"Rationalism is cold," is a frequent criticism advanced by theological
people. Without God and the hope of immortality, the Rationalist,
according to church-goers, ought to be very miserable. Even if he should
manage to escape the consequences of his unbelief while living, he is
sure to suffer horrors when he comes to die. Life and death are so awful
that only faith in God and the hope of a future life can enable us to
endure the one and resign ourselves to the other. Such is the reasoning
of Orthodoxy.
Strictly speaking, the question of the existence of a God is not a
human question. The bare fact that for these thousands of years, and
throughout the world, the existence of God has remained an unsolved
question, suggests that in all probability it will never be decided by
mortals. Certainty about the future is equally impossible. Of course, we
do not know what light science may throw upon these problems to-morrow,
but speaking modestly, and without dogmatizing, every honest soul must
admit, with Shakespeare, that the future is still an "undiscovered
country."
The essential thing is not that we should believe in a God or in the
hereafter, but that we should grow. Whenever, during my ten years of
complete severance from the supernatural, I have been called to say a
few words in the house of mourning, or at the open grave, I have
never pretended to find comfort for the bereaved in the belief in a
non-resident God or in a life hereafter.
The priest knows, or says he does, where the departed has gone, what
kind of a life he leads there, what will be his lot in eternity,
and whether we shall meet again. He speaks of these things with the
assurance of a schoolboy reciting a page which he has learned by heart.
But he is only pretending to possess information which, as a matter
of fact, no one possesses. He knows no more of a personal God, or of
another life, than anybody else. If we cannot predict what will happen
in the next hour, how can we talk with assurance of the secrets of the
unending future? If we do not quite understand ourselves, or the world
which we daily see, how can we boast of any certain knowledge of a
Being who is said to be infinitely and absolutely and incomprehensibly
different from us? Silence is more religious than the gossip one hears
about such a Being. Modesty is more reverent than dogmatism, and the
agnostic is more honest and more eloquent than the garrulous preacher.
If men wish to know where the Eternal is, who he is, what he does, what
his intentions are, how he should be praised, what humors or provokes
him, how many manifestations or persons there are in his godhead,
and when he first began his operations, etc., they must not come to a
Rationalist for such information. To acquaint man with himself, to show
him the way to develop and use his own resources, and in time of sorrow
and bereavement, to depend upon the thoughts of the wise and the brave,
which heal and sooth and bless, is the consolation Rationalism offers.
It is modest, but it is real. Rationalists cannot count on the creeds
for consolation. A doll may amuse a baby, but is a grown-up man
miserable because he cannot play with a toy? The Rationalist is willing
to see Nature in its true light. He prefers reality to illusions, and
would rather be awake than dreaming the most seductive dreams which
"poppy or mandragora, or all the drowsy syrups of the world" can
medicine the mind into.
But the greatest consolation of the Rationalist is in this, that he is
not under obligation to distort his intellect and twist his affections
out of joint in order to justify God's way to man. No sooner a disaster
is announced than the clergy begin to concoct excuses for this seeming
neglect of Providence. God meant to punish human carelessness; he was
angry with the present generation for its unbelief; he wished to speak
in tones loud enough to be heard the world over, he was trying to make
us more careful in the future, he wished to demonstrate that all human
devices and inventions are futile unless "the Lord protect" the ship,
the house or the city; and finally, that we do not understand God, for
"he moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform," though we know
he does everything for the best. Is it not a welcome relief that the
Rationalist can bear his great sorrow without resorting to commonplace
sophistries of this nature? Not taxed with the burden of vindicating
Providence, the Rationalist devotes his energies to the fruitful work of
developing his resources against the fortuitous elements at play about
him.
Only a moment's reflection will prove the futility of all attempts to
establish a relation of some kind between God and the world's life.
`````_God's in His Heaven,
````All's right with the World!_=
is Browning's creed in his _Pippa Passes._
The verse in which the lines occur is, no doubt, excellent poetry, but
what about its philosophy?
````"_The lark's on the wing;
````The snail's on the thorn;
````God's in His Heaven-
````All's right with the world!"_=
We have seen and heard the lovely lark winging through the crystal air;
and a thousand thousand eyes have discovered the snail on the thorn.
