Читать книгу What and Where is God? A Human Answer to the Deep Religious Cry of the Modern Soul - Richard La Rue Swain - Страница 6

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Why does God leave His very existence in doubt by forever hiding Himself?

If there were a God would He not make Himself known in such a way that no one could possibly doubt His existence?

Why should we be expected to love and obey a God whose existence is still a subject of discussion?

Could a righteous and loving Father leave any of His children in doubt of His existence?

While I was dining one day with a young minister and his wife, the latter disclosed to me her religious state of mind. Said she:

"I have no God! They have taken Him away and I do not know where to find Him. My childhood conception of a Man-God on a throne in heaven is gone—and I think rightly gone; but I have nothing to take its place. I hear them speak of an immanent God; of a God who fills all nature. And I have no objection to this except that it brings no relief. Nature is so inexpressibly vast and complex that, to my mind, a God who fills all nature is so infinitely big and spread out that I can neither know Him nor love Him. He is altogether too attenuated for me; besides, this makes Him so much everywhere that He seems to be nowhere. Here I am, without a God, working myself nearly to death in a great Church; and my heart is breaking for a Father to whom I can go, as I once did, with all my hopes and fears. Moreover, all my young women friends feel as I do. We often speak of this among ourselves without knowing where to turn for relief."

The distressing experience of this minister's wife is more common than many think. With her type of mind it was inevitable that she should experience doubt while passing from the crude to the mature. Being bright, consecrated, and sincere she had simply hastened the crisis. That the Church is not always present to take care of its own passengers when they arrive at these way-stations is the greater pity; because representatives of various spiritual inns will be sure to meet every incoming train. And if the Church is neglectful of its spiritual pilgrims, it compels them to spend their night of doubt in the depot or on a bench in the park exposed to the tender mercy of religious fakers. Were the difficulties of this minister's wife met, it would be a great blessing to her and to thousands of other troubled souls; and at the same time it would immeasurably enrich our common Christian life.

Because of our newly acquired knowledge of the physical universe multitudes, both without and within the Church, are asking what God is and where He is that they may find Him.

The poverty of faith and confusion of ideas concerning God were recently brought to light by Professor Leuba in his questionnaire. Many seem to think there is no place for God in their conception of the universe. Having no longer a satisfying idea of God, the thought of Him is fading from their minds. And while some rejoice in their scepticism, others deeply regret a waning faith.

All this only proves that the world is over-ripe for a finer conception of God and His universe; and that a better and more definite idea must be obtained, or doubt will run into positive unbelief. Modern learning is thought by many to be particularly hard on faith. Some of us, however, have found the world of modern knowledge more congenial to faith and much superior to the old unscientific world as a place in which to live the simple Christian life. This better vision should be given to the people with all possible speed. They should be taught to see that as boulevards and steel bridges are superior to mud roads and dangerous fords, so the new Christian highway is better than the old. Nevertheless, new knowledge in certain directions does present grave difficulties for those who retain crude conceptions of God and erroneous views of His relation to the forces of nature that envelop us. Until we do the work that our times demand of us, even Christians may not hope to remain immune from the devastating influences of doubt. There is a deep cry in the modern soul that must be met.

While our hope of knowing God rests on His immanence yet the idea of immanence has not been sufficiently clarified to meet our practical demands. If we continue to teach the beautiful doctrine that God is everywhere, in the vague way that is now so prevalent, an ever increasing number will surely come to believe that He is nowhere.

Lovingly and faithfully our mothers taught us that God was everywhere in all majesty and power. But it was different. They believed that God had a form, or nucleus, in heaven, and that His spirit radiated from this form to the remotest particles of matter in the universe. They also believed that when transported at death to His central abode they should look with rapture upon His ineffable being. They expected to see the glorious presence of the Father distinct from the glorified body of Jesus. In their thought, the visible Jesus was literally on the right hand of a visible Father. However, this conception of a visible and localized God in heaven is either gone or going; and for the average mind there remains a Deity, if any, as attenuated as stellar ether, and scarcely more personal than the forces of nature. No one ever made a more rational demand than the minister's wife when she asked for a particular God to supplement a universal God.

We must get on common ground with our fellows, if we really wish to help, and sow our seed in the soil of living minds. The supreme need of the hour is for someone to help the masses to move out of the old "shack" of an unscientific world into God's beautiful, expanding palace. Though some new frames are needed for the old pictures, yet no treasure should be left to perish in the old "shack"; because the ampler world of modern knowledge will never be home until the pictures of our childhood hang on the wall and the fire burns in the furnace. The larger abode of a scientific universe is a veritable prison when we have cast out the God of our fathers. But whether we would or not, we must learn to do business in the new world; and sooner or later we shall learn that we can not do business in one kind of a universe and foster religion in another. Religion must thrive in the new world or perish. Neither is it enough for a few scholars to see their way in the new order; they must show others how to be religious without stultifying their intellects. In other words, men must see before a religious appeal can reach their conscience.

