 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Life of the Spirit and the Life of Today by Evelyn Underhill. CHAPTER V PART B I go on now to the second aspect of institutional religion—cultus. We at once make the transition from church to cultus. When we ask ourselves, how does, how can, the church as an organized and enduring society do its special work of creating an atmosphere and imparting a secret? How is the traditional deposit of spiritual experience handed on, the individual drawn into the stream of spiritual history and held there? Remember, the church exists to foster and hand on, not merely the moral life, the life of this world perfection, but the spiritual life in all its mystery and splendor, the life of more than this world perfection, the poetry of goodness, the life that aims at God? And this not only in elect souls which might conceivably make and keep direct contacts without her help, but in greater or less degree in the mass of men who do need help. How is this done? The answer can only be that it is mostly done through symbolic acts and by means of suggestion and imitation. All organized churches find themselves committed sooner or later to an organized cultus. It may be rudimentary. It may reach a high pitch of aesthetic and symbolic perfection. But even the successive rebels against dead ceremony are found as a rule to invent some ceremony in their turn. They learn by experience the truth that men most easily form religious habits and tend to have religious experiences when they are assembled in groups and caused to perform the same acts. This is so because as we have already seen, the human psyche is plastic to the suggestions made to it, and this suggestibility is greatly increased when it is living a gregarious life as a member of a united congregation, or flock, and is engaged in performing corporate acts. The soldier's drill is essential to the solidarity of the army and the religious service in some form is, apart from all other considerations, essential to the solidarity of the church. We need not be afraid to acknowledge that, from the point of view of the psychologist, one prime reason of the value and need of religious ceremonies abides in this corporate suggestibility of man, or that one of their chief works is the production and hem of mobility of the threshold, and hence of spiritual awareness of a generalized kind. As the modern mother whispers beneficent suggestions into the ear of her sleeping child, 125, so the church takes her children at their moment of least resistance, and suggests to them all that she desires them to be. It is interesting to note how perfectly adapted the rituals of historic Christianity are to this end, of provoking the emergence of the intuitive mind and securing a state of maximum suggestibility. The more complex and solemn the ritual, the more archaic and universal the symbols it employs, so much the more powerful, for those natures able to yield to it, the suggestion becomes. Music, rhythmic chanting, symbolic gesture, the solemn periods of recited prayer are all contributory to this effect. In churches of the Catholic type every object that meets the eye, every scent, every attitude that we are encouraged to assume, gives us a push in the same direction if we let it do its rightful work. For other temperaments the collective, deliberate, and really ceremonial silence of the Quakers, the hush of the waiting mind, the unforced attitude of expectation, the abstraction from visual image, works to the same end. In either case the aim is the production of a special group consciousness, the reinforcing of languid or undeveloped individual feeling and aptitude by the suggestion of the crowd. This, and its result, is seen of course in its crudest form in revivalism, and on higher levels, in such elaborate dramatic ceremonies as those which are a feature of the Catholic celebrations of Holy Week. But the nice warm devotional feeling with which what is called a good congregation finishes the singing of a favorite hymn, belongs to the same order of phenomena. The rhythmic phrases, not as a rule very full of meaning or intellectual appeal, exercise a slightly hypnotic effect on the analyzing surface mind, and induce a condition of suggestibility open to all the influences of the place and of our fellow worshippers. The authorized translation of Ephesians verse 19, speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, whatever we may think of its accuracy does, as it stands, describe one of the chief functions of religious services of the hearty congregational sort. We do speak to ourselves, our deeper, more plastic selves in our psalms and hymns, so too in a common recitation, especially the chanting of a creed. We administer through these rhythmic affirmations so long as we sing them with intention, a powerful suggestion to ourselves and everyone else within reach. We gather up in them, or should do, the whole tendency of our worship and aspiration, and in the very form in which it can most easily sink in. This lays a considerable responsibility on those who choose psalms and hymns for congregational singing, for these can as easily be the instruments of fanatical melancholy and the devitalizing, as of charitable life-giving and constructive ideas. In saying all this I do not seek to discredit religious ceremony, either of the naïve or the sophisticated type. On the contrary, I think that in affecting this change in our mental tone and color, in prompting this emergence of the mood which and the massive men as commonly suppressed, these ceremonies do their true work. They should stimulate and give social expression to that mood of adoration, which is the very heart of religion, helping those who cannot be devotional alone to participate in the common devotional feeling. If then we desire to receive the gifts which corporate worship can most certainly make to us, we ought to yield ourselves without resistance or criticism to its influence as we yield ourselves to the influence of a great work of art. That influence is able to tune us up at least to a fleeting awareness of spiritual reality, and each such emergence of transcendental feeling is to the good. It is true that the objects which immediately evoke this feeling will only be symbolic, but, after all, our very best conceptions of God are bound to be that. We do not or should not demand scientific truth of them. Their business is rather to give us poetry, a concrete artistic intuition of reality, and to place us in the mood of poetry. The great thing is that by these corporate liturgic practices and surrenders we can prevent that terrible freezing up of the deep wells of our being which so easily comes to those who must lead an exacting material or intellectual life. We keep ourselves supple. The spiritual faculties are within reach and susceptible to education. Organized ceremonial religion insists upon it that at least for a certain time, each day or week, we shall attend to the things of the spirit. It offers us its suggestions, and shuts off as well as it can conflicting suggestions, though human as we are, the mere appearance of our neighbors is often enough to bring these in. Nothing is more certain than this. First, that we shall never know the spiritual world unless we give ourselves the chance of attending to it, clear a space for it in our busy lives. And next, that it will not produce its real effect in us, unless it penetrates below the conscious surface into the deeps of the instinctive mind, and molds this in accordance with the regnant idea. If we are to receive the gifts of the cultists, we on our part must bring to it at the very least what we bring to all great works of art that speak to us, that is to say, attention, surrender, sympathetic emotion. Otherwise, like all other works of art, it will remain external to us. Much of the perfectly sincere denunciation and dislike of religious ceremony which now finds frequent utterance comes from those who have failed thus to do their share. They are like the hasty critics who dismiss some great work of art because it is not representative, or historically accurate, and so entirely miss the aesthetic values which it was created to impart. Consider a picture of the Madonna. Minds at different levels may find in this pure representation, Bible history, theology, aesthetic satisfaction, spiritual truth. The peasant may see it in the portrait of the mother of God, the critic a phase in artistic evolution, whilst the mystic may pass through it to new contacts with the spirit of life. We shall receive according to the measure of what we bring. Now consider the parallel case of some great dramatic liturgy rich with the meanings which history has poured into it. Take as an example which everyone can examine for themselves, the Roman Mass. Different levels of mind will find here magic, theology, deep mystery, the commemoration under archaic symbols of an event. But above and beyond all these they can find the solemn incorporated emotion of the Christian Church, and a liturgic recapitulation of the movement of the human soul towards fullness of life, through confession and reconciliation to adoration and intercession, that is, to charity, and thence to direct communication with, and feeding on, the divine word. To the mind which refuses to yield to it, to move with its movement, but remains in critical isolation, the mass like all other ceremonies will seem external, dead, unreal, lacking in religious content. But if we do give ourselves completely and unselfconsciously to the movement of such a ceremony, at the end of it we may not have learnt anything, but we have lived something. And when we remember that no experience of our devotional life is lost, surely we may regard it as worthwhile to submit ourselves to an experience by which, if only for a few minutes, we are thus filled to richer levels of life, and brought into touch with higher values. We have indeed only to observe the enrichment of life so often produced in those who thus dwell meekly and without inner conflict in the symbolic world of ceremonial religion and accept its discipline and its gifts, to