The first essential is an awakening, a sense of the absence of
spirituality, the realized need of giving to our lives a new and
higher quality; first there must be the hunger before there can be
the satisfaction.
Similar effects are often produced by widely differing processes. In
the psychical world that quality which we call spirituality may be
associated with and evoked by Theism, or the belief in a Divine
Father; by Pantheism, as in the case of Spinoza, whose face at the
very first glance impresses you with its spiritual cast; or even by
the Buddhist belief in Nirvana. It may also be attained by following
the precepts and striving after the ideals of Ethical Culture. For
spirituality is not indissolubly associated with any one type of
religion or philosophy; it is a quality of soul manifesting itself in a
variety of activities and beliefs.
Before we proceed further, however, we must hazard a definition
of the word. In the region of mental activity which is called the
spiritual life vagueness is apt to prevail, the outlines of thought are
apt to be blurred, the feelings aroused are apt to be indistinct and
transitory. The word 'spiritual' becomes a synonym of muddy
thought and misty emotionalism. If there were another word in the
language to take its place, it would be well to use it. But there is
not. We must use the word 'spiritual,' despite its associations and
its abuse. We shall endeavor, however, to attach a distinct and
definite meaning to the word. Mere definition, however, is too
abstract and nakedly intellectual. Perhaps a description of some
types of character, combined with definition, will be the better
way.
Savonarola is surely one of the commanding figures in history. His
fiery earnestness, his passion for righteousness, the boldness with
which he censured the corruptions of the Roman Court, the
personal qualities by which he--a foreigner and a mere monk--made
himself for a short period the lawgiver, the prophet, and virtually
the dictator of Florence--that Florence which was at the time the
very gemmary of the Renaissance--his sudden fall and tragic death;
all combine to attract toward him our admiration, pity, and love,
and to leave upon our minds the impression of his extraordinary
moral genius. And yet, though a spiritual side was not wanting in
Savonarola, we should not quote him as an outstanding exemplar
of spirituality. The spiritual life is unperturbed and serene. His
nature was too passionate, he was too vehement in his philippics,
too deeply engrossed in the attainment of immediate results,
too stormy a soul to deserve the name of spiritual.
Again, our own Washington is one of the commanding figures in
history. He achieved the great task which he set himself; he
secured the political independence of America. He became the
master builder of a nation; he laid securely the foundations on
which succeeding generations have built. He was calm, too, with
rare exceptions; an expert in self-control. But there was mingled
with his calmness a certain coldness. He was lofty and pure, but
we should hardly go to him for instruction in the interior secrets of
the spiritual life. His achievements were in another field. His claim
to our gratitude rests on other grounds. The spiritual life is calm,
but serenely calm; irradiated by a fervor and a depth of feeling that
were to some extent lacking in our first president. Lincoln,
perhaps, came nearer to possessing them.
Again, we have such types of men as John Howard, the prison
reformer, and George Peabody, who devoted his great fortune to
bettering the housing of the poor and to multiplying and improving
schools. These men--especially the latter--were practical and sane,
and were prompted in their endeavors by an active and tender
benevolence. Yet we should scarcely think of them as conspicuous
examples of the spiritual quality in human life and conduct.
Benevolence, be it never so tender and practical, does not reach
the high mark of spirituality. Spirituality is more than benevolence
in the ordinary sense of the term. The spiritual man is benevolent
to a signal degree, but his benevolence is of a peculiar kind. It is
characterized by a certain serene fervor which we may almost call
saintliness.
But perhaps some one may object that a standard by which
personalities like Savonarola, Washington, Howard and Peabody
fall short is probably set too high, and that in any case the erection
of such a standard cannot be very helpful to the common run of
human beings. Where these heroic natures fall short, can you and I
hope to attain? To such an objection the reply is that we cannot be
too fastidious or exacting in respect to our standard, however poor
our performance may be. Nothing less than a kind of divine
completeness should ever content us. Furthermore, there have
been some men who approached nearer to the spiritual ideal than
the patriots and the philanthropists just mentioned--some few men
among the Greeks, the Hindus, and the Hebrews. And for the
guidance of conduct, these more excellent spirits avail us more
than the examples of a Savonarola, a Washington or a Howard. To
be a prophet or the lawgiver of a nation is not within your
province and mine. For such a task hardly one among millions has
the opportunity or the gifts. To be liberators of their country has
been accorded in all the ages thus far covered by human history to
so small a number of men that one might count them on the fingers
of a single hand. Even to be philanthropists on a large scale is the
restricted privilege of a very few. But to lead the spiritual life is
possible to you and me if we choose to do so. The best is within
the reach of all, or it would not be the best. Every one is permitted
to share life's highest good.
The spiritual life, then, may be described by its characteristic
marks of serenity, a certain inwardness, a measure of saintliness.
By the latter we are not to understand merely the aspiration after
virtue or after a lofty ideal, still pursued and still eluding, but to a
certain extent the embodiment of this ideal in the life--virtue
become a normal experience like the inhalation and exhalation of
breath! Moreover, the spiritually-minded seem always to be
possessed of a great secret. This air of interior knowledge, of the
perception of that which is hidden from the uninitiated, is a
common mark of all refinement, aesthetic as well as moral. In
studying the face of Leonardo da Vinci's 'Mona Lisa,' for instance,
one will find that it is this interior insight that explains the so-called
"cryptic smile." In the case of aesthetic refinement, the secret
discloses itself as at bottom delicacy, the delicacy which prevents
intrusion on the personality of others; which abhors a prying
curiosity; which finds subtle ways of conveying esteem and
delicate modes of rendering service. But the secret of moral
refinement is of a far higher order, transcending aesthetic
refinement by as much as goodness is superior to mere charm. The
secret in this case consists in the insight vouchsafed to the
spiritually-minded of the true end of human existence.
