A Question for Christians

I

NOT long since, following a lect ure in which I tried to project the orbit of modern imperialism somewhat into the future, I received a letter from a thoughtful listener, which contained the following question: ‘What part is Christianity to have in the coming greater conflict of the nations, which you fear is ahead?'

My first impulse was to ignore the question, or to evade the issue. For years I have avoided discussion of this subject. It is not because I lack interest or sympathy; it is rather because I have both. If I had only interest, I could discuss it cold-bloodedly, as I can discuss Buddhism or Plato’s philosophy. If I had only sympathy, I could discuss it, or at least eulogize it, with undiscriminating fervor. But having something of both, I have felt little disposed, either to analyze or to rhapsodize, at least in public. And so, after long years of active interest in religious philosophy and church activities, I have withdrawn from active participation, breathing freely at last in the presence of my own thoughts, now that I am conscious that no one else is to be troubled by them.

With a Buddhist, with any not indifferent outsider, I could talk freely; but not with a Christian devotee, still less with one alienated from Christianity, or with one living heedless and unconcerned in the midst of all-pervading Christian influence and activity. You cannot discuss anatomy with one whose child is on the operating table; nor with an enemy of the patient, who wants the surgeon to knife him; nor yet with one wholly indifferent to the subject. So I have learned to look on and be silent. And with this attitude there has come something of detachment without alienation. I have stepped out of the procession without shaking the dust of my feet off against it. I know where it is going, — or trying to go,—and am glad. Meanwhile, from my position on the curb, it seems to me that I can see a little better than before the chance of arrival at the goal.

And so, as my friend challenged me from the ranks, I at last broke silence and answered as best I could. I do not know how my friend took it, but the result to myself was a renewed interest, a deepening consciousness that this is in a sense the question of the hour. We are Christians, we of the Western world, who are passing through deep waters, perhaps with deeper waters to come. We have pinned our faith to Christianity: some, as to a lamp which, if rubbed, will bring the genii; others, as to a lamp that will merely light our path. Is our faith justified? What has Christianity to say about such problems as now perplex us?

As regards war, the answer at first seems easy. Christians everywhere profess to regard the words of their Founder as authoritative. The words of his early followers and other worthies are likewise held in high esteem, by many even regarded as authoritative. It should be possible, therefore, to find in this body of teachings, and more particularly in the words of the Founder Himself, a reliable indication of the attitude of Christians on this subject. It is a subject upon which He spoke with directness and emphasis on more than one occasion. His first recorded address is one of the most pronounced pacifist documents in existence. Resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. The intent of these words is unmistakable. So far as I know, this meaning has never been denied by Christians, nor any attempt made to show that it was intended to be of limited application. The pronouncement is, in fact, exceedingly sweeping, seemingly denying even the right, of self-defense.

And yet this fact strikes the observer at the outset of his inquiry. No considerable body of Christians has ever at any time accepted this doctrine. Individuals have done so, and a single small sect, living mostly under the protecting ægis of powerful military governments, has given it consistent verbal endorsement. But Christianity has remained throughout its history unmistakably militarist, not loving war for its own sake, but ever ready to use it for what it considered to be worthy ends. Nor has there been any seeming sense of inconsistency in so doing. The thief and the perjurer have had to do penance, but never the soldier who fought according to the rules of the game. He has never been shamefaced or apologetic. The Church has consecrated him for his task, and has honored him for its performance. His flag has been draped above the altar, and his bones laid beside those of the saint. It may be doubted whether this temper is changing. Never was divine aid more confidently invoked in the interest of irreconcilable causes than in the recent conflict.

A conflict so obvious between accepted doctrine and words recognized as authoritative calls for explanation. This may be sought in a more complete examination of the words and acts of Jesus. This is the more necessary when we recall that the extreme pacifism already noted is found in the early utterances of Jesus, when He had but recently returned from a long sojourn in the wilderness where, as is well known, He was under the influence of the Essenes, the most extreme of all pacifist, sects. The ideality and spirituality of their faith naturally appealed strongly to much in the character of Jesus, and it should not surprise us that, on his return from this sojourn, He reflected their sentiments.