There are as many ways of becoming a sceptic as there are of becoming a Christian. We must admit, however, that careless living has multiplied the difficulties of faith for every one of us. And yet, a sincere effort to make religion real in one's own personal experience often hastens unbelief. Those who think that no one honestly doubts the existence of God have a poor knowledge of the facts; because, in many minds, this is the only serious doubt. If only they could make this point secure, everything else would fall in line as a matter of course. To a singular degree this has been true in my own case. The one word "God" is a creed large enough to burst all little worlds, if the word stands for a fact which has any worthy meaning. Some people, always wondering whether God is good to them, or whether He really thinks of them at all, are greatly shocked if some one else doubts God's existence. Whereas, to believe in Christ's God and at the same time doubt His goodness is a flat contradiction. For many of us this would be impossible.

Following the advice of friends—whose judgment I trust—I venture to give a simple history of my own early religious life. This is for the sake of finding a point of contact with those who have little or no faith; and with the hope of stating some of the real problems. Some may think this a dangerous thing to do. But unless we know the problems of suffering souls, how are we to solve them? Besides, the knowledge of another's difficulty with its solution, should enrich the faith of one having no serious difficulties of his own; and certainly it would make him more useful among people differently constituted from himself.

My father became a Protestant at twenty years of age to the great distress of his Roman Catholic mother. At twenty-two he married Sarah Elizabeth Carr of Great Dalby, England. They were married in the quaint old church of the town by the Episcopal rector. Later, my father preached in England for the Wesleyans. However, on coming to America in 1857 he identified himself with the United Brethren and remained with them until his death. As he located in what was then the frontier of this country, I can duplicate out of my own life much that is to be found in "Black Rock" and "Sky Pilot." In the midst of much irreligion, my parents put vital religion into the very marrow of my bones.

Going far and near to preach in little schoolhouses, my father left us much alone in the old log cabin of one room; especially in the winter season when he preached nearly every night. His home-coming about once a month was a great event. In the summertime he would ride thirty miles on Sunday, preach three times, and be back home Monday by one o'clock to delve into every kind of rough work as a true frontiersman. I pity the little boy who has never had the privilege of rifling a pair of saddlebags on the return of his father. Sometimes my father was detained on his way home by overflowing rivers that were too mad for the horse to swim. And once he was detained by watching all night to prevent a rough gang from hanging one of his dearest friends. The long, long Sundays that I spent alone with my mother in the old cabin are indelibly stamped on my memory. Sometimes I thought I should die with loneliness. At such times my mother would try to comfort me with stories, or with letters from her invalid mother across the sea; and then we both would cry. Once when I refused to be comforted, and bitterly complained because my father left us alone, my mother explained to me in a simple, awe-inspiring manner the tragedy of the World's sin and sorrow together with the suffering love of God. How my father was going forth in God's compelling love to help Him save His children from the impending doom of sin, she pictured so vividly that I felt glad to live and suffer in such a cause. This was, probably, the most effective sermon to which I ever listened. And then my mother gathered me into her arms and made me conscious of the greatest thing in the world; a love that is infinitely deeper than words; something so like God that we need look no farther for a fitting symbol of Him.

As a child I was very susceptible to fear. I remember one bitter cold night when the winds howled and the thieves prowled. Every nerve in me ached with fear. That night my mother kneeling by her bed, with her little children at her side, prayed in a low tremulous voice, and with a sweet English accent, until God seemed nearer than the raging winds, and more powerful than the evil forces that were abroad to do us harm. How happy I was the next morning to find that the wind had subsided, and that the horses were not stolen, and that no evil had befallen us! When a little child, religion was as real to me as my parents, or the atmosphere I breathed, or the food I ate.

I am not certain of ever having been in a church until I was almost grown. But when I was probably five years old, I accompanied my mother to a revival meeting in an old schoolhouse. This schoolhouse, even to the lathing, was made of black walnut that was sawed at a local mill. Which of the many denominations was conducting the services I do not know. But one night there were probably ten people kneeling at what they called the "mourner's bench." During the evening such a psychic wave passed over those at the altar that the packed congregation, to see what was happening, rose as one person. At this point, my mother lifted me onto the desk before her which afforded me a plain view of all those who were kneeling at the front. A young woman with head thrown back and hair disheveled, was wringing her hands and crying in piercing tones, "O God, save my poor soul from hell!" Just beyond, a man lay in a trance. And then another woman, with perfectly rapturous face, throwing her head back, clapped her hands and shouted "glory." Other seekers were groaning and pleading with tremulous voices. The Christians who were assisting the seekers alternated their groanings of intercession with "amens" and shouts of praise. As it appeared to me the realms of the blessed and the realms of the damned were mingling their voices in that tumultuous scene. Heaven and hell seemed veritable realities before my eyes, and the picture was burned into my soul.