be led at least to a humble suspension of judgment as to its value. A whole world of spiritual experience separates the humble little church mouse, rising at six every morning to attend a service which she believes to be pleasing to a personal God, from the philosopher who meditates on the absolute and a comfortable arm chair. And no one will feel much doubt as to which side the advantage lies. Here we approach the next point. The cultist, with its liturgy and its discipline, exists for and promotes the repetition of acts which are primarily the expression of man's instinct for God. And by these, or any other repeated acts, our ductile instinctive life is given a definite trend. We know from Seaman's researches, one twenty-six, that the performance of any given act by a living creature influences all future performances of similar acts. That is to say, memory combines with each fresh stimulus to control our reaction to it. In the case of living organisms, says Bertrand Russell, practically everything that is distinctive both of their physical and mental behavior is bound up with this persistence influence of the past, and most actions and responses can only be brought under causal laws by including past occurrences in the history of the organism as part of the causes of the present response. One twenty-seven. The phenomena of at-perception, in fact, forms only one aspect of a general law, as that which we have perceived conditions, what we can now perceive, so that we have done conditions what we shall do. It therefore appears that in spite of angry youthful revolts or mature sophistications, early religious training and especially repeated religious acts are likely to influence the whole of our future lives. Though all they mean to us seems dead or unreal, they have retreated to the dark background of consciousness and their live on. The tendency which they have given persists. We never get away from them. A church may often seem to lose her children as human parents do, but in spite of themselves they retain her invisible seal and are her children still. In nearly all conversions in middle life or dramatic returns from skepticism to traditional belief, a large part is undoubtedly played by forgotten childish memories and early religious discipline, searching up and contributing their part to the self's new apprehensions of reality. If then the cultist did nothing else, it would do these two highly important things. It would influence our whole present attitude by its suggestions and our whole future attitude through unconscious memory of the acts which it demands. But it does more than this. It has as perhaps its greatest function the providing of a concrete artistic expression for our spiritual perceptions, adorations and desires. It links the visible with the invisible by translating transcendent fact into symbolic and even sensuous terms. And for this reason men, having bodies no less surely than spirits, can never afford wholly to dispense with it. Hasty transcendentalists often forget this, and set as spiritual standards to which the race so long as it is anchored to this planet and to the physical order cannot conform. A convert from agnosticism with whom I was acquainted was once receiving religious instruction from a devout and simple-minded nun. They were discussing the story of the enunciation, which presented some difficulties to her. At last she said to the nun, Well, anyhow, I suppose that one is not obliged to believe that the blessed version was visited by a solid angel dressed in a white robe. To this the nun replied doubtfully, No, dear, perhaps not, but still, you know, he would have to wear something. Now here, as it seems to me, we have a great theological truth in a few words. The elusive contacts and subtle realities of the world of the spirit have got to wear something if we are to grasp them at all. Moreover, if the massive men are to grasp them ever so little they must wear something which is easily recognized by the human eye and the human heart. More by the primitive half-conscious folksoul existing in each one of us, stirring in the depths and reaching out in its own way towards God. It is a delicate matter to discuss religious symbols. They are like our intimate friends, though at the bottom of our hearts we may know that they are only human. We hate other people to tell us so. And, even as the love of human beings in its most perfect state passes beyond its immediate object, is transfigured and merged in the nature of all love, so too the devotion which a purely symbolic figure calls forth from the ardently religious nature, whether this figure be the Divine Krishna of Hinduism, the Buddhist's mother of mercy, the Sufi's beloved, or those objects of traditional Christian piety which are familiar to all of us. This devotion too passes beyond its immediate goal and the relative truth there embodied, and is eternalized. It is characteristic of the primitive mind that it finds a difficulty about universals and is at most home with particulars. The success of Christianity as a world religion largely abides in the way in which it meets this need. It is notorious that the person of Jesus, rather than the Absolute God, is the object of average Protestant devotion. So too the Catholic peasant may find it easier to approach God through and in his special saint, or even a special local form of the Madonna. This is the inevitable corollary of the psychic level at which he lives, and to speak contemptuously of his superstition, is wholly beside the point. Other great faiths have been compelled by experience to meet the need of a particular object on which the primitive religious consciousness can fasten itself, conspicuous examples being the development within Buddhism of the cult of the great mother, and within poor Brahmanism of Krishna worship, wherever it may be destined to end. Here it is that life of the spirit begins, emerging very gently from our simplest human impulses and needs. Yet since the universal, the idea, is manifested in each such particular, we need not refuse to allow that the massive men do thus enjoy in a way that their psychic level makes natural to them their own measure of communion with the creative spirit of God, and already live according to their measure a spiritual life. These objects of religious cultists then, and the whole symbolic faith world which is built up of them, with its angels and demons, its sharply defined heaven and hell, the divine personifications which embody certain attributes of God for us, the purity and gentleness of the mother, the simplicity and infinite possibility of the child, the divine self-giving of the cross, more the lamb, the blood, and the fire of the revivalists, the oil and water, the bread and wine of a finished sacramentalism. All these may be regarded as the vestures placed by man at one stage or another on his progress, on the freely given but ineffable spiritual fact. Like other clothes they have now become closely identified with that which wears them, and we strip them off at our own peril. For this proceeding, grateful as it may be to our intellects, may leave us face to face with a mystery which we dare not look at, and cannot grasp. So cultists has done a mighty thing for humanity, in evolving and conserving the system of symbols through which the infinite and eternal can be in some measure expressed. The history of these symbols goes back, as we now know, to the infancy of the race and forward to the last productions of the religious imagination, all of which bear the image of our past. They are like coins, varying in beauty, and often of slight intrinsic value, but of enormous importance for our spiritual currency, because accepted as the representatives of a real wealth. In its symbols the cultist preserves all the past levels of religious response achieved by the race, weaving them into the fabric of religion, and carrying them forward into the present. All the instinctive movements of the primitive mind, its fear of the invisible, its self-subjection, its trust in ritual acts, amulets, spells, sacrifices, its tendency to localize deity in certain places or shrines, to buy off the unknown, to set up magicians and mediators, are represented in it. Its function is racial more than individual. It is the artwork of the folk soul in the religious sphere. Here man's inveterate creative faculty seizes on the raw material given him by religious intuition, and constructs from it significant shapes. We misunderstand then the whole character of religious symbolism if we either demand rationality from it, or try to adapt its imagery to the lucid and probably mistaken conclusions of the sophisticated modern mind. We are learning to recognize these primitive and racial elements in popular religion, and to endure their presence with tolerance, because they are necessary, and match a level of mental life which is still active in the race. This more primitive life emerges to dominate all crowds, where the collective mental level is inevitably lower than that of the best individuals immersed in it, and still conditions many of our beliefs and deeds. There is the propitiatory attitude toward unseen divine powers which the primitive mind, in defiance of theology, insists on regarding as somehow hostile to us, and wanting to be bought off. There is the whole idea and apparatus of sacrifice, even though no more than the big apples and vegetable meadows of the harvest festival to be involved in it. There is the continued belief in a deity who can and should be persuaded to change the weather, or who punishes those who offend him by famine, earthquake, and pestilence. Vestigial relics of all these phases can be discovered in the Book of Common Prayer. There is further the undying vogue of the religious amulet. There is the purely magical efficacy which some churches attribute to their sacraments, rites, shrines, liturgic formulae, and religious objects, others to the texts of their scriptures, 128. These things, and others like them, are not only significant survivals from the past. They also represent the religious side of something that continues active in