But if the nature of Jesus was spiritual, it was also extremely aggressive. In the wilderness, among the harmless Essenes, He could be a pacifist, but in the rough-and-tumble of active campaigning, in a commercial town like Capernaum, or a bigoted capital like Jerusalem, antagonism and aggressiveness were speedily developed, and we hear no more of turning the other cheek. To be exact, we do hear one more allusion to it — a retraction. On the last night of his life, He recalls among changed conditions his early pacifist dream. Definitely contrasting the present with that early happier time, He says: ‘But now he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip; and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy one.'

Such words are not very conclusive, and I have never heard them quoted in defense or extenuation of militarism. According to another evangelist, they were followed a few hours later by the seemingly contradictory generalization: ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’ Such utterances betray the changing moods of a sorely perturbed spirit, rather than clear conviction or settled purpose.

The acts of Jesus are somewhat more suggestive in this connection. The clearing of the temple was not war, but it was not pacifism. The whip of small cords was not an efficient weapon, but neither was the bamboo cane, with which Chinese Gordon led the evervictorious army of China. Jesus had at his back a powerful up-country following, which even the Jerusalem authorities dared not affront, and which could have made short work of the den of thieves, had they offered resistance. Whatever the means employed, the principle was coercion, and the spirit far removed from that of the injunction — resist not evil. Nor can the denunciation of the Jewish oligarchy to the multitude in the temple area be harmonized with the quietist principle.

To sum up, the attitude of Jesus on this subject seems to have undergone an altogether natural development. He begins with views that are theoretical, largely inculcated, and but imperfectly in line with his temperament. As a teacher, He at first deals in abstract generalizations, sweeping and extreme. Under the hard knocks of his active ministry all this changes. He becomes concrete, and learns the marvelous art of teaching by parable. Handicapped and thwarted by selfishness intrenched in privilege, He becomes uncompromising, aggressive, belligerent. Out of it all there emerges no clear rule of thumb that can save us the trouble of learning to live in the old toilsome way that nature has ordained. His followers, even though recognizing his teaching as authoritative, may well be excused for finding it inconclusive on this point. It is none the less significant that, without clear warrant in his words or acts, Christians should have taken a stand so definitely militarist.

II

Perhaps the significance of this independent attitude will be plainer if we turn to another case, in which both the teaching of Jesus and the independence of his followers are somewhat more pronounced.

The story of the woman taken in adultery occupies a peculiar place in the narratives of the life of Jesus. Most of the early manuscripts of the Gospel omit the story. Whether this means that it is a later addition, or that it is an original element which there was a later effort to suppress, matters little. The story is universally regarded as genuine. The incident undoubtedly occurred, and Jesus doubtless expressed himself essentially as stated. The hesitation on the part either of the writer of the Gospel or of later copyists has a significance which we shall note later.

The attitude of Jesus toward the sin of adultery is not in question. His last words to the woman make that clear, and we have other and more explicit evidence. The story is complicated, too, by the fact that a trap was laid for Jesus, which He skillfully forced into the foreground of attention. But it is none the less impossible to deny to his words, ‘Neither do I condemn thee,’ a startling significance. At those words, the writer or his early biographers baulked. At those words, later Christian teaching has always hedged. We are told that it was an exceptional case; that Jesus read her heart and saw that she was penitent. Concede it, though the story gives no hint.

The fact remains that Jesus refuses to put the adulteress beyond the pale, and healthy society always does so. It did so then, and it does so now — never more than now. Imagine near at home a case such as appears from time to time in almost any community — a woman upright, cultured, high-minded, the victim of an unconscious fascination and an illicit love. It is the commonest of human experiences that all this may happen, and character and even moral instincts remain essentially intact. Reinstate the offender in the esteem and favor of society, and she is perfectly salvable. But society will not reinstate her. Friends may feel for her the keenest sympathy, may even give her furtive assurance of undying friendship, but restore her to her old place in the social circle they dare not, cannot. The social circle that will lift its ban is a circle that is off color. And yet, the enforcement of this pitiless social ostracism means almost certain doom to a perfectly salvable individual.

