glory of God, to relieve herself by holding certain odoriferous substances in her mouth, when the Lord appeared to her to lean over towards her lovingly, and to find comfort Himself in these odors. After having gently breathed them in, He arose, and said with a gratified air to the Saints, as if contented with what He had done: ‘See the new present which my betrothed has given Me!’

"One day, at chapel, she heard supernaturally sung the words, ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.’ The Son of God leaning towards her like a sweet lover, and giving to her soul the softest kiss, said to her at the second Sanctus: ‘In this Sanctus addressed to my person, receive with this kiss all the sanctity of my divinity and of my humanity, and let it be to thee a sufficient preparation for approaching the communion table.’ And the next following Sunday, while she was thanking God for this favor, behold the Son of God, more beauteous than thousands of angels, takes her in His arms as if He were proud of her, and presents her to God the Father, in that perfection of sanctity with which He had dowered her. And the Father took such delight in this soul thus presented by His only Son, that, as if unable longer to restrain Himself, He gave her, and the Holy Ghost gave her also, the Sanctity attributed to each by His own Sanctus -- and thus she remained endowed with the plenary fullness of the blessing of Sanctity, bestowed on her by Omnipotence, by Wisdom, and by Love." Révélations de Sainte Gertrude, Paris, 1898, i. 44, 186.)

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.

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.

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. ( Furneaux Jordan: Character in Birth and Parentage, first edition. Later editions change the nomenclature.) The shrew-type is defined as possessing an "active unimpassioned temperament." In other words, shrews are the "motors," rather than the "sensories," (As to this distinction, see the admirably practical account in J.M. Baldwin’s little book, The Story of the Mind, 1898.) 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 stereo-typed 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.

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.

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

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, (On this subject I refer to the work of M. Murisier [Les Maladies du Sentiment Religieux, Paris, 1901], who makes inner unification the mainspring of the whole religious life. But all strongly ideal interests, religious or irreligious, unify the mind and tend to subordinate everything to themselves. One would infer from M. Murisier’s pages that this formal condition was peculiarly characteristic of religion, and that one might in comparison almost neglect material content, in studying the latter. I trust that the present work will convince the reader that religion has plenty of material content which is characteristic, and which is more important by far than any general psychological form. In spite of this criticism, I find M. Murisier’s book highly instructive.) 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. (Example: "At the first beginning of the Servitor’s [Suso’s] interior life, after he had purified his soul properly by confession, he marked out for himself, in thought, three circles, within which he shut himself up, as in a spiritual entrenchment. The first circle was his cell, his chapel, and the choir. When he was within this circle, he seemed to himself in complete security. The second circle was the whole monastery as far as the outer gate. The third and outermost circle was the gate itself, and here it was necessary for him to stand well upon his guard. When he went outside these circles, it seemed to him that he was in the plight of some wild animal which is outside its hole, and surrounded by the hunt, and therefore in need of all its cunning and watchfulness." The Life of the Blessed Henry Suso, by Himself, translated by Knox, London, 1865, p. 168.) "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?" (Vie des premières Religieuses Dominicaines de la Congrégation de St Dominique, à Nancy; Nancy, 1896, p. 129.) 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.

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: --

"The inspiration came to him to consecrate to the Mother of God his own virginity -- that being to her the most agreeable of possible presents. Without delay, then, and with all the fervor there was in him, joyous of heart, and burning with love, he made his vow of perpetual chastity. Mary accepted the offering of his innocent heart, and obtained for him from God, as a recompense, the extraordinary grace of never feeling during his entire life the slightest touch of temptation against the virtue of purity. This was an altogether exceptional favor, rarely accorded even to Saints themselves, and all the more marvelous in that Louis dwelt always in courts and among great folks, where danger and opportunity are so unusually frequent. It is true that Louis from his earliest childhood had shown a natural repugnance for whatever might be impure or unvirginal, and even for relations of any sort whatever between persons of opposite sex. But this made it all the more surprising that he should, especially since this vow, feel it necessary to have recourse to such a number of expedients for protecting against even the shadow of danger the virginity which he had thus consecrated. One might suppose that if any one could have contented himself with the ordinary precautions, prescribed for all Christians, it would assuredly have been he. But no! In the use of preservatives and means of defense, in flight from the most insignificant occasions, from every possibility of peril, just as in the mortification of his flesh, he went farther than the majority of saints. He, who by an extraordinary protection of God’s grace was never tempted, measured all his steps as if he were threatened on every side by particular dangers. Thence forward he never raised his eyes, either when walking in the streets, or when in society. Not only did he avoid all business with females even more scrupulously than before, but he renounced all conversation and every kind of social recreation with them, although his father tried to make him take part; and he commenced only too early to deliver his innocent body to austerities of every kind." (Meschler’s Life of Saint Louis of Gonzaga, French translation by Lebréquier, 1891, p. 40.)

