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different, they would be no more afraid of enthusiasm in religion, than they are afraid of enthusiasm in science, in literature, in the arts. It would be, in their account, a noble and beautiful thing. But now, the very description of a person as zealous in his religion" carries with it a kind of imputation upon his understanding and liberality. Hence, in the train of consequences, it comes to pass that many are cold in religion. "For this cause, many sleep." They apparently think it better to sleep in security than to wake in distraction; they prefer stupor to madness; they had rather perish in their senses than in a fit of insanity; this, at least, is the light in which matters appear to them; and how is it strange, that, repelled by the ordinary forms of religious emotion, and indentifying all religious feeling with these, they should sink down into a cold, chilling, cheerless insensibility.

But I must not leave it to be supposed, that men of taste and refinement alone are exposed to this result. The truth is, that the popular sensibility on this subject has been itself deficient in real strength and true fervour; it has been remarkable, thus far, for wanting those qualities which were necessary to give it depth and impressiveness in its own sphere: and from no quarter have there been more bitter complaints of coldness, than from the very sphere of fanaticism. The observation may seem to be a singular one, perhaps, and the fact scarcely credible: but if you will take the pains to observe, I am confident you will find it to be true, that the wildest sects and the wildest excitements are precisely those from which there come, from time to time, the deepest confessions of coldness and stupidity. Yes, in the bosom of fanaticism is harboured the deepest and most painful doubt about the truth and reality of religion. And the reason is, that neither there, nor in any of the modifications of spiritual extravagance, has religion been familiar enough to have become an easy, natural, abiding guest: nor reflective enough to have settled down into a principle and habit; nor has it long enough rested in the soul, amidst quietness and silence, to have become incorporated with its nature.

And thus it comes to pass, that in many, perhaps in most minds, where religion gains admission, it is felt to be a strange, mysterious, extraordinary thing. I think, indeed, that the religious experience of the world, generally, has not got beyond this point; it is still an extraordinary thing. And it is obvious, that this sense of its being extraordinary, will not be favourable to composure, steadiness, and permanency of feeling, but rather to excitement, wonder, delight, and all those tumultuous emotions that speedily pass away.

I am afraid, too, that this consciousness of religious experience, as being something extraordinary, has another injurious and repulsive effect; that is to say, that it gives birth to that religious vanity, that spiritual pride, that sense of personal importance, which is so apt to spring up with religious zeal. I know, indeed, that the gospel demands humility: and I know that Christians have been much given to selfdisparagement; but I know, too, that no sooner does a man "obtain religion," to use the common phrase, than his own sense of the great and wonderful thing which he conceives has happened to him, and the attentions of those around him, usually contribute to invest him with a very disagreeable air of self-importance. There is a strange delusion,

by which a man contrives to think himself very humble, and to be very proud at the same time. He says that he is the greatest of sinners, a most wonderful instance of the triumph of Divine grace; and perhaps he is never so proud as when he says it. His confession is made with a saving clause; and the saving clause is very likely to be more with him than the confession. He is the greatest of sinners; but then he is rescued. He is a most extraordinary instance of grace; but then it follows, certainly, that he is himself a very extraordinary person.

Whether this be a just account of the matter or not, it is certain that spiritual vanity has been, thus far in the world, one of the prevailing forms of religious experience. And since this quality,-I mean, vanity, whether religious or otherwise, is always one of the most offensive and insufferable, since it always brings more unpopularity upon its possessor, I had almost said, than all other bad qualities put together, it is not strange that it should have brought some discredit upon religion, and especially upon religious zeal and earnestness. There arethere must be-not a few, who will stand aside and aloof, and say, "Let me have no religion rather than that: " and one of the most important duties of religious teaching is, to show them that they may have religion without presumption, pride, or ostentation; nay, and that the religion, which they hold in simplicity, modesty, and singleness of heart, with no thought of others, with no thought of themselves, will be far more deep, thorough, and fervent, as well as far more graceful and beautiful. There is one effect of this sense of religion as something very extraordinary, which I must mention before leaving this topic; and that is, upon the manifestations of religious sensibility. The sense of the extraordinary, tends to give expansion and exuberance to the expression of religious feeling-tends, if the phrase will be understood, to too much manifestation. Our sensibility always takes arms against an appearance of this sort. This explains the reason why some religious conversation and some preaching, which seems to be charged and overcharged with religious fervour, which vents itself, perhaps, in a passion of tears, which is full of exclamations and entreaties, and exhorts us to feel with every moving interjection in the language, yet never moves us at all. The precise reason is, that the expression is overcharged. We wonder at our insensibility, perhaps; we think it is very wicked in us not to feel; but the fact is, we are, all this while, true to nature. Possibly some might think, though I will not suspect any one who hears me of holding the opinion, that this apology ought not to be stated; that selfreproach is so rare a thing, and so good a thing, that men should be left to accuse themselves as much as ever they will. I confess that I can understand no such reasoning as this. On the contrary, I have regretted to hear the language of self-reproach in such cases; because I do not think it just, and because I know that every false self-accusation tends to blunt the edge of the true self-accusation. Doubtless, men should always feel religion if they can; but the question is now, about being made to feel it by a particular manifestation. And I say, if the manifestation be overcharged; if it go beyond the feeling, rather than come short of it; if there be more expression, vociferation, gesture, than genuine emotion, it will inevitably, with the discerning, have an effect the very contrary of what was intended. No; let one speak to us by our fireside, or in the pulpit, with an emotion which he

is obliged to restrain; let it appear evident that he lays a check upon his feelings; let one stand before us-I care not with what varied expression with the cheek flushed or blanched, with the tear suppressed or flowing, with the voice soft or loud, only so that the expression never seem to outrun, to exceed the feeling; and he is almost as sure of our sympathy as that we are human beings.

