responses to this Transcendent-Immanent Reality; because man lives under
two orders, is at once a citizen of Eternity and of Time. Like a
pendulum, his consciousness moves perpetually—or should move if it be
healthy—between God and his neighbour, between this world and that. The
wholeness, sanity, and balance of his existence will entirely depend
upon the perfection of his adjustment to this double situation; on the
steady alternating beat of his outward swing of adoration, his
homeward-turning swing of charity. Now, it is the outward swing which we
are to consider: the powers that may be used in it, the best way in
which these powers may be employed.
First, we observe that those three capacities or faculties which we have
under consideration—the thinking faculty, the feeling faculty, the
willing or acting faculty—practically cover all the ways in which the
self can react to other selves and other things. From their combination
come all the possibilities of self-expression which are open to man. In
his natural life he needs and uses all of them. Shall he need and use
all of them in his spiritual life too? Christians, I think, are bound to
answer this question in the affirmative. According to Christianity, it
is the whole self which is called to turn towards Divine Reality—to
enter the Kingdom—not some supposed “spiritual” part thereof. “Thou hast
made us for Thyself,” said Augustine; not, as the Orphic initiate would
have said, “Thou hast made one crumb out of our complex nature for
Thyself, and the rest may go on to the rubbish heap.” It is the _whole
man_ of intellect, of feeling, and of will, which finds its only true
objective in the Christian God.
Surely, the real difference which marks out Christianity from all other
religions lies just here; in this robust acceptance of humanity in its
wholeness, and of life in its completeness, as something which is
susceptible of the Divine. It demands, and deals with, the whole man,
his Titanic energies and warring instincts; not, as did the antique
mysteries, separating and cultivating some supposed transcendental
principle in him, to the exclusion of all else. Christians believe in a
God immanent and incarnate, Who transfuses the whole of the life which
He has created, and calls that life in its wholeness to union with Him.
If this be so, then _Lex credendi, lex orandi_; our belief should find
its fullest expression in our prayer, and that prayer should take up,
and turn towards the spiritual order all the powers of our mental,
emotional, and volitional life. Prayer should be the highest exercise of
these powers; for here they are directed to the only adequate object of
thought, of love, and of desire. It should, as it were, lift us to the
top of our condition, and represent the fullest flowering of our
consciousness; for here we breathe the air of the supernal order, and
attain according to our measure to that communion with Reality for which
we were made.
Prayer so thought of will include, of course, many different kinds of
spiritual work; and also—what is too often forgotten—the priceless gift
of spiritual rest. It will include many kinds of intercourse with
Reality—adoration, petition, meditation, contemplation—and all the
shades and varieties of these which religious writers have named and
classified. As in the natural order the living creature must feed _and_
grow, must suffer _and_ enjoy, must get energy from the external world
_and_ give it back again in creative acts, if he would live a whole and
healthy life, so, too, in the spiritual order. All these things—the
giving and the receiving, the work and the rest—should fall within the
circle of prayer.
Now, when we do anything consciously and with purpose, the transition
from inaction to action unfolds itself in a certain order. First we form
a concept of that which we shall do; the idea of it looms up, dimly or
distinctly, in the mind. Then, we feel that we want to do it, or must do
it. Then we determine that we _will_ do it. These phases may follow one
another so swiftly that they seem to us to be fused into one; but when
we analyze the process which lies behind each conscious act, we find
that this is the normal sequence of development. First we think, then we
feel, then we will. This little generalization must not be pressed too
hard; but it is broadly true, and gives us a starting-point from which
to trace out the way in which the three main powers of the self act in
prayer. It is practically important, as well as psychologically
interesting, to know how they act or should act; as it is practically
important to know, at least in outline, the normal operation of our
bodily powers. Self-knowledge, said Richard of St. Victor, is the
beginning of the spiritual life; and knowledge of ones self—too often
identified with knowledge of ones sins—ought to include some slight
acquaintance with the machinery we all have at our disposal. This
machinery, as we see, falls into three divisions; and the perfection of
the work which it does will depend upon the observing of an order in
their operation, a due balance between them, without excessive
development of one power at the expense of the others.
On the side of spiritual experience and activity, such an excessive and
one-sided development often takes place. Where this exaggeration is in
the direction of intellect, the theological or philosophical mood
dominates all other aspects of religion. Where the purely emotional and
instinctive side of the relation of the soul to God is released from the
critical action of the intelligence, it often degenerates into an
objectionable sentimentality, and may lead to forms of self-indulgence
which are only superficially religious. Where the volitional element
takes command, unchecked by humble love, an arrogant reliance upon our
own powers, a restless determination to do certain hard things, to
attain certain results—a sort of super-sensual ambition—mars the harmony
of the inner life. Any of these exaggerations must mean loss of balance,
loss of wholeness; and their presence in the active life reflects back
to their presence in the prayerful life, of which outward religion is
but the visible sign. I think, therefore, that we ought to regard it as
a part of our religious education to study the order in which our
faculties should be employed when we turn towards our spiritual
inheritance.
