Is life worth living? If we are in good health, it certainly
is. In a certain sense, even to ask such a question implies
that we are not at our best. It is the sick, mentally as well as
physically, who question the value of life. We cannot appreciate
health too highly. Our philosophy of life is more
profoundly affected by the condition of our body than we have
any idea. If I were composing a new set of beatitudes, one
of them would be in exaltation of health:
Blessed are they that have health, for they shall take
pleasure in life.
Health also inspires faith in life. The first commandment
of the decalogue, instead of reading, "Thou shalt have no
other gods before me," which is metaphysical and without
definite meaning, could with much advantage be altered to
read:
Thou shalt not trifle with thy health.
How fortunate it would have been for man had the "Deity"
given that as his first and best thought to the world! Then,
indeed, would he have been the friend of man. We cannot
preserve our health without observing all the other commandments—of
temperance, purity, sanity, self possession, contentment,
and serenity of mind. "Behold I bring unto you health"
ought to be the glad tidings of salvation. Give us that, and
all the rest will be added unto us. Health is the foundation
of character. If the foundation is insecure—if we have inherited
disease and corruption, we can be sound, neither in
our thoughts nor in our actions. The time may come when
to be sickly will be considered a crime. A revolution in our
feelings in this matter is already taking place. Formerly it
was thought that the path to self-development is through sorrow
and suffering, and that the sick were the saints. The
verdict of science today, which has been confirmed by the
growing experience of man, is that pleasurable activity is the
most wholesome environment for man. Happiness has upon
human nature the same effect that the sunshine has upon the
soil. Man is a failure if he is not happy. The highest accomplishment
is the ability to enjoy life. To those who say
that service or usefulness is the noblest aim of life, we answer,
"Why should those who serve the noblest ends of life be
unhappy?"
But let me first present to you the answer which one of
America's best known psychologists, Prof. William James, of
Harvard, gives to this most interesting question. Prof. James
is a teacher not only of the young men in one of our leading
Universities, but his ideas have become a part of the furniture
of the American mind. Both his thought and the candor with
which he expresses himself have secured for him a large following.
Prof. James has an engaging style. Not that he is not
also a profound thinker, but his sentences are as symmetrical as
they are solid. He writes to be understood. That, I take it,
is the secret of the masters of style. The gods always speak
from behind "clouds and darkness." That explains why it is
so difficult to understand what they say. But the great teachers
permit no screens, draperies, curtains, or hangings of any
sort to come between them and the public. There is nothing
hidden about their thoughts. Neither do they speak in parables.
Whoever can not make himself understood should
hold his peace.
The parents of this renowned psychologist were Swedenborgians,
and I believe the professor is still, nominally, at least,
a member of the Swedenborgian church. Swedenborg, as
you know, was a mystic; he was, indeed, a sort of a medium,
who claimed to have seen and conversed with God face to face,
and to have received from him a supplementary revelation, in
some such sense that Mrs. Eddy or Joseph Smith received
one. Of course, Swedenborg was also a philosopher, which
Smith and Eddy are not. The early connections and training
of Prof. James explain in part his interest in the work of the
Psychical Research Society, of which he is one of the officers.
So-called spiritist or occult phenomena, such as automatic slate
writing, table tipping and telepathy, have always interested
Prof. James, but he is by no means an easy victim, though he
looks forward hopefully to the time when science will definitely
locate the undiscovered country whose bourne has not yet been
sighted.
Some years ago when Prof. James and I were summer
neighbors in New Hampshire—near Chocorua lake—I heard
the professor deliver a lecture on hypnotism in the village
church of Tamworth. An incident occurred at the time which
has its bearing on the experience our Society is having with
the directors of the Orchestral Association. While Prof. James
was explaining the phenomena of hypnotism from the pulpit,
I saw, from where I was sitting, an elderly woman showing
signs of restlessness in her seat. Presently she rose to her
feet, walked up the aisle slowly, and taking her stand directly
in front of Prof. James on the platform, she upbraided him for
desecrating the House of God by delivering in it a lecture
on hypnotism. In clear, though trembling tones, she ordered
him out of the church. Naturally the professor was greatly
embarrassed, as was also his audience. The old woman, however,
was soon prevailed upon by the elders of the church to
resume her seat and keep the peace. But she was trying to
oust Prof. James from the church, as the trustees of this
building are trying to oust our Society from this hall, on account
of religious differences. The old woman of New Hampshire
was not successful, and I trust that the old woman of
Chicago will not fare any better. To close a hall to a movement
is an easy thing, but to close the ear of the world to its
message is not so easy.
