Almost all the changes which the world has undergone since the
end of the Middle Ages are due to the discovery and diffusion of
new knowledge. This was the primary cause of the Renaissance, the
Reformation, and the industrial revolution. It was also, very directly,
the cause of the decay of dogmatic religion. The study of classical
texts and early Church history, Copernican astronomy and physics,
Darwinian biology and comparative anthropology, have each in turn
battered down some part of the edifice of Catholic dogma, until,
for almost all thinking and instructed people, the most that seems
defensible is some inner spirit, some vague hope, and some not very
definite feeling of moral obligation. This result might perhaps have
remained limited to the educated minority but for the fact that the
Churches have almost everywhere opposed political progress with the
same bitterness with which they have opposed progress in thought.
Political conservatism has brought the Churches into conflict with
whatever was vigorous in the working classes, and has spread free
thought in wide circles which might otherwise have remained orthodox
for centuries. The decay of dogmatic religion is, for good or evil,
one of the most important facts in the modern world. Its effects have
hardly yet begun to show themselves: what they will be it is impossible
to say, but they will certainly be profound and far-reaching.

Religion is partly personal, partly social: to the Protestant primarily
personal, to the Catholic primarily social. It is only when the two
elements are intimately blended that religion becomes a powerful
force in molding society. The Catholic Church, as it existed from the
time of Constantine to the time of the Reformation, represented a
blending which would have seemed incredible if it had not been actually
achieved, the blending of Christ and Cæsar, of the morality of humble
submission with the pride of Imperial Rome. Those who loved the one
could find it in the Thebaid; those who loved the other could admire it
in the pomp of metropolitan archbishops. In St. Francis and Innocent
III the same two sides of the Church are still represented. But
since the Reformation personal religion has been increasingly outside
the Catholic Church, while the religion which has remained Catholic
has been increasingly a matter of institutions and politics and
historic continuity. This division has weakened the force of religion:
religious bodies have not been strengthened by the enthusiasm and
single-mindedness of the men in whom personal religion is strong, and
these men have not found their teaching diffused and made permanent by
the power of ecclesiastical institutions.

The Catholic Church achieved, during the Middle Ages, the most organic
society and the most harmonious inner synthesis of instinct, mind,
and spirit, that the Western world has ever known. St. Francis,
Thomas Aquinas, and Dante represent its summit as regards individual
development. The cathedrals, the mendicant Orders, and the triumph of
the Papacy over the Empire represent its supreme political success.
But the perfection which had been achieved was a narrow perfection:
instinct, mind, and spirit all suffered from curtailment in order to
fit into the pattern; laymen found themselves subject to the Church in
ways which they resented, and the Church used its power for rapacity
and oppression. The perfect synthesis was an enemy to new growth, and
after the time of Dante all that was living in the world had first to
fight for its right to live against the representatives of the old
order. This fight is even now not ended. Only when it is quite ended,
both in the external world of politics and in the internal world of
men’s own thoughts, will it be possible for a new organic society and
a new inner synthesis to take the place which the Church held for a
thousand years.

The clerical profession suffers from two causes, one of which it shares
with some other professions, while the other is peculiar to itself.
The cause peculiar to it is the convention that clergymen are more
virtuous than other men. Any average selection of mankind, set apart
and told that it excels the rest in virtue, must tend to sink below the
average. This is an ancient commonplace in regard to princes and those
who used to be called “the great.” But it is no less true as regards
those of the clergy who are not genuinely and by nature as much better
than the average as they are conventionally supposed to be. The other
source of harm to the clerical profession is endowments. Property
which is only available for those who will support an established
institution has a tendency to warp men’s judgments as to the excellence
of the institution. The tendency is aggravated when the property is
associated with social consideration and opportunities for petty power.
It is at its worst when the institution is tied by law to an ancient
creed, almost impossible to change, and yet quite out of touch with
the unfettered thought of the present day. All these causes combine to
damage the moral force of the Church.

