ran silently through the world from soul to soul, till the world was
leavened. But even so the process of capturing and transforming the
faith in accordance with human weakness began. The intellectual spirit
laid hold on it first. Metaphysicians scrutinized the humble and sweet
mystery, overlaid it with definitions, harmonized it with ancient
systems, dogmatized it, made it hard, and subtle, and uninspiring.
Vivid metaphors and illustrations were seized upon and converted into
precise statements of principles. The very misapprehensions of the
original hearers were invested with the same sanctity that belonged to
the Master Himself. But even so the bright and beautiful spirit made
its way, like a stream of clear water, refreshing thirsty places and
making the desert bloom like the rose, till at last the world itself,
in the middle of its luxuries and pomp, became aware that here was a
mighty force abroad which must be reckoned with; and then the world
itself determined upon the capture of Christianity; and how sadly it
succeeded can be read in the pages of history; until at last the pure
creature, like a barbarian captive, bright with youth and beauty, was
bound with golden chains, and bidden, bewildered and amazed, to grace
the triumph and ride in the very chariot of its conqueror.
Let me take one salient instance. Could there, to any impartial
observer, be anything in the world more incredible than that the Pope,
surrounded by ritual and pomp, and hierarchies, and policies, should be
held to be the representative on earth of the peasant-teacher of
Galilee? And yet the melancholy process of development is plain enough.
As the world became Christianized, it could not be expected to give up
its social order, its ambitions, its love of power and influence.
Christianity uncurbed is an inconvenient, a dangerous, a subversive
force; it must be tamed and muzzled; it must be robed and crowned; it
must be given a high and honoured place among institutions. And so it
has fallen a victim to bribery and intrigue and worldly power.
I do not for a moment say that it does not even thus inspire thousands
of hearts to simple, loving, and heroic conduct. The secret is far too
vital to lose its power. It is a vast force in the world, and indeed
survives its capture in virtue of its truth and beauty. But instead of
being the most free, the most independent, the most individualistic
force in the world, it has become the most authoritarian, the most
traditional, the most rigid of systems. As in the tale of Gulliver, it
is a giant indeed, and can yet perform gigantic services; but it is
bound and fettered by a puny race.
Further, there are some who would divide religion sharply into two
aspects, the objective and the subjective. Those who emphasize the
objective aspect, would maintain that the theory that underlies all
religion is the idea of sacrifice. This view is held strongly by Roman
Catholics and by a large section of Anglicans as well. They would hold
that the duty of the priest is the offering of this sacrifice, and that
the essential truth of the Christian revelation was the sacrifice of
God Himself upon God's own altar. This sacrifice, this atonement, they
would say, can be and must be made, over and over, upon the altar of
God. They would hold that this offering had its objective value, even
though it were offered without the mental concurrence of those for whom
it was offered. They would urge that the primal necessity for the
faithful is that by an act of the will,--not necessarily an emotional
act, but an act of pure and definite volition,--they should associate
themselves with the true and perfect sacrifice; that souls that do this
sincerely are caught up, so to speak, into the heavenly chariot of God,
and move upward thus; while the merely subjective and emotional
religion is, to continue the metaphor, as if a man should gird up his
loins to run in company with the heavenly impulse. They would say that
the objective act of worship may have a subjective emotional effect,
but that it has a true value quite independent of any subjective
effect. They would say that the idea of sacrifice is a primal instinct
of human nature, implanted in hearts by God Himself, and borne witness
to by the whole history of man.
Those who, like myself, believe rather in the subjective side, the
emotional effect of religion, would hold that the idea of sacrifice is
certainly a primal human instinct, but that the true interpretation has
been put upon it by the teaching of Christ. I should myself feel that
the idea of sacrifice belonged wholly to the old dispensation. That
man, when he began to form some mental picture of the mysterious nature
of the world of which he found himself a part, saw that there was, in
the background of life, a vast and awful power, whose laws were
mysterious and not, apparently, wholly benevolent; that this power
sometimes sent happiness and prosperity, sometimes sorrow and
adversity; and that though to a certain extent calamities were brought
about by individual misconduct, yet that there were innumerable
instances in the world where innocence and even conscientious conduct
were just as heavily penalized as guilt and sin. The apparently
fortuitous distribution of happiness would alarm and bewilder him. The
natural instinct of man, thus face to face with a Deity which he could
not hope to overcome or struggle with, would be to conciliate and
propitiate him by all the means in his power, as he would offer gifts
to a prince or chief. He would hope thus to win his favour and not to
incur his wrath.
But the teaching of the Saviour that God was indeed a Father of men
seems to me to have changed all this instantaneously. Man would learn
that misfortune was sent him, not wantonly nor cruelly, but that it was
an educative process. If even so he saw cases, such as a child tortured
by agonizing pain, where there seemed to be no personal educative
motive that could account for it, no sense of punishment which could be
meant to improve the sufferer, he would fall back on the thought that
each man is not isolated or solitary, but that there is some essential
unity that binds humanity together, and that suffering at one point
must, in some mysterious way that he cannot understand, mean
amelioration at another. To feel this would require the exercise of
faith, because no human ingenuity could grasp the method by which such
a system could be applied. But there would be no choice between
believing this, or deciding that whatever the essential nature of the
Mind of God was, it was not based on human ideas of justice and
benevolence.