The religion of my parents was simple, loving, and thoroughly ethical. These meetings were not criticized by them except that my father sometimes remarked at home that he liked the quiet meetings best.

Much of the time there were no meetings in the community. Yet betimes services were conducted by all kinds of ministers, "descript and non-descript." It was not uncommon to hear these ministers say that no one ever got to heaven except by way of the "mourner's bench." One minister remarked that there was not a converted person in the Presbyterian Church except a few individuals who were converted outside at such meetings as he was conducting. Never having seen any of them, I took his word for it that the Presbyterians were an ungodly set.

Altogether it became a fixed thought in my mind that I should need to get "old people's religion" or be lost. Indeed, that belief was very common throughout America when I was a child. Even the Presbyterians believed it, though they kept their mourner's bench out of sight. Accordingly, when I was fifteen years old, and getting to be a big boy, the crisis came; because temptations were coming in thick and fast. Going to a revival one night in the schoolhouse and finding the seats all full, I took a board from under the stove and placed it on the coal pail for a seat. As I sat there the thought came to me, "When are you going to get religion?" This was followed by another, "Wouldn't it be strange if I went to the mourner's bench to-night?" "Not for five years yet," my heart quickly responded. "Not until I am twenty years old." Being a bashful boy I felt terrified at the mere thought of taking such a step before that crowd of "rowdies" who were openly scoffing. "But," my mind said, "if you make a start in five years it will again be now." It seemed plain to me that one "now" would be about as embarrassing as another. "Wouldn't it be strange if I just went forward to-night without any regard to my feelings?" was a question that kept asserting itself. My mind swayed and tipped first one way and then the other until finally it literally fell on the side of a decision. "It is to-night." To me this seemed deeper than any other decision I had ever made—than which no firmer decision could be made. Being thoroughly aware of its ethical significance, my heart involuntarily said, "You see, O God, what I have done." Not to have regarded myself a bound person from that time forth would have meant the perjuring of my deepest soul. It was an awe-inspiring decision at a time when God was to get either a great deal more or a great deal less of my life as the days went by. It would have been an irreparable loss to me if this great decision had not been made at that time. Even now, I thank God with a growing gratitude for helping me to make that decision. So far, the experience was perfectly normal for a Christian boy in the adolescent period—though at that time I had never known a Christian boy. This experience of an unconditional surrender to the will of God should have brought me peace and strength; but it did not, because I utterly discredited my previous religious life as being no more than moral development. Real religion, in my thinking, would not begin until I had experienced the miracle of regeneration at the "mourner's bench."

The die had been cast. And now the great miracle must be achieved! So I went forward. The knowledge that I was observed by mocking eyes hurt like the thongs of a whip on a bare back. For a few moments I could think of nothing else. Then I tried to feel sorry for my sins; and not succeeding in that, I tried to feel sorry because I was not sorry. Those kneeling with me asked whether I believed in God. No one could have believed it more fully than I did. Then they asked me if I believed that He sent His Son into the world to save sinners. This I believed without question. Did I believe that He came to save me, and that He wanted to save me now? This, too, I believed. "Do you feel that He saves you now?" I did not know. "Well," they said, "you will know when He saves you—so you must make no mistake there." And thus we went the rounds, over and over again. While I believed everything, yet I did not experience the miracle. Things seemed to grow worse and more confused as time went by. As they pleaded, first with God to save me, and then with me to surrender all to God and believe, I became utterly bewildered and hardened. There seemed to be no reality in anything. The groans and sighs, the pressure of the hand, the pats on the back, the rhythmic music, the loud and fervent prayers, became a meaningless jargon. I was heartily glad when the hour was over so that I could be alone. Once being alone, I did pray earnestly and continuously for God to save me, and felt a great depression of spirits without further results. The next night I repeated the experience of the previous evening with like sad consequences. The next day I was greatly depressed, but made up my mind that I would get religion or break a blood vessel in the attempt;—and I nearly broke the blood vessel. In the afternoon while carrying a heavy load of corn on my back, I stumbled over something which caused me to say "Oh!" and as I added the word God, it sounded like profanity. But it was not, for prayer had become automatic. This incident caused me to smile—the first time, I believe, in two days. As I continued to pray without ceasing, there came to me after awhile a little suggestion of gladness which caused me to exclaim, "Oh, I believe I am getting religion!" Though the burden seemed to be lifting, yet it was some minutes before another feeling of gladness came. During the supper hour it seemed almost certain that I was getting religion. Nothing, however, was said about it as I wanted to be perfectly sure.

