communities to be regarded and practised in a spirit little better
than commercial. Sacrifices came to be regarded as gifts, or presents,
made to the god, on the understanding that _do ut des_. Commerce
itself, when analysed, is nothing but the application of the principle
of giving to get. All that is necessary, in order to reduce religion
to commercial principles, is that the payment of vows made should be
contingent on the delivery of the goods stipulated for; that the thing
offered should be regarded as payment; that the god's favour should be
considered capable of being bought. It is however in communities which
have some aptitude for commerce and have developed it, that religion
is thus interpreted and practised. If we go back to the period in the
history of a race when commerce is as yet unknown, we reach a state of
things when the possibility of thus commercialising worship was, as
yet, undeveloped. At that early period, as in all periods, of the
history of religion, the desire of the worshippers was to be pleasing,
and to do that which was pleasing, to him whom they worshipped; and
the offerings they took with them when they approached his presence
were intended to be the outward and visible sign of their desire. But
in some, or even in many, cases, they came eventually to rely on the
sign or symbol rather than on the desire which it signified; and that
is a danger which constantly dogs all ritual. Attention is
concentrated rather on the rite than on the spiritual process, which
underlies it, and of which the rite is but the expression; and then it
becomes possible to give a false interpretation to the meaning of the
rite.
In the case of the offerings, which are made in the earliest stages of
the history of religion, the false interpretation, which comes in some
cases to be put upon them by those who make the offerings, has been
adopted by some students of the history of religion, as the true
explanation, the real meaning and the original purpose of offerings
and sacrifice. This theory--the Gift-theory of sacrifice--requires us
to believe that religion could be commercialised before commerce was
known; that religion consists, or originally consisted, not in doing
that which is pleasing in the sight of God, but in bribing the gods;
that the relatively late misinterpretation is the original and true
meaning of the rite; in a word, that there was no religion in the
earliest manifestation of religion. But it is precisely this last
contention which is fatal to the Gift-theory. Not only is it a
self-contradiction in terms, but it denies the very possibility of
religious evolution. Evolution is a process and a continuous process:
there is an unbroken continuity between the earliest and the latest of
its stages. If there was no religion whatever in the earliest stages,
neither can there be any in the latest. And that is why those who hold
religion to be an absurdity are apt to adopt the Gift-theory: the
Gift-theory implies a degrading absurdity from the beginning to the
end of the evolutionary process--an unbroken continuity of absurdity.
On the other hand, we may hold by the plain truth that there must have
been religion in the earliest manifestations of religion, and that
bribing a god is not, in our sense of the word, religious. In that
case, we shall also hold that the offerings which have always been
part of the earliest religious ritual were intended as the outward and
visible sign or symbol of the community's desire to do that which was
pleasing to their god; and that it is only in the course of time, and
as the consequence of misinterpretation, that the offerings come to
be regarded as gifts made for the purpose of bribing the gods or of
purchasing what they have to bestow. Thus, just as, in the evolution
of religion, fetishism was differentiated from polytheism, and was
cast aside--where it was cast aside--as incompatible with the demands
of the religious sentiment, so too the making of gifts to the gods,
for the purpose of purchasing their favour, came to be differentiated
from the service which God requires.
The endeavour to explain the history and purpose of sacrifice by means
of the Gift-theory alone has the further disadvantage that it requires
us to close our eyes to other features of the sacrificial rite, for,
if we turn to them, we shall find it impossible to regard the
Gift-theory as affording a complete and exhaustive account of all that
there was in the rite from the beginning. Indeed, so important are
these other features, that, as we have seen, some students would
maintain that the only rite which can be properly termed sacrificial
is one which presents these features. From this point of view, the
term sacrifice can only be used of something that is consumed or
destroyed in the service; while the term offering is restricted to
things which are not destroyed. But, from this point of view, we must
hold that sacrifices, to be sacrifices in the specific must not merely
be destroyed or consumed, for then anything that could be destroyed
by fire would be capable of becoming a burnt-offering; and the burning
would simply prove that the offering was acceptable--a proof which may
in some cases have been required to make assurance doubly sure, but
which was really superfluous, inasmuch as no one who desires his
offering to be accepted will make an offering which he thinks to be
unacceptable. Sacrifices, to be sacrifices in the specific sense thus
put upon the word, we must hold to be things which by their very
nature are marked out to be consumed: they must be articles of food.