The theory of religion would then be that the crude idea of
propitiatory and conciliatory sacrifice would fall to the ground; that
to use the inspired words of the old Roman poet--
"Aptissima quaeque dabunt Di.
Carior est illis homo quam sibi;"
and that the only sacrifices required of man would be, on the one hand,
the sacrifice of selfish desires, evil tendencies, sinful appetites;
and, on the other hand, the voluntary abnegation of comfortable and
desirable things, in the presence of a noble aim, a great idea, a
generous purpose.
Religion would then become a purely subjective thing; an intense desire
to put the human will in harmony with the Divine will, a hopeful,
generous, and trustful attitude of soul, a determination to receive
suffering and pain as a gift from the Father, as bravely and sincerely
as the gifts of happiness and joy, with a fervent faith that God did
indeed, by implanting in men so ardent a longing for strength and joy,
and so deeply rooted a terror of pain and weakness, imply that He
intended joy, of a purified and elevated kind, to be the ultimate
inheritance of His creatures; and the sacrifice of man would then be
the willing resignation of everything which could in any degree thwart
the ultimate purpose of God.
That I believe from the depths of my heart to be the meaning of the
Christian revelation; and I should look upon the thought of objective
sacrifice as being an unworthy survival from a time when men had little
true knowledge of the Fatherly Heart of God.
And thus, to my mind, the only possible theory of worship is that it is
a deliberate act, an opening of the door that leads to the Heavenly
presence. Any influence is religious which fills the mind with
gratitude and peace, which makes a man humble and patient and wise,
which teaches him that the only happiness possible is to attune and
harmonize his mind with the gracious purpose of God.
And so religion and worship grow to have a larger and wider
significance; for though the solemnities of religion are one of the
doors through which the soul can approach God, yet what is known as
religious worship is only as it were a postern by the side of the great
portals of beauty and nobility and truth. One whose heart is filled
with a yearning mystery at the sight of the starry heavens, who can
adore the splendour of noble actions, courageous deeds, patient
affections, who can see and love the beauty so abundantly shed abroad
in the world, who can be thrilled with ecstasy and joy by art and
music, can at all these moments draw near to God, and open his soul to
the influx of the Divine Spirit.
Religion can only be of avail so long as it takes account of all the
avenues by which the soul can reach the central presence; and the error
into which professional ecclesiastics fall is the error of the scribes
and Pharisees, who said that thus and thus only, by these rites and
sacrifices and ceremonies, shall the soul have access to the Father of
all living. It is as false a doctrine as would be the claim of
scientific men or artists, if they maintained that only through science
or only through art should men draw near to God. For all the intuitions
by which men can perceive the Father are sacred, are religious. And no
one may perversely bind that which is free, or make unclean that which
is pure, without suffering the doom of those who would delude humanity
into worshipping an idol of man's devising, rather than the Spirit of
God Himself.
Now the question must be asked, how are those who are Christians
indeed, who adore in the inmost shrine of their spirit the true Christ,
who believe that the Star of the East still shines in unveiled
splendour over the place where the young child is, how are they to be
true to their Lord? Are they to protest against the tyranny of
intellect, of authority, of worldliness, over the Gospel? I would say
that they have no need thus to protest. I would say that, if they are
true to the spirit of Christ, they have no concern with revolutionary
ideals at all; Christ's own example teaches us to leave all that on one
side, to conform to worldly institutions, to accept the framework of
society. The tyranny of which I have spoken is not to be directly
attacked. The true concern of the believer is to be his own attitude to
life, his relations with the circle, small or great, in which he finds
himself. He knows that if indeed the spirit of Christ could truly
leaven the world, the pomps, the glories, the splendours which veil it,
would melt like unsubstantial wreaths of smoke. He need not trouble
himself about traditional ordinances, elaborate ceremonials, subtle
doctrines, metaphysical definitions. He must concern himself with far
different things. Let him be sure that no sin is allowed to lurk
unresisted in the depths of his spirit; let him be sure that he is
patient, and just, and tender-hearted, and sincere; let him try to
remedy true affliction, not the affliction which falls upon men through
their desire to conform to the elaborate usage of society, but the
affliction which seems to be bound up with God's own world. Let him be
quiet and peaceable; let him take freely the comfort of the holy
influences which Churches, for all their complex fabric of traditions
and ceremony, still hold out to the spirit; let him drink largely from
all sources of beauty, both natural and human; the Churches themselves
have gained, by age, and gentle associations, and artistic perception,
a large treasure of things that are full of beauty--architecture and
music and ceremony--that are only hurtful when held to be special and
peculiar channels of holiness and sweetness, when they are supposed to
have a definite sanctification which is opposed to the sanctification
of the beauty exterior to them. Let the Christian be grateful for the
beauty they hold, and use it freely and simply. Only let him beware of
thinking that what is the open inheritance of the world is in the
possession of any one smaller circle. Let him not even seek to go
outside of the persuasion, as it is so strangely called, in which he
was born. Christ spoke little of sects, and the fusion of sects,
because He contemplated no Church, in the sense in which it is now too
often used, but a unity of feeling which should overspread the earth.
