An extreme case is very serviceable in such a discussion as this.
It happens that the author carries on a correspondence with several
lunatics in asylums. There is a considerable freedom of notepaper
in these institutions; the outgoing letters are no doubt censored or
selected in some way, but a proportion at any rate are allowed to go out
to their addresses. As a journalist who signs his articles and as the
author of various books of fiction, as a frequent NAME, that is, to any
one much forced back upon reading, the writer is particularly accessible
to this type of correspondent. The letters come, some manifesting
a hopeless disorder that permits of no reply, but some being the
expression of minds overlaid not at all offensively by a web of fantasy,
and some (and these are the more touching ones and the ones that most
concern us now) as sanely conceived and expressed as any letters could
be. They are written by people living lives very like the lives of us
who are called “sane,” except that they lift to a higher excitement and
fall to a lower depression, and that these extremer phases of mania or
melancholia slip the leash of mental consistency altogether and take
abnormal forms. They tap deep founts of impulse, such as we of the safer
ways of mediocrity do but glimpse under the influence of drugs, or in
dreams and rare moments of controllable extravagance. Then the insane
become “glorious,” or they become murderous, or they become suicidal.
All these letter-writers in confinement have convinced their
fellow-creatures by some extravagance that they are a danger to
themselves or others.
The letters that come from such types written during their sane
intervals, are entirely sane. Some, who are probably unaware--I think
they should know--of the offences or possibilities that justify their
incarceration, write with a certain resentment at their position; others
are entirely acquiescent, but one or two complain of the neglect of
friends and relations. But all are as manifestly capable of religion and
of the religious life as any other intelligent persons during the
lucid interludes that make up nine-tenths perhaps of their lives. . . .
Suppose now one of these cases, and suppose that the infirmity takes
the form of some cruel, disgusting, or destructive disposition that may
become at times overwhelming, and you have our universal trouble with
sinful tendency, as it were magnified for examination. It is clear that
the mania which defines his position must be the primary if not the
cardinal business in the life of a lunatic, but his problem with that
is different not in kind but merely in degree from the problem of
lusts, vanities, and weaknesses in what we call normal lives. It is an
unconquered tract, a great rebel province in his being, which refuses to
serve God and tries to prevent him serving God, and succeeds at times in
wresting his capital out of his control. But his relationship to that
is the same relationship as ours to the backward and insubordinate
parishes, criminal slums, and disorderly houses in our own private
texture.
It is clear that the believer who is a lunatic is, as it were, only the
better part of himself. He serves God with this unconquered disposition
in him, like a man who, whatever else he is and does, is obliged to be
the keeper of an untrustworthy and wicked animal. His beast gets loose.
His only resort is to warn those about him when he feels that jangling
or excitement of the nerves which precedes its escapes, to limit its
range, to place weapons beyond its reach. And there are plenty of human
beings very much in his case, whose beasts have never got loose or have
got caught back before their essential insanity was apparent. And there
are those uncertifiable lunatics we call men and women of “impulse”
and “strong passions.” If perhaps they have more self-control than the
really mad, yet it happens oftener with them that the whole intelligent
being falls under the dominion of evil. The passion scarcely less than
the obsession may darken the whole moral sky. Repentance and atonement;
nothing less will avail them after the storm has passed, and the
sedulous preparation of defences and palliatives against the return of
the storm.
This discussion of the lunatic’s case gives us indeed, usefully coarse
and large, the lines for the treatment of every human weakness by the
servants of God. A “weakness,” just like the lunatic’s mania, becomes a
particular charge under God, a special duty for the person it affects.
He has to minimise it, to isolate it, to keep it out of mischief. If he
can he must adopt preventive measures. . . .
These passions and weaknesses that get control of us hamper our
usefulness to God, they are an incessant anxiety and distress to us,
they wound our self-respect and make us incomprehensible to many who
would trust us, they discredit the faith we profess. If they break
through and break through again it is natural and proper that men and
women should cease to believe in our faith, cease to work with us or to
meet us frankly. . . . Our sins do everything evil to us and through us
except separate us from God.
Yet let there be no mistake about one thing. Here prayer is a power.
Here God can indeed work miracles. A man with the light of God in his
heart can defeat vicious habits, rise again combative and undaunted
after a hundred falls, escape from the grip of lusts and revenges, make
head against despair, thrust back the very onset of madness. He is still
the same man he was before he came to God, still with his libidinous,
vindictive, boastful, or indolent vein; but now his will to prevail
over those qualities can refer to an exterior standard and an external
interest, he can draw upon a strength, almost boundless, beyond his own.