PREPARATION
IT was necessary that an occupation should be found for me, and after
much deliberation it was settled that I should “go into the ministry.” I
had joined the church, I had “engaged in prayer” publicly, and although I
had not set up for being extraordinarily pious, I was thought to be as
good as most of the young men who professed to have a mission to
regenerate mankind.
Accordingly, after some months of preparation, I was taken to a
Dissenting College not very far from where we lived. It was a large
old-fashioned house with a newer building annexed, and was surrounded
with a garden and with meadows. Each student had a separate room, and
all had their meals together in a common hall. Altogether there were
about forty of us. The establishment consisted of a President, an
elderly gentleman who had an American degree of doctor of divinity, and
who taught the various branches of theology. He was assisted by three
professors, who imparted to us as much Greek, Latin, and mathematics as
it was considered that we ought to know. Behold me, then, beginning a
course of training which was to prepare me to meet the doubts of the
nineteenth century; to be the guide of men; to advise them in their
perplexities; to suppress their tempestuous lusts; to lift them above
their petty cares, and to lead them heavenward!
About the Greek and Latin and the secular part of the college discipline
I will say nothing, except that it was generally inefficient. The
theological and Biblical teaching was a sham. We had come to the college
in the first place to learn the Bible. Our whole existence was in future
to be based upon that book; our lives were to be passed in preaching it.
I will venture to say that there was no book less understood either by
students or professors. The President had a course of lectures,
delivered year after year to successive generations of his pupils, upon
its authenticity and inspiration. They were altogether remote from the
subject; and afterwards, when I came to know what the difficulties of
belief really were, I found that these essays, which were supposed to be
a triumphant confutation of the sceptic, were a mere sword of lath. They
never touched the question, and if any doubts suggested themselves to the
audience, nobody dared to give them tongue, lest the expression of them
should beget a suspicion of heresy.
I remember also some lectures on the proof of the existence of God and on
the argument from design; all of which, when my mind was once awakened,
were as irrelevant as the chattering of sparrows. When I did not even
know who or what this God was, and could not bring my lips to use the
word with any mental honesty, of what service was the “watch argument” to
me? Very lightly did the President pass over all these initial
difficulties of his religion. I see him now, a gentleman with lightish
hair, with a most mellifluous voice and a most pastoral manner, reading
his prim little tracts to us directed against the “shallow infidel” who
seemed to deny conclusions so obvious that we were certain he could not
be sincere, and those of us who had never seen an infidel might well be
pardoned for supposing that he must always be wickedly blind.
About a dozen of these tracts settled the infidel and the whole mass of
unbelief from the time of Celsus downwards. The President’s task was all
the easier because he knew nothing of German literature; and, indeed, the
word “German” was a term of reproach signifying something very awful,
although nobody knew exactly what it was.
Systematic theology was the next science to which the President directed
us. We used a sort of Calvinistic manual which began by setting forth
that mankind was absolutely in God’s power. He was our maker, and we had
no legal claim whatever to any consideration from Him. The author then
mechanically built up the Calvinistic creed, step by step, like a house
of cards. Systematic theology was the great business of our academical
life. We had to read sermons to the President in class, and no sermon
was considered complete and proper unless it unfolded what was called the
scheme of redemption from beginning to end.
So it came to pass that about the Bible, as I have already said, we were
in darkness. It was a magazine of texts, and those portions of it which
contributed nothing in the shape of texts, or formed no part of the
scheme, were neglected. Worse still, not a word was ever spoken to us
telling us in what manner to strengthen the reason, to subdue the senses,
or in what way to deal with all the varied diseases of that soul of man
which we were to set ourselves to save. All its failings, infinitely
more complicated than those of the body, were grouped as “sin,” and for
these there was one quack remedy. If the patient did not like the
remedy, or got no good from it, the fault was his.
It is remarkable that the scheme was never of the slightest service to me
in repressing one solitary evil inclination; at no point did it come into
contact with me. At the time it seemed right and proper that I should
learn it, and I had no doubt of its efficacy; but when the stress of
temptation was upon me, it never occurred to me, nor when I became a
minister did I find it sufficiently powerful to mend the most trifling
fault. In after years, but not till I had strayed far away from the
President and his creed, the Bible was really opened to me, and became to
me, what it now is, the most precious of books.
There were several small chapels scattered in the villages near the
college, and these chapels were “supplied,” as the phrase is, by the
students. Those who were near the end of their course were also employed
as substitutes for regular ministers when they were temporarily absent.