But even with this qualification, sacrifices are not satisfactorily
distinguished from offerings, for a food-offering is an offering, and
discharges the function of a sacrifice, provided that it is offered.
That it should actually be consumed is neither universally nor
necessarily required. That it is often consumed in the service is a
fact which brings us to a new and different feature of the sacrificial
rite. Let us then consider it.
Thus far, looking at the rite on its outward side, from the point of
view of the spectator, we have seen that the worshippers, carrying
with them something material, draw near to the place where the god
manifests himself. From this series of actions and gestures, we have
inferred the belief of the worshippers to be that they are drawing
near to their god both physically and spiritually. We have inferred
that the material oblation is intended by the worshippers as the
outward and visible sign of their wish to commend themselves to the
god. We have now to notice what has been implied throughout, that the
worshippers do not draw near to the god without a reason, or seek to
commend themselves to him without a purpose. And if we consult the
facts once more, we shall find that the occasions, on which the god is
thus approached, are generally occasions of distress, experienced or
apprehended. The feelings with which the community draws near are
compounded of the fear, occasioned by the distress or danger, and the
hope and confidence that it will be removed or averted by the step
which they are taking. Part of their idea of the god is that he can
and will remove the present, or avert the coming, calamity; otherwise
they would not seek to approach him. But part also of their idea is
that they have done something to provoke him, otherwise calamity would
not have come upon them. Thus, when the worshippers seek to come into
the presence of their god, they are seeking him with the feeling that
he is estranged from them, and they approach him with something in
their hands to symbolise their desire to please him, and to restore
the relation which ordinarily subsists between a god and his
worshippers. Having deposited the offering they bring, and having
proffered the petition they came to make, they retire satisfied that
all now is well. The rite is now in all its essential features
complete. But though complete, as an organism in the early stages of
its history may be complete, it has, like the organism, the power of
growth; and it grows.
The conviction with which the community ends the rite is the joyful
conviction that the trouble is over-past. The joy which the community
feels often expresses itself in feast and song; and where the
offerings are, as they most commonly are, food-offerings or
animal-sacrifice, the feast may come to be regarded as one at which
the god himself is present and of which he partakes along with his
worshippers. The joy, which expresses itself in feast and song, may,
however, not make itself felt until the prayer of the community has
been fulfilled and the calamity has passed away; and then the feast
comes to be of the nature of a joyful thank-offering. But it is
probably only in one or other of these two cases that the offering
comes to be consumed in the service of feast and song. And although
the rite may and does grow in this way, still this development of
it--'eating with the god'--is rather potentially than actually present
in the earliest form of the rite.
From this point of view, sacrificial meals or feasts are not part of
the ritual of approach: they belong to the termination of the
ceremony. They mark the fact of reconciliation; they are an
expression of the conviction that friendly relations are restored. The
sacrificial meal then is accordingly not a means by which
reconciliation is effected, but the outward expression of the
conviction that the end has been attained; and, as expressing, it has
the force of confirming, the conviction. Where the sacrificial rite
grows to comprehend a sacrificial feast or meal, there the
food-offering or sacrifice is consumed in the service. But the rite
does not always develop thus; and even without this development it
discharges its proper function. Before this development, it is on
occasions of distress that the god is approached by the community, in
the conviction that the community has offended, and with the object of
purging the community and removing the distress, of appeasing the god
and restoring good relations. Yet even at this stage the object of the
community is to be at one with its god--at-one-ment and communion so
far are sought. There is implied the faith that he, the community's
god, cannot possibly be for ever alienated and will not utterly
forsake them, even though he be estranged for the time. Doubtless the
feast, which in some cases came to crown the sacrificial rite, may,
where it was practised amongst peoples who believed that persons
partaking of common food became united by a common bond, have come to
be regarded as constituting a fresh bond and a more intimate
communion between the god and his worshippers who alike partook of the
sacrificial meal. But this belief is probably far from being, or
having been, universal; and it is unnecessary to assume that this
belief must have existed, wherever we find the accomplishment of the
sacrificial rite accompanied by rejoicing. The performance of the
sacrificial rite is prompted by the desire to restore the normal
relation between the community and its god. It is carried out in the
conviction that the god is willing to return to the normal relation;
when it has been performed, the community is relieved and rejoices,
whether the rejoicing does or does not take form in a feast; and the
essence of the rejoicing is the conviction that all now is well, a
conviction which arises from the performance of the sacrificial rite
and not from the meal which may or may not follow it.