The true Christian will recognize his brethren not necessarily in the
Church or sect to which he belongs, but in all who live humbly, purely,
and lovingly, in dependence on the Great Father of all living.
For after all, disguise it from ourselves as we will, we are all girt
about with dark mysteries, into which we have to look whether we dare
or not. We fill our life as full as we can of occupation and
amusements, of warmth and comfort; yet sometimes, as we sit in our
peaceful room, the gust pipes thin and shrill round the corners of the
court, the rain rustles in the tree; we drop the book which we hold,
and wonder what manner of things we indeed are, and what we shall be.
Perhaps one of our companions is struck down, and goes without a word
or sign on his last journey; or some heavy calamity, some loss, some
bereavement hangs over our lives, and we enter into the shadow; or some
inexplicable or hopeless suffering involves one whom we love, from
which the only deliverance is death; and we realize that there is no
explanation, no consolation possible. In such moments we tend to think
that the world is a very terrible place, and that we pay a heavy price
for our share in it. How unsubstantial then appear our hopes and
dreams, our little ambitions, our paltry joys! In such a mood we feel
that the most definite creed illumines, as it were, but a tiny streak
of the shadowy orb; and we are visited, too, by the fear that the more
definite the creed, the more certain it is that it is only a desperate
human attempt to state a mystery which cannot be stated, in a world
where all is dark.
In such a despairing mood, we can but resign ourselves to the awful
Will of God, who sets us here, we know not why, and hurries us hence,
we know not whither. Yet the very sternness and inexorability of that
dread purpose has something that sustains and invigorates. We look back
upon our life, and feel that it has all followed a plan and a design,
and that the worst evils we have had to bear have been our faithless
terrors about what should be; and then we feel the strength that ebbed
from us drawing back to sustain us; we recognize that our present
sufferings have never been unbearable, that there has always been some
residue of hope; we read of how brave men have borne intolerable
calamities, and have smiled in the midst of them, at the reflection
that they have never been so hard as was anticipated; and then we are
happy if we can determine that, whatever comes, we will try to do our
best, in our small sphere, to live as truly and purely as we can, to
practise courage and sincerity, to help our fellow-sufferers along, to
guard innocence, to guide faltering feet, to encourage all the sweet
and wholesome joys of life, to be loving, tender-hearted, generous, to
lift up our hearts; not to be downcast and resentful because we do not
understand everything at once, but humbly and gratefully to read the
scroll as it is unrolled.
* * * * *
The night grows late. I rise to close my outer door to shut myself out
from the world; I shall have no more visitors now. The moonlight lies
cold and clear on the little court; the shadow of the cloister pillars
falls black on the pavement. Outside, the town lies hushed in sleep; I
see the gables and chimneys of the clustered houses standing in a quiet
dream over the old ivy-covered wall. The college is absolutely still,
though one or two lights still burn in studious rooms, and peep through
curtained chinks. What a beautiful place to live one's life in, a place
which greets one with delicate associations, with venerable beauty, at
every turn! The moonlight falls through the tall oriel of the Hall, and
the armorial shields burn and glow with rich points of colour. I pace
to and fro, wondering, musing. All here seems so permanent, so still,
so secure, and yet we are spinning and whirling through space to some
unknown goal. What are the thoughts of the mighty unresting Heart, to
whose vastness and agelessness the whole mass of these flying and
glowing suns are but as a handful of dust that a boy flings upon the
air? How has He set me here, a tiny moving atom, yet more sure of my
own minute identity than I am of all the vast panorama of things which
lie outside of me? Has He indeed a tender and a patient thought of me,
the frail creature whom He has moulded and made? I do not doubt it; I
look up among the star-sown spaces, and the old aspiration rises in my
heart, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Him! that I might come even
into His presence!" How would I go, like a tired and sorrowful child to
his father's knee, to be comforted and encouraged, in perfect trust and
love, to be raised in His arms, to be held to His heart! He would but
look in my face, and I should understand without a question, without a
word.
Now in its mouldering turret the old clock wakes and stirs, moves its
jarring wires, and the soft bell strikes midnight. Another of my few
short days gone, another step nearer to the unseen. Slowly but not
sadly I return, for I have been for a moment nearer God; the very
thought that rises in my mind, and turns my heart to His, comes from
Him. He would make all plain, if He could; He gives us what we need;
and when we at last awake we shall be satisfied.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's From a College Window, by Arthur Christopher Benson