This is but one of many indications that Jesus refused to recognize the organic character of society, a doctrine upon which Paul laid the greatest emphasis and one which is fundamental in the social philosophy of our time. He insists upon regarding primarily the individual and in claiming salvage for the salvable, irrespective of social reactions. He distinctly enunciates this policy in the well-known words, later fantastically denaturalized by theological interpretation: ‘The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ In a word, He stands for individual salvage, while conservative society has always stood for social quarantine. Confronted with a victim of moral contagion, He urges that the case can be cured, to which society replies: ‘Yes, but, with cost and risks which we cannot afford to incur.’

I am not here concerned to show which is right, but only to point out the perfectly obvious fact, that careful society stands to-day where it has always stood, and Christian society most of all. The words of Jesus are honored, but given a post-mortem application. The duty of salvage is admitted, but in strict subordination to the principle of quarantine. We have our refuges and our rescue work, but our wives do not associate with the adulteress, no matter how penitent and how morally intact, unless as angels of mercy to a lower class, where all possibility of social relations is excluded.

III

If my argument in this case is not convincing, I will try another. What were the economic doctrines of Jesus, and what does the Christian world think about them? He was by no means silent on some of the main issues. Not only did He have concrete situations to deal with, but He indulged in numerous generalizations on the subject, of a somewhat startling character. In beauty of expression these utterances are unsurpassed — so much so that they have won the suffrages of multitudes who have given little heed to their purport. We will first examine these generalizations.

Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.

Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body what ye shall put on.

Behold the fowls of the air; for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?

And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Let us read these words, if possible, as if they were the words of a stranger, to whom we are nowise committed in heart. What should we say was their economic purport? There is but one possible answer. There is in them all a disparagement of thrift and forethought, and an encouragement to a care-free, hand-to-mouth existence, which nothing in situation or context can mitigate. So absolutely do these injunctions contradict our most cherished convictions, that we should quite discredit their literal intent, were there not abundant proof that Jesus practised what He preached. His followers in many cases forsook their occupations, put their capital into a common consumption fund, and frankly threw themselves upon charity, as Jesus encouraged them to do.

The little fellowship that survived him was communistic, unproductive, and soon pauperized — a burden upon the churches organized by Paul, who vehemently opposed their adoption of the communistic principle. When Zaccheus, of doubtful antecedents, makes good his extortions and gives half his goods to the poor, Jesus declares: ‘This day is salvation come to this house’; but when the rich young man, pattern of all the virtues, cannot see that it is his duty to sell all that he has and give to the poor, we are told that Jesus loved him, but commented sorrowfully, ‘How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!'

The meaning of all this is perfectly plain to those who are not theologically estopped from recognizing it. Jesus was one of those rare idealist natures who, by an inner law of their being, are incapable of realizing the laws of economics. Spiritual forces are so immeasurably more important, and the economic struggle is so confusing, so harsh, so shot through with greed and oppression, that it forfeits their sympathy and fails to enlist their patient attention. Continually caught in its toils, and from sheer ineptitude usually its victims, their judgments of its workings are as untrustworthy as they are unsympathetic. It is folly to take seriously their pronouncement on matters so entirely beyond their purview. In truth, the world never does.

But the founder of a religion invariably comes to play a dangerous rôle. He loses the privilege, accorded to other men, of not knowing things and of being excused for his ignorance. His words acquire a talismanic virtue, and are forced to yield solutions of impossible problems. If surface meanings are unavailable, they must be disposed of and hidden meanings extracted. There is no mental jugglery that the devout mind will not permit, rather than recognize the most obvious of limitations on the part of the object, of its devotion.

