the argument of the ‘Analogy’ on which we are inclined to lay nearly
equal stress. As has been said, it is most likely that a revelation from
God would explain at least a part of the religious difficulties of
man; and, in matter of fact, all systems purporting to be revelations
have in their respective degrees professed to do so. They all deal
with what may be called the system of the universe—its moral plan and
scheme; the destiny of man therein—the motives from which God created
it—and the manner in which He directs it. Throughout the whole range of
doctrines, from Mormonism up to Christianity, no one has ever gained any
acceptance, has ever, perhaps, been sincerely put forward, which did not
deal with this whole range of facts—which did not tell man, according
to his view, whence he is, and whither he goes. Revelations, as such,
are communications concerning eternity. Now, it seems to us, that so
far from its being likely, _à priori_, that a revelation of this sort
would contain the same perplexing difficulties which cause so much evil
in this world, in the same degree in which they exist here, it would
be scarcely possible by any evidence, _à posteriori_, to establish the
communication of such a system from the Divine Being. It seems clear on
the surface of the subject that, the extent of the unknown world being
so enormous in comparison with that which is known, this scene being
so petty, and the plan of Providence so vast—earth being little, and
space infinite—Time short, and Eternity long—a difficulty, which is of
no moment in so contracted a sphere as this, becomes of infinite moment
when extended to the sphere of the Almighty. From the smallness of the
region which we see—the short time which we live—from the few things
which we know—it may well be that there are points which perplex the
feebleness of our understanding and puzzle the best feelings of our
hearts. We see, as some one expresses it, the universe ‘not in plan but
in section;’ and we cannot expect to understand very much of it. But when
our knowledge increases—when, by a revelation, that plan is unfolded to
us—when God vouchsafes to communicate to us the system on which He acts,
then it is rational to expect those difficulties would diminish—would
gradually disappear as the light dawned upon us—would vanish finally
when the dayspring arose on our hearts. If a difficulty of nature be
repeated in revelation, it would seem to show that it was not, as we
had before supposed, a consequence of our short-sighted views and
contracted knowledge, but a real inherent element in the scheme of the
universe; not a petty shade on a petty globe, but a pervading inherent
stain, extending over all things, destroying the beauty of the universe,
impairing the perfectness of all creation. Take, as an instance, the
extreme doctrine of Antinomian Calvinism—suppose that the eternal
condition of man depended in no degree on his acts, or works, or upon
himself in any form, but on an arbitrary act of selection by God, which
chose some, independently of any antecedent fitness on their part, for
eternal happiness, and consigns all others—irrespective of their guilt or
innocence—to eternal ruin. Nothing, of course, can be more shocking than
such a doctrine when stated in simple language; and if it really were
contained in any document that professes to be a revelation, we should
be plainly justified in passing it by as a document which no evidence
would prove to have been inspired by God. Yet the doctrine certainly
does not want partial analogies in this world. The condition of men here
does seem to be in a considerable measure the result not of what they
do, or of what their characters are, but of the mere circumstances in
which they are placed, over which they have no control, choice, or power.
One man is born in a ditch, another in a palace; one with a gloomy and
painful, another with a cheerful and happy mind; one to honour, another
to dishonour. We invent words—fortune, luck, chance—to express in a
subtle way the notion that some seem the favourites of circumstance,
others the scapegoats. So far as it goes, this is a distinct ‘election’
on the part of God of some to misery, of others to felicity, irrespective
of their personal qualities. Accordingly, it may be argued, why should
we not expect to find the same in the world of revelation, which is
from the hand of the same Creator? But this will scarcely impose on
any one. A certain indignation arises within us—conscience uplifts
her voice, and we reply, ‘It may well be that for a short time God may
afflict His people without their own fault, but that He should do so for
ever—that He should make no end of injustice—that He favours one without
a reason, and condemns another without a fault—this, come what may, we
will not believe—we would sooner cast ourselves at large on the waste of
uncertainty;—pass on with your teaching, and ask God, if so be that He
will pardon you for attributing such things to Him.’ We need not further
enlarge on this.