It is not so much that the creed of the Church is the wrong one. What
is amiss is the mere existence of a creed. As soon as income, position,
and power are dependent upon acceptance of no matter what creed,
intellectual honesty is imperiled. Men will tell themselves that a
formal assent is justified by the good which it will enable them to do.
They fail to realize that, in those whose mental life has any vigor,
loss of complete intellectual integrity puts an end to the power of
doing good, by producing gradually in all directions an inability to
see truth simply. The strictness of party discipline has introduced the
same evil in politics; there, because the evil is comparatively new, it
is visible to many who think it unimportant as regards the Church. But
the evil is greater as regards the Church, because religion is of more
importance than politics, and because it is more necessary that the
exponents of religion should be wholly free from taint.

The evils we have been considering seem inseparable from the existence
of a professional priesthood. If religion is not to be harmful in a
world of rapid change, it must, like the Society of Friends, be carried
on by men who have other occupations during the week, who do their
religious work from enthusiasm, without receiving any payment. And such
men, because they know the everyday world, are not likely to fall into
a remote morality which no one regards as applicable to common life.
Being free, they will not be bound to reach certain conclusions decided
in advance, but will be able to consider moral and religious questions
genuinely, without bias. Except in a quite stationary society, no
religious life can be living or a real support to the spirit unless it
is freed from the incubus of a professional priesthood.

It is largely for these reasons that so little of what is valuable in
morals and religion comes nowadays from the men who are eminent in
the religious world. It is true that among professed believers there
are many who are wholly sincere, who feel still the inspiration which
Christianity brought before it had been weakened by the progress of
knowledge. These sincere believers are valuable to the world because
they keep alive the conviction that the life of the spirit is what is
of most importance to men and women. Some of them, in all the countries
now at war, have had the courage to preach peace and love in the name
of Christ, and have done what lay in their power to mitigate the
bitterness of hatred. All praise is due to these men, and without them
the world would be even worse than it is.

But it is not through even the most sincere and courageous believers
in the traditional religion that a new spirit can come into the world.
It is not through them that religion can be brought back to those who
have lost it because their minds were active, not because their spirit
was dead. Believers in the traditional religion necessarily look to
the past for inspiration rather than to the future. They seek wisdom
in the teaching of Christ, which, admirable as it is, remains quite
inadequate for many of the social and spiritual issues of modern life.
Art and intellect and all the problems of government are ignored in
the Gospels. Those who, like Tolstoy, endeavor seriously to take the
Gospels as a guide to life are compelled to regard the ignorant peasant
as the best type of man, and to brush aside political questions by an
extreme and impracticable anarchism.

If a religious view of life and the world is ever to reconquer the
thoughts and feelings of free-minded men and women, much that we are
accustomed to associate with religion will have to be discarded. The
first and greatest change that is required is to establish a morality
of initiative, not a morality of submission, a morality of hope rather
than fear, of things to be done rather than of things to be left
undone. It is not the whole duty of man to slip through the world so
as to escape the wrath of God. The world is _our_ world, and it rests
with us to make it a heaven or a hell. The power is ours, and the
kingdom and the glory would be ours also if we had courage and insight
to create them. The religious life that we must seek will not be one
of occasional solemnity and superstitious prohibitions, it will not be
sad or ascetic, it will concern itself little with rules of conduct.
It will be inspired by a vision of what human life may be, and will
be happy with the joy of creation, living in a large free world of
initiative and hope. It will love mankind, not for what they are to
the outward eye, but for what imagination shows that they have it in
them to become. It will not readily condemn, but it will give praise to
positive achievement rather than negative sinlessness, to the joy of
life, the quick affection, the creative insight, by which the world may
grow young and beautiful and filled with vigor.

