The peculiarly selfish character of religion is often exemplified, but
we do not remember a better illustration than the one which recently
occurred at Folkestone. The twenty-seven seamen who were rescued from
the _Benvenue_ attended a thanksgiving service at the parish church,
where the vicar delivered "a short address suitable to the occasion."
Their captain and four of his crew were drowned, and the lucky survivors
thanked the Lord for saving them, though he let the others perish in the
yeasty waves.
We should like to see a copy of that vicar's suitable discourse. We
suspect it would be an interesting study to a cynic. No doubt the man of
God's chief motive was professional. The saving of those shipwrecked men
was a splendid piece of work, but it required to be rounded off. It was
not complete unless the parson blessed it and approved it with a text.
He came in at the finish when the danger was all over, and gave the
perfecting touch in the shape of a cheap benediction. Probably the man
of God put in a good word for Providence. The poor sailors had been
snatched from the jaws of death; their minds were therefore in a state
of agitation, and at the very best they are not a logical or reflective
race of men. Very likely, therefore, they assented to the theory that
they owed their deliverance to the blessing of God, but a little quiet
thought about the matter would possibly make them see it in a different
light.
The persons who visibly _did_ save them from drowning were gallant
lifeboat-men, who put their own lives in deadly peril, fighting the
storm inch by inch in the hope of rescuing a number of unknown fellow
creatures. All honor to _them!_ We would sooner doff the hat to them
than to any prince in Christendom. Some of them, perhaps, take a drop
too much occasionally, and their language may often be more vigorous
than polite. But all that is superficial. The real test of a man is what
he will do when he is put to it. When those rough fellows saw a brave
task before them, all the skin-deep blackguardism dropped away; the
heroic came out in supreme majesty, and they were consecrated by it more
truly than any smug priest at his profitable altar. As they jumped into
the boat they proved the nobility of human nature, and the damnable
falsehood of the Christian doctrine of original sin.
What share Providence had in the matter is not very apparent. Strong
arms and stout hearts were in the lifeboat, and that accounts for her
reaching the wreck. Had the rowers the choice of a stimulus, we dare say
they would have taken a swig of brandy in preference to any quantity of
the Holy Spirit. What Providence _might_ have done if he, she, or it
was in the humor, was to keep the shipwrecked sailors safe until the
lifeboat arrived. But this was _not_ done, Those who were lashed to the
rigging were saved, while the captain and four others, less fortunately
situated, were lost. Where the _material_ means were efficacious there
was salvation, and where they failed there was disaster and death.
So much for the logical side of the matter. Now let us look at the moral
side. Religion pretends to minister to the unselfish part of our nature.
That is the theory, but how does it work out in practice? Thanking God
for saving the survivors of a shipwreck implies that he could have saved
those who perished. It also implies that he did not choose to do so. It
further implies that the saved are more worthy, or more important, than
the lost; at least, it implies that they are greater favorites in
the "eye of heaven." Now this is a frightful piece of egotism, which
everyone with a spark of manhood would be disgusted at if he saw it in
its true colors.
Nor is this all. It is not even the worst. There is a viler aspect of
this "thanksgiving" business. One man is saved in a disaster and another
is killed. When the first realises his good luck he congratulates
himself, This is natural and pardonable, but only for a moment. The
least disinterestedness, the least sympathy, the least imagination,
would make him think of his dead companion. "Did he suffer much, poor
fellow? What will his wife do? How will his little ones get on without
a father? After all, mightn't it have been better if he had been spared
instead of me? Who knows?"
If these reflections did not occur under the stimulated instinct of
self-preservation it would be bad enough. How much worse when the
survivor keeps up the selfish attitude in cold blood, and deliberately
goes about thanking God for _his_ preservation! Ordinary reason and
humanity would cry shame on such egotism, but religion steps in and
sanctifies it.
Some of these days an honest man will be provoked into a bit of good
strong "blasphemy." When he hears a fellow thanking Providence for _his_
safety, while others perished, this honest man will shrug his shoulders.
And when the fellow cries "Bless God!" this honest man will exclaim
"Damn God!"
No doubt the priests would burn that honest man alive if they had the
power. But his logic and his feelings will be better than theirs. He
will abhor selfishness even in the disguise of piety, and he will argue
that if God is to be credited with the lives of those who are saved,
he should also be debited with the lives of those who are lost. And how
would the account stand then?