Is it Browning's idea to intimate that by the same material or tangible
proofs we may be sure "God's in His Heaven," and be reassured that
"All's right with the world?" The two propositions belong altogether to
radically different categories, and to infer from the presence of the
lark in the air, or the snail on the thorn, that "All's right with the
world," may be good rhyme, but that is all it is. Granting that "God's
in His Heaven,"--a question toward which we maintain the modest and
honest agnostic position,--it is within the sphere of man to discuss
whether "All's right with the world." The world is made up of many
countries full of people, and it has had a long history. Certainly
"all's not right" in all the countries of the world, nor has it been
so during all the periods of time. Is it, for example, true of Russia
to-day that "all's right" there? Is it true of Poland, bleeding from
a thousand wounds? Has it ever been all right in Turkey? In Browning's
opinion, was there a country in Europe--the Europe of his day--of which
he could truthfully say that _all_ was right there? But perhaps the poet
merely meant to say that since "God's in His Heaven," all is bound to
be right, sooner or later,--if not in this world, then, surely, in some
other. But is not that begging the question? The mere fact that the best
human effort is directed toward making the world better, shows that
the world needs mending, and is far from being all right. We fear
that Browning used his oft-quoted expression after a very enjoyable
breakfast, while looking out upon his green and carefully trimmed lawns,
shaded with the overspreading branches of gorgeous trees, and imagined
that his cheerful yard was the world. The poet appears to correct his
own hasty generalization when a little later he puts in Pippa's mouth
the lines:
```"_In the morning of the world,
```When earth was nigher Heaven than now_."=
If it is true that the older the world grows, the farther it falls from
heaven, then, it can not be all right with the world, even if "God's in
His Heaven." And what is Browning's authority that the earth was nearer
Heaven once than it is now? Does he believe that the state of barbarism
is nearer heaven than that of civilization? Or does he believe that man
began life as an angel, and later became a man--a fallen man? It seems
as if the former of the two suppositions represents Browning's thought,
for in the following lines he shows decided preference for the animal,
the primitive, life of the world:
```"_For what are the voices of birds,
```Aye! and of beasts--but words, our words?
```Only so much more sweet?_"=
This is reason swallowed up in rhyme, or sense lost in sentiment. Why
is the incoherent, instinctive exclamations of childhood, of bird and
beast, sweeter than the ripened, rational, progressive, word of man?
Surely a bird is more innocent than a man, but a stone is even more
innocent than a bird. The beast tears its victims to death, the tree
feeds the worms; is not a tree, therefore, purer than a beast? In all
nature, there is nothing holier than man, for he alone can be holy.
Browning seems to think that we were all so much better off when we were
nearer the bird and beast, but evolution is our destiny, and only faint
hearts cast wistful glances at the ages left behind.
Finally, the great English poet seems to develop further the Asiatic
fatalism of "God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world" idea, when
in Scene VI., Pippa, in her chamber, exclaims:
```"_All service ranks the same with God--
```With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
```Are we; there is no last, nor first._"=
Indeed! Are we, then, but his puppets'? Is God a puppet showman? And is
this a puppet world which he rules? What is the educational value to God
of presiding over a race of puppets? Is there any glory for God, as Omar
Khayyam suggests, in pushing back and forth, on a checkerboard, mere
puppets, and then shutting them up in a closet after he has finished
with the game? If we are all his puppets, we cannot much care whether
"God's in His Heaven", or somewhere else, and whether or not "All's
right with the world." The truth is, Browning, instead of portraying
truth, betrays it. He sacrifices reason to imagination, and the result
is failure.
The attempts of the clergy to reconcile the god-idea with human
suffering and wrong have proved equally worthless. Shortly after the
disastrous Iroquois fire, in which nearly six hundred lives were lost,
the Chicago clergy met, strange to say, to thank God for his tender
mercies. Theology cuts strange capers with Reason after it has put out
its eyes. It was of course appropriate that, not only the mourners,
but the public in general, should observe with sober reflections the
anniversary of a holocaust which left a great city in mourning. It is
regrettable, however, that the ceremonies at the commemoration service
assumed altogether a theological character, excluding thereby from
participation many who would have derived great benefit from a purely
human expression of sorrow and sympathy. The exercises opened by the
ringing of the well known Hymn, _Nearer, My God, to Thee_, which was
touchingly rendered by the soloist and quartet to the accompaniment
of the piano. All music, softly and feelingly rendered, is sure to be
impressive as well as soothing on occasions of this kind. But was it not
a pity that some poet's words, free from the theological implication,
were not selected in place of this church hymn which is, after all,
nothing but the ecstatic outpouring of a superlatively mystical soul?