After supper I started for the schoolhouse across the dark fields. During that journey of over a mile, the psychic lights came on making all things beautiful. At the same time I was made inexpressibly glad. The great change appeared to be in the universe rather than in myself. I laughed and cried for joy. Recalling the Psalm, "For … by my God have I leaped over a wall," that, I thought, would be an easy thing to do if a wall were there. What with laughing, making speeches, and thanking God, I soon completed the journey.

As the schoolhouse was seated to face the door, on arriving late, I confronted the whole congregation. This arrangement of seats made it unnecessary for the people to turn and strain their necks to see each one who entered.

In pioneer days it was customary to take a candle with you to church. On arriving at the schoolhouse you would take your penknife, push the small blade through the candle, stick the protruding blade into the window sash, and there you were, as nice as could be. Or else you would stand the candle on the desk in some melted tallow.

Though the schoolhouse was but dimly lighted, and the people whom I faced that night were an ordinary crowd, yet in my psychic state I saw the people as angel figures under limelight. And as the only vacant seats were in the "Amen corner," I sat facing the congregation during the entire service. The sermon was wonderful to me beyond words to express; and yet I seemed able to understand it and to see all around it.

After the sermon an invitation was given to "mourners." As none went forward, the minister then came to me to inquire of my condition. When with great joy I told him that I was converted, I was asked to relate my experience. This unexpected request shattered my beautiful world as completely as a hammer stroke would have shattered a piece of crystal. Such a stage fright seized me that I could neither move nor speak before they were compelled to go on with the service. This embarrassing experience sent me from the highest state of bliss to the deepest state of gloom. Peter's denial seemed trivial in comparison with mine; he had denied the Lord under trying circumstances, but I had denied Him while sitting in glory.

A little later, when the minister rose and stated that they would "open the doors of the Church" for any who desired to join, there ensued a terrible struggle within me. During the few minutes of exhortation that followed I seriously questioned my heart. I knew that candidates were expected to answer the question, "Have you found God in the pardon of your sins, and do you now have peace with God?" But being in a state of torment, how could I claim peace with God? Though my conversion still seemed like a miracle, yet never before had I been in such a humiliated or distressed state of mind. Before ever I tried to "get religion," I had plighted my soul and honor that I would follow God from that time forward. Even now I knew that I should follow Him, but how could I say that I had peace with God when my burden remained in spite of my earnest prayer to be forgiven? Had I in that act of denial become a "backslider," and was it necessary for me to be converted again? As a large percentage of the Christians present had been converted two or more times to my knowledge, a second conversion was not strange to me. Never doubting that I had been converted, and knowing why I was in despair, and believing that my suffering was wholly deserved, I dismissed the thought of a second conversion. "How can a person know beforehand," I reasoned, "that he will feel at peace with God at the moment the question is asked?" By "now" do they not mean something more general; to-night, for example? Deciding that there must be some latitude to the word "now" and that God would understand my honesty of purpose, I went forward and united with the Church. As I look back upon it, it still seems a most wise decision.

Though fully expecting to be happy again after joining the Church, yet my misery only increased. This was inevitable. I had identified religion with an abnormal psychic state. And such a state would not return without another terrific effort.

The next night, with an embarrassment that caused my cheeks to burn like fire, I rose before the scoffers and told them that God had converted me. Again I expected to feel happy. But, naturally, my sorrow only deepened as the abnormal state did not return. For the next two weeks I tried with all my original earnestness to get back my happiness; but without success. One day while in a valley far from any human being, where the woods covered the hill before me, I was looking up into the sky and still pleading with God to restore my happy state of mind. Then the thought occurred to me, "Where is God?" At that time I was so ignorant of the universe that I thought the earth had a ceiling, and that the ceiling of the earth was the floor of heaven. It seemed to be about three rifle shots away. I thought that if one could get through the ceiling of the earth he would be in heaven, and there would be God. As I stood there gazing into the sky my mind said, "Why does God not show Himself?" That He could part the clouds and show His face seemed the most natural and reasonable thing in the world. Why, then, did He not do so? Since He neither blesses me in answer to my prayers, nor shows Himself, possibly He does not exist. My wonderful experience may have been nothing but a highly wrought state of feelings.

I then recalled that ministers based their belief in the existence of God on certain arguments. But suddenly this seemed the strangest procedure imaginable. Why had God left us to argue and reason about His existence? Should He not settle so great a question beyond all argument? How strange it would be if my earthly father should stay away from us until we did not know whether he was dead or alive! We had the satisfaction of loving and obeying our father without ever a chance to doubt his existence. If our Heavenly Father would make me equally certain of His existence I should follow Him through flood and fire. "Then why does God not show Himself?" "Isn't it strange that He has hidden forever and forever!"