Constituted as we are, there exist for us lower and higher ends.
This distinction is fundamental for ethics. Food is necessary;
without it we cannot live. But the getting of food--however
necessary--is a lower end. Knowledge is a necessary end, and a
higher one. The practical moral ends, such as the reformation of
prisons, the improvement of the dwellings of the poor, are yet
higher ends. But above all these is the highest end, that of moral
completeness, of perfection, not in one particular but in every
particular. Spirituality consists in always keeping in view this
supreme end. The spiritually-minded person is one who regards
whatever he undertakes from the point of view of its hindering or
furthering his attainment of the supreme end. If a river had a
consciousness like the human consciousness, we might imagine
that it hears the murmur of the distant sea from the very moment
when it leaves its source, and that the murmur grows clearer and
clearer as the river flows on its way, welcoming every tributary it
receives as adding to the volume which it will contribute to the
sea, rejoicing at every turn and bend in its long course that brings
it nearer to its goal. Such is the consciousness of a spiritually-minded
human being. Or to take a simile from human experience. There
are times when we go abroad to travel just for change of scenery
and the refreshment which change brings with it. When we go in
this mood we are likely to be intent on wayside pleasures, and
at every stage of the journey, at every town where we halt, we
shall suffer ourselves to be engrossed in the points of interest
which that temporary abiding-place has to offer us, careless of
what may await us farther on. But there are other times when
we go abroad on serious business. Some congress of scientists or
fellow-workers is to meet in which we are to take our part; or there
is a conflict being waged in which we are to bear our share of
wounds or death, as in the case of the Japanese, who are now
setting out from their homes toward the battlefields of Manchuria;
or there is some loved one at a distance who needs us, calls us,
expects us. Then the stations on the way are unable to captivate
our attention; we are impatient to pass them by; we welcome each
one as we approach it as bringing us one step nearer to the desired
goal.
Some such analogy will help us understand the inner state of a
spiritually-minded person. He thinks always of the ultimate end.
In whatever he does or omits to do he asks himself, Will it advance
me or divert me from the ultimate goal? Since spirituality consists
in keeping in mind the ultimate goal, it follows, in accordance with
what was said in the beginning, that there must be various types of
spirituality, corresponding to the various ways in which the
ultimate goal is conceived. For those to whom the final end of
human life is union with God, the Divine Father, the thought of
this Divine Father gives color and complexion to their spiritual life.
They think of Him when they lie down at night and when they rise
up in the morning; his praise is ever on their lips; the desire to win
his approbation is with them in all their undertakings. To those
who regard the attainment of Nirvana as the supreme end, like the
Buddhists, the thought of Nirvana is a perpetual admonition. To
those who view the supreme end of life as moral perfection, the
thought of that perfection is the constant inner companion. The
moral man, commonly so-called; the man who is honest, pays his
debts, performs his duties to his family; the man who works for
specific objects, such as political reform; this man, worthy of all
respect though he be, is still intent on the stages of his journey.
The spiritual man, as we must now define him from the point of
view of Ethical Culture, is the man who always thinks of the
ultimate goal of his journey, i. e., a moral character complete in
every particular, and who is influenced by that thought at all times
and in all things. Spirituality, in this conception of it, is nothing but
morality raised to its highest power.
And now, let us ask what are some of the conditions on which the
attainment of such a life depends. The prime condition is to
acquire the habit of ever and anon detaching one's self from one's
accustomed interests and pursuits, becoming, as it were, a
spectator of one's self and one's doings, escaping from the
sweeping current and standing on the shore. For this purpose it is
advisable to consecrate certain times, preferably a certain time
each day, to self-recollection; to dedicate an hour--or a half-hour,
if no more can be spared--to seeing one's life in all its relations;
that is, as the poet has put it, to seeing life "steadily and seeing it
whole." The sane view is to see things in their relation to other
things; the non-sane view is to see them isolated, in such a way
that they exercise a kind of hypnotic spell over us. And it makes no
difference what a man's habitual interests may be, whether they be
sordid or lofty, he needs ever and anon to get away from them. In
reality, nothing wherewith a man occupies himself need be sordid.
The spiritual attitude does not consist in turning one's back on
things mundane and fixing one's gaze on some supernal blaze of
glory, but rather in seeing things mundane in their relation to
things ultimate, perfect.
The eating of bread is surely a sufficiently commonplace
operation. Yet Jesus brake bread with his disciples in such way
that that simple act has become the symbol of sublimely spiritual
relations, the centre of the most august rite of the Christian
Church. In like manner the act of sitting down to an ordinary meal
with the members of our family may, if seen in its relations, be for
us a spiritual consecration. The common meal may become for us
the type of the common life we share, the common love we bear.