What does it mean, for instance, to be "Nearer and still nearer, to
God"? Did the six hundred people who murmured the words of the hymn have
any clear idea of what they were asking for when they sang "_Nearer, My
God, to Thee?_" No doubt they were comforted by the hymn, but how did it
differ from the help which the Asiatic thinks he derives as often as
he exclaims _Om Mani Padme Houm_--"O the glorious jewel of the
lotus,--amen"? Imagine the effect upon an American audience, had one of
the speakers suggested that the audience should sing the Hindoo prayer
to the lotus instead of the Christian hymn. But why is not _O the
glorious jewel of the lotus_ as intelligible as _Nearer, My God, to
Thee?_ Would the millions of Orientals who in sorrow and darkness find
light in drawing nearer to the lotus, be in the least moved by the
Christian hymn which moistened the eyes of so many in Willard Hall?
But why not let the Hindoo have his lotus prayer and the Christian his
hymn? We have no objection: if they cannot do without them, they are
welcome to them. In our opinion there has never been a religion, however
crude or primitive, but has helped some struggling soul; there has
not been an idol, however wooden, but has answered some prayers; not
a fetish, however cheap, but has inspired some believer. It is with
religions as it is with houses: The poorest hut or shanty protects some
little ones from the cold, the most rickety roof shields from the storm
some shivering child of want--even the hole in the ground into which
the savage creeps to escape the ravages of the elements is a refuge. But
true as all this is, it still remains as the most religions duty of man
to try to replace these primitive shelters by building, as Oliver Wendel
Holmes suggests, "more stately mansions" for his soul. Even as liberty
with little is better than slavery with prosperity, and as justice is
more precious than peace, truth is better than all the consolations
which such financial exclamations as _O the glorious jewel of the
lotus_, or _Nearer, My God, to Thee_, can afford.
"We thank Thee, O God, for the gift of tears; we thank Thee for the
ministrations of pain," prayed the reverend comforter. Pain and tears
are certainly among man's teachers, but they have not been an unmixed
good. Pain has crushed, perhaps, as many souls as it has educated. How
many have come and gone to whom pain was simply pain, and who derived no
benefit from it whatever? A dispatch from Port Arthur states that "the
inmates of the hospitals complain bitterly of the heartlessness of the
doctors and sisters of charity, who have become so accustomed to human
suffering during the long siege that they have lost all sympathy
with their patients." Pain, then, can make people callous as well as
sensitive; it can break the spring of the heart as well as sting the
will into action.
But it is not our purpose, at present, to question the wisdom of being
specially and officially "grateful for the ministrations of pain"; our
object is to inquire what the officiating clergyman meant when he said,
"We _thank_ Thee, O Father, etc." Did he mean it was good of the Deity
to visit us, now and then, with such catastrophes as the Iroquois
theatre fire? or, did he mean that it was quite considerate of him to
make us feel the horror of that event sufficiently as to bring tears
from our eyes? In thanking the Lord for pain as a gift, are we to
understand that we owe it solely to his loving kindness that we can
suffer, and not to any merit on our part? To thank anybody for anything
implies the receiving of a favor, and is it this clergyman's idea that
in send-ing pain and suffering--earthquakes and floods and terrible
fires which in one black hour destroys the lives of dearest children
with their helpless parents or guardians--the Deity is doing us a favor?
Let us reflect a moment: "We thank Thee, O Father, etc.," Does this
mean that there was "a possibility of the Lord withholding from us the
ministrations of pain," and that, therefore, we must be thankful to him
for not doing so--for not letting us be like the angels who live in a
world free from evil and error? We cannot understand what the reverend
doctor means when he publicly thanks the Deity for the "ministrations of
pain." And will our good neighbor * tell us who he meant by "O Father,"
and how he connects this "Father" with the unutterable calamity, the
shadow of which still darkens our human hearts? Ah, let us be truthful.