The observation I have made on this point, cannot be useless to any one, if it teach only this, that nothing forced or fictitious will answer any good purpose in religion; that if we would accomplish anything for ourselves or others in this great cause, we must engage in it with our whole heart; that the sources of real religious influence are none other than the fountains of the heart-the fountains of honest, earnest, irrepressible sensibility.

III. I must now add, in the third place, that there are mistakes, as in the vehement demand for religious sensibility, and concerning its nature and expressions, so also with regard to its Supreme Object.

We must allow, indeed, that on this point there are some intrinsic difficulties. There are difficulties attending the love of an Infinite, Eternal, Invisible, Incomprehensible Being. Our love of him must be divested of many of those sympathies and supports which enkindle and strengthen in us the love of one another. We feel obliged to guard every word in which we speak of him, and of our connexion with him. We must not say that our communion with him is sympathy, or that our love of him is attachment. We may not, with propriety, say that he is "dear" to us. Many, indeed, of those phrases, many of those modes of expression, in which we testify the strength and charm of our social affections, sink into awe and are hushed to silence before that Infinite and Awful Being. So at least, does the subject of devotion appear to me; and I must confess that the familiarity of expression which is sometimes witnessed in prayer, is extremely irreverent and shocking.

But those difficulties, which it is the tendency of ignorance and fanaticism to overlook, it is the tendency of immature reflection and philosophy to magnify. Reflection has gone just so far with some minds as to make it more difficult for them than it ought to be to approach their Maker. They regard his exaltation above them, as distance; his greatness, as separation from them. They look upon the very phrases "love of God," "communion with God," as phrases of daring import, and doubtful propriety. They shrink back from the freedom of popular language, and this, perhaps, they rightly do; but they retreat too far-they retreat to the opposite extreme of coldness and cold abstractions. They are sometimes almost afraid to address God as a Being; they worship some mighty abstraction; they are like those ancient philosophers who worshipped the light; they worship "an unknown God." I do not know that anything but the teachings of Jesus could ever have cured this error; the error at once of ancient philosophy and modern refinement. He has brought us nigh to God." He has taught us that God is our Father. He has taught us to worship him with the profoundest reverence, indeed, but with boundless confidence and love. He has taught us that God does regard us; that he does look down from the height of his infinite heavens-that he does look down upon us, and upon our world-not exclusively, as some religion

ists would teach, not as if there were no other world-but still that he does look down upon us, and our world, with paternal interest and kindness.

The mistake now stated is one which lies at the very threshold of devotion. But when we enter the temple of our worship, how many errors are there that darken its light and disfigure its beauty! The veil of the Jewish peculiarity is indeed rent in twain; but theology has lifted up other, and many, and darkening veils before "the holy of holies." Our sins, too, have separated between us and God, and our iniquities have hidden his face from us. Unworthy, afraid, superstitious, erring, grovelling in the dust, how can we love God, purely, freely, joyfully! How, even, can we see the perfection of God as we ought?

This, indeed, is the point upon which all difficulty presses. Men do not SEE the perfection of God. They do not identify that perfection with all that is glorious, beautiful, lovely, admirable, and enrapturing in nature, in character, in life, in existence. God's glory they conceive to be something so different from all other glory; God's goodness so different from all other goodliness and beauty, that they find no easy transition from one to the other. They mistake-and perhaps this is the most fatal part of the error-they mistake the very demand of God's goodness upon their love. They conceive of it as if there were something arbitrary, and importunate, and selfish in the demand. Demand itself repels them, because they do not understand it. They think of the Supreme Being in this attitude, somewhat as they would of a man, if he stood before them saying, "Love me, give me your heart, upon pain of my displeasure, and of long-enduring penal miseries for your disobedience." Divine goodness, thus regarded, does not, and cannot, steal into the heart, as the excellence of a human being does. And this, I say, is a mistake. Divine goodness, thus regarded, is mistaken -misapprehended altogether. There is not so much that is personal in God's claim for our hearts as there is in man's claim. It does not so much concern him, if I may speak so, that we should love him personally, as it concerns man that we should love him personally. He is not dependent on our love, as man is dependent upon it. The command which he lays upon us to love him, is but a part of the command to love all goodness. He equally commands us to love one another. Nay, he has graciously represented the want of love to one another as the evidence of want of love to him. He has thus, in a sense, identified these affections; and thus taught us, that an affection for excellence, whether in himself or in his creatures, is essentially the affection that he demands. The demand for our love, which the Infinite Being addresses to us, is infinitely generous. He requires us to love all goodness-to love it alike in himself and in others-to love goodness for goodness' sake-to love it because it is just that we should love it, because it is right, because it is for our welfare, because, in one word, it is all our excellence and all our happiness.

I must not dwell longer upon these mistakes; but, in leaving this topic, let me exhort every one to endeavour to correct them. With many, this will require a frequent, an almost constant effort. The influence of early education or of later error: theology, superstition, and sin, have so overshadowed their path, that they must not expect to see the light without much faithful endeavour. Let them be entreated by

everything most precious to them, to make it. And thus let them make the endeavour. Let them see God in everything that they lawfully admire and love. If there be any goodliness and loveliness in the world; if there be anything dear and delightful in the excellence of good men; if heaven from its majestic heights, if earth from its lowly beauty, sends one sweet or one sublime thought into your mind-think that this is a manifestation of the ever-beautiful, ever-blessed perfection of God. Think, I say emphatically, and let not your mind sleepthink for ever, that the whole universe of glory and beauty is one revelation of God. Think thus, I say,-thus faithfully and perseveringly; and you will find that no strength nor freedom of emotion in the world, is like the freedom and strength of devotion; that no joy, no rapture on earth, is like the joy, the rapture of piety!

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