Where the institution of the sacrificial feast did grow up, the
natural tendency would be for it to become the most important feature
in the whole rite. The original and the fundamental purpose of the
rite was to reconcile the god and his worshippers and to make them at
one: the feast, therefore, which marked the accomplishment of the very
purpose of the rite, would come to be regarded as the object of the
rite. In that, however, there is nothing more than the shifting
forward of the centre of religious interest from the sacrifice to the
feast: there is nothing in it to change the character or conception
of the feast. Yet, in the case of some peoples, its character and
conception did change in a remarkable way. In the case of some
peoples, we find that the feast is not an occasion of 'eating with the
god' but what has been crudely called 'eating the god.' This
conception existed, as is generally agreed, beyond the possibility of
doubt, in Mexico amongst the Aztecs, and perhaps--though not beyond
the possibility of doubt--elsewhere.
The Aztecs were a barbarous or semi-civilised people, with a long
history behind them. The circumstances under which the belief and
practice in question existed and had grown up amongst them are clear
enough. The Aztecs worshipped deities, and amongst those deities were
plants and vegetables, such as maize. It was, of course, not any one
individual specimen that they worshipped: it was the spirit, the
maize-mother, who manifested herself in every maize-plant, but was not
identical with any one. At the same time, though they worshipped the
spirit, or species, they grew and cultivated the individual plants, as
furnishing them with food. Thus they were in the position of eating as
food the plant, the body, in which was manifested the spirit whom they
worshipped. In this there was an outward resemblance to the Christian
rite of communion, which could not fail to attract the attention of
the Spanish priests at the time of the conquest of Mexico, but which
has probably been unconsciously magnified by them. They naturally
interpreted the Aztec ceremony in terms of Christianity, and the
spirit of the translation probably differs accordingly from the spirit
of the original.
We have now to consider the new phase of the sacrificial--indeed, in
this connection, we may say the sacramental--rite which was found in
Mexico, and to indicate the manner in which it probably originated.
The offerings earliest made to the gods were not necessarily, but were
probably, food-offerings, animal or vegetable; and as we are not in a
position to affirm that there was any restriction upon the kind of
food offered, it seems advisable to assume that any kind of food might
be offered to any kind of god. The intention of offerings seems to be
to indicate merely that the worshippers desire to be pleasing in the
sight of the god whom they wish to approach. At this, the simplest and
earliest stage of the rite, the sacrificial feast has not yet come
into existence: it is enough if the food is offered to the god; it is
not necessary that it should be eaten, or that any portion of it
should be eaten, by the community. There is evidence enough to warrant
us in believing that generally there was an aversion to eating the
god's portion. If the worshippers ate any portion, they certainly
would not eat and did not eat, until after the god had done so. At
this stage in the development of the rite, the offerings are
occasional, and are not made at stated, recurring, seasons. The reason
for believing this is that it is on occasions of alarm and distress
that the community seeks to draw near its god. But though it is in
alarm that the community draws nigh, it draws nigh in confidence that
the god can be appeased and is willing to be appeased. It is part of
the community's idea of its god that he has the power to punish; that
he does not exercise his power without reason; and that, as he is
powerful, so also he is just to his worshippers, and merciful.
But though occasional offerings, and sacrifices made in trouble to
gods who are conceived to be a very help in time of trouble, continue
to be made, until a relatively late period in the history of religion,
we also find that there are recurring sacrifices, annually made. At
these annual ceremonies, the offerings are food-offerings. Where the
food-offerings are offerings of vegetable food, they are made at
harvest time. They are made on the occasion of harvest; and that they
should be so made is probably no accident or fortuitous coincidence.
At the regularly recurring season of harvest, the community adheres to
the custom, already formed, of not partaking of the food which it
offers to its god, until a portion has been offered to the god. The
custom, like other customs, tends to become obligatory: the
worshippers, that is to say the community, may not eat, until the
offering has been made and accepted. Then, indeed, the worshippers may
eat, solemnly, in the presence of their god. The eating becomes a
solemn feast of thanksgiving. The god, after whom they eat, and to
whom they render thanks, becomes the god who gives them to eat. What
is thus true of edible plants--whether wild or domesticated--may also
hold true to some extent of animal life, where anything like a 'close
time' comes to be observed.