Sometimes a senior was even sent up to London to take the place, on a
sudden emergency, of a great London minister, and when he came back he
was an object almost of adoration. The congregation, on the other hand,
consisting in some part of country people spending a Sunday in town and
anxious to hear a celebrated preacher, were not at all disposed to adore,
when, instead of the great man, they saw “only a student.”
By the time I was nineteen I took my turn in “supplying” the villages,
and set forth with the utmost confidence what appeared to me to be the
indubitable gospel. No shadow of a suspicion of its truth ever crossed
my mind, and yet I had not spent an hour in comprehending, much less in
answering, one objection to it. The objections, in fact, had never met
me; they were over my horizon altogether. It is wonderful to think how I
could take so much for granted; and not merely take it to myself and for
myself, but proclaim it as a message to other people. It would be a
mistake, however, to suppose that theological youths are the only class
who are guilty of such presumption. Our gregarious instinct is so strong
that it is the most difficult thing for us to be satisfied with suspended
judgment. Men must join a party, and have a cry, and they generally take
up their party and their cry from the most indifferent motives.
For my own part I cannot be enthusiastic about politics, except on rare
occasions when the issue is a very narrow one. There is so much that
requires profound examination, and it disgusts me to get upon a platform
and dispute with ardent Radicals or Conservatives who know nothing about
even the rudiments of history, political economy, or political
philosophy, without which it is as absurd to have an opinion upon what
are called politics as it would be to have an opinion upon an
astronomical problem without having learned Euclid.
The more incapable we are of thorough investigations, the wider and
deeper are the subjects upon which we busy ourselves, and still more
strange, the more bigoted do we become in our conclusions about them; and
yet it is not strange, for he who by painful processes has found yes and
no alternate for so long that he is not sure which is final, is the last
man in the world, if he for the present is resting in yes, to crucify
another who can get no further than no. The bigot is he to whom no such
painful processes have ever been permitted.
The society amongst the students was very poor. Not a single friendship
formed then has remained with me. They were mostly young men of no
education, who had been taken from the counter, and their spiritual life
was not very deep. In many of them it did not even exist, and their
whole attention was absorbed upon their chances of getting wealthy
congregations or of making desirable matches. It was a time in which the
world outside was seething with the ferment which had been cast into it
by Germany and by those in England whom Germany had influenced, but not a
fragment of it had dropped within our walls. I cannot call to mind a
single conversation upon any but the most trivial topics, nor did our
talk ever turn even upon our religion, so far as it was a thing affecting
the soul, but upon it as something subsidiary to chapels, “causes,”
deacons, and the like.
The emptiness of some of my colleagues, and their worldliness, too, were
almost incredible. There was one who was particularly silly. He was a
blond youth with greyish eyes, a mouth not quite shut, and an eternal
simper upon his face. He never had an idea in his head, and never read
anything except the denominational newspapers and a few well-known aids
to sermonising. He was a great man at all tea-meetings, anniversaries,
and parties. He was facile in public speaking, and he dwelt much upon
the joys of heaven and upon such topics as the possibility of our
recognising one another there. I have known him describe for twenty
minutes, in a kind of watery rhetoric, the passage of the soul to bliss
through death, and its meeting in the next world with those who had gone
before.
With all his weakness he was close and mean in money matters, and when he
left college, the first thing he did was to marry a widow with a fortune.
Before long he became one of the most popular of ministers in a town much
visited by sick persons, with whom he was an especial favourite. I
disliked him—and specially disliked his unpleasant behaviour to women.
If I had been a woman, I should have spurned him for his perpetual insult
of inane compliments. He was always dawdling after “the sex,” which was
one of his sweet phrases, and yet he was not passionate. Passion does
not dawdle and compliment, nor is it nasty, as this fellow was. Passion
may burn like a devouring flame; and in a few moments, like flame, may
bring down a temple to dust and ashes, but it is earnest as flame, and
essentially pure.
During the first two years at college my life was entirely external. My
heart was altogether untouched by anything I heard, read, or did,
although I myself supposed that I took an interest in them. But one day
in my third year, a day I remember as well as Paul must have remembered
afterwards the day on which he went to Damascus, I happened to find
amongst a parcel of books a volume of poems in paper boards. It was
called _Lyrical Ballads_, and I read first one and then the whole book.
It conveyed to me no new doctrine, and yet the change it wrought in me
could only be compared with that which is said to have been wrought on
Paul himself by the Divine apparition.