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.)

When he was seventeen years old Louis joined the Jesuit order, (In his boyish note-book he praises the monastic life for its freedom from sin, and for the imperishable treasures, which it enables us to store up, "of merit in God’s eyes which makes of Him our debtor for all Eternity." Loc. cit., p. 62.) 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.

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. (Mademoiselle Mori, a novel quoted in Hare’s Walks in Rome, 1900, i. 55.

I cannot resist the temptation to quote from Starbuck’s book, p. 388, another case of purification by elimination. It runs as follows:--

"The signs of abnormality which sanctified persons show are of frequent occurrence. They get out of tune with other people; often they will have nothing to do with churches, which they regard as worldly; they become hypercritical towards others; they grow careless of their social, political, and financial obligations. As an instance of this type may be mentioned a woman of sixty-eight of whom the writer made a special study. She had been a member of one of the most active and progressive churches in a busy part of a large city. Her pastor described her as having reached the censorious stage. She had grown more and more out of sympathy with the church; her connection with it finally consisted simply in attendance at prayer-meeting, at which her only message was that of reproof and condemnation of the others for living on a low plane. At last she withdrew from fellowship with any church. The writer found her living alone in a little room on the top story of a cheap boarding-house, quite out of touch with all human relations, but apparently happy in the enjoyment of her own spiritual blessings. Her time was occupied in writing booklets on sanctification -- page after page of dreamy rhapsody. She proved to be one of a small group of persons who claim that entire salvation involves three steps instead of two; not only must there be conversion and sanctification, but a third, which they call ‘crucifixion’ or ‘perfect redemption,’ and which seems to bear the same relation to sanctification that this bears to conversion. She related how the Spirit had said to her, ‘Stop going to church. Stop going to holiness meetings. Go to your own room and I will teach you.’ She professes to care nothing for colleges, or preachers, or churches, but only cares to listen to what God says to her. Her description of her experience seemed entirely consistent; she is happy and contented, and her life is entirely satisfactory to herself. While listening to her own story, one was tempted to forget that it was from the life of a person who could not live by it in conjunction with her fellows.")

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. Today, 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 today 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 today 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.

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. @@@

(The best missionary lives abound in the victorious combination of non-resistance with personal authority. John G. Paton, for example, in the New Hebrides, among brutish Melanesian cannibals, preserves a charmed life by dint of it. When it comes to the point, no one ever dares actually to strike him. Native converts, inspired by him, showed analogous virtue. "One of our chiefs, full of the Christ-kindled desire to seek and to save, sent a message to an inland chief, that he and four attendants would come on Sabbath and tell them the gospel of Jehovah God. The reply came back sternly forbidding their visit, and threatening with death any Christian that approached their village. Our chief sent in response a loving message, telling them that Jehovah had taught the Christians to return good for evil, and that they would come unarmed to tell them the story of how the Son of God came into the world and died in order to bless and save his enemies. The heathen chief sent back a stern and prompt reply once more: ‘If you come, you will be killed.’ On Sabbath morn the Christian chief and his four companions were met outside the village by the heathen chief, who implored and threatened them once more. But the former said: --

"‘We come to you without weapons of war! We come only to tell you about Jesus. We believe that He will protect us today.’

"As they pressed steadily forward towards the village, spears began to be thrown at them. Some they evaded, being all except one dexterous warriors; and others they literally received with their bare hands, and turned them aside in an incredible manner. The heathen, apparently thunderstruck at these men thus approaching them without weapons of war, and not even flinging back their own spears which they had caught, after having thrown what the old chief called ‘a shower of spears,’ desisted from mere surprise. Our Christian chief called out, as he and his companions drew up in the midst of them on the village public ground: --

"‘Jehovah thus protects us. He has given us all your spears! Once we would have thrown them back at you and killed you. But now we come, not to fight but to tell you about Jesus. He has changed our dark hearts. He asks you now to lay down all these your other weapons of war, and to hear what we can tell you about the love of God, our great Father, the only living God.’

"The heathen were perfectly overawed. They manifestly looked on these Christians as protected by some Invisible One. They listened for the first time to the story of the Gospel and of the Cross. We lived to see that chief and all his tribe sitting in the school of Christ. And there is perhaps not an island in these southern seas, amongst all those won for Christ, where similar acts of heroism on the part of converts cannot be recited." John G. Paton, Missionary to the New Hebrides, An Autobiography, second part, London, 1890, p. 243.)

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.

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.