As sacrificial ceremonies come to be, thus, annually recurring rites,
a corresponding development takes place in the community's idea of its
god. So long as the sacrificial ceremony was an irregularly recurring
rite, the performance of which was prompted by the occurrence, or the
threat, of disaster, so long it was the wrath of the god which filled
the fore-ground, so to speak, of the religious consciousness; though
behind it lay the conviction of his justice and his mercy. But when
the ceremony becomes one of annual worship, a regularly recurring
occasion on which the worshippers recognise that it is the god, to
whom the first-fruits belong, who gives the worshippers the harvest,
then the community's idea of its god is correspondingly developed. The
occasion of the sacrificial rite is no longer one of alarm and
distress; it is no longer the wrath of the god, but his goodness as
the giver of good gifts, that tends to emerge in the fore-ground of
the religious consciousness. Harvest rites tend to become feasts of
thanksgiving and thank-offerings; and so, by contrast with these
joyous festivals, the occasional sacrifices, which continue to be
offered in times of distress, tend to assume, more and more, the
character of sin-offerings or guilt-offerings.
We have, however, now to notice a consequence which ensues upon the
community's custom of not eating until after the first-fruits have
been offered to the god. Not only is a habit or custom hard to break,
simply because it is a habit; but, when the habit is the habit of a
whole community, the individual who presumes to violate it is visited
by the disapproval and the condemnation of the whole community. When
then the custom has established itself of abstaining from eating,
until the first-fruits have been offered to the god, any violation of
the custom is condemned by the community as a whole. The consequence
of this is that the fruit or the animal tends to be regarded by the
community as sacred to the god, and not to be meddled with until after
the first-fruits have been offered to him. The plant or animal becomes
sacred to the god because the community has offered it to him, and
intends to offer it to him, and does offer it to him annually. Now it
is not a necessary and inevitable consequence that an animal or plant,
which has come to be sacred, should become divine. But where we find
divine animals or animal gods--divine corn or corn-goddesses--we are
entitled to consider this as one way in which they may have come to be
regarded as divine, because sacred, and as deities, because divine.
When we find the divine plant or animal constituting the sacrifice,
and furnishing forth the sacrificial meal, there is a possibility that
it was in this way and by this process that the plant or animal came
to be, first, sacred, then divine, and finally the deity, to whom it
was offered. In many cases, certainly, this last stage was never
reached. And we may conjecture a reason why it was not reached.
Whether it could be reached would depend largely on the degree of
individuality, which the god, to whom the offering was made, had
reached. A god who possesses a proper, personal name, must have a long
history behind him, for a personal name is an epithet the meaning of
which comes in course of time to be forgotten. If its meaning has come
to be entirely forgotten, the god is thereby shown not only to have a
long history behind him but to have acquired a high degree of
individuality and personality, which will not be altered or modified
by the offerings which are made to him. Where, however, the being or
power worshipped is, as with the jungle-dwellers of Chota Nagpur,
still nameless, his personality and individuality must be of the
vaguest; and, in that case, there is the probability that the plant or
animal offered to him may become sacred to him; and, having become
sacred, may become divine. The animal or plant may become that in
which the nameless being manifests himself. The corn or maize is
offered to the nameless deity; the deity is the being to whom the corn
or maize is habitually offered; and then becomes the corn-deity or
maize-deity, the mother of the maize or the corn-goddess.
Like the _di indigites_ of Italy, these vegetation-goddesses are
addressed by names which, though performing the function of personal
names and enabling the worshippers to make appeals to the deities
personally, are still of perfectly transparent meaning. Both present
to us that stage in the evolution of a deity, in which as yet the
meaning of his name still survives; in which his name has not yet
become a fully personal name; and in which he has not yet attained to
full personality and complete individuality. This want of complete
individuality can hardly be dissociated from another fact which goes
with it. That fact is that the deity is to be found in any plant of
the species sacred to him, or in any animal of the species sacred to
him, but is not supposed to be found only in the particular plant or
animal which is offered on one particular occasion. If the
corn-goddess is present, or manifests herself, in one particular sheaf
of corn, at her harvest festival this year, still she did manifest
herself last year, and will manifest herself next year, in another.
The deity, that is to say, is the species; and the species, and no
individual specimen thereof, is the deity. That is the reason which
prevents, or tends to prevent, deities of this kind from attaining
complete individuality.