Wherein lies the peculiar value of religious ideas?
We have spoken of the hostility to culture, produced by the pressure it
exercises and the instinctual renunciations that it demands. If one
imagined its prohibitions removed, then one could choose any woman who
took one’s fancy as one’s sexual object, one could kill without
hesitation one’s rival or whoever interfered with one in any other way,
and one could seize what one wanted of another man’s goods without
asking his leave: how splendid, what a succession of delights, life
would be! True, one soon finds the first difficulty: everyone else has
exactly the same wishes, and will treat one with no more consideration
than one will treat him. And so in reality there is only one single
person who can be made unrestrictedly happy by abolishing thus the
restrictions imposed by culture, and that is a tyrant or dictator who
has monopolized all the means of power; and even he has every reason to
want the others to keep at least one cultural commandment: thou shalt
not kill.
But how ungrateful, how short-sighted after all, to strive for the
abolition of culture! What would then remain would be the state of
nature, and that is far harder to endure. It is true that nature does
not ask us to restrain our instincts, she lets us do as we like; but she
has her peculiarly effective mode of restricting us: she destroys us,
coldly, cruelly, callously, as it seems to us, and possibly just through
what has caused our satisfaction. It was because of these very dangers
with which nature threatens us that we united together and created
culture, which, amongst other things, is supposed to make our communal
existence possible. Indeed, it is the principal task of culture, its
real _raison d’être_, to defend us against nature.
One must confess that in many ways it already does this tolerably well,
and clearly as time goes on it will be much more successful. But no one
is under the illusion that nature has so far been vanquished; few dare
to hope that she will ever be completely under man’s subjection. There
are the elements, which seem to mock at all human control: the earth,
which quakes, is rent asunder, and buries man and all his works; the
water, which in tumult floods and submerges all things; the storm, which
drives all before it; there are the diseases, which we have only lately
recognized as the attacks of other living creatures; and finally there
is the painful riddle of death, for which no remedy at all has yet been
found, nor probably ever will be. With these forces nature rises up
before us, sublime, pitiless, inexorable; thus she brings again to mind
our weakness and helplessness, of which we thought the work of
civilization had rid us. It is one of the few noble and gratifying
spectacles that men can offer, when in the face of an elemental
catastrophe they awake from their muddle and confusion, forget all their
internal difficulties and animosities, and remember the great common
task, the preservation of mankind against the supremacy of nature.
For the individual, as for mankind in general, life is hard to endure.
The culture in which he shares imposes on him some measure of privation,
and other men occasion him a certain degree of suffering, either in
spite of the laws of this culture or because of its imperfections. Add
to this the evils that unvanquished nature—he calls it Fate—inflicts on
him. One would expect a permanent condition of anxious suspense and a
severe injury to his innate narcissism to be the result of this state of
affairs. We know already how the individual reacts to the injuries that
culture and other men inflict on him: he develops a corresponding degree
of resistance against the institutions of this culture, of hostility
towards it. But how does he defend himself against the supremacy of
nature, of fate, which threatens him, as it threatens all?
Culture relieves him of this task: it performs it in the same way for
everyone. (It is also noteworthy that pretty well all cultures are the
same in this respect.) It does not cry a halt, as it were, in its task
of defending man against nature; it merely pursues it by other methods.
This is a complex business; man’s seriously menaced self-esteem craves
for consolation, life and the universe must be rid of their terrors, and
incidentally man’s curiosity, reinforced, it is true, by the strongest
practical motives, demands an answer.
With the first step, which is the humanization of nature, much is
already won. Nothing can be made of impersonal forces and fates; they
remain eternally remote. But if the elements have passions that rage
like those in our own souls, if death itself is not something
spontaneous, but the violent act of an evil Will, if everywhere in
nature we have about us beings who resemble those of our own
environment, then indeed we can breathe freely, we can feel at home in
face of the supernatural, and we can deal psychically with our frantic
anxiety. We are perhaps still defenceless, but no longer helplessly
paralysed; we can at least react; perhaps indeed we are not even
defenceless, we can have recourse to the same methods against these
violent supermen of the beyond that we make use of in our own community;
we can try to exorcise them, to appease them, to bribe them, and so rob
them of part of their power by thus influencing them. Such a
substitution of psychology for natural science provides not merely
immediate relief, it also points the way to a further mastery of the
situation.
For there is nothing new in this situation. It has an infantile
prototype, and is really only the continuation of this. For once before
one has been in such a state of helplessness: as a little child in one’s
relationship to one’s parents. For one had reason to fear them,
especially the father, though at the same time one was sure of his
protection against the dangers then known to one. And so it was natural
to assimilate and combine the two situations. Here, too, as in
dream-life, the wish came into its own. The sleeper is seized by a
presentiment of death, which seeks to carry him to the grave. But the
dream-work knows how to select a condition that will turn even this
dreaded event into a wish-fulfilment: the dreamer sees himself in an
ancient Etruscan grave, into which he has descended, happy in the
satisfaction it has given to his archæological interests. Similarly man
makes the forces of nature not simply in the image of men with whom he
can associate as his equals—that would not do justice to the
overpowering impression they make on him—but he gives them the
characteristics of the father, makes them into gods, thereby following
not only an infantile, but also, as I have tried to show, a phylogenetic
prototype.