So we are told that Jesus did not mean that, we should take no thought for the morrow, but only that we should not take too much thought, the question of too much being necessarily left to the individual judgment, and placed by a consensus of Christian opinion at a point which presents no analogy with the case of the lilies and the birds. We are assured that Jesus meant the injunction to sell all and give to the poor, only for the rich young man whom He saw to be covetous, though the narrator goes out of his way to prevent such an aspersion. And so on, indefinitely.

I have all respect for those who feel the need of these far-fetched interpretations, but I do not myself feel the need of them. They are to me clear evasions of meanings which there is no occasion to evade. The words of Jesus, with all their mistaken disparagement of thrift and injunctions to unlimited charity, are words that do him honor. Their very extravagance demonstrates the splendid passion for humanity which prompted their utterance. Does not the world honor Michelangelo the more, that art left him no room for the canny thrift of a Titian? I claim for Jesus the glorious economic irresponsibility of the idealist and the prophet. I claim for myself the right to distinguish between the message of the Most High and the maxims of Poor Richard.

But this is a digression. Again, it is not my purpose to decide who is right, but to note the fact that between Jesus and his followers there is a pronounced, though unconfessed, difference of opinion. The Christians of today, those recognized as most honoring the name, do not live like the lilies or the birds, or beg from door to door. They believe in taking thought for the morrow — even anxious thought, on occasion. They agree with Paul that he that provideth not for his own hath denied the faith and is worse than an infidel. They recognize, with Adam Smith, that the capacity for forethought and effort for long-deferred ends are the best criterion of the development of a people. They see in the accumulation of wealth, not the hoarded indulgence of greed, but the elaborated mechanism of social service. They ask the rich man of to-day, not to dissipate his fortune in charity, now recognized as rarely beneficial, but to organize it for the honest service of society. They enjoin, even upon societies for the propagation of his gospel, economic foresight and anxious prevision. It is impossible, without stultifying ourselves, to torture the words of Jesus into an endorsement of this accepted economic faith.

It would be easy to trace further this antithesis — to note our hesitating but conscientious rejection of his teachings upon divorce, upon titles indicative of religious distinction, upon the ritualizing of religious worship, the recognition of convention in morals, Sabbath observance, and the like; but as our purpose is to illustrate a principle, rather than to enumerate its applications, we need not make our inquiry exhaustive.

Such an inquiry would reveal everywhere something of divergence — often a complete conflict — between the teachings of Jesus and the slowly matured conclusions of his sincere followers; everywhere the same naïve unconsciousness that any divergence exists, and the same conventionally sanctioned interpretations to win for necessary conclusions the countenance of his authority. We should find the same in any other religion. The teachings of Zoroaster, of Confucius, of Gotama, of Mohammed, and, I presume, of Mary Baker Eddy, all retain the reverence and homage of their votaries, on the same inexorable condition that they lend themselves to the interpretation which experience shall dictate. This process is facilitated by the familiar fact, so well stated by George Eliot, that ‘the human mind is hospitable and will entertain conflicting views and opinions with grave impartiality.’

All this is perfectly natural, perfectly as it should be. The correlations of life, and of religion in particular, are emotional, not intellectual. Out of the heart are the issues of life. In choosing our path through life’s maze, we are necessarily compelled to feel our way, to deal with unforeseen conditions, and to correct unwise procedure. From this duty of painful experimentation there is, and can be, no miraculous exemption. The most faultless precepts have no power to furnish the necessary guidance. If of universal application, they are necessarily generalizations so broad that the problem of application has difficulties hardly less than those of the original problem. If, on the other hand, they are of immediate application, they can never have universal validity.

This is not a criticism upon any part icular precepts. It is a statement of a limitation inherent in all precepts from their very nature. Precepts can never serve as substitutes for experience.

IV

This, then, is the principle to which our inquiry leads. The vital beliefs of Christians, as of men of all religions, are simply formulations of their social experiences. These beliefs are, so far as possible, stated in the words of the founder, or early worthies, of the faith, but with a freedom of selection, arrangement, and interpretation, which permits of any degree of divergence from the original teachings of these persons. This process, continually challenged by the cynic who calls religion a sham, and by the fanatic who summons us to a preposterous literalism, is perfectly natural and wholesome. It rests upon certain permanent conditions of life in the social state.