Here I remembered the Scripture which says, "No man can see God and live." But my heart quickly responded, "It is one thing to come near enough to kill us, and quite another to come near enough to convince us. Oh, isn't it strange that He hides forever?"

Then I thought of Jesus. But my heart replied, "Maybe Jesus was mistaken." If He had a rapturous feeling like mine, and was able to sustain it, He would continue to believe in God even if He did not exist. Nothing short of God's personal appearance, it seemed to me, could settle the question. "Then why does God not show Himself? There is no sense in hiding; and if no sense in it, then it is wrong; and if wrong, then there is no God. Because God, if He exists, must be good and sensible."

Therefore, when my reasoning led me to say, "There can't be a God," I found that unbelief had entered the marrow of my being. I felt that God could not possibly do such a foolish and wicked thing as to hide from His children.

Having reached this conclusion, I felt alarmed at my wicked thoughts. They were not, however, to be driven away. From that day forward the sky became more gray, and cold, and Godless. An awful crisis had come into my life. It seemed an irreparable loss if there were no God. My life, also, would go out in eternal night. If there was a God, and I gave up faith, then I should go to an endless hell of inexpressible torment. There was no comfort in either alternative. The problem was no longer the problem of the Church; it was my personal problem. And the battle had to be fought to a decisive issue. Being impaled on the two horns of the dilemma, I found it increasingly difficult to reproduce the exalted state of feeling on which I still relied for assurance.

Never having met a college graduate, of course I had not heard one preach. It was in the college chapel, four years later, that I first listened to a sermon by a college man. My impression was that he made neither noise nor light. That he made but little noise I knew. But I am now willing to admit that he may have shed more light than I saw. Preaching often fails to make any connection with the fundamental ideas and difficulties of doubting minds.

In my new state of doubt, the first impulse was to confide in my father and Christian friends. But then I realized that I knew all the stock phrases, and that none of them met my case. If confronted with the old phrases would I not argue, and might I not confirm myself in a possible error? Was it not safer to fight it out with God, if He existed, than to argue with those who could not feel what I had felt? The insistence of these questions caused me to keep my secret wholly to myself, and to go on with the struggle. Twenty-two years later during the last visit with my father, as we rode together over the hills, I told him this story. With a look of tenderness I shall never forget, he replied, "I believe the story because you tell me, but I am glad you did not tell me at the time. I could not have helped you." Said he, "I do not recall ever in my life doubting the inspiration of the Scriptures, or the existence of God. I have often doubted my worthiness and acceptance, but nothing more." Still believing that I did the wise thing under the circumstances, I was glad to have his approval. If an honest doubter asks for bread, he is not infrequently given a stone by well-meaning Christians—and neither can understand the other.

As this is a case study, it should be said that my first mistake was in discrediting my early religious experience. My second mistake was in identifying religion with an extreme psychic state. And when my psychic state failed me, then my utterly false images of God and the universe completed the destruction of my faith. If I could have reproduced the psychic state readily, my false images of God and the universe would not have troubled me for many years.

The ministers who created these false impressions in my mind were not deserving of censure, because they did not understand the forces with which they were dealing—and the community was in great need of something. Even for me, it was best that I did what we thought was right regardless of what followed.

Having entered upon the vigorous adolescent period, I greatly needed to take my stand as an adult Christian. I needed to realize such a new influence as a thorough commitment of myself would bring. This, however, no one in the community understood.

We now know that one may be genuinely converted and hypnotized at the same time. That is, he may enter God's service with the noblest spirit of loyalty, and at the same time submit himself to a process that will induce the hypnotic state. Likewise, it is possible for one to be hypnotized under religious influences without being converted. This is the case with those who wish religion only if it will give them more pleasure than their sins. Though they may not deeply analyze it, yet their conversion is an experiment to see which they like the better; and when their hypnotic happiness leaves them, they return to their greater pleasure in sin. Or, when the idea and method are rational, one may be converted without being hypnotized. In this case a complete dedication of self to the will of God is trusted to bring its own rich reward in noble enthusiasm and fine appreciation.