“Religion” is a word which has many meanings and a long history. In
origin, it was concerned with certain rites, inherited from a remote
past, performed originally for some reason long since forgotten, and
associated from time to time with various myths to account for their
supposed importance. Much of this lingers still. A religious man is one
who goes to church, a communicant, one who “practises,” as Catholics
say. How he behaves otherwise, or how he feels concerning life and
man’s place in the world, does not bear upon the question whether he
is “religious” in this simple but historically correct sense. Many men
and women are religious in this sense without having in their natures
anything that deserves to be called religion in the sense in which I
mean the word. The mere familiarity of the Church service has made
them impervious to it; they are unconscious of all the history and
human experience by which the liturgy has been enriched, and unmoved
by the glibly repeated words of the Gospel, which condemn almost all
the activities of those who fancy themselves disciples of Christ. This
fate must overtake any habitual rite: it is impossible that it should
continue to produce much effect after it has been performed so often as
to grow mechanical.

The activities of men may be roughly derived from three sources, not
in actual fact sharply separate one from another, but sufficiently
distinguishable to deserve different names. The three sources I mean
are instinct, mind, and spirit, and of these three it is the life of
the spirit that makes religion.

The life of instinct includes all that man shares with the lower
animals, all that is concerned with self-preservation and reproduction
and the desires and impulses derivative from these. It includes vanity
and love of possessions, love of family, and even much of what makes
love of country. It includes all the impulses that are essentially
concerned with the biological success of oneself or one’s group—for
among gregarious animals the life of instinct includes the group. The
impulses which it includes may not in fact make for success, and may
often in fact militate against it, but are nevertheless those of which
success is the _raison d’être_, those which express the animal nature
of man and his position among a world of competitors.

The life of the mind is the life of pursuit of knowledge, from mere
childish curiosity up to the greatest efforts of thought. Curiosity
exists in animals, and serves an obvious biological purpose; but it
is only in men that it passes beyond the investigation of particular
objects which may be edible or poisonous, friendly or hostile.
Curiosity is the primary impulse out of which the whole edifice of
scientific knowledge has grown. Knowledge has been found so useful
that most actual acquisition of it is no longer prompted by curiosity;
innumerable other motives now contribute to foster the intellectual
life. Nevertheless, direct love of knowledge and dislike of error still
play a very large part, especially with those who are most successful
in learning. No man acquires much knowledge unless the acquisition is
in itself delightful to him, apart from any consciousness of the use
to which the knowledge may be put. The impulse to acquire knowledge
and the activities which center round it constitute what I mean by the
life of the mind. The life of the mind consists of thought which is
wholly or partially impersonal, in the sense that it concerns itself
with objects on their own account, and not merely on account of their
bearing upon our instinctive life.

The life of the spirit centers round impersonal feeling, as the life
of the mind centers round impersonal thought. In this sense, all art
belongs to the life of the spirit, though its greatness is derived
from its being also intimately bound up with the life of instinct. Art
starts from instinct and rises into the region of the spirit; religion
starts from the spirit and endeavors to dominate and inform the life
of instinct. It is possible to feel the same interest in the joys and
sorrows of others as in our own, to love and hate independently of
all relation to ourselves, to care about the destiny of man and the
development of the universe without a thought that we are personally
involved. Reverence and worship, the sense of an obligation to
mankind, the feeling of imperativeness and acting under orders which
traditional religion has interpreted as Divine inspiration, all
belong to the life of the spirit. And deeper than all these lies the
sense of a mystery half revealed, of a hidden wisdom and glory, of a
transfiguring vision in which common things lose their solid importance
and become a thin veil behind which the ultimate truth of the world is
dimly seen. It is such feelings that are the source of religion, and if
they were to die most of what is best would vanish out of life.

Instinct, mind, and spirit are all essential to a full life; each has
its own excellence and its own corruption. Each can attain a spurious
excellence at the expense of the others; each has a tendency to
encroach upon the others; but in the life which is to be sought all
three will be developed in coördination, and intimately blended in a
single harmonious whole. Among uncivilized men instinct is supreme,
and mind and spirit hardly exist. Among educated men at the present
day mind is developed, as a rule, at the expense of both instinct and
spirit, producing a curious inhumanity and lifelessness, a paucity
of both personal and impersonal desires, which leads to cynicism and
intellectual destructiveness. Among ascetics and most of those who
would be called saints, the life of the spirit has been developed
at the expense of instinct and mind, producing an outlook which is
impossible to those who have a healthy animal life and to those who
have a love of active thought. It is not in any of these one-sided
developments that we can find wisdom or a philosophy which will bring
new life to the civilized world.

