THE SEEKERS
by JESSIE E. SAMPTER
_With an introduction by_
PROFESSOR JOSIAH ROYCE
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
NEW YORK MCMX
_Copyright 1910 by_
_Mitchell Kennerley_
_A successful experiment in non-sectarian religion, in moral and
æsthetic enquiry, with young people in new ways, in search of
the Meaning of Things._
THE SEEKERS Errata
_Page 37, Line 2._ _“and he saw” should read “and we saw.”_
_ " 91, Last line._ _“I answered” should read “she answered.”_
_ " 93, Line 22._ _“but a word itself” should read “work itself.”_
_ " 104, Line 15._ _“a sense of duty” should read “a sense of unity.”_
_ " 236, Line 13._ _“different from each one” should read “different
for.”_
_ " 266, Line 3._ _“operator” should read “spectator.”_
Errata have also been incorporated into the Transcriber's Notes.
Table of Contents
An Introductory Word
The Beginning
The Members
First Meeting
Second Meeting
Third Meeting
Fourth Meeting
Fifth Meeting
Sixth Meeting
Seventh Meeting
Eighth Meeting
Ninth Meeting
Tenth Meeting
Eleventh Meeting
Twelfth Meeting
Thirteenth Meeting
Fourteenth Meeting
Fifteenth Meeting
Sixteenth Meeting
Seventeenth Meeting
Appendix
Table of Contents not in the original book and is added for reader
convenience.
Transcriber's Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
THE SEEKERS
AN INTRODUCTORY WORD
BY
PROFESSOR JOSIAH ROYCE, PH.D., LL.D.
I have been asked by the author to say a word by way of introduction to
this very interesting record of conversations and inquiries. On the
whole, I feel my word to be superfluous; for the book speaks for itself,
and every reader will form his own opinion. But since the author has
asked for my co-operation, I gladly offer what little I can.
I am a teacher of philosophy at a university. For the most part my own
courses are technical in character. Some of my work is with graduate
students. I am accustomed to discuss controverted opinions with people
who regard philosophy from a skeptical and more or less controversial,
and almost always highly critical, point of view. Hence, my own first
impression of the work of the “Seekers” and of the leader of their
always pleasing inquiries, was mingled with a certain wonder as to the
possibility of their accomplishing together, as well as they have done,
what they undertook. This wonder has changed, as I have become better
acquainted with them, into a delight that the tact, the caution, the
tolerance and the earnestness of the leader, and the skill and docility
of the pupils, could result in setting before us so fine a model of
teaching and of learning as here appears. The book is one to encourage
every lover of good things, and everyone who wants to see how the minds
of young people in this country, and living under good conditions, can
be turned toward great questions in such a way as to encourage
sincerity, thoughtfulness and the beginnings of true wisdom.
In what little I have to say of this book I ought of course to abstract
altogether from such agreement as I indeed feel with the form of
Idealism which Miss Sampter represents. The question put to me is the
question whether the method of procedure here adopted is one that
promises to be genuinely useful as an initiation of young people into
the study of deeper questions. I answer that the author seems to have
made out her case, and to have proved her faith in her method by her
work. The age and the previous training of the “Seekers”—as they are
sketched in the author’s preliminary statement—once presupposed, this
mode of procedure could only prove a help to them. The methods used are
an important beginning. If any of the “Seekers” go on to a more advanced
study of philosophy, in college or elsewhere, they ought to prove apt
learners. If they simply turn to life as their further teacher, they
should be ready to profit by some of its deepest lessons better than
they could otherwise have done. If, upon further inquiry, they incline
to other opinions about the world and about life than the ones they have
emphasized, they will still always remain more tolerant of the varieties
of opinion, and more hopeful of the right and the power of the human
mind to grapple with grave issues, than they would otherwise have been.
These hours of “seeking” will have opened their eyes to values which are
indeed permanent, whatever will be the true solution of the problems of
philosophy; and the memory of these hours will prove henceforth a
safeguard against cynicism when they doubt, and against intolerance and
inhumanity when they believe. And, whatever the truth may be, about God,
or about the world, or about life, cynicism in doubt, and intolerance
and inhumanity in belief, are great evils, against which the young
people of our time need to be guarded quite as much as men needed to be
guarded against such evils in the days either of the Sophists or of the
Inquisitors. For, in one guise or another, speaking the language of old
or of new faith or unfaith, Sophists and Inquisitors we have always with
us, either corrupting or oppressing the youth. The methods of our
author, as set forth in this book, make for liberty together with
seriousness, for self-expression together with reverence, for
thoughtfulness together with a sense of deeper values. And in so far the
book is a success as a model of the way in which our new problems must
be met when we have to deal with the young.