us at present. Since then it should clearly be the object of all spiritual endeavor to win the whole man, and not only his reason for God, speaking to his instincts in language that they understand, we should not too hurriedly despise or denounce these things. Far better that our primitive emotions with their vast store of potential energy should be one for spiritual interests on the only terms which they can grasp, than that they should be left to spend themselves on lower objects. If therefore the spiritual or the regenerate life is not likely to prosper without some incorporation in institutions, some definite link with the past, it seems also likely to need for its full working out and propaganda the symbols and liturgy of a cultist. Here again, the right path will be that of fulfillment, not of destruction. A deeper investigation of the full meaning of cultists, the values it conserves, and the needs it must meet, a clearer and humbler understanding of our human limitations. We must also clearly realize as makers of the future that the Church has its special dangers of conservatism, coziness, intolerance, a checking of initiative, the domestic tendency to enclose itself and shirk reality, so the cultist has also its special dangers, of which the chief are perhaps formalism, magic, and spiritual sloth. Receiving and conserving as it does all the successive deposits of racial experience, it is the very home of magic, of the archaic tendency to attribute words and deeds, special power to a priestly caste, and to make of itself the essential mediator between creative spirit and the soul. Further, using perpetually as it does and must, symbols of the most archaic sort, directly appealing to latent primitive in each of us, it offers a perpetual temptation to fall back into something below our best possible. The impulsive mind is inevitably conservative, always at the mercy of memorized images. Hence, it's delighted self-yielding to traditional symbols, its uncritical emotionalism, its easy slipback into traditional and even archaic and self-contradictory beliefs, the way in which it pops out and enjoys itself at a service of the hearty congregational sort or may even lead its unresisting owner to the revivalist's penitent bench. But on the other hand, creative spirit is not merely conservative. The Lord and giver of life presses forward and perpetually brings novelty to birth, and insofar as we are dedicated to him, we must not make an unconditional surrender to psychic indolence or to the pullback of the religious past. We may not, as Christians, accept easy emotions in the place of heroic and difficult actualizations, make external religion an excuse for dodging reality, immerse ourselves in an exquisite dream, or tolerate any real conflict between old cultists and actual living faith. A most delicate discrimination is therefore demanded from us, the striking of a balance between the rightful conservatism of the cultists and the rightful independence of the soul. Yet this is not to justify, even in the most advanced, a wholesale iconoclasm. Time after time, experience has proved that the attempt to approach God without means, though it may seem to describe the rare and sacred moments of the personal life of the spirit, is beyond the power of the massive men, and even those who do achieve it are, as it were, most often supported from behind by religious history and the religious culture of their day. I do not think it can be doubted that the right use of cultists does increase religious sensitiveness. Therefore, here, the difficult task of the future must be to preserve and carry forward its essential elements, all the symbolic significance, all the incorporated emotion, which make it one of man's greatest works of art, whilst eliminating those features which are, in the bad sense, conventional and no longer answered to experience or communicate life. Were we truly reasonable human beings, we should perhaps provide openly, and as a matter of course within the Christian frame, widely different types of ceremonial religion, suited to different levels of mind and different developments of the religious consciousness. To some extent, this is already done. Traditionalism and liberalism, sacramentalism, revivalism, quietism, have each their existing cults. But these varying types of church now appear as competitors, too often not as the complementary and graded expressions of one life, each having truth in the relative, though none in the absolute sense. Did we more openly acknowledge the character of that life, the historic churches would no longer invite the sophisticated to play down to their own primitive fantasies, to sing meaningless hymns and recite vindictive psalms, or lull themselves by the recitation of litany or rosary, which admirable as the instruments of suggestion, are inadequate expressions of the awakened spiritual life. On the one hand, they would not require the simple to express their corporate religious feeling in Elizabethan English or protristic Latin. On the other, expect the educated to accept at face value symbols of which the unreal character is patent to them, nor would they represent these activities as possessing absolute value in themselves. To join in simplicity and without criticism in the common worship, humbly receiving its good influences is one thing. This is like the drill of the loyal soldier, welding him to his neighbors, giving him the corporate spirit, and forming in him the habits he needs. But to stop short at that drill, and tell the individual that drill is the essence of his life and all his duty, is another thing altogether. It confuses means and end, destroys the balance between liberty and law. If the religious institution is to do its real work and furthering the life of the spirit, it must introduce a more rich variety into its methods and thus educate souls of every type, not only to be members of the group, but also to grow up to the full richness of the personal life. It must offer them, as indeed Catholicism does to some extent already, both easy emotion and difficult mystery, both dramatic ceremony and ceremonial silence. It must also give to them all its hoarded knowledge of the inner life of prayer and contemplation, of the remaking of the moral nature on supernatural levels, all the gold that there is in the deposit of faith, and it must not be afraid to impart that knowledge in modern terms which all can understand. All this it can and will do if its members sufficiently desire it, which means if those who care intensely for the life of the spirit accept their corporate responsibilities. In the last resort, criticism of the Church, or of Christian institutionalism, is really criticism of ourselves. Were we more spiritually alive, our spiritual homes would be the real nesting places of new life. That which the Church is to us is the result of all that we bring to and ask from history, the impact of our present and its past. CHAPTER V. PART V. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT AND THE LIFE OF TODAY by Evelyn Underhill. Read by Mary Reagan. CHAPTER VI. PART A. THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT IN THE INDIVIDUAL. In the last three chapters we have been concerned almost exclusively with those facts of psychic life and growth, those instruments and mechanizations which bear upon or condition our spiritual life. But these wanderings in the soul's workshops and these analyses of the forces that play on it give us far too cold or too technical a view of that richly various and dynamic thing, the real regenerated life. I wish now to come out of the workshop and try to see the spiritual life as the individual man may and should achieve it from another angle of approach. What are we to regard as the heart of spirituality? When we have eliminated the accidental characters with which varying traditions have endowed it, what is it that still so definitely distinguish its possessor from the best most moral citizen or devoted altruist? Why do the Christian saint, Indian Rishi, Buddhist Arat, Muslim Sufi all seem to us at bottom men of one race, living under different sanctions, one life, witnessing to one fact. This life which they show in its various perfections includes it is true the ethical life, but cannot be equated with it. Wherein do its differentiates consist? We are dealing with the most subtle of realities and have only the help of crude words developed for other purposes than this. But surely we come near to the truth as history and experience show it to us when we say again that the spiritual life in all its manifestations, from smallest beginnings to unearthly triumph, is simply the life that means God in all his richness, eminent and transcendent, the whole response to the eternal and abiding of which any one man is capable expressed in and through his this world life. It requires then an objective vision or certitude, something to aim at, and also a total integration of the self, its dedication to that aim. Both terms, vision and response, are essential to it. This definition may seem at first sight rather dull. It suggests little of that poignant and unearthly beauty, that heroism, that immense attraction which really belong to the spiritual life. Here indeed we are dealing with poetry in action and we need not words but music to describe it as it really is. Yet all the forms, all the various beauties and achievements of this life of the spirit, can be resumed as the reactions of different temperaments to the one abiding and inexhaustibly satisfying object of their love. It is the answer made by the whole supple, plastic self, rational and instinctive, active and contemplative, to any or all of those objective experiences of religion, which we considered in the first chapter, whether of an encompassing and transcendent reality, of a divine companionship, or of imminent spirit. Such a response we must believe to be itself divinely actuated, fully made, it is found on one hand to call forth the most heroic, most beautiful, most tender qualities in human nature, all that we call holiness, the transfiguration of mere ethics by a supernatural