The only really satisfactory test of any faith, or system of faiths, lies
in its treatment of sin. Human consciousness in all ages, and in all
conditions of development, bears witness to the fact of sin with universal
and overwhelming conviction. Men cannot prevent the discomfort of
self-accusation which ever follows wrong-doing. They cannot escape from the
bitter which always lies hidden in the sweet. They cannot forget the
things they wish to forget. Even when they are a law unto themselves, they
are compelled to judge themselves by that law. It is as though some
unerring necessity is laid upon every individual of the race to sit in
judgment upon his own conduct, and to pass sentence upon himself. He is
compelled to speak to his own soul of things about which he would rather
be silent, and to listen to that which he does not wish to hear.
The proof that this is so is open, manifest, and indisputable. Human
experience in the simplest and widest sense of the word attests it. It
stands unquestioned amid floods of questions on every other conceivable
subject. No system of philosophy, no school of scientific thought, no
revelation from the heavens above or the earth beneath can really weaken
it. It is not found in books, or received by human contact, or influenced
by human example. It is revealed in every man. It is felt by all men. They
do not learn it, or deduce it, or believe it merely. They know it. All men
do. You do. I do.
Many things contribute to this simple and yet supremely wonderful and
awful fact of human experience. One of them is the faculty of thought. Man
is made a thinking creature, and think he must; and if he thinks, he must,
above all, think about himself, about his future, his present, his past. A
great French writer--and not a Christian writer--says on this subject:
"There is a spectacle grander than the ocean, and that is the conscience.
After many conflicts, man yields to that mysterious power which says to
him, 'Think.' One can no more prevent the mind from returning to an idea
than the sea from returning to a shore. With the sailor this is called
'the tide.' With the guilty it is called 'remorse.' God, by a universal
law, upheaves the soul as well as the ocean."
And side by side with this thinking faculty, there is the further fact,
that God will not leave men alone. On those unerring and resistless tides
He sends into the human soul His messages. He visits them. He arouses
them. He compels their attention. In His providence, by acts of mercy and
of judgment--by sorrow and loss--by stricken days and bitter nights, He
makes them remember their sin. All the weapons in His armoury, and all the
wisdom of His nature are employed to bring men to a sense of guilt--to
prick them to the heart--in order to lead them to recognise and to confess
and to turn away from sin. If, therefore, man by any invention had found
out a way by which he could escape from the consciousness of evil without
putting it away, God would not let him go.
Clearly, then, the initial proof of success in religion must be that
religion can deal satisfactorily with the conscious guilt of sin. To this
high test, all theories, all pretences, all promises must come at last.
What are they in their actual effect on the memories and consciences of
men in relation to their sin? How do they treat with guilt? How do they
meet remorse? Can they silence the clamours of the night? Can they give
peace when it is too late to undo what sin has done? Do they suffice amid
the deepening shadows of the death chamber--the place where ever and anon
the forgotten past comes forth to demand the satisfaction so long delayed?
But these, after all, are only the fruits--some of the fruits of sin. What
of the thing itself? That is the sternest test of all. The mere
condemnation of sin, no matter how fully it harmonises with our sense of
what ought to be, does not satisfy man. The excusing of sin is no better;
it leaves the sinner who loves his sin, a sinner who loves it still. If
excuses could silence conscience, or set free from the bondage of hate or
passion, how many of the slaves of both would soon be at liberty!
The re-naming of evil which has often been attempted during the last two
or three thousand years, and again in quite recent days, has little or no
effect either upon its nature or upon those who are under its mastery. The
new label does not change the poison. Its victim is a victim still. Nor
does the punishment of sin entirely dispose of it, either in the sufferer,
or in the consciousness of the onlooker. No doubt the discovery and
punishment of sin do give men a certain degree of satisfaction, but at
best it is only a _relief_, when what they need, and what they see
their fellows need, is a _remedy_. Sending a fever patient to
hospital is a poor expedient unless we cure the disease. Sending a thief
to prison is a poor affair if he remains a thief. It is not in reality a
victory over thieving; it is, in fact, a defeat.
Yes--it is a cure we need. And we know it. A cure which is not merely a
remedy for the grosser forms which evil takes in men's lives, and their
terrible consequences, but a cure of the hidden and secret humours from
which they spring. The deceitfulness of the human heart. The thoughts and
intents which colour all men do. The lusts and desires, the loves and
hates from which conduct springs. The selfishness and rebellion which
drive men on to the rocks.
The real question for us then is, Can our religion--does our religion,
when tried by the test of human experience--afford any remedy for these?
Unless it does, man can no more be satisfied or be set free by
condemnations, or excusings, or re-christenings, or punishments of sin,
than the slave can be contented with discussions about his owner's
mistakes or emancipated by new contrivances for painting his chains!