If one undertakes to consider such topics with a class as youthful and
at the same time as enlightened as the “Seekers,” the dilemma is
obvious. One must indeed be more or less dogmatic in tone about at least
some central interest; one must make use of the persuasive power of a
teacher’s personal influence; or else one will lead to no definite
results. On the other hand, if one propounds one’s dogmas merely as the
traditional teacher of religion has always done by saying: “This is our
faith. This is what you should believe,”—one is then in no case
teaching philosophy, and one is hardly helping the young people to
“seek.” Moreover, such mere dogmas, addressed to young people in whom
the period of “enlightenment” has already begun, will tend to awaken in
their minds new doubts and objections, rather than to convey to them the
positive truth, even if one’s own dogmas happen to be true. Hence arises
a problem of instruction which cannot be solved in the case of these
“Seekers” as we teachers of philosophy often try nowadays to solve our
analogous problems in dealing with older pupils in college. Some of us
meet our own problems with the older students by directly disclaiming
all authority to control their convictions, by asking them to become as
self-critical and independent as they can, and by stating our own
opinions with the intent _not_ to make disciples, but to enable our
students to form their own personal judgments through the very sympathy
with our efforts to be reflective, self-critical and constructive. Thus
we do not try to convey a faith so much as to help our students to their
own spiritual independence.
In strong opposition to our mode of procedure, many popular teachers of
this or that form of “New Thought” have been trying of late to annul
modern doubts, and to lead men to a higher spiritual insight by means of
certain “intuitions,” for the sake of which skeptical inquiry, stern
criticism, elaborate reflection must be laid aside; so that the kindly
disposed learner, even if he indeed is not to be a believer in certain
old-fashioned creeds, still looks to his teacher for a means of quieting
his doubts, and so that what is supposed to be “philosophy” becomes a
sort of “anæsthetic revelation,” with the teacher as the assistant who
administers the anæsthetic whereby the pupil is prepared for the surgery
of life.
Now, whatever may be the use of such “New Thought” for invalid wrecks,
or even for more or less world-weary lovers of the good, whom sad
experience has turned away from their earlier religious creeds, and who
need to be restored to their courage in facing reality;—still, these
anæsthetic methods of the lovers of the “silence” and of the vague
light, are _not_ suited to the best needs of the enlightened young
people, such as these “Seekers” who are about to begin life, who know
their little fragments of science, of socialism, and of modern problems,
and who want unity with clearness. Nor are such young people at just
this age yet ready for our more technical academic procedure. Shall they
be left then unguided, until their interest in unifying life has been
lost in the confusion and variety of their increasing knowledge, until
their youthful idealism has been saddened and perhaps soiled by the
world, and until their criticism of life has become at once tragic and
cynical?
Miss Sampter has undertaken to answer these questions by dealing with
the need of just such people. She does so with a genuine clearness of
vision, with a careful touch that helps and with a spirit which prepares
them to meet their problems, and not to lose unity by reason of the
complexities of their situation. She dogmatizes a little, to be sure;
and in fact she repeats some of her dogmas not infrequently, without
giving any elaborate reasons for these dogmas. They are the dogmas of a
metaphysical idealism which I myself in the main accept, but which no
direct intuition can very adequately justify, while their technical
justification could not possibly be discussed at length in the meetings
of the “Seekers.” On the other hand, our author is no mere partisan of
intuition. Her dogmas are stated in forms that not only win her “plastic
youth” to agreement, but challenge them to a reflection which ere long,
in some of them, will lead to new interpretations, to doubts, and so, in
time, to a higher insight than they at first gain. She sets her pupils
to thinking as well as to receiving; they become inquirers rather than
passive recipients of an intuition. They are thus prepared for a variety
of future religious and philosophical experiences, and yet they are kept
in touch with that love and hope of unity which alone can justify the
existence of our very doubts, of our philosophical disputes, and of our
modern complications of life.
As a means of avoiding both of the opposing extremes sketched in the
foregoing account of the ways of teaching philosophical opinions, as a
_via media_ in the work of beginning the philosophical instruction of
young people, as a preparation for more critical study, as a
conservation of some of the best in the spirit of faith without an undue
appeal to mere intuition, and as a model of what can be done to awaken a
very notable type of young inquirers such as our modern training tends
to produce in the homes of very many of us—this book is, in my opinion,
to be very heartily commended.
The educational problem with which it deals concerns meanwhile a very
deep and intensely practical interest of our American civilization. We
cannot retain the unity of our national consciousness unless we can
keep, even in the midst of all the complications and doubts of the
modern world, our sense of the great common values of the spiritual
world. Without philosophy, our nation can therefore never come to its
own. Philosophy does not mean the acceptance of any mere authority. And
it will not lead us to universal agreement about any one form of creed.
But it will teach us to unite freedom, tolerance, insight, and
spirituality. Without these, of what worth would be mere bulk and mere
wealth to our nation? I welcome this book then because our author has
contributed to one of the most important of the tasks of our time—the
task of helping our nation to regain the now much confused and
endangered consciousness of its own unity.
JOSIAH ROYCE
Harvard University, August 3, 1910.