loveliness, breathing another air, satisfying another standard than those of the temporal world. And, on the other hand, this response of the self is repaid by a new sensitiveness and receptivity, a new influx of power. To use theological language, will is answered by grace, and as the will's dedication rises towards completeness, the more fully does new life flow in. Therefore it is plain that the smallest and humblest beginning of such a life in ourselves, and this inquiry is useless unless it be made to speak to our own condition. We'll entail not merely an addition to life, but for us to a change in our whole scale of values, a self-dedication. For that which we are here shown as a possible human achievement is not a life of comfortable piety or the enjoyment of the delicious sensations of the arm-charmistic. We are offered it is true a new dour of life, access to the full possibilities of human nature, but only upon terms, and these terms include new obligations in respect of that life, compelling us, as it appears, to perpetual hard and difficult choices, a perpetual refusal to think back into the next best, to slide along a gentle incline. This spiritual life is not lived upon the heavenly hearth rug within safe distance from the fire of love. It demands indeed very often things so hard that seem from the hearth rug they seem to a superhuman, immensely generous compassion, forbearance, forgiveness, gentleness, radiant purity, self-forgetting zeal. It means a complete conquest of life's perennial tendency to lag behind the best possible, willing acceptance of hardship and pain. And if we ask how this can be, what it is that makes possible such enhancement of human will and of human courage, the only answer seems to be that of the Janine Christ, that it does consist in a more abundant life. In the second chapter of this book we looked at the gradual unfolding of that life in its great historical representatives, and we found its general line of development to lead through disillusion with the merely physical, to conversion to the spiritual, and thence by way of hard moral conflicts and their resolution, to a unification of character, a full integration of the active and contemplative sides of life, resulting in fresh power and a complete dedication to work within the new order and for the new ideals. There was something of the penitent, something of the contemplative, and something of the apostle and every man or woman who thus grew to their full stature and realized all their latent possibilities. But above all there was fortitude, an all-round power of tackling existence which comes from complete indifference to personal suffering or personal success. And further psychology showed us that those workings and readjustments which we saw preparing this life of the spirit were in line with those which prepare us for fullness of life on other levels, that is to say the harnessing of the impulsive nature to the purposes chosen by the consciousness, the resolving of conflicts, the unification of the whole personality about one's dominant interest. These readjustments were helped by the deliberate acceptance of the useful suggestions of religion, the education of the foreconscious, the formation of habits of charity and prayer. The greatest and most real living writers on this subject, Maren von Hugel, has given us another definition of the personal, spiritual life which may fruitfully be compared with this. It must and shall, he says, exhibit rightful contact with and renunciation of the particular and fleeting. And with this ever seeks and finds the eternal, deepening and incarnating within its own experience this transcendent otherness. 129. Nothing which we are likely to achieve can go beyond this profound saying. We see how many rich elements are contained in it, effort and growth, a temper both social and ascetic, a demand for and a receiving of power. True, to some extent it restates the position at which we arrived in the first chapter, but we now wish to examine more thoroughly into that position and discover its practical applications. Let us then begin by unpacking it, and examining its chief characters one by one. If we do this we find that it demands of us, one, rightful contact with the particular and fleeting. That is, a willing acceptance of all this world tasks, obligations, relations and joys, in fact the act of life of becoming in its completeness. Two, but also a certain renunciation of that particular and fleeting, a refusal to get everything out of it that we can for ourselves to be possessive or attribute to it absolute worth. This involves a sense of detachment or asceticism of further destiny and obligation for the soul than complete earthly happiness or here and now success. Three, and with this ever not merely in hours of devotion to seek and find the eternal, penetrating our wholesome this world action through and through with the very spirit of contemplation. Four, thus deepening and incarnating, bringing in giving body to and in some sense exhibiting by means of our own growing and changing experience that transcendent otherness the fact of the life of the spirit in the here and now. The full life of the spirit then is once more declared to be active, contemplative, ascetic, and apostolic. Though nowadays we express these abiding human dispositions in other and less formidable terms. If we translate them as work, prayer, self-discipline, and social service, they do not look quite so bad. But even so, what a tremendous program to put before the ordinary human creature and how difficult it looks when thus arranged. That balance to be discovered and held between due contact with this present living world of time and due renunciation of it. That continual penetration of the time world with the spirit of eternity. But now, in accordance with the ruling idea which has occupied us in this book, let us arrange these four demands in different order. Let us put number three first, ever seeking and finding the eternal. Conceive at least that we do this really and in a practical way. Then we discover that, placed as we certainly are in a world of succession, most of the seeking and finding has got to be done there. That the times of pure abstraction in which we touch the non-successive and supersensual must be few. Hence it follows that the first and second demands are at once fully met. For if we are indeed faithfully seeking and finding the eternal whilst living, as all sane men and women must do, in closest contact with the particular and fleeting, our acceptances and our renunciations will be governed by this higher term of experience, and further the transcendent otherness perpetually envisaged by us as alone giving the world of sense its beauty, reality, and value will be incarnated and expressed by us in this sense life and thus ever more completely tasted and known. It will be drawn by us as best we can and often at the cost of bitter struggle into the limitations of humanity and tincturing our attitude and our actions, and in the degree in which we thus appropriate it, it will be given out by us again to other men. All this, of course, says again that which men have been constantly told by those who sought to redeem them from their confusions and show them the way to fullness of life. Seek first the kingdom of God, said Jesus, and all the rest shall be added to you. Love, said St. Augustine, and do what you like. Let nothing, says Thomas A. Kempis, be great or high or acceptable to thee but purely God, 130. And Kabir, open your eyes of love and see him who pervades this world, consider it well, and know that this is your own country. 131. Our whole teaching, says Boma, is nothing else than how man should kindle in himself God's light world. 132. I do not say that such a presentation of it makes the personal spiritual life any easier. Nothing does that. But it does make its central implicit, rather clearer, shows us at once its difficulty and its simplicity, since it depends on the consistent subordination of every impulse and every action to one regnant aim and interest, in other words, the unification of the whole self round one center, the highest conceivable by man. Each of man's behavior cycles is always directed towards some end, of which he may or may not be vividly conscious. But in that perfect unification of the self which is characteristic of the life of the Spirit, all his behavior is brought into one stream of purpose and directed towards one transcendent end. And this simplification alone means for him a release from conflicting wishes and so a tremendous increase of power. If then we admit this formula, ever seeking and finding the eternal, which is of course another rendering of Royce Brooks aiming at God as the prime character of a spiritual life, the secret of human transcendence, what are the agents by which it is done? Here men and women of all times and all religions who have achieved this fullness of life agree in their answer, and by this answer we are at once taken away from dry philosophic conceptions and introduced into the very heart of human experience. It is done, they say, on man's part, by love and prayer. And these properly understood in their inexhaustible richness, joy, pain, dedication, and noble simplicity cover the whole field of the spiritual life. Without them that life is impossible. With them, if the self be true to their implications, some measure of it cannot be escaped. I said love and prayer properly understood not as two movements of emotional piety, but as fundamental human dispositions, as the typical attitude and action which control man's growth into greater reality. Since then they are of such primary importance to us, it will be worthwhile at this stage to look into them a little more closely. First, love. That overworked and ill-used word, often confused on the one hand with passion, and on the other with amiability. If we ask the most fashionable sort of psychologist what love is, he says that it is the impulse urging us towards that end which is the fulfilment of any series of deeds or behaviour cycle, the psychic thread on which all the apparently separate