I have spoken of the early education of Prof. James in
order to explain the metaphysical bent of his mind. As a
psychologist, he has an international reputation, but his greatest
vogue is among, what are called, the liberal Christians.
The orthodox have no use for him, but to those who are
endeavoring to interpret Christianity so as to make it harmonize
with modern thought—who are filling the ancient skins
with wine newly pressed—he is a defender and a champion of
the faith. Prof. James seems to have discovered a way by
which one can be a scientist and a supernaturalist at the same
time. He appears to be of the opinion that a person may deny
or reject many of the orthodox dogmas, and still be justified in
calling himself a Christian. He is, in fact, one of the New
Theologians, who are supposed to have reconstructed Christianity,
and saved the supernatural. For this service, Prof.
James and his confreres are held in high esteem by those who
would have had to give up Christianity but for their timely help.
In his lecture on, "Is Life Worth Living," the professor
admits that he is writing for the pessimists. It is they who
are in the "to be or not to be" mood of mind. The optimist
does not need consolation, for he is incapable of even suspecting
that life is not worth living. Some temperaments are as incapable
of depression or gloom, as others are of happiness.
If there are parts of the world on which the sun never goes
down, so there are natures which know no night. We make
a mistake, however, if we think that the pessimist represents a
lower type of mental evolution. On the contrary, pessimism
comes with civilization, and it generally attacks men and
women of a higher culture. Suicide is rare among the negroes
or the less advanced races; but in the United States, representing
the most perfect type of civilization, dowered magnificently,
and rich in the possession of the treasures of art and nature;
in America, the home of hope and opportunity—with its immense
prairies, its great West, its army of earth-subduers,
empire-builders, large-natured, generous, daring, enduring,
restless, resistless pioneers—more than three thousand people
every year kill themselves. If we were to seek for an explanation
of this strange phenomenon, the nearest we can come to
it would be to say that these people prefer death to life because
they do not find life worth their while. There is not enough in
it to satisfy them. To use an Emersonian phrase, life is to
them no more than "a sucked orange." When the perfume,
the aroma, the taste, the tints, and the juices have been extracted
from the fruit—who cares for what is left.
Of course, these remarks have no reference to the cases of
sudden suicide, committed in a moment of frenzy—when a man
driven, as it were, by a storm in the brain, lets go of his hold
and slips into the darkness. The professor has in mind
rather those who even though they do not commit suicide, live
on reluctantly, under protest, and who treat life as we would
a guest who has overstaid his welcome, and to whose final
departure we look forward with pleasure.
But there is still another class of pessimists who need to
be reasoned with. These are the people who brood over the
existence of evil in the world, and feel the misery of the many
so keenly, that they think it involves a point of honor to consent
to be happy in such a world. The contemplation of human sorrow,
the surging waves of which break upon every shore; and
the cry of human anguish rising like the blind cry of all the seas
that roll, has a tendency to slacken the hold of the reflective
mind upon life. Prof. James admits that pessimism is essentially
a religious disease, in the sense that it results from the
inability of man to entertain two contradictory thoughts at the
same time: A father in heaven, whose tender mercies are
over all his children, and children dying of hunger and neglect!
Infinite wisdom enthroned in heaven, and a world running
topsy-turvy. The refined mind cannot contemplate this contradiction
without distress. If God is everywhere, why is there
darkness anywhere? If there is within reach an ocean of
truth, why is it doled out to us in driblets which hardly wet
our lips, when we are burning with thirst? Religion provokes
desires which it cannot satisfy, and makes promises which it
will not fulfil. It is this contradiction which bites the soul
black and blue. God is infinite! and behold we are starving.
God is light! and we grope in darkness. God is great! and
we cannot budge without crutches. It is this thought which
teases us out of our peace of mind. The idea of a God,
gifted with infinite parts, measured against the helplessness
of man, makes for pessimism.
But in the opinion of Prof. James, religion alone can cure
the disease which religion creates. By religion, he does not
mean merely loving one's neighbor and being loyal to one's
best thoughts. Religion, according to Prof. James, means the
belief that beyond this present life, "there is an unseen world
of which we now know nothing positive but in its relation to
which the significance of our mundane life consists." If this
is the first act of an unending drama, it would have great
worth and significance, but if it is a detached and disconnected
piece, upon which the curtain will soon fall never to rise again—if
it is never going to be finished—it loses, according to Prof.
James, its seriousness. In other words, it is the belief that
man is an eternal being whom no catastrophe can crush or
annihilate, which makes our present existence worth while,
and which also reconciles us to the discipline of pain and evil.