Among civilized men and women at the present day it is rare to find
instinct, mind, and spirit in harmony. Very few have achieved a
practical philosophy which gives its due place to each; as a rule,
instinct is at war with either mind or spirit, and mind and spirit are
at war with each other. This strife compels men and women to direct
much of their energy inwards, instead of being able to expend it all
in objective activities. When a man achieves a precarious inward peace
by the defeat of a part of his nature, his vital force is impaired,
and his growth is no longer quite healthy. If men are to remain whole,
it is very necessary that they should achieve a reconciliation of
instinct, mind, and spirit.

Instinct is the source of vitality, the bond that unites the life of
the individual with the life of the race, the basis of all profound
sense of union with others, and the means by which the collective life
nourishes the life of the separate units. But instinct by itself leaves
us powerless to control the forces of Nature, either in ourselves
or in our physical environment, and keeps us in bondage to the same
unthinking impulse by which the trees grow. Mind can liberate us from
this bondage, by the power of impersonal thought, which enables us to
judge critically the purely biological purposes towards which instinct
more or less blindly tends. But mind, in its dealings with instinct,
is _merely_ critical: so far as instinct is concerned, the unchecked
activity of the mind is apt to be destructive and to generate cynicism.
Spirit is an antidote to the cynicism of mind: it universalizes the
emotions that spring from instinct, and by universalizing them makes
them impervious to mental criticism. And when thought is informed by
spirit it loses its cruel, destructive quality; it no longer promotes
the death of instinct, but only its purification from insistence and
ruthlessness and its emancipation from the prison walls of accidental
circumstance. It is instinct that gives force, mind that gives the
means of directing force to desired ends, and spirit that suggests
impersonal uses for force of a kind that thought cannot discredit by
criticism. This is an outline of the parts that instinct, mind, and
spirit would play in a harmonious life.

Instinct, mind, and spirit are each a help to the others when their
development is free and unvitiated; but when corruption comes into any
one of the three, not only does that one fail, but the others also
become poisoned. All three must grow together. And if they are to grow
to their full stature in any one man or woman, that man or woman must
not be isolated, but must be one of a society where growth is not
thwarted and made crooked.

The life of instinct, when it is unchecked by mind or spirit,
consists of instinctive cycles, which begin with impulses to more
or less definite acts, and pass on to satisfaction of needs through
the consequences of these impulsive acts. Impulse and desire are not
directed towards the whole cycle, but only towards its initiation:
the rest is left to natural causes. We desire to eat, but we do not
desire to be nourished unless we are valetudinarians. Yet without
the nourishment eating is a mere momentary pleasure, not part of the
general impulse to life. Men desire sexual intercourse, but they
do not as a rule desire children strongly or often. Yet without the
hope of children and its occasional realization, sexual intercourse
remains for most people an isolated and separate pleasure, not uniting
their personal life with the life of mankind, not continuous with the
central purposes by which they live, and not capable of bringing that
profound sense of fulfilment which comes from completion by children.
Most men, unless the impulse is atrophied through disuse, feel a desire
to create something, great or small according to their capacities.
Some few are able to satisfy this desire: some happy men can create an
Empire, a science, a poem, or a picture. The men of science, who have
less difficulty than any others in finding an outlet for creativeness,
are the happiest of intelligent men in the modern world, since their
creative activity affords full satisfaction to mind and spirit as well
as to the instinct of creation.[21] In them a beginning is to be seen
of the new way of life which is to be sought; in their happiness we
may perhaps find the germ of a future happiness for all mankind. The
rest, with few exceptions, are thwarted in their creative impulses.
They cannot build their own house or make their own garden, or direct
their own labor to producing what their free choice would lead them to
produce. In this way the instinct of creation, which should lead on to
the life of mind and spirit, is checked and turned aside. Too often it
is turned to destruction, as the only effective action which remains
possible. Out of its defeat grows envy, and out of envy grows the
impulse to destroy the creativeness of more fortunate men. This is one
of the greatest sources of corruption in the life of instinct.