Prayer, as a rule—save with those natural or highly trained
contemplatives who live always in the prayerful state, tuned up to a
perpetual consciousness of spiritual reality—begins, or should begin,
with something which we can only call an intellectual act; with thinking
of what we are going to do. In saying this, I am not expressing a merely
personal opinion. All those great specialists of the spiritual life who
have written on this subject are here in agreement. “When thou goest
about to pray,” says Walter Hilton, “first make and frame betwixt thee
and God a full purpose and intention; then begin, and do as well as thou
canst.” “Prayer,” says the writer of the _Cloud of Unknowing_, “may not
goodly be gotten in beginners or proficients, without thinking coming
before.” All mediæval writers on prayer take it as a matter of course
that “meditation” comes before “orison”; and meditation is simply the
art of thinking steadily and methodically about spiritual things. So,
too, the most modern psychologists assure us that instinctive emotion
does its best work when it acts in harmony with our reasoning powers.
St. Teresa, again, insists passionately on the primal need of thinking
what we are doing when we begin to pray; on “recollecting the mind,”
calling in the scattered thoughts, and concentrating the intellect upon
the business in hand. It is, in fact, obvious—once we consider the
matter in a practical light—that we must form _some_ conception of the
supernal intercourse which we are going to attempt, and of the parties
to it; though if our prayer be real, that conception will soon be
transcended. The sword of the spirit is about to turn in a new
direction; away from concrete actualities, towards eternal realities.
This change—the greatest of which our consciousness is capable—must be
realized as fully as possible by the self whose powers of will and love
it will call into play. It seems necessary to insist on this point,
because so much is said now, and no doubt rightly said, about the
non-intellectual and supremely intuitional nature of the spiritual life;
with the result that some people begin to think it their duty to
cultivate a kind of pious imbecility. There is a notion in the air that
when man turns to God he ought to leave his brains behind him. True,
they will soon be left behind of necessity if man goes far on the road
towards that Reality which is above all reason and all knowledge; for
spirit in the swiftness of its flight to God quickly overpasses these
imperfect instruments. But those whose feet are still firmly planted
upon earth gain nothing by anticipating this moment; they will not
attain to spiritual intuition by the mere annihilation of their
intelligence. We cannot hope to imitate the crystalline simplicity of
the saints; a simplicity which is the result, not of any deliberate
neglect of reason, but of clearest vision, of intensest trust, of most
ardent love—that is, of Faith, Hope, and Charity in their most perfect
expression, fused together to form a single state of enormous activity.
But this is no reason why we should put imbecility, deliberate
vagueness, or a silly want of logic in the place of their exquisite
simpleness; any more than we should dare to put an unctuous familiarity
in the place of their wonderful intimacy, or a cringing demeanour in the
place of their matchless humility.
In saying this—in insisting that the reason has a well-marked and
necessary place in the mechanism of the soul’s approach to God—I am not
advocating a religious intellectualism. It is true that our perception
of all things, even the most divine, is conditioned by the previous
content of our minds: the “apperceiving mass.” Hence, the more worthy
our thoughts about God, the more worthy our apprehensions of Him are
likely to be. Yet I know that there is in the most apparently foolish
prayer of feeling something warmly human, and therefore effective;
something which in its value for life far transcends the consecrated
sawdust offered up by devout intellectualism. “By love,” said the old
mystic, “He may be gotten and holden; by thought never.” A whole world
of experience separates the simple little church mouse saying her
rosary, perhaps without much intelligence, yet with a humble and a
loving faith, from the bishop who preferred “Oh, Great First Cause” to
“Our Father,” because he thought that it was more in accordance with
scientific truth; and few of us will feel much doubt as to the side on
which the advantage lies. The advantage must always lie with those “full
true sisters,” humility and love; for these are the essential elements
of all successful prayer. But surely it is a mistake to suppose that
these qualities cannot exist side by side with an active and disciplined
intelligence?
Prayer, then, begins by an intellectual adjustment. By thinking of God,
or of Spiritual Reality, earnestly and humbly, and to the exclusion of
other objects of thought; by deliberately surrendering the mind to
spiritual things; by preparing the consciousness for the impact of a new
order, the inflow of new life. But, having thought of God, the self, if
it stop there, is no more in touch with Him than it was before. It may
think as long as it likes, but nothing happens; thought unhelped by
feeling ever remains exterior to its object. We are brought up short
against the fact that the intellect is an essentially static thing: we
cannot think our way along the royal road which leads to heaven.
