When conditions were so favorable for the development of natural religion, it is not surprising that profound interest was manifested also in revealed religion. Especially when we remember that these pioneers of the wilderness were but from one to three generations removed from ancestors who had left the Old World for the express purpose of worshiping God according to their understanding of that same revealed religion. That skepticism of the eighteenth century which in some quarters had such a baneful influence upon religious belief was scarcely felt in these settlements remote from the old centers of the New World civilization. These men of the wilderness believed the Bible and looked upon it with the reverence worthy of men descended from Protestant fathers who had in their system of theology made it take the place of pope and church, and established it as their sole authority and infallible guide in the matters of faith and morals. While many of them refused to identify themselves with any of the various sects about them, or subscribe to their creeds, they were profound believers in the word of God, and often confessed this short creed which they duly impressed upon their descendants: "I believe in God, in the Bible, and in a state of future rewards and punishments."
There was no lack of zealous churchmen among the pioneers, sectaries who taught special forms of faith and contended for the necessity of particular dogmas and formulas with all that ardor and narrowness of view that usually characterizes the sectarian mind. Their contentions for the correctness of their respective creeds were not always free from bitterness but for all that the Protestant sects recognized each other as parts of a great universal church, and occasionally would so far put away the differences of creed which separated them as to unite for the purpose of holding union protracted meetings for the conversion of unbelievers.
During the continuance of these meetings the minister avoided preaching any doctrine except such as could be accepted by all the sects—evangelical doctrine. Professedly their sole effort was to lead the unconverted to believe in and accept Christ, let them join what sect they pleased. Usually matters went on very agreeably until the converts made by these united efforts began to express their preference for one or the other of the different religious sects. Then would break out those fierce sectarian struggles for advantage which have ever been so disgraceful to Protestant Christendom. The good feeling temporarily exhibited during the union meetings nearly all disappeared, and by the fact of its vanishing impressed an observer with the idea that all along it was more pretended than real. Sectarian zeal was unbounded in its efforts to secure as many of the new converts as possible to its own particular denomination. There was a cry of lo here and of lo there, not unfrequently accompanied with remarks of detraction about the opposing sects. The priests, each jealous for his own church, contended fiercely with one another, so that they who ought to have been the most exemplary in that conduct which makes for peace on earth and good will towards men, were often the most to be blamed for stirring up contention.
Such a wave of religious fervor brought about in the manner above set forth, and attended with results described, passed over the western part of the State of New York in the winter and spring of 1820. The movement at that time was of unusual interest, first on account of its extent, and second on account of the intensity of the religious excitement produced. It can well be imagined that with these two conditions existing, the bitterness among the sects taking part in the movement would be correspondingly great when it came to dividing up the spoils. By which I mean when the converts made by a unity of effort began to file off some to one sect and some to another. Such was the case. Presbyterians opposed Methodists, and Methodists Baptists; and Baptists opposed both the other sects. All was strife, contention, confusion, beneath which Christian charity and good will to man—these weightier matters of the law—were buried so far out of sight that it might be questioned if they ever existed.
Standing somewhat apart from, but watching with intense interest this religious excitement, and wondering greatly at the confusion and strife attendant upon it was a lad fourteen years old.1 He was born of parents numbered among the pioneers of the wilderness, and up to that time had lived with them surrounded by the conditions already described in the first part of this chapter as so favorable to morality and the development of religious sentiment. By this religious agitation the mind of the lad was stirred to serious reflection accompanied with great uneasiness on account of the sectarian strife so incessant and so bitter. He saw several members of his father's family connect themselves with the Presbyterian sect, but he himself was more partial to the Methodist Church; and at times he felt some desire to be united with them. The tumult arising from the religious contention, however, was such as to bewilder him, and he felt himself incompetent to decide who was right and who was wrong. "What is to be done?" he would often ask himself. "Who of all these parties are right? Or are they all wrong together? If any one of them be right, which is it and how shall I know it?"2
Young as he was, his native intelligence taught him that something was radically wrong with all this contention over religion. It was clear even to his boyish mind that God could not be the author of all this confusion. God's church would not be split up into factions in this fashion; if he taught one society to worship one way, and administer one set of ordinances, he would not teach another principles diametrically opposed.3
Influenced by these reflections he refrained from joining any of the sects and in the meantime studied the scriptures as best he could for himself. While thus engaged he came to that passage in James which says: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not and it shall be given him." That passage was like the voice of God to his spirit. "Never," he was wont to say in later life—"never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart."4 He reflected upon it again and again, and as he did so the impression grew stronger that the advice of the ancient apostle offered a solution to his perplexities. It never occurred to him to think that the passage meant other than it said, or to question the universal application of the advice it gives. He knew nothing of the sophistry of the schools of theology which too often made the word of God of none effect by their learned exegesis. Through the innocent eyes of a mere boy, he looked the proposition of James squarely in the front, and, thanks to the teachings of parents who revered the word of God, he believed what the man of God said, and he believed further that he expressed that which the Lord inspired him to say; so that it came to him with the full force of a revelation. Under such circumstances what was more natural than for him to reason thus: If any person needs wisdom from God, I do, for how to act I do not know, and unless I can get more wisdom than I now have, I shall never know.5 But one conclusion could be arrived at through such a course of reflection: he must either remain in darkness and confusion or do as James directed—ask of God. And since he gives wisdom to them that lack wisdom, and will give liberally and not upbraid, he thought he might venture. And so at last he did. He selected a place in a grove near his father's house, and there one beautiful morning in the spring of 1820,6 after looking timidly about to ascertain that he was alone, the boy knelt in his first attempt at vocal prayer, to ask God for wisdom.
No sooner had he begun calling upon the Lord than there sprang upon him a being from the unseen world, who so entirely overcame him, and bound his utterance, that he could not speak. Thick darkness gathered about him, and it seemed to the struggling boy that he was doomed to sudden destruction. He still exerted all his power to call upon the Lord to deliver him from the power of the enemy who had seized him. But still his unseen though none the less real enemy continued to prevail. Despair filled his heart. He was about to abandon himself to destruction when at the moment of his greatest alarm he saw a pillar of light exactly over his head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon him. No sooner did this light appear than he was free from the enemy which had held him bound. As the light rested upon him he saw within it two personages whose brightness and glory defy all description. They stood above him in the air, and one of them pointing to the other said: "JOSEPH, THIS IS MY BELOVED SON, HEAR HIM."
The object of the lad in going to that place to