The life of instinct is important, not only on its own account, or
because of the direct usefulness of the actions which it inspires, but
also because, if it is unsatisfactory, the individual life becomes
detached and separated from the general life of man. All really
profound sense of unity with others depends upon instinct, upon
coöperation or agreement in some instinctive purpose. This is most
obvious in the relations of men and women and parents and children.
But it is true also in wider relations. It is true of large assemblies
swayed by a strong common emotion, and even of a whole nation in
times of stress. It is part of what makes the value of religion as a
social institution. Where this feeling is wholly absent, other human
beings seem distant and aloof. Where it is actively thwarted, other
human beings become objects of instinctive hostility. The aloofness
or the instinctive hostility may be masked by religious love, which
can be given to all men regardless of their relation to ourselves. But
religious love does not bridge the gulf that parts man from man: it
looks across the gulf, it views others with compassion or impersonal
sympathy, but it does not live with the same life with which they live.
Instinct alone can do this, but only when it is fruitful and sane and
direct. To this end it is necessary that instinctive cycles should be
fairly often completed, not interrupted in the middle of their course.
At present they are constantly interrupted, partly by purposes which
conflict with them for economic or other reasons, partly by the pursuit
of pleasure, which picks out the most agreeable part of the cycle and
avoids the rest. In this way instinct is robbed of its importance and
seriousness; it becomes incapable of bringing any real fulfilment, its
demands grow more and more excessive, and life becomes no longer a
whole with a single movement, but a series of detached moments, some of
them pleasurable, most of them full of weariness and discouragement.

The life of the mind, although supremely excellent in itself, cannot
bring health into the life of instinct, except when it results in a not
too difficult outlet for the instinct of creation. In other cases it
is, as a rule, too widely separated from instinct, too detached, too
destitute of inward growth, to afford either a vehicle for instinct
or a means of subtilizing and refining it. Thought is in its essence
impersonal and detached, instinct is in its essence personal and tied
to particular circumstances: between the two, unless both reach a
high level, there is a war which is not easily appeased. This is the
fundamental reason for vitalism, futurism, pragmatism, and the various
other philosophies which advertise themselves as vigorous and virile.
All these represent the attempt to find a mode of thought which shall
not be hostile to instinct. The attempt, in itself, is deserving of
praise, but the solution offered is far too facile. What is proposed
amounts to a subordination of thought to instinct, a refusal to allow
thought to achieve its own ideal. Thought which does not rise above
what is personal is not thought in any true sense: it is merely a more
or less intelligent use of instinct. It is thought and spirit that
raise man above the level of the brutes. By discarding them we may lose
the proper excellence of men, but cannot acquire the excellence of
animals. Thought must achieve its full growth before a reconciliation
with instinct is attempted.

When refined thought and unrefined instinct coexist, as they do in many
intellectual men, the result is a complete disbelief in any important
good to be achieved by the help of instinct. According to their
disposition, some such men will as far as possible discard instinct and
become ascetic, while others will accept it as a necessity, leaving
it degraded and separated from all that is really important in their
lives. Either of these courses prevents instinct from remaining vital,
or from being a bond with others; either produces a sense of physical
solitude, a gulf across which the minds and spirits of others may
speak, but not their instincts. To very many men, the instinct of
patriotism, when the war broke out, was the first instinct that had
bridged the gulf, the first that had made them feel a really profound
unity with others. This instinct, just because, in its intense form,
it was new and unfamiliar, had remained uninfected by thought, not
paralyzed or devitalized by doubt and cold detachment. The sense of
unity which it brought is capable of being brought by the instinctive
life of more normal times, if thought and spirit are not hostile to
it. And so long as this sense of unity is absent, instinct and spirit
cannot be in harmony, nor can the life of the community have vigor and
the seeds of new growth.