On the other hand, seemingly much more lofty pursuits may have a
narrowing and deadening effect on us if we do not see them in
their ultimate relations, and so divest them of reference to life's
highest end. For instance, the pursuit of science may have this
effect, if the sole object of the scientist be to perform some
astonishing piece of work for the purpose of attracting attention or
to secure a well-salaried position, or even if he be so wedded to
his specialty as to fail to be sensitive to the relations of it to the
body of truth in general. And the same holds good of the
narrow-minded reformer, of whom Emerson has said that his
virtue so painfully resembles vice; the man who puts a moral idol
in the place of the moral ideal, who erects into the object toward
which all his enthusiasm goes some particular reform, such as the
single tax, or socialism, or public parks, or a model school; the
man, in short, who strives for a good instead of striving for
goodness. Whatever our pursuits may be, we should often
mentally detach ourselves from them, and, standing aloof as
impartial spectators, consider the direction in which they are taking
us.
This counsel is frequently urged on grounds of health, since the
wear and tear of too intense absorption in any pursuit is apt to
wreck the nervous system. I urge it on the ground of mental sanity,
since a man cannot maintain his mental poise if he follows the
object of his devotion singly, without seeing it in relation to other
objects. And I urge it also on the ground of spirituality, for a
salient characteristic of spirituality is calmness, and without the
mental repose which comes of detachment we cannot import
calmness into our lives. There are some persons, notably among
those engaged in philanthropic activities, who glory in being
completely engrossed in their tasks, and who hug a secret sense of
martyrdom, when late at night, perhaps worn out in mind and
body, they throw themselves upon their couch to snatch a few
hours of insufficient sleep. Great occasions, of course, do occur
when every thought of self should be effaced in service; but as a
rule, complete absorption in philanthropic activity is as little sane
and as little moral as complete absorption in the race for gain. The
tired and worn-out worker cannot do justice to others, nor can he
do justice to that inner self whose demands are not satisfied even
by philanthropic activity. If, then, self-recollection is essential, let
us make daily provision for it. Some interest we should have--even
worldly prudence counsels this much--as far remote as possible
from our leading interest; and beyond that, some book belonging
to the world's great spiritual literature on which we may daily feed.
The Bible used to be in the old days all-sufficient for this purpose,
and it is still, in part at least, an admirable aid to those who know
how to use it. But there are other books, such as the legacy of the
great Stoics, the writings of our latter-day prophets, the essays of
Arnold and Carlyle and Emerson, the wisdom of Goethe. These
noble works, even if they do not wholly satisfy us, serve to set
our thoughts in motion about high concerns, and give to the mind
a spiritual direction.
A second condition of the spiritual life has been expressed in
the precept, reiterated in many religions, by many experts in things
relating to the life of the soul: "Live as if this hour were thy last."
You will recall, as I pronounce these words, the _memento mori_
of the Ancients, their custom of exhibiting a skeleton at the feast,
in order to remind the banqueters of the fate that awaited them.
You will remember the other-worldliness of Christian monks and
ascetics who decried this pleasant earth as a vale of tears, and
endeavored to fix the attention of their followers upon the pale
joys of the Christian heaven, and you will wonder, perhaps, that I
should be harking back to these conceptions of the past. I have,
however, no such intention.
The prevailing attitude toward the thought of death is that of
studied neglect. Men wish to face it as little as possible. We know,
of course, what the fate is that awaits us. We know what are the
terms of the compact. Now and again we are momentarily struck
by the pathos of it all; for instance, when we walk through some
crowded thoroughfare on a bright day and reflect that before
many years this entire multitude will have disappeared. The
rosy-cheeked girl who has just passed; the gay young fellow at her
side, full of his hopes, confident of his achievements, acting and
speaking as if the lease of eternity were his; that "grave and
reverend seigneur," clad with dignity and authority--all will have
gone, and others will have taken their places. Yet, as a rule, we are
not much affected by such reflections. When one of our friends has
met with a painless death we are apt to solace ourselves with the
hope that perhaps we shall be as lucky as he; at all events, we
know that when our time comes we must take our turn. Even
those who look forward with apprehension to the last moment,
and who when it approaches, cling desperately to life, are prudent
enough to hold their peace. There is a general understanding that
those who go shall not mar the composure of those who stay, and
that public decorum shall not be disturbed by outcries.
This is the baldly secular view of the matter, and this view, though
based on low considerations, in some respects is sound enough.
And yet I reiterate the opinion that to live as if this hour were our
last--in other words, to frankly face the idea of death--is most
conducive to the spiritual life. It is for the sake of the reflex action
upon life that the practice of coming to a right understanding with
death is so valuable. Take the case of a man who calls on his
physician, and there unexpectedly discovers that he is afflicted with
a fatal malady, and is told that he may have only a few months
longer to live. This visit to the physician has changed the whole
complexion of life for him. What will be the effect upon him? If he
be a sane, strong, morally high-bred man, the effect will be
ennobling; it will certainly not darken the face of nature for him.
Matthew Arnold wished that when he died he might be placed at
the open window, that he might see the sun shining on the
landscape, and catch at evening the gleam of the rising star.
Everything that is beautiful in the world will still be beautiful; he
will thankfully accept the last draught of the joy which nature has
poured into his goblet. Everything that is really uplifting in human
life will have a more exquisite and tender message for him. The
gayety of children will thrill him as never before, interpreted as a
sign of the invincible buoyancy of the human race, of that race
which will go on battling its way after he has ceased to live. If he
be a man of large business connections, he will still, and more than
ever, be interested in planning how what he has begun may be
safely continued. If he be the father of a family, he will provide
with a wise solicitude, as far as possible, for every contingency. He
will dispose of matters now, as if he could see what will happen
after his departure. On the other hand, all that is vain or frivolous,
every vile pleasure, gambling, cruelty, harsh language to wife or
child, trickery in business, social snobbishness, all the base traits
that disfigure human conduct, he will now recoil from with horror,
as being incongruous with the solemn realization of his condition.