We are soldiers, and illusions can only spoil us. "We had sinned
together," continued the Reverend, "at least someone had sinned, and
'let him without sin cast the first stone,' I have not the heart to
recriminate now, as I had not then, because in my own conscience I
stand convicted before God of the common negligence. We are common
sinners." What do these words mean? Is the good doctor trying to
exonerate God by laying the entire blame upon us "common sinners"?
* Reverend Lloyd Jones.
The theatre fire was in all probability started by an accident which, in
the absence of efficient management on the stage and in the auditorium,
spread rapidly, converting the building in a few moments into a
charnel-house. Why bring the Deity into the affair? What part, according
to the doctor, did the Deity play in the Iroquois fire? Did he try to
save anybody? Did he try to prevent anybody from being rescued? Did he
cause the accident? Did he put it into someone's mind to be careless?
Did he confuse the people and throw them into a panic purposely? Did he
fold his hands and stand aside to see the burning? Did he wish to help
but could not for any moral reasons? Did he regret his inability to
prevent the horror? or was he glad it happened because it would teach us
a lesson? Did he choose that special way of teaching us a lesson? Had he
inevitable reasons for selecting a Wednesday matinee, when more children
would be present, to punish "us common sinners, who stand convicted
before God." If we cannot answer any of these questions, why do we
connect God with the affair? If we cannot say just what God did or did
not do in the theatre fire, why talk about it? If this calamity came
upon us because of our sins, then, according to the missionary the
Martinique earthquake came because the islanders rejected the Protestant
religion. And whose sins was God punishing by the Galveston disaster
or the Armenian massacres? Has it come to this that a man cannot take
a sorrowing, weeping, heart-mangled brother or sister by the hand with
sincere and sweet pity, without speculating about the Deity and his
mysterious moves?
Rationalism saves us from all these contradictions, and gives us the
consolation of being sane, even when we cannot have our heart's desire.
But to abstain from the worship of unknown beings, does not mean to go
through life without an ideal. The feeling of longing, which the poet
tells us is "of all the moods of mind, the dearest," is present in
every earnest man and woman. To develop our faculties, to accomplish our
tasks, to realize our hopes, to reach after our best thoughts--to labor
for the beautiful yet-to-be--it is this hope which gives atmosphere
to life, and makes our prattle eloquent. The pursuit of the ideal, the
vision of a world void of wrong, of a humanity free and strong, of a
world sweetened by the harmony of happy lives, of honest loves, of great
worth, of innocent joys,--will ever draw us like a loving kiss.
Another objection marshalled against Rationalism is that it is too
critical, and that it is not "nice" to criticise. "Criticism," it is
argued, "dwells upon the things which separate, more than upon those
which bring together races and creeds."
It certainly is more pleasant to talk of the unities and the
fraternities, instead of the differences between men or their views and
ideals.
Unity is a fine thing, but when it is used as a _shibboleth_, or as a
check upon the freedom of thought and speech, it ceases to be desirable.
When agreement is the product of unhampered and generous research, it is
good; but when it is desired as an excuse for the fear to investigate,
then it becomes a cover for error, or a plea for peace and harmony at
the cost of truth and growth. The teacher who provokes thought through
criticism is a greater helper than he who by repeating set phrases never
awakens a new interest in us. To sacrifice everything for the sake of
peace and fraternity would be a loss rather than a gain. In Russia, for
instance, one has all the freedom in the world, provided, he will speak
only well of the government. There would, indeed, be harmony under
these conditions, in any camp, but what would it be worth? "Look at my
charities," says the Catholic church--"my art, my music--the magnificent
cathedrals I have built, which are like beautiful galleries. Is it right
to criticise or condemn the evil practices of a church that has done
so much good for civilization? Speak, then, of the good the church has
done, and say nothing of her persecutions and superstitions, and we
will all be of one accord and of one mind." But would such a compromise,
though baptised with the high-sounding name of unity, help the cause of
progress? Is not progress a dearer word than unity? Is not freedom more
precious than peace? Let us have unity if we can, but we must grow, and
we must be free. Shall we sell the truth that we may have money to be
charitable with? Is it right to sacrifice speech to silence, for the
sake of harmony?