Looking over the _Lyrical Ballads_ again, as I have looked over it a
dozen times since then, I can hardly see what it was which stirred me so
powerfully, nor do I believe that it communicated much to me which could
be put in words. But it excited a movement and a growth which went on
till, by degrees, all the systems which enveloped me like a body
gradually decayed from me and fell away into nothing. Of more
importance, too, than the decay of systems was the birth of a habit of
inner reference and a dislike to occupy myself with anything which did
not in some way or other touch the soul, or was not the illustration or
embodiment of some spiritual law.
There is, of course, a definite explanation to be given of one effect
produced by the _Lyrical Ballads_. God is nowhere formally deposed, and
Wordsworth would have been the last man to say that he had lost his faith
in the God of his fathers. But his real God is not the God of the
Church, but the God of the hills, the abstraction Nature, and to this my
reverence was transferred. Instead of an object of worship which was
altogether artificial, remote, never coming into genuine contact with me,
I had now one which I thought to be real, one in which literally I could
live and move and have my being, an actual fact present before my eyes.
God was brought from that heaven of the books, and dwelt on the downs in
the far-away distances, and in every cloud-shadow which wandered across
the valley. Wordsworth unconsciously did for me what every religious
reformer has done—he re-created my Supreme Divinity; substituting a new
and living spirit for the old deity, once alive, but gradually hardened
into an idol.
What days were those of the next few years before increasing age had
presented preciser problems and demanded preciser answers; before all joy
was darkened by the shadow of on-coming death, and when life seemed
infinite! Those were the days when through the whole long summer’s
morning I wanted no companion but myself, provided only I was in the
country, and when books were read with tears in the eyes. Those were the
days when mere life, apart from anything which it brings, was exquisite.
In my own college I found no sympathy, but we were in the habit of
meeting occasionally the students from other colleges, and amongst them I
met with one or two, especially one who had undergone experiences similar
to my own. The friendships formed with these young men have lasted till
now, and have been the most permanent of all the relationships of my
existence. I wish not to judge others, but the persons who to me have
proved themselves most attractive, have been those who have passed
through such a process as that through which I myself passed; those who
have had in some form or other an enthusiastic stage in their history,
when the story of Genesis and of the Gospels has been rewritten, when God
has visibly walked in the garden, and the Son of God has drawn men away
from their daily occupations into the divinest of dreams.
I have known men—most interesting men with far greater powers than any
which I have possessed, men who have never been trammelled by a false
creed, who have devoted themselves to science and acquired a great
reputation, who have somehow never laid hold upon me like the man I have
just mentioned. He failed altogether as a minister, and went back to his
shop, but the old glow of his youth burns, and will burn, for ever. When
I am with him our conversation naturally turns on matters which are of
profoundest importance: with others it may be instructive, but I leave
them unmoved, and I trace the difference distinctly to that visitation,
for it was nothing else, which came to him in his youth.
The effect which was produced upon my preaching and daily conversation by
this change was immediate. It became gradually impossible for me to talk
about subjects which had not some genuine connection with me, or to
desire to hear others talk about them. The artificial, the merely
miraculous, the event which had no inner meaning, no matter how large
externally it might be, I did not care for. A little Greek mythological
story was of more importance to me than a war which filled the
newspapers. What, then, could I do with my theological treatises?
It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that I immediately became
formally heretical. Nearly every doctrine in the college creed had once
had a natural origin in the necessities of human nature, and might
therefore be so interpreted as to become a necessity again. To reach
through to that original necessity; to explain the atonement as I
believed it appeared to Paul, and the sinfulness of man as it appeared to
the prophets, was my object. But it was precisely this reaching after a
meaning which constituted heresy. The distinctive essence of our
orthodoxy was not this or that dogma, but the acceptance of dogmas as
communications from without, and not as born from within.
Heresy began, and in fact was altogether present, when I said to myself
that a mere statement of the atonement as taught in class was impossible
for me, and that I must go back to Paul and his century, place myself in
his position, and connect the atonement through him with something which
I felt. I thus continued to use all the terms which I had hitherto used;
but an uneasy feeling began to develop itself about me in the minds of
the professors, because I did not rest in the “simplicity” of the gospel.
To me this meant its unintelligibility.