The frank facing of death, therefore, has the effect of sifting out
the true values of life from the false, the things that are worth
while from the things that are not worth while, the things that
are related to the highest end from those related to the lower
partial ends. The precept, "Live as if this hour were thy last," is
enjoined as a touchstone; not for the purpose of dampening the
healthy relish of life, but as a means of enhancing the relish for
real living, the kind of living that is devoted to things really worth
while. As such a test it is invaluable. The question, "Should I care
to be surprised by death in what I am doing now?"--put it to the
dissipated young man in his cups, put it to the respectable
rogue--nay, put it to each one of us, and it will often bring the
blush of shame to our cheeks. When, therefore, I commend the
thought of death, I think of death not as a grim, grisly skeleton, a
King of Terrors, but rather as a mighty angel, holding with averted
face a wondrous lamp. By that lamp--hold it still nearer, O
Death--I would read the scripture of my life, and what I read in
that searching light, that would I take to heart.
Finally, there is a third condition of the spiritual life which I would
mention, and which comes nearer to the heart of the matter than
anything that has yet been said. Learn to look upon any pains and
injuries which you may have to endure as you would upon the
same pains and injuries endured by someone else. If sick and
suffering, remember what you would say to someone else who is
sick and suffering, remember how you would admonish him that
he is not the first or the only one that has been in like case, how
you would expect of him fortitude in bearing pain as an evidence
of human dignity. Exhort yourself in like manner; expect the same
fortitude of yourself. If any one has done you a wrong, remember
what you would adduce in palliation of the offence if another were
in the same situation; remember how you would suggest that
perhaps the one injured had given some provocation to the
wrongdoer, how you would perhaps have quoted the saying:
_"Tout comprendre est tout pardonner"_--"to understand is to
pardon," how you would in any case have condemned vindictive
resentment. In the moral world each one counts for one and not
more than one. The judgment that you pass on others, pass on
yourself, and the fact that you are able to do so, that you have the
power to rise above your subjective self and take the public
universal point of view with respect to yourself, will give you a
wonderful sense of enfranchisement and poise and spiritual dignity.
And, on the other hand (and this is but the obverse of the same
rule), look upon everyone else as being from the moral point of
view just as important as you are; nay, realize that every human
being is but another self, a part of the same spiritual being that is in
you, a complement of yourself, a part of your essential being.
Realize the unity that subsists between you and your fellow-men,
and then your life will be spiritual indeed. For the highest end with
which we must be ever in touch, toward which we must be ever
looking, is to make actual that unity between ourselves and others
of which our moral nature is the prophecy. The realization of that
unity is the goal toward which humanity tends.
Spirituality depends upon our tutoring ourselves to regard the
welfare of others--moral as well as external--as much our concern
as our own. What this practically means the following illustration
will indicate. A certain bank official, a man of excellent education
and of high social standing, committed a crime. He allowed himself
in a moment of lamentable weakness to use certain trust funds
which had been committed to him to cover losses which he had
sustained. He intended to replace what he had taken, of course,
but he could not do so, for he became more and more deeply
involved. One night as he was alone in his office it became plain to
him that the day of reckoning could no longer be put off. He was
at the end of his resources. The morrow would bring exposure and
ruin. Then the temptation seized him to make away with himself.
He had a charming wife and two lovely daughters. He was the
revered head of the household; in the eyes of his family the
paragon of honor. He was universally esteemed by his friends, who
knew not his temptation and his fall. On that night in the lonely
office he could not bear to think of meeting the future, of being
exposed as a criminal in the eyes of his friends, of bringing upon
his family the infamy and the agony of his disgrace. Should a man
in his situation be permitted to commit suicide? If we were at his
elbow should we allow him to do so? This question was submitted
to one of my Ethics classes. The students at first impulsively
decided in the affirmative, for they argued, as many do, that right
conduct consists in bestowing happiness on others, and wrong
conduct in inflicting suffering on others; and now that the man had
committed the crime, they maintained he could at least relieve
those whom he loved of his presence by taking himself out of their
way. True, someone said, the exposure was inevitable in any case,
and the shock of discovery could not be averted; but we were
forced to concede that from the point of view of suffering, the pain
involved in the sudden shock could not be compared to the
long-drawn-out anguish which would result if he continued to live.
For presently he would forfeit his liberty; he would sit as a prisoner
in the dock. His wife and daughters, loyal to their duties even
toward an unworthy husband and father, would be found at his
side. They would hear the whispers, they would see the significant
nods, they would endure all the shame. Later on, when the trial
was at an end, the prisoner would stand up to hear the verdict.
They would still be near him. Still later there would be the
pilgrimage to the prison on the Hudson. They would see their
beloved husband and father in striped garb among the scum and
refuse of society, and these weary journeys would be repeated
during long years until his term was over and he returned a broken
and outcast man to what was once a home. Could not this
lamentable issue at least be forestalled? But then there came a
new light into our discussion. One of the students suggested that
he must face the consequences of his wrongdoing, and that one of
the consequences is the very suffering which he inflicts upon the
innocent. He must see that day by day. That would be a part of his
expiation, the purifying fire that may consume the dross of his
nature. And, on the other hand, it would be right for the innocent
to bear, not the guilt, but the consequences of the guilt of the
wrongdoer whom they have loved, whom they still love. For this is
the holy law: that the other whom we love shall be taken into our
self as a part of our very self, that in his joy we shall rejoice as if
his joy were ours, that in his achievements we shall triumph, that in
his humiliations we shall be humbled, and that we shall work out
his redemption by traveling with him the hard road that leads out
of the dark depths upward again to the levels of peace and
reconciliation.