First, it is necessary constantly to revise the laws of conduct to meet changing conditions. The rule of no divorce except for adultery is doubtless sound under certain conditions; but the best judgment of our time agrees that, under present conditions, its enforcement would be injurious. The precept of Jesus has, therefore, been quietly set aside. Paul said, ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches’ — a rule of the utmost practical wisdom at the time when it was enunciated, but one the mere mention of which to-day is greeted with a smile. The one rule is too ideal and ultimate, the other too local and temporary, to meet our needs. The necessity for this revision is constant and universal. No rule of conduct is exempt from adjudication in the court of experience.

Second, this necessity for constant revision of procedure coexists with an equal necessity for unchanged emotional relations. We must depart from the teachings of the past, yet we must not break with the past. We must revise, even reverse, the teachings of Jesus, yet we crave his countenance in so doing, and cherish the consciousness of unbroken loyalty. The result is that we confront this necessity of revision with a certain perturbation of spirit. The healthy soul is a reverent souk deeply conscious of its own limitations. Confronted with the necessity of departing from time-honored precepts, it says: ‘ Who am I, that I should innovate upon the wisdom of the great past?’ Trust not the man who lightly turns his back upon the past. Trust rather him who comes not to destroy, but to fulfill. Fulfillment means destruction just the same, but oh, such a different destruction!

The result of this conflict is that the revision of social procedure is necessarily made under disguises, and in a manner which, merely intellectually considered, is essentially disingenuous. The Greeks, unable to give innovation free rein, made their advances under the plea of restoring the long-vanished Golden Age. The institutions of Lycurgus, to which the philosophers of Athens were ever pointing as the model to which a degenerate world should strive again to conform, were almost a pure fiction, a dream of the innovator, which he commended to his public by clothing it in the habiliments of a revered past.

The same process is in constant use to-day. It was the salvation of our American Constitution, and possibly of our Republic, that for the first century of our existence the required changes were effected almost wholly by interpretation rather than by amendment, thus ensuring the necessary adaptations, without impairing the sense of continuity and stability so essential to our safety. The same process as applied to theology and ethics is too familiar to require comment.

It cannot be too strongly insisted that this unconscious inconsistency, which characterizes all progress in matters where our feelings are deeply concerned, is in no sense to be reprobated or regretted. Advance is possible in such connections, only on condition that the sensitive life-centres are protected from the raids of consciousness by an elaborate camouflage. It is a necessary condition of vitality and usefulness on the part of religion that it accustom itself to these disguises; that it learn to retain the sayings, the maxims, the early formulas of faith which have attracted to themselves the veneration of the ages, while freeing itself from their intellectual dictation. There is no person living who, if rescued by a sudden aphasia from the tradition of the Apostles’ Creed or the Westminster Confession, would phrase his own belief in anything resembling their terms. Yet they are assets of inestimable value to religion and to society. As concert exercises, scarce ruffling the surface of quiescent thought, they weave a spell more precious, and come laden with a meaning more vital, than any intellectual revision can ever give. They should not be revised, they should not be scrutinized. They should be still farther intoned and deintellectualized, until they become but mystic tokens, connecting the living heart of the present with the undying soul of the past.

It is the peculiar merit of Christianity that it has retained this freedom of judgment, this power of adaptation, this ability to accept the teachings of life, without losing reverence for its Founder, or coming into conscious conflict with his teachings. It has avoided the casuistry which fossilized Mohammedanism, and has thrown off the yoke which church infallibility for a time laid upon it. It has even rescued its Founder from the ossification of theology, and won Him back to life and personality. It is astounding, how real is the freedom with which the Christian judges the relations of life, untrammeled by word or act of his Lord, while bowing in sincere reverence before Him and finding in his words an unfailing inspiration. The empty of heart will call this hypocrisy, and the timid in thought will deplore it as the decay of faith. It is, in fact, the development of man in true balance, the supreme triumph of religious evolution.

