THE REALITY OF THE UNSEEN
63
Please observe, however, that I do not yet say that it is better
that the subconscious and non-rational should thus hold primacy
in the religious realm. I confine myself to simply pointing out that
they do so hold it as a matter of fact.
So much for our sense of the reality of the religious objects. Let
me now say a brief word more about the attitudes they characteristic-
ally awaken.
We have already agreed that they are solemn; and we have seen
reason to think that the most distinctive of them is the sort of joy
which may result in extreme cases from absolute self-surrender.
The sense of the kind of object to which the surrender is made has
much to do with determining the precise complexion of the joy;
and the whole phenomenon is more complex than any simple
formula allows. In the literature of the subject, sadness and gladness
have each been emphasized in turn. The ancient saying that the
first maker of the Gods was fear receives voluminous corroboration
from every age of religious history; but none the less does religious
history show the part which joy has evermore tended to play. Some-
times the joy has been primary; sometimes secondary, being the
gladness of deliverance from the fear. This latter state of things, being
the more complex, is also the more complete; and as we proceed,
I think we shall have abundant reason for refusing to leave out
either the sadness or the gladness, if we look at religion with the
breadth of view which it demands. Stated in the completest poss-
ible terms, a man’s religion involves both moods of contraction
and moods of expansion of his being. But the quantitative mixture
and order of these moods vary so much from one age of the world,
from one system of thought, and from one individual to another,
that you may insist either on the dread and the submission, or on
the peace and the freedom as the essence of the matter, and still
remain materially within the limits of the truth. The constitution-
ally sombre and the constitutionally sanguine onlooker are bound
to emphasize opposite aspects of what lies before their eyes.
The constitutionally sombre religious person makes even of
his religious peace a very sober thing. Danger still hovers in the
air about it. Flexion and contraction are not wholly checked. It
were sparrowlike and childish after our deliverance to explode
into twittering laughter and caper-cutting, and utterly to forget the
imminent hawk on bough. Lie low, rather, lie low; for you are in
64
THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
the hands of a living God. In the Book of Job, for example, the
impotence of man and the omnipotence of God is the exclusive
burden of its author’s mind. “It is as high as heaven; what canst
thou do? — deeper than hell; what canst thou know?” There is an
astringent relish about the truth of this conviction which some
men can feel, and which for them is as near an approach as can be
made to the feeling of religious joy.
“In Job,” says that coldly truthful writer, the author of Mark Rutherford,
“God reminds us that man is not the measure of his creation. The world is
immense, constructed on no plan or theory which the intellect of man
can grasp. It is transcendent everywhere. This is the burden of every verse,
and is the secret, if there be one, of the poem. Sufficient or insufficient,
there is nothing more. . . . God is great, we know not his ways. He takes
from us all we have, but yet if we possess our souls in patience, we may
pass the valley of the shadow, and come out in sunlight again. We may or
we may not! . . . What more have we to say now than God said from the
whirlwind over two thousand five hundred years ago?”
1
If we turn to the sanguine onlooker, on the other hand, we
find that deliverance is felt as incomplete unless the burden be
altogether overcome and the danger forgotten. Such onlookers
give us definitions that seem to the sombre minds of whom we
have just been speaking to leave out all the solemnity that makes
religious peace so different from merely animal joys. In the opin-
ion of some writers an attitude might be called religious, though
no touch were left in it of sacrifice or submission, no tendency to
flexion, no bowing of the head. Any “habitual and regulated
admiration,” says Professor J. R. Seeley,
2
“is worthy to be called a
religion”; and accordingly he thinks that our Music, our Science,
and our so-called “Civilization,” as these things are now organized
and admiringly believed in, form the more genuine religions of
our time. Certainly the unhesitating and unreasoning way in
which we feel that we must inflict our civilization upon “lower”
races, by means of Hotchkiss guns, etc., reminds one of nothing
so much as of the early spirit of Islam spreading its religion by
the sword.
1
Mark Rutherford’s Deliverance, London, 1885, pp. 196, 198.
2
In his book (too little read, I fear), Natural Religion, 3d edition, Boston, 1886,
pp. 91, 122.