It must be evident, however, to any one acquainted with popular ideas
of God that if in a progressive world we thus are to maintain a vital
confidence in the spiritual nature of creative reality and so rejoice
in the guidance of the Spirit amid change, we must win through in our
thinking to a very much greater conception of God than that to which
popular Christianity has been accustomed. Few passages in Scripture
better deserve a preacher's attention than God's accusation against his
people in the 50th Psalm: "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a
one as thyself." The universal applicability of this charge is evident
to any one who knows the history of man's religious thought. If in the
beginning God did make man in his own image, man has been busy ever
since making God in his image, and the deplorable consequences are
everywhere to be seen. From idolaters, who bow down before wooden
images of the divine in human form, to ourselves, praying to a
magnified man throned somewhere in the skies, man has persistently run
God into his own mold. To be sure, this tendency of man to think of
God as altogether such a one as ourselves is nothing to be surprised
at. Even when we deal with our human fellows, we read ourselves into
our understandings of them. A contemporary observer tells us that
whenever a portrait of Gladstone appeared in French papers he was made
to look like a Frenchman, and that when he was represented in Japanese
papers his countenance had an unmistakably Japanese cast.
If this habitual tendency to read ourselves into other people is
evident even when we deal with human personalities, whom we can know
well, how can it be absent from man's thought of the eternal? A man
needs only to go out on a starry night with the revelations of modern
astronomy in his mind and to consider the one who made all this and
whose power sustains it, to see how utterly beyond our adequate
comprehension he must be. As men in old tales used to take diffused
superhumans, the genii, and by magic word bring them down into a
stoppered bottle where they could be held in manageable form, so man
has taken the vastness of God and run it into a human symbol.
This persistent anthropomorphism is revealed in our religious
ceremonies. Within Christianity itself are systems of priestcraft
where the individual believer has no glad, free access to his Father's
presence, but where his approach must be mediated by a priestly ritual,
his forgiveness assured by a priestly declaration, his salvation sealed
by a priestly sacrament. This idea that God must be approached by
stated ceremonies came directly from thinking of God in terms of a
human monarch. No common man could walk carelessly into the presence
of an old-time king. There were proprieties to be observed. There
were courtiers who knew the proper approach to royalty, through whom
the common folk would better send petitions up and from whom they would
better look for favour. So God was pictured as a human monarch with
his throne, his scepter, his ministering attendants. Here on earth the
priests were those courtiers who knew the effectual way of reaching
him, by whom we would best send up our prayers, through whom we would
best look for our salvation. Nordau is not exaggerating when he says:
"When we have studied the sacrificial rites, the incantations, prayers,
hymns, and ceremonies of religion, we have as complete a picture of the
relations between our ancestors and their chiefs as if we had seen them
with our own eyes." [2]
Our anthropomorphism, however, reaches its most dangerous form in our
inward imaginations of God's character. How the pot has called the
kettle black! Man has read his vanities into God, until he has
supposed that singing anthems to God's praise might flatter him as it
would flatter us. Man has read his cruelties into God, and what in
moments of vindictiveness and wrath we would like to do our enemies we
have supposed Eternal God would do to his. Man has read his religious
partisanship into God; he who holds Orion and the Pleiades in his
leash, the Almighty and Everlasting God, before whom in the beginning
the morning stars sang together, has been conceived as though he were a
Baptist or a Methodist, a Presbyterian or an Anglican. Man has read
his racial pride into God; nations have thought themselves his chosen
people above all his other children because they seemed so to
themselves. The centuries are sick with a god made in man's image, and
all the time the real God has been saying, "Thou thoughtest that I was
altogether such a one as thyself."
The unhappy prevalence of this mental idolatry is one of the chief
causes for the loss of religious faith among the younger generation.
They have grown up in our homes and churches with their imaginations
dwelling on a God made in man's image, and now through education they
have moved out into a universe so much too big for that little god of
theirs either to have made in the first place or to handle now that
they find it hard to believe in him. Astronomers tell us that there
are a hundred million luminous stars in our sky, and dark stars in
unknown multitudes; that these stars range from a million to ten
million miles in diameter; that some of them are so vast that were they
brought as close to us as our sun is they would fill the entire
horizon; and that these systems are scattered through the stellar
spaces at distances so incredible that, were some hardy discoverer to
seek our planet in the midst of them, it would be like looking for a
needle lost somewhere on the western prairies. The consequence is
inevitable: a vast progressive universe plus an inadequate God means
that in many minds faith in God goes to pieces.