The spiritual life depends on self-recollection and detachment from
the rush of life; it depends on facing frankly the thought of death; it
is signalized, especially, by the identification of self with others,
even of the guiltless with the guilty. Spirituality is sometimes
spoken of as if it were a kind of moral luxury, a work of
supererogation, a token of fastidiousness and over-refinement. It is
nothing of the sort. Spirituality is simply morality carried to its
farthest bounds; it is not an airy bauble of the fancy, it is of "the
tough fibre of the human heart."
II. THE SPIRITUAL ATTITUDE TOWARD ONE'S
NEIGHBOR.
Sunday, Nov. 27, 1904.
Those whom we call our neighbors, our fellow-men, may stand to
us in a threefold relation. Some possess gifts far greater than our
own, and in point of development are our superiors; some are on
the same level; and some are much inferior to us. The spiritual
attitude toward our neighbor--though always governed by the
same principle, expresses itself in different ways, according as
our neighbor is related to us in one or another of these three ways.
I recently read a biography of Matthew Arnold, the author of
which constantly speaks of himself as Arnold's disciple. It is not
often nowadays that we hear men proclaim themselves disciples
and glory in their discipleship. At the present day the tendency is
for every one to assert an equality with others; and most persons
would resent the imputation of subordination implied in such a
word as disciple. And yet the writer in question is a self-respecting
man, he is thoroughly alive to his dignity, and he has keen and
unsparing words for certain of the faults of the master whom he
reveres. He is not blind, he is not wax in the hands of the master,
he does not look upon him with undiscerning admiration, and yet
he takes toward him the reverent attitude--what I should call the
spiritual attitude--for he recognizes that this master of his is a
casket in which nature has deposited a treasure of extraordinary
value, that he possesses a genius much superior to that of others.
The loyal disciple is concerned that this genius should appear in its
full potency and in undiminished radiance. To this end is the
upward look, the appreciation and reverence, and to this end also
the misgiving and the remonstrance when the great man deviates
from the course which he ought to follow. The same attitude of
loyalty we sometimes find among the disciples of great artists, and
the followers of great religious teachers. Loyalty is a virtue which
is somewhat underrated at the present day. Loyalty is not
debasing, not unworthy of a self-respecting man; it is but another
name for the spiritual attitude toward those who have a superior
genius, to whose height we are lifted by our appreciation of them.
Furthermore, in our spiritual relation toward those who occupy
about the same plane of development with ourselves, the same
principle of sympathy with the best possible attainment should be
the rule. To rejoice in the failure of others, to accentuate in our
thinking and in our conversation the faults of others, to triumph at
their expense, is the utterly unspiritual attitude. To desire that
others may manifest the excellence that is latent in them--be it like
to or different from our own, to desire that they shall have credit
for every excellence they possess, and to sedulously aid them in
developing such excellence as they can attain to, that is the
spiritual attitude.
I have spoken of superiors and equals, of our attitude toward
those who are more developed than we are, and toward those who
are about equally developed; but my address to-day will be mainly
occupied with our duty toward those who are or seem to be
wholly undeveloped. The fundamental principle of Ethics is that
every human being possesses indefeasible worth. It is comparatively
easy to apply the principle of anticipating our neighbor's latent
talents to the highly gifted, to the great authors, scientists,
statesmen, artists, and even to the moderately gifted, for
their worth is, in part, already manifested in their lives. But it is not
so easy to apply or justify the principle in the case of the obscure
masses, whose lives are uneventful, unilluminated by talent, charm,
or conspicuous service, and who, as individuals at least, it might
appear, could well be spared without impairing the progress of the
human race. And yet this doctrine of the worth of all is the
cornerstone of our democracy. Upon it rests the principle of the
equal rights of even the humblest before the law, the equal right of
all to participate in the government. It is also the cornerstone of all
private morality; for unless we accept it, we cannot take the
spiritual attitude toward those who are undeveloped.
The doctrine, then, that every man possesses indefeasible worth is
the basis of public morality, and at the same time the moral
principle by which our private relations to our fellow-men are
regulated. What does it mean to ascribe indefeasible worth to
every man? It means, for instance, that human beings may not be
hunted and killed in sport as hunters kill birds or other game; that
human beings may not be devoured for food as they have been by
cannibals or sometimes by men in starvation camps when hard
pressed by hunger; that human beings may not be forced to work
without pay, or in any way treated as mere tools or instruments for
the satisfaction of the desires of others. This, and more to the same
purpose, is implied in the ascription of indefeasible worth to every
man. Moreover, on the same principle, it follows that it is morally
wrong to deprive another of the property which he needs for his
livelihood or for the expression of his personality, and to blast the
reputation of another--thereby destroying what may be called his
social existence. And it also follows that a society is morally most
imperfect, the conditions of which are such that many lives are
indirectly sacrificed because of the lack of sufficient food, and that
many persons are deprived of their property through cunning and
fraud. The life of animals we do take, and whatever secret
compunction we may have in the matter, the most confirmed
vegetarian will not regard himself in the light of a cannibal when he
partakes of animal food. The liberty of animals we do abridge
without scruple; we harness horses to our carriages, regardless of
what may be their inclinations, and we do not regard ourselves as
slaveholders when we thus use them. Why is there this enormous
distinction between animals and men? Are the Hottentots so
greatly elevated above the animal level; are the lowest classes of
negroes so much superior in intelligence to animals? Have the
black race and the brown race any claim to be treated as the equals
of the white? Among white men themselves is there not a similar
difference between inferiors and superiors? Such questions
naturally suggest themselves; and they have been asked at all
times. It seems obvious that value should be ascribed to those who
possess genius or even talent, or at least average intelligence; but
why should value be ascribed to every human being just because
he wears the human form?