Life is worth living, in short, if man is immortal. This is
the drift of Prof. James' teaching, as it is also that of all
supernaturalists.
What evidence does the professor offer to prove the existence
of an unseen world and the immortality of man? He
offers none. He admits that science has not as yet demonstrated
the reality of an invisible world. Perhaps it never
will, but what of that? "You have got a right to believe in
an unseen world," declares the professor. Is it not interesting?
It will be seen that if the professor has no evidence,
he has many arguments. One of his arguments is that, since,
we must either believe or disbelieve in a future life, neutrality
in the matter being an unattainable thing, why not take our
choice, and while we are at it, choose immortality. Another
argument is, that as our longings and yearnings in other directions
have turned out to be prophetic, we have every reason
to believe that the desire for eternal life also will be fulfilled.
Art, science, music, health, have come to us because of an
inner impulse which prompted us to go after them. A similar
impulse urges us to seek the divine, which is a sort of proof
that the divine exists. Still another argument is this: All the
great successes or achievements of life came as a result of the
courage that takes risks. Without audacity, man would never
have crossed the ocean, or invented the aeroplane. If the
belief in immortality requires the taking of risks, if it is
hazardous even to hold it, we should not hesitate on that
account, since some of the best things have come to us by taking
risks. Start out for God and immortality; and some day you
may cast anchor in the shining waters that lap the shores of a
divine continent. "We are free to trust at our own risk anything
that is not impossible," concludes the professor. Finally,
there is the argument from analogy, which I may explain by
a personal experience. In the Pasteur Institute in Paris, last
summer, I saw in the vivisection room, physicians in their
white aprons, operating upon live rabbits, cutting and dissecting
them, while the helpless creatures were so fastened to the tables
that they could not move a muscle. Now all this must seem
very cruel to the rabbit. It must think the physician a butcher,
devoid of all feeling, or justice, and it must perforce denounce
the world in which such wanton torture is inflicted by the strong
upon the weak. But if the rabbit could take a larger view, if
it could be made to see that its sufferings are contributing to
the progress of science and the amelioration of the conditions
of life upon this planet, and thereby helping to hasten the day
when disease shall be conquered, would it not be reconciled to
the physician's knife and the operating table? The larger
view which would embrace the world unseen will help to give
to evil, suffering and misery, which now we do not understand,
a raison d'être. The part of wisdom as well as of courage then,
is to "believe what is in the line of our needs, for only by the
belief is the need fulfilled. Refuse to believe, and you shall
indeed be right, for you shall irretrievably perish. But believe,
and again you shall be right, for you shall save yourself."
It will be seen by what has preceded, that Prof. James
of Harvard University, throws the weight of his influence
on the side of those who have always maintained that God and
immortality are indispensable to the happiness of man. In his
opinion, what a man would be if deprived of his reason, the
universe would be if deprived of a God, and life, of a future
existence. The eminent psychologist takes the further position
that it is immaterial whether or not there is any evidence to
prove the existence of a God or of a life after death. If the
belief is essential to our happiness and usefulness, he thinks
we have got the right to entertain it, irrespective of the question
of evidence. "If there is a belief of any kind to which you
have taken a special fancy, or one that you feel like crying for,"
the professor seems to say, "help yourself to it; you have
only yourself to suit." Even if such a belief should involve
an element of risk, we are urged to take the risk. If it requires
audacity even to believe in a God and immortality, we
are told to have the audacity. It is his idea that when we are
dealing with the unknown, the important thing is the heart's
desire, and not the question of evidence. In passing, I might
suggest that Prof. James would never have thought of pushing
aside with such nonchalance, the question of evidence, were it
not for an irrepressible suspicion that the evidence is against
him. He hopes to do without the evidence because the evidence
will not help him. This reminds us of the saying of the
philosopher Hobbes, that, men are generally against reason
when reason is against them.
As already intimated, the liberal party in the church regards
Prof. James as a defender of the faith. He is classed with such
men as Sir Oliver Lodge and Lord Kelvin, who though scientists
still believe in the supernatural, and by their example have
made such a belief respectable. It must be borne in mind,
however, that these distinguished men are Christians only, if
at all, in a very loose sense of the word. All the cardinal doctrines
of revelation, such as the creation, the atonement, the
incarnation, and a personal God—even one, to say nothing of
a trinity—they reject. These gentlemen have not enough
faith to be baptised to-day, had they not been baptised in their
childhood,—or to be received into any Christian church without
greatly stretching the rules in their behalf. It remains then
quite true, and the argument has not yet been answered, that
there is not a single eminent thinker in the world to-day who
will subscribe to the creed of Christendom without first going
through it with a blue pencil, or a pair of scissors. But Prof.
