The deep need of a worthy interpretation of life is just as urgent in a
world where the idea of progress reigns as in any other, and to supply
that need is one of the major functions of religion. For religion is
something more than all the creeds that have endeavoured to express its
thought. Religion is something more than all the organizations that
have tried to incarnate its purposes. Religion is the human spirit, by
the grace of God, seeking and finding an interpretation of experience
that puts sense and worth, dignity, elevation, joy, and hope into life.
A body of students recently requested an address upon the subject:
"What is the use of religion anyway?" The group of ideas behind the
question is not hard to guess: that science gives us all the facts,
that facts and their laws are all we need, that the scientific control
of life guarantees progress, and that religion therefore is
superfluous. But in such a statement one towering interrogation has
been neglected: what about the interpretation of the very facts which
science does present? Could not one address himself to the question of
those students in some such way as this? You say that science has
disclosed to us the leisureliness of the evolving universe. Come back,
then, on the long road to the rear on which Bishop Usher's old date of
creation is a way station an infinitesimal distance behind us; come
back until together we stand at the universe's postern gate and look
out into the mystery whence all things came, where no scientific
investigation can ever go, where no one knows the facts. What do you
make of it? Two voices rise in answer. One calls the world "a
mechanical process, in which we may discover no aim or purpose
whatever." [2] And another voice says:
"The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament showeth his handiwork." [3]
That is not a difference in facts, upon which we can get our hands.
That is a difference in the interpretation of the facts.
Or come forward together to look into that mystery ahead, toward which
this universe and we within it are so prodigiously plunging on. Do we
not often feel, upon this earth whirling through space, like men and
women who by some weird chance have found themselves upon a ship,
ignorant of their point of departure and of their destination? For all
the busyness with which we engage in many tasks, we cannot keep
ourselves from slipping back at times to the ship's stern to look out
along its wake and wonder whence we came, or from going at times also
to its prow to wonder whither we are headed. What do you make of it?
Toward what sort of haven is this good ship earth sailing--a port
fortunate or ill? Or may it be there is no haven, only endless sailing
on an endless sea by a ship that never will arrive? So questioning, we
listen to conflicting voices. One says there is no future except
ultimate annihilation, and another voice sings:
"All we have willed or hoped or dreamed
of good, shall exist."
That is not a difference in the facts, that eyes can see and hands
handle; that is a difference in the interpretation of the facts.
Or from such large considerations come down into some familiar
experience of daily life. Here is a man having a hard battle between
right and wrong. There is no more impressive sight on earth to one who
looks at it with understanding eyes. What do you make of this
mysterious sense of duty which lays its magisterial hand upon us and
will not be denied? At once various voices rise. Haeckel says the
sense of duty is a "long series of phyletic modifications of the
phronema of the cortex." [4] That is his interpretation. And
Wordsworth:
"Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty!"
This sharp contrast is not a difference between facts, which can be
pinned down as the Lilliputians pinned down Gulliver; it is a
difference in the interpretation of the facts.
Or let us go together up some high hill from which we can look out upon
the strange history of humankind. We see its agonies and wars, its
rising empires followed by their ruinous collapse, and yet a mysterious
advance, too, as though mankind, swinging up a spiral, met old
questions upon a higher level, so that looking back to the Stone Age,
for all the misery of this present time, we would be rather here than
there. What can we make of it? Hauptmann's Michael Kramer says "All
this life is the shuddering of a fever." And Paul says, "the eternal
purpose which he purposed in Christ." That is not a difference in the
facts. It is a difference in the interpretation of the facts.
Yet once more, come into the presence of death. The facts that human
eyes can see are plain enough, but what can we make of it--this
standing on the shore, waving farewell to a friendly ship that loses
itself over the rim of the world? Says Thomson of the world's
treatment of man,
"It grinds him some slow years of bitter breath,
Then grinds him back into eternal death."
And Paul says: "This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this
mortal must put on immortality. But when this corruptible shall have
put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality,
then shall come to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed
up in victory." That is not a contrast between facts; that is a
contrast between interpretations of facts.
Is it not plain why religion has such an unbreakable hold upon the
human mind? The funeral of Christianity has been predicted many times
but each time the deceased has proved too lively for the obsequies. In
the middle of the eighteenth century they said that Christianity had
one foot in the grave, but then came the amazing revival of religious
life under the Wesleys. In the middle of the last century one wiseacre
said, "In fifty years your Christianity will have died out"; yet, for
all our failures, probably Christianity in all its history has never
made more progress than in the last half century. If you ask why, one
reason is clear: man cannot live in a universe of uninterpreted facts.
The scientific approach to life is not enough. It does not cover all
the ground. Men want to know what life spiritually means and they want
to know that it "means intensely, and means good." Facts alone are
like pieces of irritating grit that get into the oyster shell; the
pearl of life is created by the interpretations which the facts educe.
In this difference between the facts of experience and their
interpretations lies the secret of the contrast between our two words
_existence_ and _life_. Even before we define the difference, we feel
it. To exist is one thing; to live is another. Existence is comprised
of the bare facts of life alone--the universe in which we live, our
heritage and birth, our desires and their satisfactions, growth, age
and death. All the facts that science can display before us comprise
existence. But life is something more. Life is existence clothed in
spiritual meanings; existence seen with a worthy purpose at the heart
of it and hope ahead, existence informed by the spirit's insights and
understandings, transfigured and glorified by the spirit's faiths and
hopes. It follows, therefore, that while existence is given us to
start with, life is a spiritual achievement. A man must take the facts
of his existence whether he wants to or not, but he makes his life by
the activity of his soul. The facts of existence are like so much
loose type, which can be set up to many meanings. One man leaves those
facts in chaotic disarrangement or sets them up into cynical
affirmations, and he exists. But another man takes the same facts and
by spiritual insight makes them mean gloriously, and he lives indeed.
To suppose that mankind ever can be satisfied with existence only and
can be called off from the endeavour to achieve this more abundant
life, is utterly to misconceive the basic facts of human nature. And
this profound need for a spiritual interpretation of life is not
satisfied by an idea of temporal progress, stimulated by a few
circumstances which predispose our minds to immediate expectancy.