Yet it is a commonplace of spiritual knowledge that, if the state of
prayer be established, something does happen; consciousness does somehow
travel along that road, the field of perception is shifted, new contacts
are made. How is this done? A distinguished religious psychologist has
answered, that it is done “by the synthesis of love and will”—that is to
say, by the craving in action which conditions all our essential
deeds—and I know no better answer to suggest.
Where the office of thought ends, there the office of will and feeling
begins: “Where intellect must stay without,” says Ruysbroeck, “these may
enter in.” Desire and intention are the most dynamic of our faculties;
they do work. They are the true explorers of the Infinite, the
instruments of our ascents to God. Reason comes to the foot of the
mountain; it is the industrious will urged by the passionate heart which
climbs the slope. It is the “blind intent stretching towards Him,” says
the _Cloud of Unknowing_, “the true lovely will of the heart,” which
succeeds at last; the tense determination, the effort, the hard work,
the definite, eager, humble, outward thrust of the whole personality
towards a Reality which is felt rather than known. “We are nothing else
but wills,” said St. Augustine. “The will,” said William Law, “maketh
the beginning, the middle, and the end of everything. It is the only
workman in nature, and everything is its work.” Experience endorses this
emphasis on will and desire as the central facts of our personality, the
part of us which is supremely our own. In turning that will and desire
towards Spiritual Reality, we are doing all that we can of ourselves;
are selecting one out of the sheaf-like tendencies of our complex
nature, and deliberately concentrating upon it our passion and our
power. Also, we are giving consciously, whole-heartedly, with intention,
that with which we are free to deal; and self-donation is, we know, an
essential part of prayer, as of all true intercourse.
Now, intellect and feeling are not wholly ours to give. A rich mental or
emotional life is not possessed of all men; some are naturally stupid,
some temperamentally cold. Even those who are greatly endowed with the
powers of understanding or of love have not got these powers entirely
under their own control. Both feeling and intellect often insist on
taking their own line with us. Moreover, they fluctuate from day to day,
from hour to hour; they are dependent on many delicate adjustments.
Sometimes we are mentally dull, sometimes we are emotionally flat: and
this happens more often, perhaps, in regard to spiritual than in regard
to merely human affairs. On such occasions it is notoriously useless to
try to beat ourselves up to a froth: to make ourselves think more deeply
or make ourselves care more intensely. Did the worth of man’s prayerful
life depend on the maintenance of a constant high level of feeling or
understanding, he were in a parlous case. But, though these often seem
to fail him—and with them all the joy of spiritual intercourse fails him
too—the regnant will remains. Even when his heart is cold and his mind
is dim, the “blind intent stretching to God” is still possible to him.
“Our wills are ours, to make them Thine.”
The Kingdom of Heaven, says the Gospel, is taken by violence—that is, by
effort, by unfaltering courage—not by cleverness, nor by ecstatic
spiritual feelings. The freedom of the City of God is never earned by a
mere limp acquiescence in those great currents of the transcendent order
which bear life towards its home. The determined fixing of the will upon
Spiritual Reality, and pressing towards that Reality steadily and
without deflection; this is the very centre of the art of prayer. This
is why those splendid psychologists, the mediæval writers on prayer,
told their pupils to “mean only God,” and not to trouble about anything
else; since “He who has Him has all.” The most theological of thoughts
soon becomes inadequate; the most spiritual of emotions is only a
fair-weather breeze. Let the ship take advantage of it by all means, but
not rely on it. She must be prepared to beat to windward if she would
reach her goal.
In proportion to the strength and sincerity of the will, in fact, so
shall be the measure of success in prayer. As the self pushes out
towards Reality, so does Reality rush in on it. “Grace and the will,”
says one of the greatest of living writers on religion, “rise and fall
together.” “Grace” is, of course, the theological term for that inflow
of spiritual vitality which is the response made by the divine order to
the human motions of adoration, supplication, and love; and according to
the energy and intensity with which our efforts are made—the degree in
which we concentrate our attention upon this high and difficult business
of prayer—will be the amount of new life that we receive. The efficacy
of prayer, therefore, will be conditioned by the will of the praying
self. “Though it be so, that prayer be not the cause of grace,” says
Hilton, “nevertheless it is a way or means by which grace freely given
comes into the soul.” Grace presses in upon life perpetually, and awaits
our voluntary appropriation of it. It is accessible to sincere and loyal
endeavour, to “the true lovely will of the heart,” and to nothing else.