James, as also Lodge and Kelvin, if they are not supernaturalists
in the ordinary sense of the word, neither are they anti-supernaturalists.
They are between and betwixt, if I may use
that phrase—not quite ready to part with supernaturalism
altogether, nor yet able to hold on to it in its entirety, and so
they linger somewhere on the borders or the edge of it.
The first remark I have to make on the position of these
newly recruited defenders of supernaturalism—even though the
supernaturalism which they defend be of the attenuated kind—is,
that their argument is not even an improvement on that of
the theologian. I like the dogmatic and autocratic, "thus
saith the Lord," of theology, much better than the "suit yourself"
of these gentlemen. The one position is as destructive of
intellectual integrity, as the other. The theologian starts with
the fallacy that God can make a thing true by an act of his
will—that his say so makes all need of evidence superfluous.
Prof. James and the men of his school start with a proposition
equally fatal to the truth—namely; that whatever we wish to be
true concerning the unknown is true. All that is needed, for
instance, to give the universe a God is to wish for one. All
that is necessary to make a man immortal is to desire and
believe that he is. "The Will to Believe," which is the title
of one of the professor's writings, makes truth the creature of
man, as theology makes it the creature of God. You see that
after all, the theologian and the "scientific" supernaturalist
pull together. That is to say, when science lends itself to
theology, it ceases to be scientific. It is not theology that goes
over to science, but science that goes over to theology. As
soon as science appears at the camp of theology, it is forthwith
swallowed up. When Prof. James speaks of the "will to believe,"
and never mind the evidence, he is borrowing from
theology, the "will to create" of God.
Even as the Deity in creating did not have to consider anything
but his glory and pleasure, likewise man in believing does
not have to consider anything but his needs and desires. Ask,
"What is Truth?" and the theologian answers: "Whatever God
wants it to be." Ask now the scientist allies of the supernatural,
"What is Truth," and they answer: "Whatever man
desires or craves it to be." Of course, it may be objected
that it is only concerning the unknown that man is permitted
to dispense with evidence and consult his will. But there is
no merit, for instance, in a man not telling any falsehoods
where he is sure of being found out; his character is tested
by his refusal to lie where he is sure he never will be found
out. It is concerning the unknown about which we can say
anything and everything we please without the fear of ever
being caught, that we should restrain ourselves and show our
loyalty to the everlasting law of honor, never to depart from
veracity. To make any assertions about the unknown is to
take an undue advantage of one's neighbors. "Truth is not
mine to do with it as I please," said Giordano Bruno, "I must
obey the truth, not command it." But the theologico-scientific
position is the very reverse of this. If a god were to ask the
question, "What is Truth?" His priests would answer, "Lord,
suit thyself." If men asked, "What is Truth?" the Harvard
professor and his colleagues would reply, "It depends upon
your will to believe."
The name given to this "free and easy philosophy," if I
may use such an expression—is pragmatism, which is a word
from the Greek root pragmatikos, whence our word "practice"
and "practical." The idea at the basis of this philosophy is that
whatever is practical and business-like—whatever is necessary
to a given program, is authoritative. The philosopher, Kant,
was one of the first to urge that we have a right to believe as
we please concerning the things which we can neither prove
nor disprove by evidence, if such beliefs are necessary to morality.
His modern disciples following his leadership, take the
position that it is the usefulness of a hypothesis or a belief,
and not its truth, that should concern us. "Does it work," is
the test, they say, of the value of a scheme or statement, and
not, "Is it true?" If it works, what do we care whether or
not it be true. If it does not work, it is of no help to us even
if it were true. This is identically the same argument which is
advanced by the Roman Catholics, to justify for instance, the
belief in the existence, somewhere in the universe, of a place
called purgatory. "The doctrine of purgatory works," argues
the priest, and therefore, it makes no difference whether or
not such a place really exists. It is a useful, consoling and
profitable doctrine. Therefore it is as good as true. In the
phraseology of pragmatism, millions of people want a purgatory,
therefore, there is one. And once again, to the question,
"What is Truth," the answer of both the theologian and the
pragmatist is, "Do not bother about it." And this describes
the attitude of the Protestant as well as of the Catholic toward
truth. They do not bother about it. Yes, they do not bother
about it. That is why progress limps and the darkness lingers.
People have been brought up not to bother about truth, which
explains why error is still king of more than half of the world.