I suppose someone will ask the inevitable question: ‘What is the use of a leader if his teachings are not to be followed?’ The mere asking of such a question gives us a feeling of the futility of reply. It takes us into a domain of tremendous realities, which refuse to be weighed or touched. What is the good of a friend if he bestow no gifts and bring no answer to the riddles that perplex you? In sooth, I cannot tell, but I still prize my friend above all other good.

And yet the craving for the substantial is not wholly wrong. We ask instinctively that spiritual relations translate themselves into concrete services. Even Jesus asked it. ‘Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?’ We can sympathize with the impatient expostulation of one who found it so hard to lead devotion over into action. And yet with all reverence I confess to a fellow feeling for those thus chidden. I fancy that the rich young man, who could not accept the hard precept, went away cherishing in his sorrow the memory of one whom he had found a lord among men — a memory that went far to effect that salvation of which Jesus despaired. Who knows with what reverence and transforming love he contemplated the figure of the great Galilean down the lengthening vista of the years, the while, it may well be, that the impulsive Zaccheus suffered the pangs of disillusionment and reaction in the days of Ananias and Sapphira?

I recall one whom I knew in my youth, at whose feet I sat with a devotion like unto that of the twelve. I have shed his philosophy, I do not vote his ticket, I question his precepts, but I still call him the only great man I ever knew, and acknowledge in him a lordship that defies all loss and change. Is there one of you who cannot duplicate that experience? If so, I am sorry, for you have missed one of life’s supreme benedictions.

And now let us return for a moment to the question with which we began. What part will Christianity play in the great struggle of the present and of the future? Will it define the issue and adjudicate conflicting claims? I doubt it. The answer will be as of old: ‘Man, who made me a judge or a divider over you?’ Will it make us soft hearted and yielding, ready to sacrifice just interests rather than resist aggression? Not by his warrant. There will still be the whip of small cords. But if Christianity means in any degree the spirit of its Founder, — and, in no small degree, it does mean just that to-day, — it will promote reasonable and kindly settlements among men.

Let us resort for a moment to the familiar and much abused device of summoning the great Galilean into our midst. What would happen if Christ were at Lausanne and those gathered round the council table were imbued with his spirit? Would He have a formula which would remove the difficulties of the situation? Would the darkness vanish in the miraculous light of his presence? Nothing of all this. There would still be need of subcommissions and weeks of patient toil.

There would still be difference of opinion and warmly contested proposals. There would still be the conflict between idealists and hard-headed men with their unequal appreciation of vision and fact. There might still be deadlocks, possibly even new recourse to arms. Even a regenerate Caiaphas might not have seen eye to eye with James and John.

But does anyone doubt for a moment that if the peace-makers at Lausanne were dominated by the spirit which Jesus habitually manifested in his walks among men, the chances of a satisfactory solution would be immeasurably increased? Instead of the bullying of a Chicherin and the crafty diplomatic fencing which present conditions necessitate, imagine Venizelos and Ismet, Curzon and Poincaré, coming together with no other thought than to conspire for the welfare of all their peoples, as unwilling to secure an unmerited advantage as to inflict an unmerited injury. Imagine a spirit of candid inquiry, of unfailing kindliness and mutual trust pervading the conference. Would you and I have much anxiety about the issue at Lausanne? Imagine still farther that this temper had been widely dominant in recent years. Would there have been any Lausanne to be anxious about?

Christianity offers no talisman, provides no magic formula, no convenient rule of thumb. It leaves us still to discover the hidden knowledge and solve the hard problems. It involves no emasculation of character, no supine surrender of rights, no weak recoil against hardship and pain. It merely means that we are to solve our problems and assert our rights and endure our hardships in the spirit of Christ. The triumph of Christianity is nothing else, at last analysis, than the triumph of reasonableness and kindness among men.