The life of the mind, because of its detachment, tends to separate a
man inwardly from other men, so long as it is not balanced by the life
of the spirit. For this reason, mind without spirit can render instinct
corrupt or atrophied, but cannot add any excellence to the life of
instinct. On this ground, some men are hostile to thought. But no good
purpose is served by trying to prevent the growth of thought, which has
its own insistence, and if checked in the directions in which it tends
naturally, will turn into other directions where it is more harmful.
And thought is in itself god-like: if the opposition between thought
and instinct were irreconcilable, it would be thought that ought to
conquer. But the opposition is not irreconciliable: all that is
necessary is that both thought and instinct should be informed by the
life of the spirit.

In order that human life should have vigor, it is necessary for the
instinctive impulses to be strong and direct; but in order that human
life should be good, these impulses must be dominated and controlled
by desires less personal and ruthless, less liable to lead to conflict
than those that are inspired by instinct alone. Something impersonal
and universal is needed over and above what springs out of the
principle of individual growth. It is this that is given by the life of
the spirit.

Patriotism affords an example of the kind of control which is needed.
Patriotism is compounded out of a number of instinctive feelings and
impulses: love of home, love of those whose ways and outlook resemble
our own, the impulse to coöperation in a group, the sense of pride
in the achievements of one’s group. All these impulses and desires,
like everything belonging to the life of instinct, are personal, in
the sense that the feelings and actions which they inspire towards
others are determined by the relation of those others to ourselves,
not by what those others are intrinsically. All these impulses and
desires unite to produce a love of man’s own country which is more
deeply implanted in the fiber of his being, and more closely united to
his vital force, than any love not rooted in instinct. But if spirit
does not enter in to generalize love of country, the exclusiveness of
instinctive love makes it a source of hatred of other countries. What
spirit can effect is to make us realize that other countries equally
are worthy of love, that the vital warmth which makes us love our own
country reveals to us that it deserves to be loved, and that only the
poverty of our nature prevents us from loving all countries as we love
our own. In this way instinctive love can be extended in imagination,
and a sense of the value of all mankind can grow up, which is more
living and intense than any that is possible to those whose instinctive
love is weak. Mind can only show us that it is irrational to love our
own country best; it can weaken patriotism, but cannot strengthen
the love of all mankind. Spirit alone can do this, by extending and
universalizing the love that is born of instinct. And in doing this it
checks and purifies whatever is insistent or ruthless or oppressively
personal in the life of instinct.

The same extension through spirit is necessary with other instinctive
loves, if they are not to be enfeebled or corrupted by thought. The
love of husband and wife is capable of being a very good thing, and
when men and women are sufficiently primitive nothing but instinct
and good fortune is needed to make it reach a certain limited
perfection. But as thought begins to assert its right to criticize
instinct the old simplicity becomes impossible. The love of husband
and wife, as unchecked instinct leaves it, is too narrow and personal
to stand against the shafts of satire, until it is enriched by the
life of the spirit. The romantic view of marriage, which our fathers
and mothers professed to believe, will not survive an imaginative
peregrination down a street of suburban villas, each containing its
couple, each couple having congratulated themselves as they first
crossed the threshold, that here they could love in peace, without
interruption from others, without contact with the cold outside world.
The separateness and stuffiness, the fine names for cowardices and
timid vanities, that are shut within the four walls of thousands upon
thousands of little villas, present themselves coldly and mercilessly
to those in whom mind is dominant at the expense of spirit.