I cannot find the words—all words fail me to express my
disappointment that a teacher of the youth in one of our
great institutions, who are to be the America of tomorrow,
should in any way contribute to the impression that truth is
secondary; that our needs, our interests, our inclinations, or
our whims, come first, and that if we have not the courage to
look the truth in the face, we can turn around and make terms
with myth and fable.
If we were disposed to trip the professor, or by one single
thrust to disqualify him for further action in the arena of
thought, we could say that even from the point of view of
the pragmatist, truth comes first, and that by no imaginable
manœuvring can truth be shifted to a subordinate rank.
It cannot be done. Listen! You may not have to prove
the existence of a God, or of a future, or of a purgatory,
before believing in it. Granted: but you have to prove and
you are trying to prove, that it is true that you do not have
to prove them. Even pragmatists who say that utility is before
truth, labor to prove that it is true that utility is before
truth. In other words, they have got to prove the truth of
their theory, whatever that may be, before they can make it
have any value, or before it can command our respect. Things
have to be true else they cannot exist. All the labor of Prof.
James has for its object the demonstration of what he considers
to be a truth, namely: that the truth of the belief concerning
the unknown is not essential. In other words, God may be true
or not, a future life may be true or not, but it has to be
true that it makes no difference whether they are true or not.
Wiggle as we may, we cannot escape the ring of reason that
embraces life. This is what I mean when I say that the stars
fight for Rationalism. Truth is so tightly screwed and made
fast to the top of the flag-pole that even hands of iron and
steel cannot pull it down to a lower notch.
A second remark I would make on Prof. James' manner of
reasoning is that such arguments as he uses to prop up the
belief in God and immortality show, not confidence, but desperation,
if it is not too strong a word to use. Urging us to
take risks, to have the audacity, to ignore the question of evidence,
to suit ourselves, and, not to mind the facts, is not the
language of sobriety, but of recklessness. To say to a man
standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down into a
chasm of unknown depth and darkness, to jump over, because,
perchance, he may discover his heart's desire at the bottom, is
frantic advice, and a man has to be in a panicky state of mind
to let go of the sun and of the green earth for a possible world
at the bottom of the abyss. It was a thought of Emerson that
the humblest bug crawling in the dust with its back to the sun,
and shining with the colors of the rainbow, is a thing more
sublime than any possible angel. If there were the slightest
foundation for the belief in an unseen world, no one would
think of resorting to such extreme measures as our learned
professor does, to uphold it. When I see a man huffing and
puffing, I do not conclude that he has a strong case, on the
contrary, I am apt to suspect that it is the weakness of his
cause which has disturbed his serenity. To tell us that we
can will ourselves immortal, or will God into existence, and
that all we need is the audacity to plunge into the unknown,
whatever the risks, reminds me of La Fontaine's parable of
the frog—who thought he could will himself into the size of a
cow—with fatal results. The beginning of wisdom is to recognize
one's limitations. To tell a man that he can will things
into existence is to do him an injury. Pitiful is the God, and
chimerical the immortality that has no better foundation than
the whim of man.
According to the doctrine of "The will to believe" there
would be no God if there were no men to "will" his existence,
and no immortality if men did not desire it. This is
theology dressed up as philosophy or science. How was the
world made? And the theologians answer, God said, "Let
there be light, and there was light." How was God made?
And the pragmatists answer, "Man said, let there be a God,
and there was one." This is trifling. If the word is not too
harsh, I shall call it sophistry, or mental gymnastics, to which
men never resort except when straight reasoning will not help
them.
Sophistry is a plea of guilty. I was debating the other
evening in a Milwaukee theater on the question of the responsibility
for the burning of Joan of Arc. While listening to the
defense of the gentleman who was trying to prove that the
Catholic Church was not responsible for her martyrdom, I
said to myself that such a defense would never have been
thought of were it not for the fact that the old claim that the
church of God cannot err had not broken down. In the same
way the defense that the bible should be taken allegorically,
proves that the old position that the bible is from cover to cover
the word of God with every letter and punctuation, as well as
word and meaning inspired, is no longer tenable. To say that
the bible must not be taken literally is but another way of saying
that the bible is not true, or that you can make it mean
what you please. Men never put up such a defense for anything
unless they are driven to it by sheer desperation.
My third remark on the pragmatic philosophy of Professor
James is that, besides doing violence to our reason, his doctrine
that an unseen world is indispensable to make life worth
living, or to help make the world moral, places man not only
in an unenviable light, but it also does him a great injustice.
If it is true that a man will make a beast of himself if he finds
out that he is not a God, I take the position that he is beyond
hope. Nothing can save him. But it is not true. It is a
priestly tale that a man will not behave himself unless we can
promise him the moon, or the sun, or eternity. A man would
only be a contemptible animal if he must be given toys and
trinkets and sawdust dolls to divert his attention from mischief.