actions making up that cycle are strung and united. In this sense love need not be fully conscious, reach the level of feeling, but it must be an imperative inward urge. And if we ask those who have known and taught the life of the spirit, they too say that love is a passionate tendency, an inward vital surge of the soul towards its source, 133, which impels every living thing to pursue the most profound trend of its being, reaches consciousness in the form of self-giving and of desire and its only satisfying goal in God. Love is for them much more than its emotional manifestations. It is the ultimate cause of the true activities of all active things, no less. This definition, which I take as a matter of fact from St. Thomas Aquinas, 134, would be agreeable to the most modern psychologist. He might give the hidden steersman of the psyche in its perpetual movement towards novelty a less beautiful and significant name. This indwelling love, says Plotinus, is no other than the spirit which, as we are told, walks with every being, the affection dominant in each several nature. It implants the characteristic desire, the particular soul strained towards its own natural objects, brings forth its own love, the guiding spirit realizing its worth and the quality of its being, 135. Does not all this suggest to us once more that at whatever level it be experienced the psychic craving, the urgent spirit within us pressing out to life, is always one, and that the sublimation of this vital craving, its direction to God, is the essence of regeneration. There, in our instinctive nature, which as we know makes us the kind of animal we are, abides that power of loving which is really the power of living, the cause of our actions, the controlling factor in our perceptions, the force pressing us into any given type of experience, turning aside for no obstacles but stimulated by them to a greater vigor. Each level of the universe makes solicitations to this power, the worlds of sense, of thought, of beauty, and of action. According to the degree of our development, the trend of the conscious will is our response, and according to that response will be our life. The world to which a man turns himself, says Boma, and in which he produces fruit, the same is Lord and him, and this world becomes manifest in him. 136. From all this it becomes clear what the love of God is, what Sinaugustin meant when he said that all virtue, and virtue after all means power, not goodness, lay in the right ordering of love, the conscious orientation of desire. Christians, on the authority of their master, declare that such love of God requires all that they have, not only of feeling, but also of intellect, and of power, since he is to be loved with heart and mind and strength. Thought and action on highest levels are involved in it, for it means not religious emotionalism, but the inflictoring orientation of the whole self towards him, ever seeking, and finding, the eternal. The linking up of all behavior on that string, so that the apparently hard and always heroic choices which are demanded, are made at last because they are inevitable. It is true that this dominant interest will give to our lives a special emotional color, and a special kind of happiness, but in this, as in the best, deepest, richest human love, such feeling tone, and such happiness, though in some natures of great beauty and intensity, are only to be looked upon as secondary characters, and never to be aimed at. When Saint Teresa said that the real object of the spiritual marriage was the incessant production of work, work, 137, I have no doubt that many of her nuns were disconcerted, especially the type of ease-loving conservatives whom she and her intimates were accustomed to refer to as the pussy-gats. But in this direct application to religious experience of Saint Thomas's doctrine of love, she set up an ideal of the spiritual life which is as valid at the present day in the entanglements of our social order as it was in the enclosed convents of 16th-century Spain. Love, we said, is the cause of action. It urges and directs our behavior, conscious and involuntary, towards an end. The mother is irresistibly impelled to act towards her child's welfare. The ambitious man towards success. The artist towards expression of his vision. All these are examples of behavior, love-driven towards ends. And religious experience discloses to us a greater, more inclusive end, and this vital power of love as capable of being used on the highest levels regenerated, directed to eternal interests, subordinating behavior, inspiring suffering, unifying the whole self and its activities, mobilizing them for this transcendental achievement. This generous love, to go back to the quotation from Verne von Hugo which opened our inquiry, will indeed cause the behavior it controls to exhibit both rightful contact with and renunciation of the particular and fleeting. Because in and through this series of linked deeds it is uniting with itself all human activities, and in and through them is seeking and finding its eternal end. So in that rightful bringing in of novelty which is the business of the fully living soul, the most powerful agent is love, understood as the controlling factor of behavior, the sublimation and union of will and desire. Let love, says Bummer, be the life of thy nature. It killeth thee not, but quickeneth thee according to its life, and then thou livest yet not to thy own will, but to its will, for thy will becomeeth its will, and then thou art dead to thyself but alive to God. 138 There is the true, solid, and for us most fruitful doctrine of divine union, unconnected with any rapture, trance, ecstasy, or abnormal state of mind, a union organic, conscious, and dynamic with the creative spirit of life. If we go on now to ask how, specially, we shall achieve this union in such degree as is possible to each one of us, the answer must be that it will be done by prayer. If the seeking of the eternal is actuated by love, the finding of it is achieved through prayer. Prayer, in fact, understood as a life or state, not an act or an asking, is the beginning, middle, and end of all that we are now considering. As the social self can only be developed by contact with society, so the spiritual self can only be developed by contact with the spiritual world. And such humble yet ardent contact with the spiritual world, opening up to its suggestions, our impulses, our reveries, our feelings, our most secret dispositions, as well as our mere thoughts, is the essence of prayer, understood in its widest sense. No more than surrender or love can prayer be reduced to one act. Those who seek to sublimate it into pure contemplation are as limited at one end of the scale, as those who reduce it to articulate petition are at the other. It contains in itself a rich variety of human reactions and experiences. It opens the door upon an unwalled world, in which the self truly lives, and therefore makes widely various responses to its infinitely varying stimuli. Into that world the self takes, or should take, its special needs, aptitudes and longings, and matches them against its apprehension of eternal truth. In this meeting of the human heart, with all that it can apprehend of reality, not adoration alone, but unbounded contrition, not humble dependence alone, but joy, peace, and power, not rapture alone, but mysterious darkness, must be woven into the fabric of love. In this world the soul may sometimes wander as if in pastures, sometimes as poised breathless and intent. Sometimes it is fed by beauty, sometimes by most difficult truth, and experiences the extremes of riches and destitution, darkness, and light. It is not, says Plotinus, by crushing the divine into a unity, but by displaying its exuberance, as the Supreme himself has displayed it, that we show knowledge of the might of God. 1.39 Thus by that instinctive and warmly devoted direction of its behavior which is love, and that willed attention to and communion with the spiritual world which is prayer, all the powers of the self are united and turned towards the seeking and finding of the eternal. It is by complete obedience to this exacting love, doing difficult and unselfish things, giving up easy and comfortable things, in fact by living, living hard on the highest levels, that men more and more deeply feel, experience, and enter into their spiritual life. This is a fact which must seem rather awkward to those who put forward pathological explanations of it, and on the other hand it is only by constant contacts with and recourse to the energizing life of the spirit that this hard vocation can be fulfilled. Such a power of reference to reality, of transcending the world of succession and its values, can be cultivated by us, and this education of our inborn aptitude is a chief function of the discipline of prayer. True, it is only in times of recollection or of great emotion that this profound contact is fully present to consciousness. Yet, once fully achieved and its obligations accepted by us, it continues as a grave melody within our busy outward acts. And we must by right direction of our deepest instincts so find and feel the eternal all the time, if indeed we are to actualize and incarnate it all the time. From this truth of experience, religion has deducted the doctrine of grace and the general conception of man as able to do nothing of himself. This need hardly surprise us. For equally on the physical plane man can do nothing of himself if he be cut off from his physical sources of power, from food to eat and air to breathe. Therefore the fact that his spiritual life too is dependent upon the life-giving atmosphere that penetrates him and the heavenly food which he receives makes no fracture in his experience. Thus we are brought back by another path to the fundamental need for him in some form of the balanced active and contemplative life. In spite of this, many people seem to take it for granted that if a man believes in and desires to live a spiritual life he can live in utter independence of spiritual food. He believes in God, loves his neighbor, wants to do good, and just goes ahead. The result of this is that the life of the God-fearing citizen or the social Christian, as now conceived and practiced, is generally the starved life. It leaves no time for the silence, the withdrawal, the quiet attention to the spiritual, which is essential if it is to develop all its powers. Yet the literature of the Spirit is full of warnings on this subject. Taste and see that the Lord is sweet. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. In quietness and confidence shall be your strength. These are practical statements addressed not to specialists but to ordinary men and women with the normal psychophysical makeup. They are literally true now or can be if we choose. They do not involve any peculiar training or unnatural effort. A sliding scale goes from the simplest prayer experience of the ordinary man to that complete self-loss and complete self-finding which is called the Transforming Union of the Saint, and somewhere in the series every human soul can find a place. If this balanced life is to be ours, if we are to receive what St. Augustine called the food of the full grown, to find and feel the eternal, we must give time and place to it in our lives. I emphasize this because its realization seems to me to be a desperate modern need. A need exhibited supremely in our languid and ineffectual spirituality but also felt in the too busy, too entirely active and hurried lies of the artist, the reformer and the teacher. St. John of the Cross says in one of his letters, What is wanting is not writing or talking, there is more than enough of that, but silence and action. For silence joined to action produces recollection and gives the spirit a marvellous strength. Such recollection, such a gathering up of our interior forces and retreat of consciousness to its ground, is the preparation of all great endeavor, whatever its apparent object may be. Until we realize that it is better, more useful, more productive of strength to spend, let us say, the odd ten minutes in the morning feeling and finding the eternal than inflicting the newspaper, that this will send us off to the day's work properly oriented, gathered together, recollected, and really endowed with new power of dealing with circumstance, we have not begun to live the life of the spirit or grasp the practical connection between such a daily discipline and the power of doing our best work, whatever it may be. 132. Six Theosophic Points, page 75. 133. C. L. Roycebrook, the Mirror of Eternal Salvation. 134. In Librim, Dionysia de Divinas, No Minimbus, Commentaria. 135. Aeneid III. 136. Bumma, Six Theosophic Points, page 75. 137. The Interior Castle, Seventh Habitation. 138. Bumma, The Way to Christ, part 4. 139. Aeneid II, IX, IX. End of Chapter 6, Part A. The Life of the Spirit and the Life of Today by Evelyn Underhill Chapter 6, Part B. The Life of the Spirit in the Individual I will illustrate this from a living example. That of the Sadhu Sundar Singh. No one, I suppose, who came into personal contact with the Sadhu, doubted that they were in the presence of a person who was living in the full sense, the spiritual life. Even those who could not accept the symbols in which he described his experience and asked others to share it, acknowledged that there had been working in him a great transformation, that the sense of the abiding and eternal went with him everywhere and flowed out from him to calm and to correct our feverish lives. He fully satisfies, in his own person, the demands of Baron Von Hügel's definition, both contact with and renunciation of the particular and fleeting, seeking and finding of the eternal, incarnating within his own experience that transcendent otherness. Now the Sadhu has discovered for himself and practices as the condition of his extraordinary activity, power and endurance, just that balance of life which Saint Benedict's rule ordained. He is a wandering missionary, constantly undertaking great journeys, enduring hardship and danger, and practicing the absolute poverty of Saint Francis. He is perfectly healthy, strong, extraordinarily attractive, full of power. But this power he is careful to nourish. His irreducible minimum is two hours spent in meditation and wordless communication with God at the beginning of each day. He prefers three or four hours when work permits, and a long period of prayer and meditation always precedes his public address. If forced to curtail or hurry these hours of prayer, he feels restless and unhappy, and his efficiency is reduced. Prayer, he said, is as important as breathing, and we never say we have no time to breathe. 140. All this has been explained away by critics of the muscular Christian sort who say that the Sadhu's Christianity is of a typically Eastern kind. But this is simply not true. It were much better to acknowledge that we more and more are tending to develop a typically Western kind of Christianity, marked by the Western emphasis on doing and the Western contempt for being. And that if we go sufficiently far on this path, we shall find ourselves cut off from our source. The Sadhu's Christianity is fully Christian. That is to say, it is whole and complete. The power in which he does his works is that in which Saint Paul carried through his heroic missionary career. Saint Benedict formed a spiritual family that transformed European culture. Wesley made the world his parish. Elizabeth Fry faced the New Gate criminals. It is idle to talk of the revival of a personal spiritual life among ourselves, or of a spiritual regeneration of society, for this can only come through the individual remaking of each of its members. Unless we are willing at the sacrifice of some personal convenience to make a place and time for these acts of recollection, this willing and loving, and even more fruitful, the more willing and loving communion with response to reality to God. It is true that a fully lived spiritual life involves far more than this, but this is the only condition on which it will exist at all. Love then, which is a willed tendency to God, prayer which is willed communion with and experience of him, are the two prime essentials in the personal life of the spirit. They represent, of course, only our side of it and our obligation. This love is the outflowing response to another inflowing love, and this prayer the appropriation of a transcendental energy and grace. As the German theology reminds us, I cannot do the work without God, and God may not, or will not, without me. 141 And by these acts alone faithfully carried through all their costly demands fulfilled, all their gifts and applications accepted without resistance, and applied to each aspect of life, human nature can grow up to its false stature and obtain access to all its sources of power. Yet this personal inward life of love and prayer shall not be too solitary, as it needs links with cultists, and so with the lives of its fellows, it also needs links with history, and so with the living past. These links are chiefly made by the individual through his reading, and such reading, such access to humanity's horrid culture and experience, has always been declared alike by Christian and non-Christian asceticism to be one of the proper helps of the spiritual life. Though Hofting perhaps exaggerates when he reminds us that medieval art always depicts the saints as deeply absorbed in their books, and suggests that such brooding study directly induces contemplative states, 142, yet it is true that the soul gains greatly from such communion with, and meek learning from, its cultural background. Ever more and more as it advances, it will discover within that background the records of those very experiences which it now must so poignantly relive, and which seem to it, as its own experience seems to every lover, unique, there it can find, without any betrayal of its secret, the wholesome assurance of its own normality, standards of comparison, companionship, alike in its hours of penitence, of light, and of deprivation. Yet such fruitful communion with the past is not the privilege of an aristocratic culture, it is seen in its perfection in many simple Christians who have found in the Bible all the spiritual food they need. The great literature of the spirit tells its secrets to those alone who thus meet it on its own ground. Not only the works of Thomas a. Kempus, of Roycebrook, or of St. Teresa, but also the biblical writers, and especially perhaps the Psalms and the Gospels, are read wholly anew by us at each stage of our advance. Comparative study of Hindu and Muslim writers proves this is equally true of the great literatures of other faiths. 143. Beginners may find in all these infinite stimulus, interest, and beauty, but to the mature soul they become roadbooks, of which experience proves the astonishing exactitude, giving it descriptions which it can recognize and directions that it needs, and constituting a steady check upon individualism. Now let us look at the emergence of this life which we have been considering, and at the typical path which it will or may follow in an ordinary man or woman of our own day, not a saint or genius reaching heroic levels, but a member of that solid, wholesome spiritual population which ought to fill the streets of the city of God. We noticed when we were studying its parents in history that often this life begins in a sort of restlessness, a feeling that there is something more in existence, some absolute meaning, some more searching obligation that we have not reached. This dissatisfaction, this uncertainty and hunger may show itself in many different forms. It may speak first to the intellect, to the moral nature, to the social conscience, even to the artistic faculty, or directly to the heart. Anyhow, its abiding quality is a sense of contraction, of limitation, a feeling of something more that we could stretch out to and achieve, and be. Its impulsion is always in one direction, to a finding of some wider and more enduring reality, some objective for the self's life and love. It is a seeking of the eternal in some form. I allow that thanks to the fog in which we live muffled, such a first seeking and above all such a finding of the eternal is not for us a very easy thing. The sense of quest, of dissolution, of something lacking, is more common among modern men than its resolution and discovery. Nevertheless, the quest does mean that there is a solution, and that those who are persevering must find it in the end. The world into which our desire is truly turned is somehow revealed to us. The revelation, always partial and relative, is of course conditioned by our capacity, the character of our longing and the experiences of our past. In spiritual matters we behold that which we are, here following, on higher levels, the laws which govern aesthetic apprehension. So, dissatisfied with its worldview and realizing that it is incomplete, the self seeks at first hand, though not always with clear consciousness of its nature, the reality which is the object of religion. When it finds this reality, the discovery, however partial, is for it the overwhelming revelation of an objective fact, and it is swept by love and awe which it did not know itself to possess. And now it sees dimly, yet in a sufficiently disconcerting way, the pattern in the mount. The rich complex of existence as it were transmuted, full of charity and beauty, governed by another series of adjustments. Life looks different to it. As Vox said, creation gives out another smell than before. 