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 Alcantara (Saint Peter, Saint Teresa tells us in her autobiography [French translation, p. 333], "had passed forty years without ever sleeping more than an hour and a half a day. Of all his mortifications, this was the one that had cost him the most. To compass it, he kept always on his knees or on his feet. The little sleep he allowed nature to take was snatched in a sitting posture, his head leaning against a piece of wood fixed in the wall. Even had he wished to lie down, it would have been impossible, because his cell was only four feet and a half long. In the course of all these years he never raised his hood, no matter what the ardor of the sun or the rain’s strength. He never put on a shoe. He wore a garment of coarse sackcloth, with nothing else upon his skin. This garment was as scant as possible, and over it a little cloak of the same stuff. When the cold was great he took off the cloak and opened for a while the door and little window of his cell. Then he closed them and resumed the mantle -- his way, as he told us, of warming himself, and making his body feel a better temperature. It was a frequent thing with him to eat once only in three days; and when I expressed my surprise, he said that it was very easy if one once had acquired the habit. One of his companions has assured me that he has gone sometimes eight days without food. . . . His poverty was extreme; and his mortification, even in his youth, was such that he told me he had passed three years in a house of his order without knowing any of the monks otherwise than by the sound of their voice, for he never raised his eyes, and only found his way about by following the others. He showed this same modesty on public highways. He spent many years without ever laying eyes upon a woman; but he confessed to me that at the age he had reached it was indifferent to him whether he laid eyes on them or not. He was very old when I first came to know him, and his body so attenuated that it seemed formed of nothing so much as of so many roots of trees. With all this sanctity he was very affable. He never spoke unless he was questioned, but his intellectual right-mindedness and grace gave to all his words an irresistible charm.") appear to us today 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." (F. Max Muller: Ramakrishna, his Life and Sayings, 1899, p. 180.) 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 Nirvana. (Oldenberg: Buddha; translated by W. Hoey, London, 1882, p. 127)

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 today 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 be 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.

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.

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. ("The vanities of all others may die out, but the vanity of a saint as regards his sainthood is hard indeed to wear away." Ramakrishna, his Life and Sayings, 1899, p. 172.) 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?

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 today 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?

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. ("When a church has to be run by oysters, ice-cream, and fun," I read in an American religious paper, "you may be sure that it is running away from Christ." Such, if one may judge by appearances, is the present plight of many of our churches.) 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.

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.

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.

" ‘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." (C.V.B.K.: Friedens- und Kriegs-moral der Heere. Quoted by Hamon: Psychologie du Militaire professional, 1895, p. xli.)

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?

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 today. Saint Francis or Saint Bernard, were they living today, 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.

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.

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.

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.

In point of fact, he does appeal to a different faculty. Reenacted 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.

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.

"The sick are the greatest danger for the well. The weaker, not the stronger, are the strong’s undoing. It is not fear of our fellow-man, which we should wish to see diminished; for fear rouses those who are strong to become terrible in turn themselves, and preserves the hard-earned and successful type of humanity. What is to be dreaded by us more than any other doom is not fear, but rather the great disgust, not fear, but rather the great pity -- disgust and pity for our human fellows. . . . The morbid are our greatest peril -- not the ‘bad’ men, not the predatory beings. Those born wrong, the miscarried, the broken -- they it is, the weakest, who are undermining the vitality of the race, poisoning our trust in life, and putting humanity in question. Every look of them is a sigh -- ‘Would I were something other! I am sick and tired of what I am.’ In this swamp-soil of self-contempt, every poisonous weed flourishes, and all so small, so secret, so dishonest, and so sweetly rotten. Here swarm the worms of sensitiveness and resentment; here the air smells odious with secrecy, with what is not to be acknowledged; here is woven endlessly the net of the meanest of conspiracies, the conspiracy of those who suffer against those who succeed and are victorious; here the very aspect of the victorious is hated -- as if health, success, strength, pride, and the sense of power were in themselves things vicious, for which one ought eventually to make bitter expiation. Oh, how these people would themselves like to inflict the expiation, how they thirst to be the hangmen! And all the while their duplicity never confesses their hatred to be hatred." (Zur Genealogie der Moral, Dritte Abhandlung, § 14. I have abridged, and in one place transposed, a sentence.)

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?

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?

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.

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.

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. (We all know daft saints, and they inspire a queer kind of aversion. But in comparing saints with strong men we must choose individuals on the same intellectual level. The under-witted strong man, homologous in his sphere with the under-witted saint, is the bully of the slums, the hooligan or rowdy. Surely on this level also the saint preserves a certain superiority.) 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.

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.

In a general way, then, and "on the whole," 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.

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. 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.