Again, and in the practical conduct of the argument this is a very
material consideration. All revelations impute _intentions_ to God. Acts
are done, observances enjoined, a providential plan pursued, for reasons
which are explained. The cause of this is evident from our previous
reasoning. As we have seen, all revelations profess to vindicate the
ways of God to man; and it is impossible to do so effectually without
declaring to us at least some of His motives and designs. It is most
important to observe, that no analogy from nature can justify us in
judging of these except by the standard of right or wrong which God has
implanted within us. From external observation we learn almost nothing of
God’s intentions. The scheme is too large; the universe too unbounded.
One phenomenon follows another; but, except in a few cases, and then
very dubiously, we cannot tell which was created for which—which was
the design—which the means—which the determining object—and which the
subservient purpose. Even in the few cases in which we do impute such
intentions, we do so because they seem to be in harmony with God’s moral
character; they are not strictly proved, they are mere conjectures; and
we should reject at once any that might seem ethically unworthy. But the
case is different with a revelation which, from its own nature, unfolds
ends and instruments in their due measure and their actual subordination,
which developes an orderly system, and communicates hidden motives and
unforeseen designs. A recent writer, for example, thus defends certain
apparent cruelties of the Old Testament by stating those of nature:
‘God,’ he says, ‘sends His pestilence, and produces horrors on which
imagination dare not dwell; horrors not only physical, but indirectly
moral; often transforming man into something like the fiend so many say
he can never become. He sends His famine, and thousands perish—men and
women, and “the child that knows not its right hand from its left”—in
prolonged and frightful agonies. He opens the mouths of volcanoes and
lakes; boils and fries the population of a whole city in torrents of
burning lava, &c. &c.’[6]—with much else to the same purpose. But this
must not be adduced in extenuation of anything of which the reasons are
narrated; on the contrary, these last must be judged of by the moral
faculties which are among God’s highest gifts. To the infliction of
pain, with an express view to what conscience tells us to be an unworthy
object, outward nature does and can afford no parallel. She has no
avowals; it is but from conjecture that we conceive her motives; her
laws pass forward; the crush of her forces is upon us; like a child in
a railway, we know not anything. The incomprehensible has no analogy
to the explained; the mysterious none to that on which the oracle has
intelligibly spoken.
Lastly, for a similar reason it is impossible that there should be
any analogy in nature for a precept from God opposed to the law of
conscience. External nature gives no precept; our knowledge of our duty
comes from within; the physical world is subordinate to our inward
teaching; it is silent on points of morality. On the other hand, a
revelation, supposing satisfactory means of attesting it were found,
might possibly contain such a precept. It is very painful to put such
suppositions before the mind; but the pain is inherent in the nature
of the subject. The topic of the difficulties and perplexities of man
cannot, by any artifice of rhetoric, be rendered pleasing. In such a
case, supposing there to be no difficulty of evidence in the case, our
duty might be to obey God even against conscience, from that assurance
of His essential perfection which is the most certain attestation of
conscience. But the existence of such a difficulty is in the highest
degree improbable; it is one which ought only to be admitted on the
completest proof and after the most rigid straining of evidence: it
is, from the nature of the case, without a parallel in the common and
unrevealed world.
To all these considerable objections, we believe the argument of the
‘Analogy’ is properly subject. We think in general that, according to
every reasonable presumption, a revelation would not repeat the same
difficulties as are to be found in nature, but would remove and explain
some of them; that difficulties, which are of small importance in the
natural world, on account of the smallness of its sphere and the brevity
of its duration, become of insuperable magnitude when extended to
infinity and eternity, when alleged to be co-extensive with the universe,
and to be inherent in its scheme and structure; and that,—what is of
less universal scope, but still of essential importance,—nature offers
no analogy to the ascription by any professed revelation of an unworthy
intention to God, or the inculcation through it of an immoral precept on
man.