THE SEEKERS
THE BEGINNING
This is a live book. It was lived first, and written only afterwards. So
it can lay no claim to the title of art, which is experience remoulded
in the cast of individual genius; for this was not at all moulded, save
as the written word reshapes the spoken. It is a philosophic adventure,
an experiment, written down by one, but lived by seven.
Why did I write it down? may be asked. Every new book needs an excuse
for being. I wrote it down because it seemed an answer, perhaps a
partial, but still a living answer, to two questions that cry aloud.
As I look about me, and observe the doings and thoughts of men and women
in this active time, I notice two problems, related one to the other,
and wanting but one solution.
First of these is a lack of common purpose in the works of life. Many
religions are there, many creeds and anti-creeds, many purposes, from
petty, selfish gain to reforms in government and social service.
Scientist, politician, artist, philanthropist and minister go each
toward a partial goal, in opposition to one another, with no one
purpose, no end beyond all lesser ends, no larger patriotism. Morals are
either very stiff or very lax, without any conscious reason for either
their stiffness or their laxity. The only reason for moral conviction,
the only purpose that could unite all purposes, the only patriotism to
hold all men together and give the union needful for great and strong
achievement, is a common faith in the goal and meaning of life.
The second problem is a more conscious one, the problem of moral and
religious education for our children. For ourselves—so think many among
us—we do not need a philosophy or religion; we are good enough without
having any reason for being good. But we think our children need some
instruction and guidance, something to satisfy the blessed cravings and
doubts that we have long since killed within ourselves. For barely one
among us fails to remember his fifteen-year-old questionings and
strivings, and his defeat, when at last he decided to think no more,
because his problem was insoluble. But even these who are so well
contented with their own hard-won torpor want something better for their
children. The question is asked again and again: “Shall we teach our
children what we do not believe? And can we teach them what we do
believe?”
In this book I attempt to solve both problems at once, and through the
children to speak to their parents. For many who will not admit the
least interest in the vital questions that have created every religion
and philosophy throughout time, still are interested and will listen
when the problem touches their own children. And only through the
creative, open and daring mind of youth, not yet either stiffened or
broken, can the spirit of a larger and a richer faith give new
inspiration.
I am convinced that to-day all thoughtful men believe the same, where
vital questions arise, and that each man sees a different angle of the
same truth, which grows and grows in our vision, with the growing
knowledge of man. All our ministers with their different churches, and
our congregations with their sectarian prejudices, have at heart a
common goal, a faith that needs only to be spoken to be believed. Let
their children draw them together. Find a common religion to be taught
in the school—where this necessity is the present problem of all
educators, and where so far ethical courses and emasculated Christianity
have given no solution—and from that larger patriotism of a common
faith in childhood will spring the faith bigger than ethics and
philanthropics, big enough to include all churches and systems in an
unseen brotherhood.
Were I able to carry out this idea in a school, I would have classes or
clubs, such as the Seekers, for all girls and boys of about the third or
fourth high-school year. Then, for the younger children as well as for
the older ones, I would have songs and readings at the assembly, which
would suggest or picture forth the inmost spirit of our modern faith.
These songs and readings I would let the older pupils choose and discuss
in their clubs; and I would leave in their hands, as much as possible,
the social and spiritual regulation of the school life. Faith and action
go together. Each without the other is barren.
My purpose in this book is then twofold: to record how such clubs and
classes work in practice, and thereby suggest a method from experience;
also to give, in such large and perhaps superficial aspect as the means
necessitate, the main outline of my thought. Not mine alone, but yours
and every man’s. I bring no news; but only an old, forgotten story, new
and strange to our widened knowledge. Accept its large intent, if you
reject its lesser achievement; admit that this is the only possible
truth in the light of our present knowledge. Though you believe more
than this, accept at least the Seekers’ path as pointing toward the
goal. To these children it gave a way and a light; it satisfied a need
and answered a question, and brought new weapons for the battle of
thought wherein most of us fail from weariness. For them it has already
succeeded, whatever its coming fate.
Unless one sees a glimpse of truth at fifteen, enough to recognize it,
one is not likely to discern it later, through the mist of unformed
knowledge. And at fifteen one craves this something that can relate and
shape all thought. So it happened that I organized the club of Seekers,
composed of very different girls and boys, because of this one common
need.
The conditions necessary for membership were few. The first condition,
the one in its nature inevitable, was that each member should be
interested and enthusiastic in our quest, a seeker from need and desire.
Only such would have stayed with us. And this, perhaps, was a selective
process of extreme rigor. Otherwise the conditions of membership were
not of the sort to put a premium on extraordinary ability. They were
that the members should be over fourteen, and under seventeen, and
should have finished their elementary school course. I also limited the
membership in number. Among my acquaintances were many more girls who
would have wished to join us, but no more than the two boys. I explain
this not by the fact that boys are less interested in these questions,
but that their interest develops later. If I had sought boys of eighteen
or nineteen, I could have found them easily. At the time, however, I did
not realize this fact.