Since I had always been a Christian, it was not conversion that I needed, but a deeper commitment of myself to the will and work of God. And as I have already explained, this I did before trying to "get religion." The moral will is the spiritual spine. If it stands erect in its duties toward God and men, the whole spiritual life will come into normal feeling and action. My unconditional submission to the will of God was normal, beautiful, and necessary. But the experience which came two days later should be characterized as a super-normal psychic state, self-induced. While the psychic state lasted my true religious feelings coöperated vigorously; but when it subsided, as it was bound to do, my true religious emotions likewise disappeared. For years, all references to spirituality were understood by me to mean an exciting, nervous thrill; such a thrill as I had once felt. This led me to study the feelings, a few years later, to see if I could determine their value. I found that I was able to hypnotize a man so that he thought he saw God; and then I could cause him to fall down in adoration before his imaginary deity. Or, by taking ether, I could reproduce the glory world of my own so-called conversion. Feelings alone are not to be trusted, for the objects which they often create do not exist. On the other hand, real objects, valid and knowable, produce appropriate feelings when we are rightly related to them. Never have I been in such a state of pain or dejection but that I knew that I loved my children if my attention was called to it. I still demand, therefore, an objective, knowable God before I can love Him.

While greatly deploring such religious exercises as are calculated to produce extreme psychic states, yet I bring an indictment against the average Church of this generation because its religious feelings are sub-normal. The latter condition is probably as dangerous as the former. Even our physical temperature must be allowed to run neither too high nor too low. If in everything but religion we feel warmth and enthusiasm, we reveal a deplorable religious condition. For if one intelligently and fully commits himself to the will and service of God, appropriate feelings will come to him as surely as color comes to ripening fruit.

When prayer availed me nothing in bringing back the spirit of God—as I conceived of it—I first questioned my own heart. And when it no longer condemned me, I then questioned God. As I understood it, to produce a rapturous feeling was God's part. My part was to believe and obey. If only the hand of faith could succeed in laying hold of God the spiritual current would come on with a thrill. A great deal of this sensational religion still exists. It is to be found in all our great cities as well as in rural communities.

Let two errors like false experiences and false images of God unite and they will bring forth a whole brood of errors. So far as I am able to analyze, I always had a perfect sense of God's character. If He existed at all, He was infinitely great and wise and good. But these characteristics simply meant the quality of God and not God Himself. Character without being was like a smile without a face. It was this God behind the character that I utterly misapprehended. My false picture of God's being, of the universe, and the relation between the two was the cause of my religious vexation. If we add to these the fickleness of a sensational experience—labeled, true spiritual religion—we may begin to understand my religious undoing.

I dare say that the subject of extreme religious experience will not trouble many of my readers, but half the population is vexed by false images of God and the universe. These false images are so prevalent that one trembles for the future of religion in a scientific age. As to certain aspects of God's existence, the confusion is becoming greater every day—and there are good reasons for it. Since the masses are coming to have a fairly accurate conception of the main outlines of the universe, their false images of God's being are faring badly in this new world. Many are casting out their unsatisfactory image of God without anything to take its place. Some claim that we are much better off to think of God's character without trying to form any conception of His being. Generally, however, when His image goes God goes with it. Those who have been steeped in religion from their youth, may continue to worship God after He has almost disappeared; but succeeding generations will have little interest in such an evasive God. They will wish to know that God is before they attribute character to Him.

The various psychic cults are trying to find a more satisfying idea of God; but they are simply making a bad matter worse. Over against this, however, is the popular phrase of the day, "No one can possibly conceive of what God is like! So do not advertise your ignorance by trying." This, probably, is the saddest of all.

The religious dynamo is in the heart, or moral feelings, while the circuit is in the head, or formal ideas. If the circuit is broken the light goes out. As long as one's ideas are not discredited by himself, he may get some light with a very poor circuit. But once let him thoroughly discredit his own mental images, and the light will cease to shine.

The dynamo may be run long after the circuit is broken, and the light has gone out. I ran mine for many years. The minister's wife previously referred to was doing the same thing. Many students reported to Professor Leuba that they continued to pray, through habit or sentiment, but that God had so faded from their minds that prayer no longer meant anything to them. Many learned scientists revealed the "broken circuit" of their thoughts by giving their crude conceptions or no conceptions of God. These men have long since ceased to run their religious dynamo.

If the lights refuse to come on, after a while one grows tired of stoking the furnace merely to keep the dynamo running. Therefore, in the succeeding chapters my aim will be to show how I mended my circuit.

After continuing my fruitless struggle for two years I became desperate. For one thing, I had no religious young people with whom to associate. When not alone, I worked with vile men who never allowed much time to elapse without indulging in obscene conversation. Living in a community where we had never seen a railroad, or a piano, or an organ, I found little to entertain or comfort me. And my religion added greatly to my burden. There was just work and privations and fruitless prayers. So it is not strange that at the end of two years I wished that I might die. This feeling came to me with such force one day, when I was working in a distant, lonely place, that I gave audible expression to the wish. Not that I wanted to die on that particular day! I have never seen the time when I wanted to die to-day. But hoping that I might die in ten years, I resolved anew that I would just stiffen my neck, and grit my teeth, and pray on until the end came—which I hoped would not be too distant. During these two years I was very faithful to every known Christian duty. Once I even tried to pray in prayer meeting, but broke down with fright in the middle of the first sentence. I regularly bore testimony, however, to my determination to go forward in the Christian life.