It is impossible, then, by any such argument as this, to remove from
moral criticism the entire contents of any revelation. According to
the more natural view, the unimpeachable morality of those contents is
a most essential part of the evidence on which our belief must rest;
and this seems to remain so, notwithstanding these refinements. On the
other hand, we do not contend that the reasoning of the ‘Analogy’ is
wholly worthless. If Butler’s[7] argument had only been adduced to this
extent; if it had only been argued that, though a revelation might
be expected to explain some difficulties, it could not be expected
to explain all; that a certain number would, from our ignorance and
unworthiness, still remain; and these residuary difficulties would
be of the same order, class, and kind, to which we were accustomed;
that the style of Providence, if one may so say, would be the same in
the newly-communicated phenomena as we had observed it to be in those
we were familiar with before,—there could be little question of the
soundness of the principle. No one would expect that there would be new
difficulties introduced by a revelation; what difficulties were found
in it we should expect to be identical with those observed before in
nature; or, at least, to be similar to them, and likely to be explained
in the same way by a more adequate knowledge of God’s purposes. We should
particularly expect the difficulties of revelation to be _like_ those of
nature, limited in time and range, not extending to the entire scheme
of Providence, not diffused through infinity and eternity, not imputing
evil intentions to God, not inculcating immoral precepts on man. We can
hardly be said to _expect_ to find difficulties in revelation at all;
the utmost that seems probable, _à priori_, is, that it should leave
unnoticed some of those of nature. Nevertheless, there is no violent, no
overwhelming improbability in the fact of some perplexing points being
contained in a communication from God; we are so weak, that it may be
we cannot entirely understand the smallest intimation from the Infinite
Being. And if difficulties are found there, they are, of course, less
perplexing, when resembling those which we knew before, than if they be
wholly distinct and new in kind. But this principle is, on the face of
it, very different from the admission of an antecedent probability, that
all the difficulties discoverable in nature would be daguerreotyped in a
revelation.
The difference is seen very clearly by looking at the argument which
Butler’s reasoning is intended to confute. Suppose a professed revelation
to be laid before a person who was before unacquainted with it, and
that he finds in it several perplexing points. According to Butler’s
principle, or what is supposed by Mr. Rogers to be Butler’s principle, it
is enough to reply: You have those same difficulties in nature before;
you cannot consistently object to them now; they have not prevented your
ascribing nature to a Divine Author; they should not prevent you from
ascribing to Him this revelation. Nature is so full of difficulties,
that almost every doctrine that has ever been attributed to revelation
may be provided with a parallel more or less apt. Consequently, it would
be almost needless to criticise the contents of any alleged revelation,
when we may be met so easily by such a reply. No careful reasoner
would attempt that criticism. According to the doctrine which we have
reiterated, we should deem it a difficulty that these perplexing points
should be found in a revelation; but that difficulty would not amount
to much, would not counterbalance strong evidence, if it could be shown
that the system claiming to be revealed, although leaving these points
unexplained, threw ample light on others; that what gave cause for
perplexity was quite subordinate to what removed perplexity; that no
immoral actions were enjoined on man; no unworthy motives imputed to God;
no vice attributed to the whole scheme and plan of the Creator. There
would therefore remain the largest scope for internal criticism on all
systems claiming to be messages from God; on the very face they must seem
worthy of Him: in their very essence they must seem good.
This is plainly the obvious view. The natural opinion certainly is that
the moral and religious faculties would be those on which we should
primarily depend, in judging of an alleged communication from heaven; in
deciding whether it have a valid claim to that character or no. These
faculties are those which, antecedently to revelation, determine our
belief in all other moral and religious questions, and it is therefore
natural to look to them as the best judges of the authenticity of an
alleged revelation. Many divines, however, struggle to deny this. Thus,
in the memoir of Butler we are now reviewing, Mr. Rogers observes,—
‘The immortal “Analogy” has probably done more to silence the
objections of infidelity than any other ever written from the
earliest “apologies” downwards. It not only most critically
met the spirit of unbelief in the author’s own day, but is
equally adapted to meet that which _chiefly_ prevails in all
time. In every age, some of the principal, perhaps _the_
principal, objections to the Christian Revelation have been
those which men’s _preconceptions_ of the Divine character
and administration—of what God _must_ be, and of what God
_must_ do—have suggested against certain facts in the sacred
history, or certain doctrines it reveals. To show the objector,
then (supposing him to be a theist, as nine-tenths of all
such objectors have been), that the very same or similar
difficulties are found in the structure of the universe and the
divine administration of it, is to wrest every _such_ weapon
completely from his hands, if he be a fair reasoner and remain
a theist at all. He is bound, by strict logical obligation,
either to show that the parallel difficulties do _not_ exist,
or to show how he can solve them, while he _cannot_ solve those
of the Bible. In default of doing either of these things, he
ought either to renounce all _such_ objections to Christianity,
or abandon theism altogether. It is true, therefore, that
though Butler leaves the alternative of atheism open, he hardly
leaves any other alternative to nine-tenths of the theists who
have objected to Christianity.’