But is it nice to criticise? Is it not more generous and aesthetic to
be on good terms with everybody? What is there more desirable, they say,
than to see the ministers of the various cults--the Catholic priest,
the Protestant divine, the Jewish rabbi, the Unitarian minister,
the Ethicist and Revivalist, arm in arm, and on the same platform,
exchanging courtesies and praising one another's work? We are told that
when we see such a gathering on one platform, we can be sure that the
millenium has arrived. But it will be a millenium for the priest and the
rabbi, the healer and the shouter--they are the only ones who will be
benefited by such a Pentecostal assemblage. Such fellowship will no
doubt throw its mantle of silence over a great many evils which fear the
light, and encourage their authors to be defiant and indifferent to the
truth. Where there is silence truth has no advantage over error. Is it
worth while to sacrifice the most sacred privileges of men in order to
bring priest and rabbi together?
A great cause is often lost from the desire of its sponsors to be
"nice." The teacher who wants to be "nice" may manage not to tell any
lies, but he never succeeds in telling any truths, either. He cannot
afford to tell the truth, for it may hurt, and he is not "nice" if he
hurts. When he cannot tell anything pleasant, he must hold his tongue.
Such a teacher is like an acrobat dancing on a tight rope, all he can do
is to save himself from falling. There is no more room in modern society
for a teacher who is afraid to hurt than there is for the physician who
would rather humor the patient than do his duty. And, yet, there are not
a few who trim their thoughts so as to make only friends. If the whole
truth should at any time escape them by accident, they hasten forthwith
to qualify it, or to take back a part of it--just to be obliging and
nice. There has never been a reformer in the world who could not have
become the idol of the people by following such a method; but idols die
and turn to dust, while the heroism of the martyred soul is a perennial
benediction.
To be "nice" was never the policy of a really earnest man. If Jesus was
a historical personage, it does not appear on the records that he ever
tried to be "nice"--to pat the priests on the back, or to tell them what
good fellows they were, and that when he and they met they should be
careful to speak only of the things they agreed upon. Of course the
inability, to be "nice" cost Jesus his life. His independence nailed him
to the cross, but evidently he prized something else more than he
did unity. Luther was not very "nice" when he tore the pope's bull
in pieces, and nailed his challenge to Rome on the church doors where
everybody could see it. How impolite! That, surely, was a poor way
to make friends. "Let us have masculine men," cries Emerson, who was
himself thrown out of his pulpit and his church, because he preferred
independence to popularity.
Another thing which the independent teacher does which is not "nice" is
that he takes away the religion of our mothers. What about taking
away the religion of heathen mothers? Why is it right to take away the
religion of a Chinaman--a religion handed down to him by his mother--and
wrong to disturb the religion of an American because it was his mother's
religion? Did not Protestantism take away from the Catholics the
religion of their mothers? Did not Catholics take away from the pagan
Romans the religion of their mothers? Is it only taking away the
religion of _our_ mothers that is not "nice"?
But the Rationalist is also charged with being negative and not
positive. We are told in sonorous language that man cannot live on
negations. But it is Orthodoxy that is negative, not Rationalism. The
first commandment in the Bible God ever gave man was a negative one:
"Thou shalt not eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil." It
denied man freedom, and science. It denied him the right to progress.
And ever since the one aim of the church has been to keep man "poor
in spirit". Rationalism, on the contrary, removes the angel with the
flaming sword at the gates of Eden, and invites everyone who hungers for
knowledge to enter and eat of the tree of life.
To know that a thing is not true, is also truth. The mind, like the
ground, must be plowed and cleared before it can receive the truth.
There can be no truth without the destruction of error.
"Your doctrine is well enough for the strong, but the weak must have
crutches to walk at all, and you take away from them their crutches," is
another criticism often advanced against the Rationalist. It is related
that Mr. Ingersoll, when he called one day to see his friend, Mr.