The positive belief in human worth on which is based the belief in
human equality, so far as it has rooted itself in the world at all, we
owe to religion, and more particularly to the Hebrew and Christian
religions. The Hebrew Bible says: "In the image of God did He
create man"--it is this God-likeness that to the Hebrew mind
attests the worth of man. As some of the great masters on
completing a painting have placed a miniature portrait of
themselves by way of signature below their work, so the great
World-Artist when He had created the human soul stamped it with
the likeness of Himself to attest its divine origin. And the greatest
of the Hebrew thinkers conceived of this dignity as belonging to all
human beings alike, irrespective of race or creed. In practice,
however, the idea of equal human worth was more or less limited
to the Chosen People. At least, to keep within the bounds of the
artistic simile, the members of the Hebrew people were regarded
as first-proof copies, and other men as somewhat dim and less
perfect duplicates.
In the Christian religion a new idea was introduced. The belief in
the worth of man was founded on the doctrine of redemption. The
sacrifice of atonement had been offered up for the benefit of all
persons who chose to avail themselves of it. Christ had come to
save the Gentile as well as the Jew, the bond as well as the free,
men, women and children of every race, living under every sky, of
every color of skin and degree of intelligence. The sacred respect
which we owe to every human being is due from this point of view
to the circumstance that every human being is a possible
beneficiary of the Atonement. For him too--as the theological
phrase is--Christ died upon the cross. But in Christianity too we
find that the idea of brotherhood, of equal worth, universal as
it is in theory, in practice came to be considerably restricted. It did
not really extend to all human beings as such; it did not extend to
those who refused to be the beneficiaries of the act of atonement.
In reality, it applied only to Christians or to those who were not
averse to receiving the Christian faith. The theological formulation
of the fundamental idea which we are discussing, therefore, is
beset by two difficulties: it is limited in application, and it is based
on theological conceptions. As soon as these theological
conceptions are relinquished, the doctrine of equality is in danger
of being abandoned.
In 1776, the founders of the American Republic undertook to
supply a new and a secular foundation for this doctrine. In the
Declaration of Independence, Jefferson wrote: "We hold these
truths to be self-evident, that all men are created free and equal."
In other words, he put forth the astonishing proposition that
human equality is self-evident. Many of us would incline to the
opinion that the opposite is self-evident, that the inequalities which
subsist between men are so palpable that we cannot overlook
them. If, however, we inquire what led Jefferson to this statement,
we shall find that, at the time when the Declaration of
Independence was written, there existed a basis of fact that gave
color to his assumption. The population of the United Colonies
was small--only about three millions--and on the whole
homogeneous. The great majority of the people were
agriculturists, pursuing the same occupations and on the whole
exhibiting the same traits. They were all, or almost all, of vigorous
stock, capable of self-government, jealous of their rights,
independent in spirit. At that particular time, the points of
similarity and equality among the members of the American
Colonies far outweighed the points of dissimilarity. It was, then, to
a certain extent on facts of experience, and not entirely on the
hypothesis of the eighteenth century philosophy, that Jefferson's
famous proclamation rested.
Since Jefferson's day the facts have markedly changed. We have
passed beyond the agricultural stage, and have entered the stage of
industrial development. The occupations of our citizens have
become greatly diversified. Large bodies of foreign immigrants
have come to us. If we survey the conditions of American life at
present, we are strongly impressed with the differences that exist
between the various strata of our population: differences in mental
ability, differences in vital energy, differences in the point of
culture attained, differences in capacity to rise. As a consequence,
the Declaration of Independence is treated by many as an obsolete
document, and its assertions as mere bombast and rhetoric;
unjustly so, because the truth which it attempts to convey is valid,
though the form in which the truth is expressed and the grounds on
which it is put are no longer adequate.
We have arrived, then, at this pass: the theological foundation
for the doctrine of human equality has failed or is failing us; the
facts to which the Declaration of Independence appealed have
altered. Are we, then, to give up the belief in human equality--that
priceless postulate of the moral law, the basis alike of democracy
and of private morality? At times it seems to us that the world is
almost ready to do so. Nietzsche in Germany puts it forth as a
philosophic principle that humanity exists not for the democratic
purpose of securing the highest development of all, but for the
aristocratic purpose of producing a race of supermen, an elite of
strong, forceful, "leonine" beings. And in his doctrine that the
many exist as a kind of pedestal for the grandeur of the few, he
finds support the world over. Men are but too ready in this age,
when the energies of the strong have been unfettered and moral
restraints have become weakened, to put Nietzche's doctrine into
practice too. From the Congo we hear appalling accounts of the
cruelty of civilized men in their dealings with the uncivilized.