And there is a perpetual reiteration in the ‘Eclipse of Faith’ of the
same reasoning. In fact, so far as the latter work has a distinct
principle, this argument may be said to be that principle. The answer
is, that the proof of all ‘revelation’ itself rests on a ‘preconception’
respecting the Divine character, and that, if we assume the truth of that
one ‘preconception,’ we must not reject any others which may be found to
have the same evidence. We refer, of course, to the assumption of God’s
veracity; which can only be proved by arguments that, if admitted, would
likewise justify our attributing to Him all other perfect virtues. It is
evident that a doubt as to this attribute is not only impious in itself,
but quite destructive of all confidence in any communication which may be
received from Him. And yet, on what evidence does its acceptance rest?
It cannot be said to be demonstrated by what scientific men call ‘natural
theology.’ Competent and careful persons examine the material world, the
structure of animals and plants, the courses of the planets, the muscles
of man, and they find there a great preponderance of benevolence. They
show, with great labour and great merit, that the Being who arranged this
universe is, on the whole, a benevolent Being; but does it follow that
He will tell the truth? ‘In crossing a heath,’ says Paley, ‘suppose I
pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be
there, I might possibly answer that, for anything I knew to the contrary,
it had lain there for ever; nor would it, perhaps, be very easy to show
the absurdity of this answer: but, suppose I had found a _watch_ on
the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch came to be in that
place, I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that, for
anything I knew, it had been always there.’ And he shows, with his usual
power, that this watch was, in all likelihood, made by a watchmaker.
There is nothing cleverer, perhaps, in argumentative writing, than the
way in which that argument is stated and pointed. But what evidence is
there that the watchmaker was _veracious_? The amplest examination of
the most refined designs, the minutest scrutiny of the most complex
contrivances, do not go one hair’s breadth to establish any such
conclusion. Nor can it be shown that the virtue of veracity is identical
with, or consequent on, the virtue of simple benevolence. We know well in
common life that there are such things as pleasing falsehoods, and that
such things exist as disagreeable truths. A person (what we ordinarily
call a good-natured person) whose only motive is simple benevolence, will
constantly assert the first and deny the second. In its application to
religion this tendency cannot be illustrated without suppositions which
it is painful even to make; but yet they must be made for a moment,
or the necessary argument must be left incomplete. Suppose, what is
doubtless true, that the belief in a ‘future state,’ even if false,
contributes to the temporal happiness of man in this world; that it does
more to enlarge his hopes, stimulate his imagination, and alleviate his
sorrows, than any one other consideration; that it contributes to the
order of society and the progress of civilisation; that it is, as some
one says, ‘the last restraint of the powerful, and the last hope of the
wretched.’ Indisputably, a Being whose only motive was benevolence, who
admitted no higher consideration, who looked steadily and solely to our
mere happiness, would endeavour to instil that belief although it were
quite untrue, would not think that _that_ had anything to do with the
question, would not hesitate to make a false revelation to confirm men
in a belief so pleasant, so advantageous, so consolatory. Perhaps this
supposition drives the argument home. We see that it is necessary for us
to admit a ‘preconception’ as to the character of God before we can even
begin to prove the truth of a revelation; that we _must_ reason of ‘what
God _must_ be and God _must_ do,’ before we show that there is even a
presumption in favour of any facts, or any doctrines, which are revealed
in the ‘sacred history.’