144. There is only one thing more disconcerting than this, and that is seeing the pattern actualized in a fellow human being, living face to face with human sanctity in its great simplicity and supernatural love, joy, peace. For when we glimpse eternal beauty in the universe, we can say with the hero of Callista, it is beyond me. But when we see it transfiguring human character, we know that it is not beyond the power of the race. It is here to be had. Its existence as a form of life creates a standard and lays an obligation on us all. Suppose then that the self urged by this new pressure accepts the obligation and measures itself by the standard. It then becomes apparent that this fact which it sought for and has seen is not merely added to its old universe, as in medieval pictures paradise with its circles overarches the earth. This reality is all penetrating and has transfigured each aspect of the self's old world. It now has a new and more exacting scale of values which demand from it a new series of adjustments, ask it and with authority to change its life. What next? The next thing probably is that the self finds itself in rather a tight place. It is wedged into a physical order that makes innumerable calls on it and innumerable suggestions to it, which has for years monopolized its field of consciousness and set up habits of response to its claims. It has to make some kind of a break with this order, or at least with its many attachments thereto, and stretch to the wider span demanded by the new and larger world. And further it is in possession of a complex psychic life, containing many insubordinate elements, many awkward bequests from a primitive past. That psychic life has just received the powerful and direct suggestion of the spirit, and for the moment it is subdued to that suggestion. But soon it begins to experience the inevitable conflict between old habits and new demands, between the life lived in the particular and in the universal spirit, and only through complete resolution of that conflict will it develop its full power. So the self quickly realizes that the theologians war between nature and grace is a picturesque way of stating a real situation, and further that the demand of all religions for a change of heart, that is of the deep instinctive nature, is the first condition of a spiritual life. And hence that its hands are fairly full. It is true that an immense joy and hope come with it to this business of tackling imperfection of adjusting itself to the newly found center of life. It knows that it is committed to the forward movement of a power which may be slow but which nothing can gain say. Nevertheless the first thing that power demands from it is courage, and the next an unremitting vigorous effort. It will never again be able to sink back causally into its racial past. Consciousness of disharmony and incompleteness now brings the obligation to mend the disharmony and achieve a fresh synthesis. This is felt with a special sharpness in the moral life where the irreconcilable demands of natural self-interest and of spirit assume their most intractable shape. Old habits and paths of discharge which have almost become automatic must now it seems be abandoned. New paths and spite of resistances must be made. Thus it is that temptation, hard conflict, and bewildering perplexities usher in the life of the spirit. These are largely the results of our biological past continuing into our fluctuating half-made present, and they point towards a psychic stability and inner unity we have not yet attained. This realization of ourselves as we truly are, emerging with difficulty from our animal origin, tinctured through and through with the self-regarding tendencies and habits it has imprinted on us, this realization, or self-knowledge, is humility, the only soil in which the spiritual life can germinate, and modern man with his great horizons, his ever clearer vision of his own close kinship with life's origin, his small place in the time stream, in the universe, in God's hand. The relative character of his best knowledge and achievement is surely everywhere being persuaded to this royal virtue. Recognition of this his true creaturely status, with its obligations, the only process of pain and struggle needed if the demands of generous love are ever to be fulfilled in him, and his many-leveled nature is to be purified and harmonized and develop all its powers. This is repentance. He shows not only his sincerity, but his manliness and courage by the acceptance of all that such repentance entails on him. For the healthy soul, like the healthy body, welcomes some trial in roughness and is well able to bear the pains of education. Psychologists regard such an education, harmonizing the rational or ideal with the instinct of life, the change of heart which leaves the whole self working together without inner conflict towards one objective as the very condition of a full and healthy life, but it can only be achieved in its perfection by the complete surrender of heart and mind to a third term, transcending alike the impulsive and the rational. The life of the spirit in its supreme authority and its identification with the highest interests of the race does this, harnessing man's fiery energies to the service of the light. Therefore, in the rich new life on which the self enters, one strand must be that of repentance, catharsis, self-conquest, a complete contrition which is the earnest of complete generosity and calculated response. And dealing as we are now with average human nature, we can safely say that the need for such ever renewed self-scrutiny and self-purgation will never in this life be left behind. For sin is a fact, though a fact which we do not understand, and now it appears and must evermore remain an offense against love, hostile to this intense new attraction, and marring the self's willed tendency towards it. The next strand we may perhaps call that of recollection. For the recognizing and the cure of imperfection depends on the compensating search for the perfect, and its enthronement as the supreme object of our thought and love. The self then soon begins to feel a strong impulsion to some type of inward withdrawal and concentration, some kind of prayer, though it may not use this name or recognize the character of its mood. As it yields to this strange new drawing, such recollection grows easier. It finds that there is a veritable inner world, not merely a fantasy, but of profound heart-searching experience, where the soul is in touch with another order of realities and knows itself to be an inheritor of eternal life. Here unique things happen. A power is at work, and new apprehensions are born, and now for the first time the self discovers itself to be striking a balance between this inner and the outer life, and in its own small way, but still most fruitfully, enriching action with the fruits of contemplation. If it will give to the learning of this new art, to the disciplining and refining of this effective thought, even a fraction of the diligence which it gives to the learning of a new game, it will find itself repaid by a progressive purity of vision, a progressive sense of assurance, an ever-increasing delicacy of moral discrimination and demand. Psychologists, as we have seen, divide men into introverts and extroverts, but as a matter of fact we must regard both these extreme types as defective. A whole man should be supple in his reactions to both the inner and to the outer world. The third strand in the life of the spirit, for this normal self which we are considering, must be the disposition of complete surrender. More and more advancing in this inner life it will feel the imperative attraction of reality of God, and it must respond to this attraction with all the courage and generosity of which it is capable. I am trying to use the simplest and the most general language and to avoid emotional imagery, though it is here in telling of this perpetually renewed act of self-giving and dedication, that spiritual writers most often have recourse to the language of the heart. It is indeed in a spirit of intensest and humble adoration that generous souls yield themselves to the drawing of that mysterious beauty and unchanging love with all that it entails, but the form which the impulse to surrender takes will vary with the psychic makeup of the individual. To some it will come as a sense of vocation, a making over of the will to the purposes of the kingdom, a type of consecration which may not be overtly religious, but may be concerned with the self-forgetting quest of social excellence, of beauty, or of truth. By some it will be felt as an illumination of the mind, which now discerns once for all true values, and accepting these must uphold and