I think that the children were average of their kind. The kind,
nevertheless, may have carried with it some intellectual superiority or
precocity, such as the effects of environment and urban life. For these
things, through the chance of acquaintanceship, they had in common: they
were all bred in New York City, in educated families of the upper middle
class (though not all of well-to-do parents), and all but one, Ruth, who
is a Christian Scientist, of homes unusually liberal in their religious
thought. Therefore these children were free from those clogging
superstitions and false perspectives which result from early training in
any symbolic and fixed creed. Take these influences for what they were
worth. Beyond them the children had no special advantage or
disadvantage.
I say all this as a defence against a possible criticism: namely, that
the children seem, by their comprehension and original ideas, to be far
above the average boys and girls of the same age. This I deny, and for
good reasons. Naturally I have meant this experiment of a class in
religious philosophy for adolescent boys and girls to be general in its
application. And I believe it to be so. Most grown people have forgotten
how they felt and thought at fifteen, and are apt to underrate the
mental processes of boys and girls. I myself at that age felt so keenly
the lack of sympathy in older people that I made a point of remembering
and writing down certain experiences. I questioned several friends, and
at last got admissions from them that they, too, had thought in the same
way at fifteen. But no doubt they still look upon themselves as unique
in this respect, for at fifteen we all think ourselves exceptions, and
no matter how commonplace we may be now we are apt vaguely to keep that
memory.
Then, too, one must not forget the effect of conscious and unconscious
suggestion. I had my plans carefully made, and knew exactly in what
direction I meant to lead our ideas, but the children knew very little
of this foreplanning, and went of themselves where I wished them to go.
No doubt suggestion blazed trails for them through this wilderness, if
it did not make a path, and, as my record will prove, my questions often
stimulated them to answers that would not otherwise have been possible.
But often their answers were wholly unexpected and surprising. As our
name tells, we are seekers, and I have found, at the very least, as much
as they. Above all, my boundless faith in the young was justified. And
my critics must admit that they have not this faith themselves, and so
could never have put it to the test of experience, as I have done.
The children’s papers show better than written words of mine exactly
what the meetings meant to them, and will prove also, I think, their
average ability. They are printed exactly as written, save for
corrections in spelling and punctuation, which were by no means perfect.
The conversations were recorded as precisely as possible from memory and
from notes taken immediately after the meetings. As any one with
experience will know, it is impossible to record the broken fragments of
actual speech without sometimes combining mere phrases into complete
sentences. The written is never like the spoken thought. It appears like
it, which it would not do if it were a precise phonographic
transcription.
I have made the children speak “in character,” using always their own
words and their own ideas, whatever those might be; even being careful
to record characteristic phrases and expressions. And that I had
succeeded was proved by the children themselves, when they heard the
manuscript read and recognized themselves and each other, to their great
amusement. Not until all the meetings were over had they any idea that I
was keeping this record.
We seven, then, have made this book; and one other one, who, though
never present at the meetings, had his large share of influence in them.
This was my friend and Florence’s big brother Arthur—so often quoted by
her—and quoted by me without acknowledgment, especially in the meetings
on the æsthetic ideal, which would have been impossible without his
help.
For all lovers of youth and individual thought, for all lovers of the
quest, we have made this book, as a personal recognition of the bond of
kinship that binds all free seekers, and as an answer to those vital
questions which all of us must ask together, and answer, at least in
sympathy.
THE MEMBERS
ALFRED, my cousin, not quite fifteen years old when the club was begun.
In his first high school year. In appearance, a young Arab chieftain,
dark, athletic and dignified. His character fulfils the promise: he is
taciturn, slow to act, independent, serious for his age, and with a
great thirst for knowledge. A lover of nature and the country; a hater
of all things petty or mean. He entered the club with a good knowledge
of evolution, and no religious training of any sort.
VIRGINIA, my cousin, almost sixteen years old. She had one year of high
school, but as she would not study, and drew pictures instead, she was
sent to art school a year and a half ago, where she has been working
hard. She has read and re-read many good books. Although she is of a
blonde, Saxon type, yet her hair and eyes are very dark. Light-hearted
and yet earnest, self-satisfied, always sweet and lovable. Bright,
interested, original, humorous. She has had no definite religious
training, but much sound religious philosophy at home.
FLORENCE, a young friend, fifteen years old, but much older in
appearance. In her third high school year. Large and dark, with gray
eyes. She is vacillating, and may turn out to be a fine, independent,
intelligent and forceful woman, or a materialistic, flippant society
lady. It depends on the influences brought to bear, and on her own will.
Somewhat spoiled. A good student, a good thinker, but not impelled to
think by any great desire. She loves dancing more than anything else in
the world. She comes from a home of mixed and uncertain piety.
HENRY, Florence’s cousin, not quite sixteen years old, unknown to me
before we formed the club. In his second high school year. A young
student, dark, slim, shy, with much to say, but not yet able to say it
well. He is rather dogmatic, but open to influence, a born seeker. Often
appearing at first to be slow, or commonplace, he suddenly reveals
unexpected understanding and originality. He comes from a conventional
home.