Soon after the time of my deep depression it was announced that a series of revival meetings was to be held in the community. An uneducated old minister, rather feeble in body, was to conduct the meetings. As there were but few Christians to help him, it looked like a great undertaking. This question rose in my mind, "Would it be wrong for me to take an active part in persuading others to become Christians while I myself am in doubt of God's existence?" I had not then heard of people doing Church work to gain social standing. And if I had, it could not have been a motive because socially I already belonged to the "four hundred." Some men were reported to have joined the Church to beat a neighbor in a horse trade or an ox trade—and this I knew to be very wicked. But as I had neither horses nor oxen to trade there were but two motives that compelled me to go forward. The first motive was the hope that in this way I might find God. The second was that I might help someone else to be religious—since other people appeared to have more faith. I decided that the proposed course was justifiable because if God did not exist it could make but little difference, and if He did it was very important that people should be brought to Him. Consequently, I selected a young man of my own age. He was on his way to the schoolhouse with a band of hilarious young people when I called him aside. We were very late in reaching the services because out in the dark I labored long and hard with my friend and used every art of persuasion that I could command before I brought him to a decision. Finally, however, he promised to go to the "mourner's bench" if I would go with him. Then we entered the schoolhouse, and each one kept his promise. My friend became so desperately wrought up at the altar that his parents, who were not Christians, did not know what to do with him when the services were over. They therefore asked me to take him home with me for the night. My friend continued to weep all the way home, and frequently requested that we stop to pray. That journey of a mile and a quarter across the fields I shall never forget. But before we went to sleep, suddenly clasping my hand, he exclaimed, "Oh, I am converted." Knowing how he felt I was very glad for him, but at the same time my heart cried within me, "I do wonder if there is anything in it! It is wonderful to him now, I know, but how will he feel to-morrow, or next week, or in six months?"

However, I next persuaded his parents to go forward, and the minister asked me to pray for them at the altar—which I did. They, too, were converted, but no blessing came to me. During the two weeks, I led eleven people to the altar, and was asked by the minister each night to offer prayer for the seekers.

On the last night of the series, near the close, the minister said:

"Now there is a little business to be attended to, and will Brother Richard Swain please withdraw from the room?" I was so surprised and excited that I arose and went out into a temperature below zero without either overcoat or hat. Leaving the reader to judge of my ethics and manners, I will confess that I put my ear up to the wall and listened with all my might. The minister said:

"Some of us have been considering the matter, and we are convinced that Brother Richard Swain has a decided call to the ministry. We want you, therefore, if you think it is wise, to recommend him to the conference for license to preach."

This was such a shock to me that a little cry went up from my heart—"And I don't even know that there is a God!"

As there was no dissenting vote the minister said, "You may now call him in." If only my coat and hat had been with me I should not have been present when the door opened. However, with the temperature below zero, and neither overcoat nor hat, even a young candidate for the ministry could not refuse to enter. But it would have been more to his comfort if the congregation had not been seated to face the door.

Through this vote of the Church I was compelled to grapple with a new question of ethics. Would it be right for me under the circumstances to appear for examination? I had not asked for license to preach. The matter had been thrust upon me without my knowledge and consent. How could I know but this was the road over which I was being led to the light? Besides, eleven people had responded to my appeal. Would I care to be a minister? It seemed to me that there was nothing in the world I should so much like to be as a minister if only I could know there was a God. This feeling decided me to accept the invitation and appear for examination.

While my education had not gone beyond that of the common country schools, and while I was but seventeen years of age, yet the average minister of the community had even less education. Not until three years after I was licensed to preach did I learn that there was such an institution in the world as a Theological Seminary. However, in those pioneer days all the ministers, missionaries, Irish pack-peddlers, and horse thieves who passed through put up at my father's house for the night without ever being charged a cent. They more than paid their way, though, I can assure you, by having to talk religion and theology until midnight with my father who was a born theologian. Though my father was not an educated man, yet he had picked up an immense amount of knowledge along certain lines, and always enjoyed a friendly debate more than a good dinner. At such times, from early childhood, I had been allowed to sit in the chimney corner and listen until the last word was said. It was my motion-picture show. And no child ever had more pleasure than came to me when I saw that my father had "wound up" his man in the argument. Then, with the greatest cordiality, my father would show the guest to bed. As there was but one great room, and beds none too many, I usually slept with the guest. And according to the guest's report in the morning, I had given him the completest kicking he ever had in his life.

With such training, and in such a community, it is not strange that my biblical and doctrinal examination was pronounced entirely satisfactory. After I had gone to school for ten years it, probably, would not have been so satisfactory. Indeed, I was strongly advised not to go to college, as it was likely to rob me of my spirituality; and besides, many souls would be lost while I was getting an education.