I remember, for example, discoursing about the death of Christ. There
was not a single word which was ordinarily used in the pulpit which I did
not use—satisfaction for sin, penalty, redeeming blood, they were all
there—but I began by saying that in this world there was no redemption
for man but by blood; furthermore, the innocent had everywhere and in all
time to suffer for the guilty. It had been objected that it was contrary
to our notion of an all-loving Being that He should demand such a
sacrifice; but, contrary or not, in this world it was true, quite apart
from Jesus, that virtue was martyred every day, unknown and unconsoled,
in order that the wicked might somehow be saved. This was part of the
scheme of the world, and we might dislike it or not, we could not get rid
of it. The consequences of my sin, moreover, are rendered less terrible
by virtues not my own. I am literally saved from penalties because
another pays the penalty for me. The atonement, and what it accomplished
for man, were therefore a sublime summing up as it were of what sublime
men have to do for their race; an exemplification, rather than a
contradiction, of Nature herself, as we know her in our own experience.
Now, all this was really intended as a defence of the atonement; but the
President heard me that Sunday, and on the Monday he called me into his
room. He said that my sermon was marked by considerable ability, but he
should have been better satisfied if I had confined myself to setting
forth as plainly as I could the “way of salvation” as revealed in Christ
Jesus. What I had urged might perhaps have possessed some interest for
cultivated people; in fact, he had himself urged pretty much the same
thing many years ago, when he was a young man, in a sermon he had
preached at the Union meeting; but I must recollect that in all
probability my sphere of usefulness would lie amongst humble hearers,
perhaps in an agricultural village or a small town, and that he did not
think people of this sort would understand me if I talked over their
heads as I had done the day before. What they wanted on a Sunday, after
all the cares of the week, was not anything to perplex and disturb them;
not anything which demanded any exercise of thought; but a repetition of
the “old story of which, Mr. Rutherford, you know, we never ought to get
weary; an exhibition of our exceeding sinfulness; of our safety in the
Rock of Ages, and there only; of the joys of the saints and the
sufferings of those who do not believe.”
His words fell on me like the hand of a corpse, and I went away much
depressed. My sermon had excited me, and the man who of all men ought to
have welcomed me, had not a word of warmth or encouragement for me,
nothing but the coldest indifference, and even repulse.
It occurs to me here to offer an explanation of a failing of which I have
been accused in later years, and that is secrecy and reserve. The real
truth is, that nobody more than myself could desire self-revelation; but
owing to peculiar tendencies in me, and peculiarity of education, I was
always prone to say things in conversation which I found produced blank
silence in the majority of those who listened to me, and immediate
opportunity was taken by my hearers to turn to something trivial. Hence
it came to pass that only when tempted by unmistakable sympathy could I
be induced to express my real self on any topic of importance.
It is a curious instance of the difficulty of diagnosing (to use a
doctor’s word) any spiritual disease, if disease this shyness may be
called. People would ordinarily set it down to self-reliance, with no
healthy need of intercourse. It was nothing of the kind. It was an
excess of communicativeness, an eagerness to show what was most at my
heart, and to ascertain what was at the heart of those to whom I talked,
which made me incapable of mere fencing and trifling, and so often caused
me to retreat into myself when I found absolute absense of response.
I am also reminded here of a dream which I had in these years of a
perfect friendship. I always felt that, talk with whom I would, I left
something unsaid which was precisely what I most wished to say. I wanted
a friend who would sacrifice himself to me utterly, and to whom I might
offer a similar sacrifice. I found companions for whom I cared, and who
professed to care for me; but I was thirsting for deeper draughts of love
than any which they had to offer; and I said to myself that if I were to
die, not one of them would remember me for more than a week. This was
not selfishness, for I longed to prove my devotion as well as to receive
that of another. How this ideal haunted me! It made me restless and
anxious at the sight of every new face, wondering whether at last I had
found that for which I searched as if for the kingdom of heaven.
It is superfluous to say that a friend of the kind I wanted never
appeared, and disappointment after disappointment at last produced in me
a cynicism which repelled people from me, and brought upon me a good deal
of suffering. I tried men by my standard, and if they did not come up to
it I rejected them; thus I prodigally wasted a good deal of the affection
which the world would have given me. Only when I got much older did I
discern the duty of accepting life as God has made it, and thankfully
receiving any scrap of love offered to me, however imperfect it might be.
I don’t know any mistake which I have made which has cost me more than
this; but at the same time I must record that it was a mistake for which,
considering everything, I cannot much blame myself. I hope it is amended
now. Now when it is getting late I recognise a higher obligation,
brought home to me by a closer study of the New Testament. Sympathy or
no sympathy, a man’s love should no more fail towards his fellows than
that love which spent itself on disciples who altogether misunderstood
it, like the rain which falls on just and unjust alike.