MARIAN, Florence’s friend, also unknown to me before the club. Fifteen
and a half years old. In her fourth—last—high school year, preparing
for college. A light brunette of a languid and yet intellectual type.
Very intuitive, of quick insight, sympathetic, a lover of human nature,
shy and quiet. A dreamer and a hero-worshiper. She expresses herself
well, but often in broken sentences and with hesitation. Her parents
belong to the Ethical Culture Society, and have given her no religious
education.
RUTH, Marian’s chum, sixteen years old, is also in her last high school
year, preparing to study kindergarten. A slight, blonde girl, tall, and
with her character written in her face: self-possessed, poise, idealism.
Her voice, enunciation and language are those of one trained to speak
well. Her thought is unusually developed, but along rather narrow lines.
She loves children, and has chosen her work with an idealistic devotion.
Her mother is Christian, her father Jewish, and their religion is
Christian Science. She is a convinced Christian Scientist.
FIRST MEETING
When we were all gathered about the table at three o’clock, I opened the
discussion thus:
“Do you remember that I told you we were going to speak to-day of the
fact that there is almost no religion at present, and the cause for
this? Now, are we all agreed that there is very little religion—true
religious belief—at present?”
All agreed to this except Henry. He said that he thought people were as
religious as ever.
“I think,” said Florence to Henry, “that you are confusing religion and
creed. People belong to churches and temples, and think they are
religious, but they don’t know what they believe.”
I saw Henry was not convinced, so I said to him: “I think perhaps we do
not mean the same thing by religion, therefore we might as well go on,
and speak of it later, when we do understand.
“Now, I believe there is a definite historic reason for our religious
lack, and I will tell it to you.”
Then I reviewed briefly the history of ancient religions, Brahmanism,
the Egyptian creed, the Greek and the early Catholic religions, to show
that all these for various reasons—but chiefly because of the ignorance
of the populace—had been, as it were, double religions. There was an
initiated religion of the priests, who did indeed see truth, who were
monotheists of the universal vision, and were filled with the sense of
unity in all things. Besides this was the religion of myths, the popular
religion. The people took literally the poetical tales told by the
prophets; and these prophets, or priests, even went so far as to deceive
the people purposely, for what they considered the people’s good.
“I don’t see how the priests could have known the truth,” Ruth said, “if
they meant to deceive the populace. Those who knew the truth would not
wish to deceive.”
“You are right,” I answered; “they had not the whole truth, but in so
far as they saw, they saw truly.”
Ruth seemed to doubt this historic account. I quietly proved to her and
the others that it was true. I read them a passage from Plato’s
“Republic,” in which he recommends telling the people a myth because
belief in it would put them in the proper frame of mind.
I went on to explain how the democratic spirit began to destroy the
religion of the initiated. The aristocracy of religion was as much
resented as the aristocracy of government.
The result was that every one believed the popular, mythical religion;
and that is what most of our churches have lived upon since then. All
the superstitions of creeds, the absurd stories that are believed
literally by some people even to-day, are the poetic symbols of prophets
and teachers, accepted as narratives of fact.
Next came the scientific spirit, and said: “The world is more than six
thousand years old; it was not created in a week; the whale could not
have swallowed Jonah, and given him up again.” Now people cried out:
“Religion is not true. We will believe nothing but science.”
When I spoke of the difference between mythical and true religion, I
found the children already understood this, that they realized Moses’
true meaning when he spoke of the burning bush; that they knew Jesus,
when he spoke of himself as the son of God, meant to express the
divinity of man. I said the true religion spoke in poetry, and the
popular made its figures of speech into gods.
“For instance,” I said, “from where comes the line, ‘The rosy fingers of
the dawn’?”
“From Homer,” answered Marian, “from the Odyssey.”
“Well,” I went on, “a person reading that might say, ‘Just think, the
dawn has fingers; then it must have a hand.’”
“Then,” said Virginia, “he would add, ‘So the dawn is a woman.’”
I said one might worship an image of a god, but if he kept his mind upon
the vast divine unity he would not be an idol worshiper.
“But,” objected Henry, “if he did it long enough, he would become an
idol worshiper.”
“He might,” I said, “but he need not.”
Now we came to the question of science. What has religion to do with
science?
Alfred said science led in the same direction, was looking for the same
thing.
Henry said science was supposed to be in opposition to religion, because
it destroyed her creeds.
That, I answered him, seemed to me a good thing.
Virginia said she thought religion and science were almost the same. She
meant that her scientific knowledge of the universe led her to her
religious convictions.
Florence said she thought science and religion were altogether separate,
had nothing to do with each other.
Marian said she did not see how science could help us to religious
knowledge. But it turns out that she has read no science at all, save
what she was taught in school.
Ruth said that science was the enemy of religion, that two things
seeking in a different way could not possibly both reach the truth; that
science might tell us of material facts, but could not possibly give us
the divine truth.
I asked: “Are you sure material truth is not divine truth?”