Rubber and ivory, it appears, must be obtained in large quantities
to secure a handsome profit on investments that have been made in
those regions. Railroads must be built to make the supply of
rubber and of ivory accessible. In consequence, a system of forced
labor, of virtual slavery, has been imposed on the miserable natives
in order to make the building of these railroads possible. Human
life has not been spared, for human life in the Congo is as dust in
the balance when weighed against the profits from rubber. Punitive
expeditions have been organized (in other words, wholesale
slaughter has been resorted to), in order to coerce the reluctant
natives to bring in their supplies more punctually. The wives and
daughters of the natives have been seized, brutally chained, and
detained as hostages in order to influence their husbands and
fathers to a more ready obedience. The story of the Congo reads
like an incredible nightmare; the civilized world is aghast at the
partial revelations of it which have been published. From Armenia
we hear similar stories of ruthless contempt for human life and
merciless outrage. With Kishineff and Siberia in mind, we need not
comment on the conditions that exist in Russia. In the United
States, the heartrending circumstances that accompany negro
lynchings, the conditions in the sweated industries, and the
widespread evil of child labor show us clearly enough how little
the doctrine of the intrinsic and indefeasible worth of man has
as yet become the property of even the most advanced nations. In
the face of all these odds on the other side, in the face of these
confederate forces working the world over for the abasement of
man, how urgent is the appeal to rescue and fortify the doctrine, to
make it effectual, first in our own conduct and then in that of
others! And on what tenable foundations can we rest it, that it may
become operative?
First, as to its meaning. It does not mean equality of gifts, or
equality of mental energy, or equality in any of the traits that lead
to successful careers. It means equality in the sense that each is the
vehicle of some talent, however small, the bearer of some gift,
however seemingly inconsiderable, which in the sum total of
humanity's development is needed; that each one in his place and
with his gift, however insignificant in appearance, is in fact
indispensable.
And what is the reason for ascribing such worth to human beings?
The sole reason is, that the moral law enjoins us to do so. Before
ever we have discovered whether a man has worth in him or not,
the moral law enjoins us to ascribe it to him, to treat him as if he
had it, to see in him the light of the possibilities which he has never
made good and which he never wholly will make good: and thus,
and thus only, shall we bring to light, in part at least, the precious
things in his nature, the existence of which we can only divine. The
moral law is wholly misunderstood if it be founded on the actual
worth or value of men, for none of us has great worth or value.
The moral law is a law for the eliciting of possibilities. Briefly put,
it enjoins that we shall invest others with a garment of light, that
we shall ascribe worth to others and to ourselves, in order that
they and we may become worthy. This is the spiritual basis of the
doctrine of equality; this is the spiritual conception which should
regulate our attitude toward our neighbors.
And yet if there were no evidence at all to support our faith in
human goodness, our faith, however vigorous at first, would soon
decline, and hope and courage might utterly desert us. If men on
nearer acquaintance turned out to be, as some pessimists have
represented them to be, hard egotists, ingrates, slanderers,
backbiters, envious, incapable of generous admirations, sodden in
sensuality, knaves devoid of scruple; if experience indeed bore out
this sweeping impeachment, if especially the so-called masses of
mankind were hopelessly delivered over to the sway of brutal
instincts, of superstition and folly; the faith of which I speak might
justly be termed mere fatuousness, and the rule of acting on the
assumption that men are better than they appear would turn out a
blind delusion. But the striking fact is, that as soon as we act on
the principle of looking for the latent good in others, we are
rewarded by finding far more than we had any reason to expect.
Take as an instance the masses of the poor and ignorant, upon
whom we are so apt to pass sweeping judgments, as Carlyle did
when he said that the population of England was forty millions--
mostly fools. The experience of those who have had to do with
popular education does not corroborate this rash condemnation.
There is hardly a child in our public schools that is not found to
possess mental power of some sort, if only we possess the right
method of calling it out. The new education is new and significant
just because it has succeeded in devising methods for gaining
access to the latent mental power, and thus reaching what had
been supposed to be non-existent. Every so-called educational
campaign in the field of politics brings out the same truth. The
capacity for hard thinking and sound judgment which resides in the
working class is surprising to us, only because in our preposterous
pride we had supposed them to be baked of different clay than we
are. In the matter of artistic endowment, too, what wonderful
discoveries do we constantly make among poor children, even
among children that come from the lowest dregs of society! What
fine fancy, what prompt response to the appeal of the beautiful, in
spite of all the debasing inheritance!
But it is, in the last analysis, the moral qualities upon which
our respect for human nature rests, and in this respect how often
are we astonished, yes and abashed, when we observe the extent to
which the moral virtues express themselves in the life of those
who, in point of so-called culture, are infinitely our inferiors! What
power of self-sacrifice is displayed by these poor people, whom
sometimes in our wicked moods we are disposed to despise; what
readiness to share the last crust with those who are, I will not say
hungry, but hungrier! Who of us would take into his own house,
his own bedchamber, a dying consumptive, a mere acquaintance, in
order that the last days of the sufferer might be soothed by friendly
nursing? Who of us would make provision in our will to share our
grave with a worthy stranger, in order to avert from him the
dreaded fate of being buried in the Potter's Field? Which of our
young men would be willing to refuse the proffered opportunity of
an education in one of the foremost colleges in the land, in order
to stay with the old folks at home and work at a menial occupation
for their support? Who of us would give up the joys of youth to
devote his whole life to the care of a bed-ridden, half-demented
parent? Yet all of these things and many others like them I have
known to be done by people who live in the tenement houses of
this great city. It sometimes seems as if the angelic aspect of
human nature displayed itself by preference in the house of
poverty, as if those who possessed no other treasure, no other
jewels with which to adorn themselves, were compensated for
their penury in other ways by these priceless gems of the most
unselfish virtue. Such conduct, of course, is not universal. There
are abundant instances of the opposite. But the truth remains that
it is the worth which those who seem to lead the least desirable
lives display toward others that assures us of their own worth.