--------, who was an invalid, was confronted with an argument he was
unable to meet. "As I was sitting in my invalid's chair," began his
friend, "and was looking out of the window, I saw a feeble, old man,
struggling up the hill yonder, upon his crutches. Evidently, he was
in pain, for he moved with extreme care and leaned heavily upon his
crutches. I could tell that his crutches were all that sustained him
from utter collapse. Then I saw a young man run after him, and when he
came up to where the old man was, he kicked off his crutches, and the
poor fellow rolled down the hill, a perfect wreck."
"That was an outrage," Ingersoll exclaimed, jumping to his feet and
walking toward the window. "Where is he?" he asked, impatient with
indignation.
"You are that man," returned his friend. "I was once a believer; my
beliefs comforted me. You came into my life, kicked off my crutches, and
now I sit here in this chair, a desolate and hopeless soul, waiting for
the flame to blow out."
There is no more comparison between a tottering man leaning upon his
wooden crutches, and a religion claiming to appeal to the intellect
of man, than there is between a watch and a universe, to quote Paley's
famous argument for the existence of a God. But, at any rate, is it not
cruel to knock an old man's crutches from under him? Let us see. If the
old man with the crutches represents the feeble-minded believers, the
question to be answered is, how did they come to depend upon the use
of crutches in the first place? Was it not more cruel to teach them to
depend upon crutches? Are not those who prevent the healthy development
of the limbs to enhance the sale of crutches even more cruel than those
who despise their use? To bring a man to a state of dependence; to
terrorize him into fear; to fetter his faculties so that he cannot
train them into service; to arrest his evolution; to keep him a dwarf,
clinging like a scared child to the apron strings of his lords; to
place in his hands an icon or a crucifix as his only hope--and then to
denounce the teachers who rob these poor people of their crutches, is an
argument which is bound to recoil with fearful force upon the venders
of such artificial helps. It is like depriving a man of house and goods,
and then providing a tattered tent for his shelter, and then saying to
us: Would you be so cruel as to pull down the only thing that protects
his poor head from the elements? Yes! in order that we may awaken in him
a sense of the wrong and the oppression and the deprivation of which he
is the unconscious victim. Sir Henry Main, in his Popular Government,
says, that, if it had been put to a vote whether machinery, when it was
first invented, should be introduced into the factories, there would
have been recorded an overwhelming vote against its use. It was taking
away from the poor man his crutches to compel him to compete with the
iron and steel. And, actually, laborers of the time, suffered much
and were driven to the wall, by the invention of machinery. But the
temporary mischief caused by the introduction of machinery has been
fully compensated by its lasting benefits to all classes. Likewise, this
or that believer may fall and hurt himself when his theological crutches
have been taken away from him, but if thereby his children and the
future race can be taught to dispense with the use of so clumsy a
contrivance, altogether--who would hesitate to knock them off? Was man
meant to be an invalid all his life? Must all the generations of the
future limp and hobble, to support the crutch industry?
Moreover, if any invalid can be made to give up his crutches, that very
fact shows that he did not need them. Grandma, or grandpa, must not
be disturbed in their beliefs, we hear people argue. We cannot disturb
them, however hard we may try, unless they are intellectually virile
enough to keep themselves together without crutches. The very fact that
we can shake a man, shows he is strong enough to stand the strain. We
cannot induce an invalid to give up his crutches; when we can, then, he
is not an invalid. And what do we give in place of the crutches?--the
ability to do without them.
I have often been asked "Why do we not as a Rationalist Society do works
of charity, such as establishing neighborhood guilds, sewing and bathing
clubs for the poor, free dispensaries, and hospitals?" There are many
who are already doing this kind of work whatever its value may be, but
very few who are even attempting to do the work which we have set out
to do, namely, to help men to use freely and wisely the noblest of all
their gifts--Reason. Is that a work that can be dispensed with? And can
public baths, and evening classes do more for a man than they will for
an animal if his Reason is still fettered. The emigrant from Russia, or
Italy, or Ireland, may join all the guilds and frequent all the night
schools, and still remain a mental slave. But he can not take a course
in Rationalism, and continue to cling to his chains. Of course, to make
men free and enlightened is not enough. They must also be helped to
develop the humanities which are the salt of life, but we must first
wake him up, for he can not be saved in his sleep.