Then I said that I myself thought science was the servant of religion,
that it was valuable only in so far as it helped us to a knowledge of
life—divine and whole—(I said aside to Ruth) and that I did think it
helped us so. It gave us a sense of unity, of our relation with the
whole world, because we knew that the same law moved us and the stars.
“Now,” I went on, “Marian mentioned the other day that she had heard
people say they were too educated to need religion. They meant they knew
too much science. Can science replace religion?”
They all said no.
They saw at once that behind every science was the mystery, the
unexplained, and that every scientist must begin with a philosophy.
I said: “I have heard people say that science disproves immortality.”
Virginia answered: “It does not disprove immortality. It proves, indeed,
that nothing ever is destroyed.”
“Do you think,” I asked, “that there is such a thing as absolute
religious knowledge?”
“Yes,” they said.
“Do you think we can get it? That it is a certain knowledge?”
They answered “Yes.”
“But,” said Ruth, “you would want it proved.”
I used the word “faith,” and the children rightly objected, because,
they said, faith could be used to express the most superstitious of
mythical beliefs. One must _know_.
“I mean self-evident knowledge,” I said. “If to-day the priests and the
myths are dead, if we are to have a democratic religion, then each one
of us must be a prophet. We here to-day, we seven, shall find the
unanswerable truth. Shall we?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“How do we know that such truth is to be reached? We do know certain
things in ourselves? We know the mystery is there? We know that which we
call God?”
“Yes,” they said.
“Is there any other reason for believing that the truth can be known?”
Marian said: “In past times some men have known it, we feel certain.”
“That is just what I meant, Marian. Such men, you mean, as Moses and
Jesus?”
“Yes.”
“And we here shall get it. We shall know.
“I believe,” I said, “that when we have talked everything over we shall
know the truth, and it shall be the same for each.”
“In fundamentals, perhaps,” said Ruth, “but not in all things.”
No religion could be the true religion, we said, if it fostered
antagonism or bitterness toward those of another persuasion.
“One would wish to teach them,” said Marian.
“Well, then, what is the truth? We spoke of the nature of ‘God.’ What is
God, the something we all know and cannot speak?”
Henry said: “I could tell better what I mean by God by saying what is
not God.” We tried to make him explain.
“Nothing is not God,” said Virginia, “everything is God, good and bad,
too; and the bad only seems bad to us, but really leads to good.”
“Everything is not God,” said Ruth, “for God is perfect, and we are
imperfect, and are striving for his perfection. Imperfection and all bad
things are not of God.”
“What are they, then?” I asked. “Surely you do not believe in two gods,
like the Zoroastrians, in a good and a bad? But the wisest of them saw
that the two were one.”
Ruth answered: “I have it at home in a book, how evil came into God’s
world, although we are of him and he is perfect. I will bring it next
time. I don’t remember it.”
“Yes, do bring it. But I believe that as long as we are not perfect, God
is not perfect.”
“That seems,” answered Ruth, “as if we were God.”
“So we are a part of God, who is the whole. Anything else is
unthinkable. And unless we are perfect, how can He be perfect?”
The children corrected me, for I had used the wrong word.
“God must be perfect,” they said, “if we long for that perfection.”
Virginia said: “If the world is ever to be perfect, then it is perfect
now. Whatever shall be is here now, is here forever.”
“You are right,” I answered, “I should not have used that word.”
Henry said: “The apple-tree might be perfect, but the apples might still
be unripe.”
“Yes,” I went on, “but the apple-tree would not be perfect unless the
apples ripened.”
“The world is like a rose-bud,” said Alfred. “It is perfect as a bud,
and yet it must open and evolve in its perfection.”
“Yes,” I said, “or like a sleeper who awakens.
“Now, then,” I asked, “you do all believe in progress; that the world
changes and that it changes in a certain direction?”
“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I believe that the world, that God, must
always be the same, even though it change.”
“That is true, and it is a strange paradoxical truth, which I hope to
make you understand later on, that all things change and progress, yet
are ever the same, even as the rose-bud that unfolds.”
We had tacitly admitted that God and the aim of life stood for love and
unity. Once when Henry spoke of the “fear” of God, the others corrected
him.
“Now,” I said, “if there is progress, what is it?”
Ruth answered: “There is progress of individuals, not of the world.
Certain men saw the truth as clearly in old times as they could now.”
“I do not believe so,” I answered her. “I think the whole must evolve
and bud forth, and that it does. Now you all admit that Moses was a
prophet who saw the truth?”
They said “Yes.”
“But he felt enmities. Jesus was a greater prophet than Moses. In what
was he greater?”
“In his realization not only of the unity of God, but of the unity and
divinity and love of man.”
“If Moses were here to-day,” I asked, “in what might he be greater than
he was in his own time?”
Florence said: “He would have all the advantages of culture since then.”
“That would not make him greater.”
Marian answered: “You mean the democracy of to-day, the realization of
the brotherhood of all men.”