Though I continued for a time on the farm or in the coal mines, yet I was told to go out and preach somewhere on Sundays. Accordingly, I would ride ten or twenty miles on Sunday to preach in different schoolhouses. Putting the rein over the horn of the saddle, I would plead before the cold gray sky for an unknown God to renew my happy feelings as a token of His existence. But no happiness, or assurance, came to me. When the time came to preach, I felt the importance of not throwing our lives away in sinful living, and so was able to give them some very earnest advice. Then on the return trip I would continue to pray to an unsympathetic sky. Nothing, however, ever came of it except a deeper depression of spirits. Though the dynamo was running at a terrific rate, yet the circuit of my thoughts was broken beyond my ability to repair. So I decided to go to college at any sacrifice.

Boarding a train for the first time, I went two hundred miles for my preparatory course in connection with the college where I expected to graduate. But no religious experience came to me until the middle of my sophomore year. Then while studying Mark Hopkins' little book, "The Law of Love, and Love as a Law," I got a new insight into the human soul. I could see that if one would bring all his powers into harmony, and then relate them to the beautiful enfolding universe, all things must work together for his good—if by his good one meant the perfect unfolding of his life. Instantly there came a great joy in living. It took shape in the thought, "All things work together for good to them that love God." I felt that no proposition in geometry was more capable of proof. A life with its powers united in the will of God must unfold to match the harmony without, even as the rose unfolds to the light and warmth of the sun. Besides, I now had entertainment and beautiful friends. Almost any good thing seemed possible. "This," I said, "must be what intelligent people mean by Christian experience." The only remaining question was the old one, "Is there a God?" Is God "The Allness of things about us?" This, however, seemed too pantheistic. And the personal God still evaded me. So I decided that the question of God was too much for me, and that I would just wait until I should meet the "wise men" who knew. In the meantime I would assume that there was a God; for the college president believed that there was, and prayed to Him every day at chapel.

As the happy unfolding of my life continued I tried to commit all to God whose will, if He existed, I very well knew. At any rate there was something in the universe that matched my need. I would just call it God until I met the "wise men" in further courses of study which by this time I had fully resolved upon. So the last two and a half years of my college course were very beautiful; they constantly increased my joy in living. No small part of this better experience was due to the influence of the Christian gentleman and fascinating preacher who became our new college pastor.

Here it becomes necessary to relate something more delicate than anything that has gone before. While I was in college my younger and only brother passed through a great moral crisis. As I dearly loved him he was much in my mind. During my senior year I dreamed night after night that he was killed. In these dreams I was always with my two older sisters hunting our brother in the woods. Feeling certain that we should find him dead, we usually came upon him by an old log cabin where he lay dead and mangled. I have no theories about the dreams, but the impression made upon my mind was so deep that when I went home, after graduating from college, I felt that I must do something to help him. Accordingly it was planned that I should spend three or four days with him in the harvest field where he was running a heading machine. There I hoped we should have a pleasant time, and find an opportunity to shed some light on the deeper meanings of life. Then some evening we would have a quiet little talk when I might persuade him to be a Christian. As I was going a long distance to a theological school, and did not expect to see him again for three years, I hoped to accomplish my purpose during the week at my disposal. For two and a half days we worked together with many pleasant little chats. It then being Saturday noon, my father wanted me to drive fourteen miles with him and preach for him the next day. I could return Monday and be with my brother one or two days before the long journey. But Saturday afternoon a great storm arose, and at midnight my host awakened me saying, "Your brother is killed by lightning."

Though we started home immediately, the mud was so deep and sticky that it required till daylight to make the journey. There had been a cloudburst, and such an electric storm as is seldom seen. From midnight till dawn we dragged through the mud under an indescribable electrical display. Forked lightning splitting the sky in every direction made the whole heavens lurid with light, while the low thunder like distant artillery scarcely ceased to roll. No pen can describe that journey. Nature seemed omnipotent and awe-inspiring. At first my heart was dazed and dumb. Then it cried, "Why did God kill my brother at this little nick of time when I was hoping to bring him to Christ? Was there ever anything like this? Why did He take him?"

Then while I was fixedly watching the omnipotent display before me my mind asked:

"Did God kill him or did the great and terrible machine, called the world, kill him? What is the world, and what is God? When does God act, and when does the universe act? Would they not be squarely in each other's way much of the time? The world I know, and its activities I behold, but where is God? Does He have an abode, or is He a sort of spiritual ether that pervades the universe?" And my heart responded, "Oh, you have never yet settled the question of whether there is a God!" So once more God faded into a dream, or a guess, while the elements continued to display their terrifying power.