Reprinted from The Union Seminary Review, xxxii. 1920–1921, pp. 89–123, 196–230, 273–298, and xxxiii. 1921–1922, pp. 44–65.
I. Upham and His Second Conversion
A great deal of the perfectionism which vexed the American churches through the first three-quarters of the nineteenth century was mystically colored. There is no difficulty in accounting for this. The embarrassment rather is to select out of numerous accounts which suggest themselves, the particular one which was really determining in each case. In some instances no doubt the mysticism was self-generated. A doctrine essentially mystical spontaneously presented itself to the inflamed minds of fanatics, as the basis of their pretension to peculiar holiness. The assumption of possession by the Divine Spirit is made with great ease. Even the West African savages make it. Nineteenth century Americans, however, did not live in the isolation of West African savages. They could not escape from the currents of religious sentiment which came flowing down to them through the years, even if they would. We easily underestimate the force and persistency of religious tradition, especially among what we call the submerged classes; and very especially if the tradition be in any degree fanatical and if it has been distilled into the blood through the experience of some form of persecution. The English sectaries of the seventeenth century were still living beneath the skins of many nineteenth century Americans; and there could be found inheritances even from radical mediæval sects, no doubt, if any one should dig deeply enough for them. Nevertheless, it was not to tradition that the mystical perfectionism which was continually springing up in nineteenth century Americans ordinarily owed its origin. It was to direct infection, either through personal contact or literary inculcation.
We have only, for example, to think of the Quakers. They were a compact body, universally esteemed, and exerting wide influence. Wherever this influence extended, a mystical perfectionism was commended, which the more recommended itself that it seemed to speak in much the same language that was familiar to everyone on the lips of the Methodists. There is nothing on which Quakerism has more strenuously insisted from its first origin than “a holy and sinless life,” as the natural product of “that of God” which dwells within us, the “Light,” the “Seed,” the “Principle” of God within us, the “Christ within.” When George Fox was haled before the magistrates of Derby, he was asked, he tells us, whether he “was sanctified.” “I answered,” he says, “ ‘Yes; for I am in the paradise of God.’ Then they asked me if I had no sin. I answered, ‘Christ my Saviour has taken away my sin; and in Him there is no sin.’ They asked how we knew that Christ did abide in us. I said, ‘By His Spirit, that He hath given us.’ ”1 The germ of the developed Quaker doctrine is already here—both in the extremity of its assertion and in its mystical basis.
The developed doctrine is set forth in barest outline by Robert Barclay, the most esteemed of the Quaker teachers, in his “Theological Theses.” “This certain doctrine then being received,” he writes, “(to-wit) that there is an evangelical and saving light and grace in all, … as many as resist not this light, but receive the same, in them is produced an holy, pure, and spiritual birth, bringing forth holiness, righteousness, purity, and all these other blessed fruits which are acceptable to God; by which holy birth (to-wit, Jesus Christ formed within us, and working his works in us) as we are sanctified, so are we justified in the sight of God.… In whom this holy and pure birth is fully brought forth, the body of death and sin comes to be crucified and removed, and their hearts united and subjected unto the truth, so as not to obey any suggestion or temptation of the evil one, but to be free from actual sinning, and transgressing of the law of God, and in that respect perfect. Yet doth this perfection still admit of a growth; and there remaineth a possibility of sinning, where the mind doth not most diligently and watchfully attend unto the Lord.”2
In his “Apology” Barclay expounds and argues these propositions at length.3 The perfection asserted, he affirms, is the result of the new birth; and is, of course, “proportionable and answerable to man’s measure”; but is not the less real, since “a little gold is perfect gold in its kind, as well as a great mass.” It is, however, capable of growth, and also, unfortunately, liable to be lost—though he “will not affirm that a state is not attainable in this life, in which to do righteousness may be so natural to the regenerate soul, that in the stability of that condition he cannot sin.” He does not profess to have himself attained that state, but he recognizes it as taught in 1 John 3:9. This text, however, if it affirms anything to the purpose, affirms it not of some but of all of those who are born of God. This inconsequence follows Barclay throughout his argument. His aim is to establish for the children of God the possibility and frequent realization of a complete perfection in this life. His appeal is made, however, always to considerations which altogether fail to support the extremity of the contention. There is an underlying assumption always that a promise of perfection is void unless fulfilled at once; or that the confession of imperfection is an admission of lack of all grace; or that remainders of sin in God’s people argue incapacity on His part to deliver them wholly, and derogate from the virtue of Christ’s sacrifice; or that the coëxistence of sin and holiness in an imperfectly sanctified heart implies that there is no difference between good and evil—which he says is the horrid blasphemy of the Ranters; or something of the kind.