What is a miracle? Some people would reply, an act of God. But this
definition is far too wide. In the theistic sense, it would include
everything that happens; and in the sense of our archaic bills of
lading, it would include fire and shipwreck.
Others would reply, a miracle is a wonder. But this definition would
include every new, or at least every surprising new fact. A black swan
would have been a wonder before Australia was discovered, but it would
have been no miracle. Railways, telegraphs, telephones, electric light,
and even gas light, would be wonders to savages, yet neither are they
miracles. One of the Mahdi's followers was astonished by an English
officer, who pulled out his false eye, tossed it in the air, caught it,
and replaced it; after which he asked the flabbergasted Arab whether his
miraculous Mahdi could do that. It was a greater wonder than the Mahdi
could perform; still it was not a miracle. Ice was so great a wonder to
the King of Siam that he refused to credit its existence. Yet it was
not miraculous, but a natural product, existing in practically unlimited
quantities in the polar regions. We might multiply these illustrations
_ad infinitum_, but what we have given will suffice. If not, let the
reader spend an evening at Maskelyne and Cooke's, where he will see
plenty of startling wonders and not a miracle amongst them.
Hume's definition of a miracle as a violation of a law of nature, is the
best ever given, and it really is as perfect as such a definition can
be. It has been carped at by Christian scribblers, and criticised by
superior theologians like Mozley. But, to use Mr. Gladstone's phrase, it
keeps the field. Even the criticisms of Mill and Huxley leave its merit
unimpaired. The ground taken by these is, that to say a miracle is a
violation of a law of nature is to prejudge the question, and to rule
out all future facts in the interest of a prepossession. Mill, however,
allows that a miracle is a violation of a valid induction, and as a law
of nature means nothing more it is difficult to understand why he takes
any exception to Hume's statement of the case. It is perfectly obvious
that Hume's argument is not metaphysical, but practical. He does not
discuss the _possibility_ but the _probability_ of miracles. He reduces
the dispute to a single point, namely, whether the person who relates
a miracle (for to the world at large the question is necessarily one of
testimony) is deceived or deceiving, or whether the otherwise universal
experience of mankind is to be disbelieved; in other words, whether he
or the rest of the world is mistaken. One man may, of course, be right,
and all the human race opposed to him wrong, but time will settle the
difference between them. That _time_, however, simply means general
experience through long ages; and that is precisely the tribunal which
Hume s argument appeals to.
Quarrelling with Hume's definition is really giving up miracles
altogether, for, except as supernatural evidence, they are no more
important than shooting stars. The very nature of a miracle, in whatever
formula it may be expressed, is superhuman, and having a purpose, it
is also supernatural; in other words, it is a special manifestation
of divine power for a particular object. Whether, being so, it is a
violation, a contravention, or a suspension of the laws of nature, is a
mere question about words.
We may say that a miracle has three elements. It is first a fact,
unaccountable by science; secondly, it requires a conscious agent; and
thirdly, it results from the exercise of a power which that agent does
not naturally possess.
Let us descend to illustration. Huxley takes the following case. Suppose
the greatest physiologist in Europe alleged that he had seen a centaur,
a fabulous animal, half man and half horse. The presumption would be
that he was laboring under hallucination; but if he persisted in the
statement he would have to submit to the most rigorous criticism by his
scientific colleagues before it could be believed; and everybody
would feel sure beforehand that he would never pass through the ordeal
successfully. The common experience, and therefore the common sense, of
society would be dead against him, and probably he would be refused
the honor of examination even by the most fervid believers in ancient
miracles.
But after all the centaur, even if it existed, would not be a miracle,
but a monstrosity. It does not contain the three elements we have
indicated. Real miracles would be of a different character. Plenty may
be found in the Bible, and we may make a selection to illustrate our
argument. Jesus Christ was once at a marriage feast, when the wine ran
short, which was perhaps no uncommon occurrence. Being of a benevolent
turn of mind, and anxious that the guests should remember the occasion,
he turned a large quantity of cold water into fermented juice of the
grape. Now water contains oxygen and hydrogen in definite proportions,
and nothing else, while wine contains in addition to these, carbon and
other elements, being in fact a very complex liquid. Jesus Christ must,
therefore, in turning water into wine, have created something, and
that transcends human power. Here, then, we have a complete miracle,
according to Hume's definition and our own theory.
We do not say the miracle never occurred, although we no more believe in
it than we believe the moon is made of green cheese. We are willing to
regard it as susceptible of proof. But does the proof exist? To answer
this we must inquire what kind of proof is necessary. An extraordinary
story should be supported by extraordinary evidence. It requires the
concurrent and overwhelming testimony of eye-witnesses. We must be
persuaded that there is no collusion between them, that none of them
has anything to gain by deception, that they had no previous tendency
to expect such a thing, and that it was practically impossible that they
could be deluded. Now let any man or any Christian seriously ask himself
whether the evidence for Jesus Christ's miracle is of this character.
Four evangelists write his life, and only one mentions the occurrence.
Even he was certainly not an eye-witness, nor does he pretend to be, and
the weight of evidence is against his gospel having been written till
long after the first disciples of Jesus were dead. But even if the
writer distinctly declared himself an eye-witness, and if it were
undeniable that he lived on the spot at the time, his single unsupported
testimony would be absurdly inadequate to establish the truth of the
miracle. Every reader will at once see that the established rules of
evidence are not conformed to, and whoever accepts the miracle must eke
out reason with faith.
So much for the evidence of miracles. Their intellectual or moral value
is simply nil. The greatest miracle could not really convince a man of
what his reason condemned; and if a prophet could turn water into wine,
it would not necessarily follow that all he said was true. In fact,
truth does not require the support of miracles; it flourishes better
without their assistance. Universal history shows that miracles
have always been employed to support falsehood and fraud, to promote
superstition, and to enhance the profit and power of priests.