The claim of the preachers that unless men are assured
of black-eyed houris and golden harps, or at least,—some sort
of a ghostly existence,—somewhere and at sometime in the
future, they will convert life into a debauch, is simply a falsehood.
Man is not so depraved as that. Indeed, the doctrine
of total depravity was invented by the priests to create a demand
for the offices of the church. The priest cannot afford
to believe in human nature. If a man can save himself, or
if he can do good by his own effort, what need would there
be of the mysteries and the sacraments,—the rites and the
dogmas?
I had occasion to tell you a few Sundays ago that if a lily
can be white, or a rose so wondrous fair, or a dog so loyal
and heroic, without dickering with the universe for a future
reward, man can do, at least, as much. Would this be expecting
too much of him?
In France, there is, in one of the close-by suburbs of Paris,
a cemetery for dogs. Of course, no priest or pastor would
think of officiating at the interment of a dog, however useful
or faithful the animal may have been. They are brought
here by their owners and quietly buried. The visitor finds
here, however, many tokens of appreciation and gratitude for
the services and value of the dog to man. Little monuments
are raised over the remains of some of the occupants of the
modest graves. One of these bears the inscription: "He
saved forty lives, and lost his own in the attempt to save the
forty-first." He did his best without the hope of a future
reward. Is man lower than the animal? Does he require the
help of the Holy Ghost, the holy angels, the holy Trinity, the
holy infallible church, and all the terrors of hell fire to make
him prefer sense to nonsense, cleanliness to dirt, honor to disgrace,
the respect of his fellows to their contempt, and a peaceful
mind to one full of scorpions? Do we have to swing into
existence fabled and mythical beings and worlds before we
can induce a human being to be as natural as a plant and as
faithful as a dog? The doctrine of total depravity is a disgrace
to those who have invented it, and a blight to those who
believe in it. It is not true that we have to be put through
acrobatic exercises,—make our reason turn somersaults, resort
to sophistry,—become frantic with fear about our future,—postulate
the existence of ghosts, Gods, and celestial abodes
before we can prefer the good to the bad and the light to
darkness. Supernaturalism is both negative and destructive.
It denies goodness, and it destroys in man the power of self-help.
Von Humboldt's indignation seems pardonable, when he
used the word "infamous," to characterize the theologian's
attempt to make the well-being of the human race depend
upon such supernatural gossip as he had to market.
And what is the verdict of history on this question? Does
the belief in God and immortality make for morality? How
then shall we explain the dark ages which were ages of faith,
and why are not the Moslems, whose faith in Allah and in a
future life is very much stronger than ours, a more moral
people than the Europeans or Americans? Why was King
Leopold, the Christian, a moral leper to the hour of his death,
while Socrates, the pagan, who was uncertain about the future,
has perfumed the centuries with his virtues? Has the belief
in the supernatural prevented the criminal waste of human life,
protected the child from the sweat-shop and the factory, or
even robbed religion of its sting—the sting whose bite is mortal
to tolerance, brotherhood and intellectual honesty? There
are excellent people who believe in the supernatural and equally
excellent people who ignore the supernatural, from which it
would follow that excellence of character is independent of
one's speculations about either the eternal past, or the eternal
future. It is not true then that we have to prove to man that
he has always existed, or that he shall always exist before
we can make him see that the sunset is beautiful, or that the
sea is vast, or that love is the greatest thing in the world.
A man will be careful of his health whether he expects to
live again or not. He will avoid headaches, fevers, colds,
anaemia, nervous prostrations and diseases of every kind
which rack the body and make life a misery, irrespective of
his attitude to the question of survival after death. The question
of health, then, which is a very important one, is independent
of any supernatural belief. It would not affect our
health a particle were the heavens empty or full of gods. In
the same way, men will continue the culture of the mind irrespective
of theological beliefs. Will a man neglect the pleasures
of the mind, despise knowledge and remain content in
his ignorance, if he cannot be sure that he is going to live
forever? But if neither the culture of the body nor that of
the mind is in danger of being neglected, is there any reason
to fear that the culture of the affections and the conscience
will suffer without a belief in an unseen world? We have
only to look into the motives which govern human actions to
recover our confidence in the essential soundness of human
nature, and in the ability of morality to take care of itself
without the help of ghosts and gods. You love your country
and you are willing to defend its institutions, if need be, with
your life, but is it because your country is immortal? Is
America going to live forever? Is it going to have a future
existence? And yet Washington and his soldiers loved it
dearly and risked their lives for it. Were the ancient Greeks
and Romans, to whom patriotism was a religion, and who
loved and fought for their country—fools, because they did
not first make sure that their country was going to live forever?