Nothing is good in the life of a human being except the very best that
his nature can achieve. As men advance, things which have been good
cease to be good, merely because something better is possible. So it is
with the life of instinct: for those whose mental life is strong, much
that was really good while mind remained less developed has now become
bad merely through the greater degree of truth in their outlook on the
world. The instinctive man in love feels that his emotion is unique,
that the lady of his heart has perfections such as no other woman ever
equaled. The man who has acquired the power of impersonal thought
realizes, when he is in love, that he is one of so many millions of
men who are in love at this moment, that not more than one of all the
millions can be right in thinking his love supreme, and that it is not
likely that that one is oneself. He perceives that the state of being
in love in those whose instinct is unaffected by thought or spirit,
is a state of illusion, serving the ends of Nature and making a man
a slave to the life of the species, not a willing minister to the
impersonal ends which he sees to be good. Thought rejects this slavery;
for no end that Nature may have in view will thought abdicate, or forgo
its right to think truly. “Better the world should perish than that
I or any other human being should believe a lie”—this is the religion
of thought, in whose scorching flames the dross of the world is being
burnt away. It is a good religion, and its work of destruction must be
completed. But it is not all that man has need of. New growth must come
after the destruction, and new growth can come only through the spirit.

Both patriotism and the love of man and woman, when they are merely
instinctive, have the same defects: their exclusions, their enclosing
walls, their indifference or hostility to the outside world. It is
through this that thought is led to satire, that comedy has infected
what men used to consider their holiest feelings. The satire and the
comedy are justified, but not the death of instinct which they may
produce if they remain in supreme command. They are justified, not as
the last word of wisdom but as the gateway of pain through which men
pass to a new life, where instinct is purified and yet nourished by the
deeper desires and insight of spirit.

The man who has the life of the spirit within him views the love of man
and woman, both in himself and in others, quite differently from the
man who is exclusively dominated by mind. He sees, in his moments of
insight, that in all human beings there is something deserving of love,
something mysterious, something appealing, a cry out of the night, a
groping journey, and a possible victory. When his instinct loves, he
welcomes its help in seeing and feeling the value of the human being
whom he loves. Instinct becomes a reinforcement to spiritual insight.
What instinct tells him spiritual insight confirms, however much the
mind may be aware of littlenesses, limitations, and enclosing walls
that prevent the spirit from shining forth. His spirit divines in all
men what his instinct shows him in the object of his love.

The love of parents for children has need of the same transformation.
The purely instinctive love, unchecked by thought, uninformed by
spirit, is exclusive, ruthless, and unjust. No benefit to others is
felt, by the purely instinctive parent, to be worth an injury to one’s
own children. Honor and conventional morality place certain important
practical limitations on the vicarious selfishness of parents, since
a civilized community exacts a certain minimum before it will give
respect. But within the limits allowed by public opinion, parental
affection, when it is merely instinctive, will seek the advantage
of children without regard to others. Mind can weaken the impulse to
injustice, and diminish the force of instinctive love, but it cannot
keep the whole force of instinctive love and turn it to more universal
ends. Spirit can do this. It can leave the instinctive love of children
undimmed, and extend the poignant devotion of a parent, in imagination,
to the whole world. And parental love itself will prompt the parent
who has the life of the spirit to give to his children the sense of
justice, the readiness for service, the reverence, the will that
controls self-seeking, which he feels to be a greater good than any
personal success.

The life of the spirit has suffered in recent times by its association
with traditional religion, by its apparent hostility to the life of the
mind, and by the fact that it has seemed to center in renunciation.
The life of the spirit demands readiness for renunciation when the
occasion arises, but is in its essence as positive and as capable of
enriching individual existence as mind and instinct are. It brings with
it the joy of vision, of the mystery and profundity of the world, of
the contemplation of life, and above all the joy of universal love.
It liberates those who have it from the prison-house of insistent
personal passion and mundane cares. It gives freedom and breadth and
beauty to men’s thoughts and feelings, and to all their relations with
others. It brings the solution of doubts, the end of the feeling that
all is vanity. It restores harmony between mind and instinct, and leads
the separated unit back into his place in the life of mankind. For
those who have once entered the world of thought, it is only through
spirit that happiness and peace can return.