“Yes,” I said, “that is just what I mean. When I look at history, I can
see no progress but this. Automobiles, electricity, scientific
knowledge, these are not progress except as they lead to that other
progress. We do understand our fellowmen better than we ever did. We
can—some of us—call every savage our brother. That is the clear
progress throughout history.”
The children were impressed by this fact.
“Then you mean,” said Ruth, “that universal love is the object of life?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I am afraid to use the word ‘love,’ for it might
mean blind love, and I mean understanding love.”
“Of course,” said the children.
“You mean love of mankind?” asked Marian.
“Yes,” I said, “but individual love, too; and perhaps more than both of
these.”
“I still believe,” said Ruth, “that progress is only for the individual,
and that it doesn’t matter whether we progress here or hereafter.
Personal love is selfish. We want divine love.”
I answered her: “I will not speak now of hereafter. But here and now,
to-day, do we not want at once the thing that we want?”
“Yes,” they said.
“Then, now and here we mean to go forward, as far as we can, and now and
here we will love men with our might, because that is the human way and
the human progress.”
“It does seem to me, from books,” said Virginia, “that people are less
mean, selfish and jealous than they were a hundred years ago.”
Marian smiled over to her. “You have been reading Thackeray,” she said.
“But,” said Virginia, “all people are not progressing together, for
though we should find the truth now, many others will not find it for a
long time. The world is like a bunch of roses, in which some are
full-blown, and others are small buds.”
“Yes,” I answered her; “and for the whole to evolve, each bud must be
unfolded in beauty.”
Now we said many things beside these, but these were the chief trend and
conclusions of our thought. I also told them how every moment was a
promise and a fulfillment, a state of the endless whole.
Next Sunday each is to tell me what he or she does mean by the word
“God.”
The children were enthusiastic, uplifted, whole-hearted in their
interest.
Virginia and Alfred, who stayed some time after the others, had a long
discussion on good and bad, in which I refused to join.
Virginia said she thought all bad things had good results, and could be
used for good.
Alfred answered he was not sure of that, but he believed bad to be a
necessary part of good. He said: “If I never felt ill, I could not know
I felt well.”
Virginia said: “Reason made evil, for when creatures became reasonable
they knew that the things they had done before were wrong.”
SECOND MEETING
I spoke of the name of our club, the Seekers. I said that I thought it
expressed exactly what we meant to do.
Ruth answered that to her it seemed the only possible, natural name.
Then I read aloud Virginia’s account of the last meeting:
“A great many people think themselves too educated to believe in any of
the established religions, and then don’t take the trouble to find out
what they really think and what their true religion is. People have a
wrong idea of the meaning of the word ‘religious.’ Consequently, as they
don’t know what it means, they cannot _be_ it. Many people who go to
church or temple every Sabbath, and sleep, or take note of the different
costumes of the congregation during the sermon, consider themselves
religious.
“We decided that we all believed in the unity of God. The truth has
always been apparent to some, such as Moses and Jesus, and some of the
Oriental priests. The two former tried to give the true idea to the
people, but failed, as they were too poetical, and the people believed
too literally. The latter tried to keep the people in ignorance, as it
gave them power, and they therefore told the people what they themselves
knew to be untruths.
“We differed somewhat in our idea of God. Some thought he was all good
and had no evil. I think he is all good, but I also think that all evil
is his, but that every evil has a good motive and a good end.
“No idea, no matter how surprising and new it may seem, is new. It has
always been, although it has never been thought. The world is like a
great bunch of rosebuds, each perfect as a bud, but not developed. Every
beautiful idea, when it is thought, is a petal unfolding and revealing
_more_ perfect petals beneath. Thus one fine idea brings forth another.
“I think a great many people do not know what they think. If you ask a
person belonging to one of the established religions what they believe,
I think their answer would be vague. Formerly, these religions were very
useful, as they made people love good. Now they prevent people from
thinking, and make them dependent. They depend on others to make their
beliefs and thoughts, when their brains should be, and probably are,
fertile enough to think for themselves.”
I said that was just what I wanted, and I hoped to have one such paper
each week.
I said I believed that after we had spoken of God, and decided what we
meant, and all agreed, we would not often use the word God, because it
was so nearly unspeakable, so vast and holy, that we would take it as a
natural background to our thought.
“You know,” I said, “how in the old Jewish temples the name of God was
mentioned only once a year.”
“And then only by the priest,” Henry added.
“But if we want to talk of God we shall have to use his name,” said
Ruth. The others seemed to agree with her.
“The personal significance always clings to the name of God,” Marian
said; “but what other word can one use?”
“Perhaps it would be better,” suggested Henry, “to use some such other
word as All-powerful One.”
Virginia said that to her the word God had no personal significance.
Ruth thought we might use the impersonal word “Good.” I answered her
that every attribute, even good, was limiting, and God was limitless.
I saw that they did not in the least understand what I meant, that they
could not until we went further. So I said:
“I think that after we know what we mean by the word God, you will
understand why we shall not want, and not need, to use it.”