You are devoted to art, you have built palaces for the
treasures of the brush and the chisel. You have paid fabulous
prices for the works of a Rembrandt and a Titian. Is it because
these paintings are never going to perish? Is the canvas
which you adore immortal? You prize the works of
genius—of a Shakespeare, a Goethe, a Voltaire, a Darwin.
You have edifices of marble and steel in which to house the
great books of the world. And yet a fire tomorrow may wipe
them out of existence—they may become lost, as many great
works have been lost in the past. Nevertheless, are they not
precious while we have them? If a humane society will interest
itself in the welfare of the horse and the cat and the dog,
which live but a few years; if the flower which blooms in the
morning and fades in the evening can command our attention
and devotion—must a man be a god before we can take any
interest in him? Must somebody be always whispering in our
ears, "Ye are gods; ye are gods," to prevent us from doing
violence to ourselves or to our fellows? And men seek health
for the present, not for the future. And they cultivate the
mind to make life richer now and here. And love is desired
because it makes each passing moment a thrill and an ecstasy.
What then is the value of any speculation about the unseen
world, since man can care for his body, mind and heart, without
venturing out on an ocean for which he has neither the
sails nor the compass?
But the unseen world is necessary, the professor seems to
think, in order to explain the suffering and the injustice in
this. In my opinion, such a belief has done more to postpone
the reform of present abuses than anything else. The time
to suppress injustice and to relieve human suffering is now,
not in some distant future,—here and not in an undiscovered
country. The belief in God has tempted man to shirk his
responsibilities. He has left many things to be done by God
which he should have done himself. It is a nobler religion
that tells man to do all he can now, and to do it himself.
Moreover, how can what is wrong here be made right in the
next world? What, for instance, can make Joan of Arc's
atrocious murder—a girl of nineteen, who had saved her
country, roasted over a slow fire—right in heaven? What
explanation can the Deity give to us which shall reconcile us
to so infamous a crime. A million eternities, it seems to me,
cannot alter the character of that act. The deed cannot be
undone. That frightful page cannot be torn from the book
of life. You cannot destroy the memory of that injustice;
you cannot rub so foul a stain from the hands of even a God.
Suppose God were to say to us in the next world that this
crime was necessary to the progress of civilization. Would
that satisfy us? Would we not still wish for a God who
could have contributed to the progress of civilization without
resorting to so unspeakable a murder? And there you are.
Another world can never reconcile us to a policy that required
the commission of crimes whose stench rises to our nostrils.
What is wrong can never be made right.
You remember that to illustrate the thought of Professor
James, I spoke of my visit to the Pasteur Institute in Paris,
where, in the vivisection hall, I saw the physicians operating
on live rabbits. Professor James thinks that if the rabbit could
see everything, it might say to the physician, "Thy will be
done." But the rabbit might also say this: "It is well to
advance science and civilization; and if it is a part of the
scheme to make me contribute to it by my sufferings, I am
resigned; but what about the character of the schemer who
must torture to death some of his creatures—slaughter with
excruciating pain a portion of his family—in order to make
secure the lives of the rest?" The existence of evil in a world
created by a perfect God is the rock upon which all religions
go to pieces. If God can prevent misery and crime, but prefers
to work through them, he is to be feared; if he cannot
help himself, then he is to be pitied. Who would not rather
be the rabbit on the operating table, with the knife in his
flesh, than such a God! A God who cannot make a rose red
except by dipping it in human blood can be sure that no
human being would ever envy him his office. On the last
day of judgment, if such a day there be, it will not be the
rabbit, or man, who will fear the opening of the books; it will
be God.
And how do we know that things will be better in the unseen
world? Suppose they should be worse? Jesus intimated
that the next world would be worse, for he says in Matthew
7:13-14, "Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth
to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat; because
strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth
unto life, and few there be that find it."