In the course of time the first observations of law and order in natural
phenomena are made, and therewith the forces of nature lose their human
traits. But men’s helplessness remains, and with it their father-longing
and the gods. The gods retain their threefold task: they must exorcise
the terrors of nature, they must reconcile one to the cruelty of fate,
particularly as shown in death, and they must make amends for the
sufferings and privations that the communal life of culture has imposed
on man.
But within these there is a gradual shifting of the accent. It is
observed that natural phenomena develop of themselves from inward
necessity; without doubt the gods are the lords of nature: they have
arranged it thus and now they can leave it to itself. Only occasionally,
in the so-called miracles, do they intervene in its course, as if to
protest that they have surrendered nothing of their original sphere of
power. As far as the vicissitudes of fate are concerned, an unpleasant
suspicion persists that the perplexity and helplessness of the human
race cannot be remedied. This is where the gods are most apt to fail us;
if they themselves make fate, then their ways must be deemed
inscrutable. The most gifted people of the ancient world dimly surmised
that above the gods stands Destiny and that the gods themselves have
their destinies. And the more autonomous nature becomes and the more the
gods withdraw from her, the more earnestly are all expectations
concentrated on the third task assigned to them and the more does
morality become their real domain. It now becomes the business of the
gods to adjust the defects and evils of culture, to attend to the
sufferings that men inflict on each other in their communal life, and to
see that the laws of culture, which men obey so ill, are carried out.
The laws of culture themselves are claimed to be of divine origin, they
are elevated to a position above human society, and they are extended
over nature and the universe.
And so a rich store of ideas is formed, born of the need to make
tolerable the helplessness of man, and built out of the material offered
by memories of the helplessness of his own childhood and the childhood
of the human race. It is easy to see that these ideas protect man in two
directions; against the dangers of nature and fate, and against the
evils of human society itself. What it amounts to is this: life in this
world serves a higher purpose; true, it is not easy to guess the nature
of this purpose, but certainly a perfecting of human existence is
implied. Probably the spiritual part of man, the soul, which in the
course of time has so slowly and unwillingly detached itself from the
body, is to be regarded as the object of this elevation and exaltation.
Everything that takes place in this world expresses the intentions of an
Intelligence, superior to us, which in the end, though its devious ways
may be difficult to follow, orders everything for good, that is, to our
advantage. Over each one of us watches a benevolent, and only apparently
severe, Providence, which will not suffer us to become the plaything of
the stark and pitiless forces of nature; death itself is not
annihilation, not a return to inorganic lifelessness, but the beginning
of a new kind of existence, which lies on the road of development to
something higher. And to turn to the other side of the question, the
moral laws that have formed our culture govern also the whole universe,
only they are upheld with incomparably more force and consistency by a
supreme judicial court. In the end all good is rewarded, all evil
punished, if not actually in this life, then in the further existences
that begin after death. And thus all the terrors, the sufferings, and
the hardships of life are destined to be obliterated; the life after
death, which continues our earthly existence as the invisible part of
the spectrum adjoins the visible, brings all the perfection that perhaps
we have missed here. And the superior wisdom that directs this issue,
the supreme goodness that expresses itself thus, the justice that thus
achieves its aim—these are the qualities of the divine beings who have
fashioned us and the world in general; or rather of the one divine being
into which in our culture all the gods of antiquity have been condensed.
The race that first succeeded in thus concentrating the divine qualities
was not a little proud of this advance. It had revealed the father
nucleus which had always lain hidden behind every divine figure;
fundamentally it was a return to the historical beginnings of the idea
of God. Now that God was a single person, man’s relations to him could
recover the intimacy and intensity of the child’s relation to the
father. If one had done so much for the father, then surely one would be
rewarded—at least the only beloved child, the chosen people, would be.
More recently, pious America has laid claim to be ‘God’s own country’,
and for one of the forms under which men worship the deity the claim
certainly holds good.
The religious ideas that have just been summarized have of course gone
through a long process of development, and have been held in various
phases by various cultures. I have singled out one such phase of
development, which more or less corresponds to the final form of our
contemporary Christian culture in the west. It is easy to see that not
all the parts of this whole tally equally well with each other, that not
all the questions that press for an answer receive one, and that the
contradiction of daily experience can only with difficulty be dismissed.
But such as they are, these ideas—religious, in the broadest sense of
the word—are prized as the most precious possession of culture, as the
most valuable thing it has to offer its members; far more highly prized
than all our devices for winning the treasures of the earth, for
providing men with sustenance, or for preventing their diseases, and so
forth; men suppose that life would be intolerable if they did not accord
these ideas the value that is claimed for them. And now the question
arises: what are these ideas in the light of psychology; whence do they
derive the esteem in which they are held; and further, in all
diffidence, what is their real worth?