We have hinted, in an earlier part of this essay, that this doctrine
of God’s veracity seems to us to rest on the general assumption of the
existence of a ‘perfect’ Being, who rules and controls all things. It
is, perhaps, the Divine attribute of which it is most difficult to find
a trace in nature. Of His omnipotence, justice, benevolence, we cannot,
indeed, find absolute proof; for we believe that those attributes are
infinite, and we can only prove them strictly with respect to the finite
and very circumscribed world which we see and know. Yet, at the same
time, we discern indications and strong probabilities, that the Ruler of
the world possesses these attributes; we can hardly be said to be able to
do this with His veracity. The speechlessness of nature, if we may again
so speak, deprives us of any such evidence. All Theism is of the nature
of faith. We can never prove from experience any being to be infinite,
for our experience itself is essentially small and finite. We can often,
however, as in the instance of the attributes of God above enumerated,
and of others which might be added, establish by observation that the
qualities in question exist in a certain degree, and we have only to
rely on the principle of faith for our belief that these qualities exist
in a perfect and supreme degree. In the case of the Divine veracity, it
should seem that we believe it to exist in a perfect and infinite degree,
without, from the peculiarity of our circumstances, being able to fortify
it by any test or trial from experience.
Present controversies show that there should be a distinct understanding
as to this matter. Such writers as the author of the ‘Eclipse of Faith’
perpetually strive to justify what they think the difficulties of
revelation, by insinuating—we might say inculcating—a scepticism as to
the religious faculties and conscience of man. These faculties are at
one time said to be ‘depraved;’ once they were trustworthy, but man is
fallen from that high estate; he can only now believe what is announced
to him externally. But how can we then rely on those ‘depraved’ faculties
for our belief in the truthfulness of the Being who announces these
things? At another time all the horrid superstitions, all the immoral
rites, all the wretched aberrations of savage and licentious nations,
are enumerated, displayed, inculcated, in order to convince us that
these faculties give no certain information. We will not quote the
passages. We do not like to read hard attacks even on the worst side
of human nature; we cannot, like some, gloat upon such details. The
argument is plain without any painful accuracy. How can you believe in
the ‘intuition’ of the Divine justice, when the Hindoo says this? How
in that of his Holiness, when the Papuan accepts that impurity? But
this is no defence for any revelation. The writers who exult in such
errors because they think they can use them in their logic, are really
cutting away the substratum of evidentiary argument from under them. The
veracity of God has not been accepted by all nations any more than His
justice. In many times and countries He has been thought to inspire
falsehoods, to put a ‘lying spirit’ in the mouths of men, to deceive them
to their destruction. Agamemnon’s dream is but the type of a whole class
of legends imputing untrue revelations to the gods. If we liked such
work, we might prove, perhaps, that there is no man on the earth whose
ancestors have not believed the like. And what then? Why, we can only
answer that, debased, depraved, imperfect as they may be, these faculties
are our all. It is on them that we depend for life, and breath, and all
things. We must believe our heart and conscience, or we shall believe
nothing. We _must_ believe that God cannot lie, or we must renounce all
that our highest and innermost nature most cleaves to; but if we go so
far, we must go further—we cannot believe in God’s veracity and deny the
intuition of His justice—we know that He is pure on the same ground that
we know that He is true. If an alleged revelation contradict this justice
or this purity, we must at once deny that it can have proceeded from Him.
Even admitting, as we think it must be admitted, that Butler did not
firmly hold the principle which Mr. Rogers and others ascribe to him,
some may find a difficulty in so great a thinker having even a tendency
towards that tenet. On examination, however, the very error seems
characteristic of him.
A mind such as Butler’s was in a previous page described to be, is
very apt to be prone to over refinement. A thinker of what was there
called the picturesque order has a vision, a picture of the natural
view of the subject. Those certainties and conclusions, those doubts
and difficulties, which occur on the surface, strike him at once; he
sees with his mind’s eye some conspicuous instance in which all such
certainties are realised, and by which all such doubts are suggested.
Some great typical fact remains delineated before his mind, and is a
perpetual answer to all hypotheses which strive to be over-subtle. But
an unimaginative thinker has no such assistance; he has no pictures or
instances in his mind; he works by a process like an accountant, and
like an accountant he is dependent on the correctness with which he
works. He begins with a principle and reasons from it; and if any error
have crept into the deduction or into the principle, he has not any means
of detecting it. His mind does not yield, as with more fertile fancies,
a stock of instances on which to verify his elaborate conclusions.
Accordingly he is apt to say he has explained a difficulty, when in
reality he has but refined it away.