Then I asked them what they meant by God.
Virginia said: “God is the whole, good and bad, only what seems bad is
really good. Or God is, rather, every feeling, every emotion.”
Henry said God was everything good, but that everything _was_ good, and
bad only seemed bad to us.
Alfred said: “I don’t think bad is good, but I think that God must be
everything, anyway.”
Marian tried to say that God is the vast unknown—something, which we
know because we feel it.
Florence said: “I spoke to brother Arthur about it, and I now think that
God is sympathy; that is, sympathy and understanding of our fellow-men;
and as we reach that, we get to God.”
The others were surprised and startled by this explanation. I said I
knew what Florence meant, but that she had not been able to express it
clearly.
Then Ruth said that she agreed with Henry. She called God spirit.
“Yes,” I answered, “if we take spirit to mean everything. For we know
nothing except through our senses, our consciousness, our understanding;
so that all we know is knowledge of spirit.”
They all agreed to that.
“Now,” I said, “I believe God to be in each of us, to be the self within
us, and within all others, and within the universe; to be the knowledge,
the light and the understanding. I can explain to you what I mean by
reading a passage from the Indian Vedas, which seems to me so true, and
so exactly what I want to say, that I could not explain it so well
myself.” Then I read the following:
“In the beginning was Self alone. Atman is the Self in all our
selves—the Divine Self concealed by his own qualities. This Self they
sometimes call the Undeveloped. . . . The generation of Brahma was
before all ages, unfolding himself evermore in a beautiful glory;
everything which is highest and everything which is deepest belongs to
him. Being and not being are unveiled through Brahma. . . . How can any
one teach concerning Brahma? He is neither the known nor the unknown.
That which cannot be expressed by words, but through which all
expression comes, this I know to be Brahma. That which cannot be thought
by the mind, but by which all thinking comes, this I know is Brahma.
That which cannot be seen by the eye, but by which the eye sees, is
Brahma.”
They liked this so well, and said it expressed their feelings so truly,
that I offered to copy it for each one of them. Marian said she did not
understand what was meant by “concealed by his own qualities.”
I answered: “We know God only because of the universe which we see and
feel.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But just that the universe,” I went on, “conceals God, is a mystery as
well as a revelation.”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Marian.
“It is like a great light,” I said, “which is so bright that it dazzles
you, and you cannot look at it.”
“Like the sun,” said Virginia.
“I think I see what you mean,” Marian answered.
I continued: “Moses spoke of God in that same way, as the vast Self:
‘And God said unto Moses, I Am That I Am; and he said, Thus shalt thou
say unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto you.’
“And so,” I went on, “myself and yourself, the self of every man and the
self of the universe, that is God.”
With delightful frankness they said that they liked it better as it was
put in “that thing on Brahma.”
“So do I,” I answered. “We know only self. Is it not so?”
“I don’t like the word ‘self,’” said Ruth; “it is too limited. I think
only of my little self.”
Marian agreed. Virginia said that to her it seemed the true word, that
she felt the whole as a vast self. “But isn’t it more?” she asked. “God
is feeling. When I ride in an open trolley, and the wind blows in my
face, and the trees blow, and the clouds move in the sky, then the
feeling that it gives me I call God.”
“Isn’t it self, within yourself?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” she answered.
“Now,” I said, “we are little, incomplete, limited creatures, but we
need the whole universe to be complete. The whole universe is the rest
of self, the rest of myself. That is what I mean by God, and in that
sense I am a part of God.”
All the children agreed at once, as if this were the thing they had
wanted to hear said. This first definite statement that I made seemed to
us all unanswerably true.
Immediately they went on to speak of good and bad; but I stopped them,
thus:
“There is one other thing I would like to make clear first, a historic
question, but one that leads to the question of good and bad. What did
the most illumined and inspired polytheists mean by their many gods?”
Marian answered: “They meant many aspects of the one God.”
“Just so, Marian. But now do you know the inner meaning of Trinity?”
None of them knew, and all seemed particularly interested and anxious to
understand. “I never understood,” said Marian, “what was meant by the
Holy Ghost.”
I said to them: “I will tell you what it has always meant to me, and to
some others beside me, and you can see whether it seems true to you. To
me the three are as parts of one. They are the contrast, such as man and
God, good and bad, even night and day, and the understanding, the unity
that makes these two one.”
This needed much explanation. It was all summed up thus: The three in
one—the triangle with three sides, which is still one—are: Myself, the
other self, which I love and need for my completion, and the love and
understanding which pass between us and make us one. Virginia said that
she never thought of herself and the other self, that to her they were
one. The idea was very new to them all, and did not at once convince
them.
“Now,” I said, “we see, however, that opposites are really one; and so I
believe that good and bad are parts of the same thing. I believe that
everything called bad is the price of going forward, of progress, that
bad things are made by good things. Suppose that the world were in utter
darkness, that no light were anywhere, then there would be no darkness,
either. But the first flame of light would create the darkness.”