strive for them in the teeth of all opportunism. By some, and these are the most blessed, as a breaking and remaking of the heart. Whatever the form it takes, the extent in which the self experiences the peace, joy, and power of living at the level of spirit will depend on the completeness and single-mindedness of this, its supreme act of self- simplification. Any reserves, anything in its makeup which sets up resistances, and this means generally any form of egotism, will mar the harmony of the process. And, on the other hand, such a real simplification of the self's life as is here demanded, uniting on one object the intellect, will and feeling too often split among contradictory attractions, is itself productive of inner harmony and increased power, productive too of that noble endurance which counts no pain too much in the service of reality. Here then we come to the fact, valid for every level of spiritual life, which lies behind all the declarations concerning surrender, self-loss, dying to live, dedication, made by writers on this theme, all involve a relaxing attention, letting ourselves go without reluctance in the direction in which we are most profoundly drawn, a cessation of our struggles with the tide, our kicks against the pricks that spur us on. The inward aim of the self is towards unification with a larger life, emergence with reality which it may describe under various contradictory symbols, or may not be able to describe it all, but which it feels to be the fulfillment of existence. It has learned, though this knowledge may not have passed beyond the stage of feeling, that the universe is one simple texture in which all things have their explanation and their place. Combing out the confusions which enmesh it, losing its sham and separate life and finding its true life there, it will know what to love and how to act. The goal of this process, which has been called entrance into the freedom of the will of God, is the state described by the writer of the German theology when he said, I would feign be to the eternal goodness what his own hand is to a man. 145. For such a declaration not only means a willed and skillful working for God, a practical siding with perfection, becoming its living tool, but also close union with and sharing of the vital energy of the spiritual order, a feeding on and using of its power its very life blood, complete facility to its inward direction, abolition of separate desire. The surrender is therefore made not an order that we may become limp pietists, but an order that we may receive more energy and do better work by a humble self-subjection more perfectly helping forward the thrust of the spirit and the primal human business of incarnating the eternal here and now. Its justification is in the arduous but untiring, various but harmonious activities that flow from it, the enhancement of life which it entails. It gives us access to our real sources of power that we may take from them and spending generously, be energized and new, so the cord on which those events which make up this personal life of the spirit are to be strung is completed, and we see that it consists of four strands, two are dispositions of the self, penitence and surrender, two are activities, inward recollection and outward work. All four make stern demands on its fortitude and goodwill, and each gives strength to the rest for they are not to be regarded as separate and successive states, a discreet series through which we must pass one by one, leaving penitence behind us when we reach surrendered love, but as the variable yet enduring and inseparable aspects of one rich life, phases in one complete and vital effort to respond more and more closely to reality. Nothing perhaps is less monotonous than the personal life of the spirit. In its humility and joyous love, its adoration and its industry, it may find self-expression in any one of the countless activities of the world of time. It is both romantic and austere, both adventurous and holy. Full of fluctuation and unearthly color it yet has its dark patches as well as its light. Since perfect proof of the Supercentral is beyond the span of human consciousness, the element of risk can never be eliminated. We are obliged in the end to trust the universe and live by faith. Therefore the awakened soul must often suffer perplexity, share to the utmost the stress and anguish of the physical order, and chained as it is to a consciousness accustomed to respond to that order, must still be content with flashes of understanding and willing to bear long periods of destitution when the light is failed. The further it advances, the more bitter will these periods of destitution seem to it. It is not from the real men and women of the spirit that we hear soft things about the comfort of faith, for the true life of faith gives everything worth having and takes everything worth offering. With unrelenting blows it welds the self into the stuff of the universe, subduing it to the universal purpose, doing away with the flame of separation. Though joy and inward peace even in desolation are dominant marks of those who have grown up into it, still it offers to none a succession of Supercentral delights. The life of the spirit involves the sublimation of that pleasure-pain rhythm which is characteristic of normal consciousness and if for it pleasure becomes joy, pain becomes the cross. Toil, abdignation, sacrifice are therefore of its essence, but these are not felt as a heavy burden because they are the expression of love. It entails a willed tension and choice, a noble power of refusal which are not entirely covered by being in tune with the infinite. As our life comes to maturity we discover to our confusion that human ears can pick up from the infinite many incompatible tunes, but cannot hear the whole symphony and the melody confided to our care, the one which we alone perhaps can contribute and which taxes our powers to the full has in it not only the notes of triumph but the notes of pain. The distinctive mark, therefore, is not happiness but vocation, work demanded and power given, but given only on condition that we spend it and ourselves on others without stent. These propositions, of course, are easily illustrated from history, but we can also illustrate them in our own persons if we choose. Should we choose this and should life of the spirit be achieved by us and it will only be done through daily discipline and attention to the spiritual, a sacrifice of comfort to its interests, following up the intuition which sets us on the path, what benefits may we as ordinary men expect it to bring to us and to the community that we serve? It will certainly bring into life new zest and new meaning, a widening of the horizon and consciousness of security, a fresh sense of joys to be had and of work to be done. The real spiritual consciousness is positive and constructive in type. It does not look back on the past sins and mistakes of the individual or of the community but in its other world faith and this world charity is inspired by a forward-moving spirit of hope. Seeking alone the honor of eternal beauty and because of its invulnerable sense of security it is adventurous. The spiritual man and woman can afford to take desperate chances and live dangerously in the interests of their ideals being delivered from the many unreal fears and anxieties which commonly torment us and knowing the unimportance of possessions and of so-called success. The joy which waits on dissentous love and the confidence which follows surrender cannot fail them. Moreover the inward harmony and assurance, the consciousness of access to that spirit who is in a literal sense, health's eternal spring, means a healing of nervous miseries and invigoration of the usually ill-treated mind and body, and so an all-around increase in happiness and power. The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance. This said St. Paul, who knew by experience the worlds of grace and of nature, is what a complete man ought to be like. Compare this picture of an equal and fully harmonized personality with that of a characteristic neurasthenic, a board sensualist or an embittered worker concentrated on the struggle for a material advantage, and consider that the central difference between these types of human success and human failure abides in the presence or absence of a spiritual conception of life. We do not yet know the limits of the upgrowth into power and happiness which complete and practical surrender to this conception can work in us, or what its general triumph might do for the transformation of the world. And it may even be that beyond the joy and renewal which come from self-conquest and unification, a level of spiritual life most certainly open to all who will really work for it, and beyond that deeper insight, more widespreading love, and perfection of adjustment to the here and now which we recognize and reverence as the privilege of the pure in heart. Beyond all these it may be that life still reserves for man another secret and another level of consciousness a closer identification with reality such as I hath not seen or ear heard. And note that the spiritual life which we have here considered is not an aristocratic life. It is a life of which the fundamentals are given by the simplest kinds of traditional piety, and have been exhibited over and over again by the simplest souls. An unconditional self-surrender to the divine will under whatever symbols it may be thought of. For we know that the very crudest of symbols is often strong enough to make a bridge between the heart and the eternal, and so be a vehicle of the spirit of life, a little silence and leisure, a great deal of faithfulness, kindness, and courage. All this is within the reach of anyone who cares enough for it to pay the price. Footnotes. 140. Streeter and Aposami, the Sadhu, page 98, 100. 141. Theologica Germanica. 142. Huffting the Philosophy of Religion. 3b. 143. There are, for instance, several striking instances in the autobiography of the Maharishi Devanjranath Thakur. 144. Fox's Journal, Volume 1. 145. Theologica Germanica. End of Chapter 6b.