This, too, is the lesson of the oft-quoted and oft-misunderstood
parable of the Good Samaritan, upon which here, for the moment,
I should like to dwell.
The Jewish State in the time of Jesus was substantially an
ecclesiastical aristocracy. The highest rank was occupied by the
priests and their assessors, the Levites; after them, sometimes
disputing the first place, came the doctors learned in the sacred
law; below them the commonalty; and still lower in the social scale
were the people of Samaria, who accepted the current Jewish
religion only in part, and who were regarded by the blue-blood
ecclesiastical aristocrats with contempt, indeed almost as outcasts.
This fact it is necessary to remember in order to understand the
parable. The designation Good Samaritan has become so associated
with the idea of mercifulness, that I doubt not there are
many persons who have the impression that Samaritans in the
ancient Hebrew days were people specially noted for their
benevolent disposition. Nothing of the kind, of course, is true. The
Samaritans were a despised lower stratum of the population of
Palestine. Read the parable in this light, and you will perceive that
the moral of it is not as commonly stated--every one who has need
of me is my neighbor; but that there is a far deeper meaning in it.
There came to Jesus one day a man versed in the sacred law, and
asked him what he must do to inherit eternal life. And Jesus
replied: The substance of right conduct is plain enough. Why do
you ask as if it were a thing very recondite and difficult? Love thy
God and thy neighbor. But the doctor of the sacred law, wishing
to justify himself (wishing to show that the way of the upright life
is not so plain, that it may be difficult to decide whom one should
regard as one's equal, to whom one should ascribe worth), asked:
Who is my neighbor? And Jesus replied in the words of the
well-known parable concerning a certain man who had fallen among
thieves, and these stripped him of his raiment and left him for dead
on the public road that runs between Jerusalem and Jericho.
Presently a member of the high aristocracy, a priest, passed by, but
paid no attention to the sufferer; then another, a Levite, came that
way, looked at the man who was lying there helpless, and turned
and went on his journey. Then there came one of those low-caste
despised Samaritans; and he acted like a tender human brother,
bound up the man's wounds, poured oil and wine into them, etc.
And Jesus said: Which one of these three showed himself to be a
neighbor to the man that had fallen among thieves? In which of the
social classes did there appear to be the truest understanding of the
conduct which moral duty requires of us toward our fellow-men--in
the upper classes or in the lowest? And the answer evidently is--in
the lowest. The point of the parable is that the Samaritan himself,
whom priest and Levite and doctor of the law refused to regard
as a neighbor, was worthy to be treated as a neighbor, because
he understood, as they did not, how to treat others as neighbors.
The lesson of the parable is a twofold one: not only that the
wounded man lying untended on the road was a neighbor because
of his need, but more especially that the Samaritan was a neighbor
because he responded to the need, and set an example of truly
human behavior to those who had doubted whether, because of
his extreme social degradation, he was himself to be regarded as human.
The moral qualities in men, then, constitute their most universal
title to respect, and these qualities we find in all social grades and
among all races and nationalities. We find them among the
Chinese, as their devoted family life, the honesty of their
merchants, and the ethics of Confucius indicate. We find them
among the negroes, not only in the case of exceptional persons
like Booker Washington or Dubois or Atkinson, but also in the
undistinguished life of many an obscure man and woman, whom to
know more intimately is to learn to respect as a neighbor and a
moral equal. What we need to build up our faith in human
goodness is the clairvoyance that discerns the hidden treasures of
character in others. And one other quality is indispensable for the
moral appreciation of our neighbors, namely, the quality of
humility. Strange as it may seem, the less we plume ourselves on
our own goodness, the more we shall be ready to believe in the
goodness of other people; the more we realize the infinite nature
of the moral ideal and our own distance from it, the more we shall
esteem as of relatively small importance the distance that separates
us from others, the slight extent to which we may morally surpass
them. The more we are aware of our own frequent and serious
shortcomings, the more, when we perceive the moral delinquencies
of others, shall we recognize in their nature the same recuperative
agency which we believe to be in ourselves, namely, the power of
divine regeneration that can make all things new. If we regard
ourselves as morally little and yet as never lost, we shall regard no
one else as lost, however morally little he may seem to be.
Respect, then, for the indefeasible worth of every human being
must be based not on theological systems which are fast decaying,
nor on the fancied self-evidence of Jefferson's Declaration, but
solely on the moral law which commands us to ascribe such worth
to others whether we perceive it or not, nay, to create it in others
by ascribing it to them.
Such is the spiritual attitude toward our fellow-men. And though
our confidence may not always be demonstrably justified by the
result, though we not always succeed in uplifting others, yet by
pursuing this line of conduct we ourselves at all events shall be
uplifted, our own life will be touched to finer issues.