CIRCUMSCRIPTION OF THE TOPIC
43
happiness, all mere enjoyment of the present, by that element of
solemnity of which I have already made so much account. Solemnity
is a hard thing to define abstractly, but certain of its marks are patent
enough. A solemn state of mind is never crude or simple — it
seems to contain a certain measure of its own opposite in solution.
A solemn joy preserves a sort of bitter in its sweetness; a solemn
sorrow is one to which we intimately consent. But there are writers
who, realizing that happiness of a supreme sort is the prerogative of
religion, forget this complication, and call all happiness, as such,
religious. Mr. Havelock Ellis, for example, identifies religion with
the entire field of the soul’s liberation from oppressive moods.
“The simplest functions of physiological life,” he writes, “may be its
ministers. Every one who is at all acquainted with the Persian mystics
knows how wine may be regarded as an instrument of religion. Indeed,
in all countries and in all ages, some form of physical enlargement —
singing, dancing, drinking, sexual excitement — has been intimately
associated with worship. Even the momentary expansion of the soul in
laughter is, to however slight an extent, a religious exercise. . . . Whenever
an impulse from the world strikes against the organism, and the resultant
is not discomfort or pain, not even the muscular contraction of strenuous
manhood, but a joyous expansion or aspiration of the whole soul — there
is religion. It is the infinite for which we hunger, and we ride gladly on
every little wave that promises to bear us towards it.”
1
But such a straight identification of religion with any and every
form of happiness leaves the essential peculiarity of religious hap-
piness out. The more commonplace happinesses which we get are
“reliefs,” occasioned by our momentary escapes from evils either
experienced or threatened. But in its most characteristic embodi-
ments, religious happiness is no mere feeling of escape. It cares
no longer to escape. It consents to the evil outwardly as a form of
sacrifice — inwardly it knows it to be permanently overcome. If
you ask how religion thus falls on the thorns and faces death, and in
the very act annuls annihilation, I cannot explain the matter, for it
is religion’s secret, and to understand it you must yourself have
been a religious man of the extremer type. In our future examples,
even of the simplest and healthiest-minded type of religious con-
sciousness, we shall find this complex sacrificial constitution, in
1
The New Spirit, p. 232.
44
THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
which a higher happiness holds a lower unhappiness in check. In
the Louvre there is a picture, by Guido Reni, of St. Michael with
his foot on Satan’s neck. The richness of the picture is in large part
due to the fiend’s figure being there. The richness of its allegorical
meaning also is due to his being there — that is, the world is all
the richer for having a devil in it, so long as we keep our foot upon
his neck. In the religious consciousness, that is just the position
in which the fiend, the negative or tragic principle, is found; and
for that very reason the religious consciousness is so rich from the
emotional point of view.
1
We shall see how in certain men and
women it takes on a monstrously ascetic form.
There are saints who
have literally fed on the negative principle, on humiliation and
privation, and the thought of suffering and death, — their souls
growing in happiness just in proportion as their outward state grew
more intolerable. No other emotion than religious emotion can
bring a man to this peculiar pass. And it is for that reason that
when we ask our question about the value of religion for human
life, I think we ought to look for the answer among these violenter
examples rather than among those of a more moderate hue.
Having the phenomenon of our study in its acutest possible form
to start with, we can shade down as much as we please later. And if
in these cases, repulsive as they are to our ordinary worldly way of
judging, we find ourselves compelled to acknowledge religion’s value
and treat it with respect, it will have proved in some way its value
for life at large. By subtracting and toning down extravagances we
may thereupon proceed to trace the boundaries of its legitimate
sway.
To be sure, it makes our task difficult to have to deal so much
with eccentricities and extremes. “How
can religion on the whole
be the most important of all human functions,” you may ask, “if
every several manifestation of it in turn have to be corrected and
sobered down and pruned away?” Such a thesis seems a paradox
impossible to sustain reasonably, — yet I believe that something
like it will have to be our final contention. That personal attitude
which the individual finds himself impelled to take up towards
what he apprehends to be the divine — and you will remember
1
I owe this allegorical illustration to my lamented colleague and friend, Charles Carroll
Everett.