A blog drawn from the writings of Thomas Cogswell Upham (1799-1872).
Just as spiritual joy should not be confused with love, neither should natural joy. In both cases, love and joy are genuinely distinct experiences. But beyond that shared distinction, there is another important point: spiritual (or gracious) joy differs from natural joy in several key ways. Exploring those differences will help shed more light on the nature of true spiritual experience.
For that reason, anyone who is sincerely and unselfishly seeking perfect love can rightly be said to be seeking holiness.
That said, experience shows that there is a serious and subtle mistake that some people make along the way. Even when they genuinely desire sanctification and believe they are pursuing it properly, they sometimes confuse love with joy. Without fully realizing it, they end up chasing an intense, emotionally uplifting state rather than true love itself. This is likely what Lady Maxwell was pointing to when she said,
“The Lord has taught me that it is by faith, and not joy, that I must live.”
When we love God in the highest and fullest sense, all other loves become secondary and take their direction from that primary love. In that case, we come to share God’s own way of loving. We begin to care about what God cares about. Our love flows along the same path as God's love. Whatever God values — whether great or small, material or spiritual — will matter to us in proportion to how well we perceive it and how capable we are of loving it.
Scripture makes this plain in the great commandment: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself.” The moment a person begins to love, holiness begins. But holiness is complete only when love has fully overcome selfishness — when a person loves with the whole heart.
Faith, without question, comes before love. Whether we look at this biblically or psychologically, faith is the foundation and the necessary starting point. But even so, Scripture gives love the highest honor, calling it “the fulfillment of the law.” So the most important question we can ask — whether we truly belong to God and are genuinely holy — ultimately comes down to this: Are we perfected in love?
However it begins, this habit of looking for signs is wrong in principle and harmful in its results.
I move best with a gentle wind. A high-spirited heart paired with full sails is dangerous, so I prepare myself for a quieter way of living. I don’t want much, and I actively pray against wanting much. My work — my calling — is my study. I ask for whatever genuinely serves that calling, and does not distract me from it. Beyond that, I want nothing more.
“The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the Son of God.”
These and similar passages point to a central truth: the Christian life is meant to be lived by faith, not by constant, visible certainty. It is a life shaped by trust rather than by open vision.
Faith itself takes many forms, each valuable in its proper place, and all connected — more or less closely — to the life of faith. But the particular kind of faith that most directly sustains this life is the one that makes God present in every moment and in every event. The absence of this kind of faith is a major source of spiritual weakness. Because of this lack, many people who genuinely believe in God, in Christ, and even in their own final salvation still make very little progress in holiness.
They tend to hold to a general, abstract faith — one that deals in broad ideas rather than specific realities. By doing so, they place God at a distance. In contrast, a faith that is concrete and particular brings God near. It makes Him present and personal in every concern of life and establishes a continuous, living relationship between God and the soul.
That raises a thoughtful and worthwhile question: what exactly is the relationship between them?
To begin, assurance of faith and perfect love relate to each other as cause and effect, or more precisely, as what comes first and what follows. Assurance of faith naturally and necessarily comes before perfect love.
Some theologians — capable thinkers, to be sure — have tried to reverse this order. They argue that love comes first, and that faith grows out of love, making perfect love the foundation of assurance. But it’s hard to see how this position holds up, either logically or biblically.
Dennis Metzler presents Thomas C. Upham's case for pacifism:
Metzler has followed this up with videos on Pacifism among the Early Pentecostals, as well.
It’s hardly necessary to say much more to highlight just how important the assurance of faith really is. Anyone who genuinely longs for holiness of heart will naturally place great value on assurance, because holiness — understood in the gospel sense — is simply perfect love. And perfect love grows out of a mature, confident faith. In other words, deep assurance and deep holiness rise together.
When we look carefully at what assurance of faith actually is, it seems to rest on two essential elements. First, there is a steady, unshakable confidence in God — his character, his ways, and his promises. Second, there is a confident belief that we ourselves are accepted by God through Christ. Assurance is not limited to this personal element alone, as some people assume. Personal confidence rests on a broader, settled trust in God as a whole. Without that foundation, personal assurance has no place to stand.
We have already touched briefly on this second principle before, but it deserves further attention here.
When we consecrate ourselves to God in the way described, we take a step that is absolutely essential from every possible angle. Yet simply offering everything is not enough. In the same spirit of reliance, we must also believe — without wavering — that God has accepted that offering.
This belief is nothing less than trust in God’s faithfulness to His word. It is the confidence that God will receive — and does now receive — all who place themselves without reservation on His altar. This faith, more than anything else, secures the presence of sanctifying power in the soul. On the other hand, someone may consecrate themselves sincerely and yet dishonor God’s truth by failing to believe that their offering is accepted. In doing so, they cut themselves off from the very power that faith alone can bring, leaving themselves exposed and defenseless against the adversary.
— Christ in the Soul (1872) LXXXIX.
From what has already been said, one thing should be clear: real growth in the life of faith is not likely without a settled, personal, and devout act of consecration. If a Christian is unwilling to make such a commitment — or is content merely to wish for it without actually carrying it out through a clear and decisive act — there is little reason to expect deep progress or the kind of inward spiritual experience that I will describe later.
This duty is so important, and so much depends on it, that it deserves careful and focused attention on its own.
How do we move from weak faith to confident faith, from inconsistent love to a love that is whole and mature? How do we experience what Scripture often calls entire sanctification?
In response, we suggest that three essential elements are involved—always in partnership with the work of the Holy Spirit. Without these, holiness will remain more of a theory than a lived reality.
There is a form of religious experience that can rightly be called The Hidden Life. When someone first becomes aware of their sin and, however imperfectly, puts their faith in Christ as a Savior, they truly begin a new life. Even if that faith feels weak or uncertain, it marks a real turning point.
But that new life is only a beginning. It carries within it the seed of something far greater — a restored and renewed existence that will, over time, grow into deeper understanding and stronger spiritual feeling. At first, though, it is still fragile. It struggles constantly with the old, natural way of living and often seems like little more than the faint light of dawn before the full day arrives.
— Christ in the Soul (1872) LXXXVIII.
— The Religious Offering (1835), XXIX.