So much we have said of will. What place have we left for the operation
of feeling in prayer? It is not easy to disentangle will and feeling;
for in all intense will there is a strong element of emotion—every
volitional act has somewhere at the back of it a desire—and in all great
and energizing passions there is a pronounced volitional element. The
“synthesis of love and will” is no mere fancy of the psychologist. It is
a compound hard to break down in practice. But I think we can say
generally that the business of feeling is to inflame the will, to give
it intention, gladness, and vividness; to convert it from a dull
determination into an eager, impassioned desire. It links up thought
with action; effects, in psychological language, the movement of the
prayerful self from a mere state of cognition to a state of conation;
converts the soul from attention to the Transcendent to first-hand
adventure within it. “All thy life now behoveth altogether to stand in
desire,” says the author of the _Cloud of Unknowing_ to the disciple who
has accepted the principle of prayer; and here he is declaring a
psychological necessity rather than a religious platitude, for all
successful action has its origin in emotion of some kind. Though we
choose to imagine that “pure reason” directs our conduct, in the last
resort we always do a thing because of the feeling that we have about
it. Not necessarily because we like doing it; but because instinctive
feeling of some sort—selfish or unselfish, personal, social,
conventional, sacrificial; the disturbing emotion called the sense of
duty, or the glorious emotion called the passion of love—is urging us to
it. Instinctive emotions, more or less sublimated; Love, Hatred,
Ambition, Fear, Anger, Hunger, Patriotism, Self-interest; these are the
true names of our reasons for doing things.
If this be true of our reactions to the physical world, it is none the
less true of our intercourse with the spiritual world. The will is moved
to seek that intercourse by emotion, by feeling; never by a merely
intellectual conviction. In the vigour and totality with which the
heroes of religion give themselves to spiritual interests, and in the
powers which they develop, we see the marks of instinctive feeling
operating upon the highest levels. By “a leash of longing,” says the
_Cloud of Unknowing_ again, man is led to be the servant of God; not by
the faultless deductions of dialectic, but by the mysterious logic of
the heart. He is moved most often, perhaps, by an innate unformulated
craving for perfection, or by the complementary loathing of
imperfection—a love of God, or a hatred of self—by the longing for
peace, the miserable sensations of disillusion, of sin, and of unrest,
the heart’s deep conviction that it needs a changeless object for its
love. Or, if by none of these, then by some other emotional stimulus.
A wide range of feeling states—some, it is true, merely self-seeking,
but others high and pure—influence the prayerful consciousness; but
those which are normal and healthy fall within two groups, one of
subjective, the other of objective emotion. The dominant motive of the
subjective group is the self’s feeling of its own imperfection,
helplessness, sinfulness, and need, over against the Perfect Reality
towards which its prayer is set; a feeling which grows with the growth
of the soul’s spiritual perceptions, and includes all the shaded
emotions of penitence and of humility. “For meekness in itself is naught
else but a true knowing and feeling of a man’s self as he is.” The
objective group of feelings is complementary to this, and is centred on
the goodness, beauty, and perfection of that Infinite Reality towards
which the soul is stretching itself. Its dominant notes are adoration
and love. Of these two fundamental emotions—humility and love—the first
lies at the back of all prayer of confession and petition, and is a
necessary check upon the arrogant tendencies of the will. The second is
the energizing cause of all adoration: adoration, the highest exercise
of the spirit of man. Prayer, then, on its emotional side should begin
in humble contrition and flower in loving adoration. Adoring love—not
mere emotional excitement, religious sentimentality or “spiritual
feelings”—but the strong, deep love, industrious, courageous and
self-giving which fuses all the powers of the self into one single state
of enormous intensity; this is the immortal element of prayer. Thought
has done all that it may when it has set the scene, prepared the ground,
adjusted the mind in the right direction. Will is wanted only whilst
there are oppositions to be transcended, difficult things to be done. It
represents the soul’s effort and struggle to be where it ought to be.
But there are levels of attainment in which the will does not seem to
exist any more as a separate thing. It is caught in the mighty rhythms
of the Divine will, merged in it and surrendered to it. Instead of its
small personal activity, it forms a part of the great deep action of the
Whole. In the higher degrees of prayer, in fact, will is transmuted into
love. We are reminded of the old story of the phœnix: the active busy
will seems to be burned up and utterly destroyed, but living love,
strong and immortal, springs from the ashes and the flame. When the
reasonable hope and the deliberate wilful faith in which man’s prayer
began are both fulfilled, this heavenly charity goes on to lose itself
upon the heights.
Within the normal experience of the ordinary Christian, love should give
two things to prayer; ardour and beauty. In his prayer, as it were, man
swings a censer before the altar of the Universe. He may put into the
thurible all his thoughts and dreams, all his will and energy. But
unless the fire of love is communicated to that incense, nothing will
happen; there will be no fragrance and no ascending smoke. These
qualities—ardour and beauty—represent two distinct types of feeling,
which ought both to find a place in the complete spiritual life,
balancing and completing one another. The first is in the highest degree
intimate and personal; the second is disinterested and æsthetic.