Surely this is not an encouraging prospect. A future which
offers happiness to a small minority cannot be looked forward
to with enthusiasm. Neither is the thought of a few saved
and the many damned a consolation. One of the oft-repeated
claims is that the belief in God and immortality is such a
happiness that he must be an enemy of his race who would
deprive people of it. Even Rationalists are said to envy the
believer his peace of mind. But the truth is the very opposite
of this. There is abundant testimony to prove that of all people
the real and consistent believer is the most unhappy being
in the world. The proverbial unhappiness of the Rationalist,
like the proverbial death-bed horrors of a Thomas Paine and
a Voltaire, is a pure fabrication. While there is absolutely
nothing in Rationalism to make anybody miserable, since it
does away with fear, which is the only thing to fear,
Orthodoxy, on the other hand, starts by not only calling
this a vale of tears, but proceeds forthwith to make
it so. If we were to place the greatest known Christian
saints on the stand to interrogate them on this subject,
they would one and all confirm our statement. Listen, for
instance, to the confession of Thomas à Kempis: "Lord, I
am not worthy of thy consolation.... Thou dealest justly
with me when thou leavest me poor and desolate, for if I could
shed tears as the sea, yet should I not be worthy of thy consolation.
I am worthy only to be scourged and punished."[A]
These are not the words of a buoyant and happy soul. And
listen to the lamentation of John Bunyan: "Sometimes I could
for whole days together feel my very body as well as my
mind to shake and totter under the sense of this dreadful judgment
of God.... I felt also such a clogging and heat in my
stomach by reason of this terror that I thought my breast-bone
would split asunder. Oh, how gladly would I have been anything
but a man."[B] I could quote long chapters from the
biographies of the saints to show the wretchedness, the despair
and the agony of the believer, shuddering upon the brink of
eternity—uncertain whether heaven or hell awaits to receive
him. I could give you a similar chapter from my own experience.
When I was much younger, I had implicit faith in the
bible and the unseen world. What was the effect of this
belief upon me? Did it make me happy? I can never forget
the moments of agony I spent on my knees, at the "throne of
grace." My pillow was often wet with weeping over sins I
had never committed, and fearing a depravity I could never
be guilty of. Christianity in its virile form took hold of my
young heart as the roots of a tree take hold of the earth in
which they grow. I was as sensitive and responsive to its
influence as fire is to the wind that fans it into flame. "Am
I saved? How can I be sure that God has forgiven me?
Where would I open my eyes if I should die tonight? Oh,
God! what if I should after all be one of the reprobates—damned
forever." Such was the terrible superstition that
cheated me out of a thousand glorious moments, and made my
youth a punishment to me. One day a member of my church
came to me in great distress of mind. He behaved like one
who had actually seen hell. "I am damned, I am damned,"
he cried. "God has forsaken me; there is no hope for me."
If a wild beast had its paws in his hair, or a hound its teeth
in his flesh, he could not have been more scared. If he could
have only laughed at the stupid superstition, all the devils of
his distorted imagination would have melted into thin air.
"Our religion does not trouble us that way," I hear the Christians
say in reply. Of course not, they no longer believe in it.
They let art, music, science, the drama, business, to divert their
attention from this Asiatic fetish. Rationalism has dissipated
the terrors of the future, and tinted the horizon with beauty
and light. But let them believe in Christianity as their fathers
believed in it, let them be sincere with it, and it will make
life miserable for them as it has for thousands of others. Yes,
believe in Christianity as the Apostle Paul did, for example,
and you must agree with him, that, "If in this life only we
have a hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable."
And listen to the cry of despair from the lips of the Son of
God: "My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" The
nails in his hands and feet tore his flesh, but it was the thought
that he had been forsaken by God that broke his heart. Surely,
if a belief in a future life could make anybody happy, it should
have made the death of Jesus a symphony, instead of a
tragedy.
In conclusion: Not God, nor the unseen world, but Truth
is the sovereign good. There is nothing more excellent. If
there be philosophies, they shall pass away; if there be theologies,
they shall pass away; if there be creeds, cults, gods, they
shall pass away. But Truth is from everlasting to everlasting.
In my mind's eye, I see a wonderful building, something
like the Coliseum of ancient Rome. The galleries are black
with people; tier upon tier rise like waves the multitude of
spectators who have come to see a great contest. A great contest,
indeed! A contest in which all the world and all the
centuries are interested. It is the contest—the fight to death—between
Truth and Error.
The door opens, and a slight, small, shy and insignificant
looking thing steps into the arena. It is Truth. The vast
audience bursts into hilarious and derisive laughter. Is this
Truth? This shuddering thing in tattered clothes, and almost
naked? And the house shakes again with mocking and hisses.
The door opens again, and Error enters,—clad in cloth of
gold, imposing in appearance, tall of stature, glittering with
gems, sleek and huge and ponderous, causing the building to
tremble with the thud of its steps. The audience is for a
moment dazzled into silence, then it breaks into applause, long
and deafening. "Welcome!" "Welcome!" is the greeting
from the multitude. "Welcome!" shout ten thousand throats.
The two contestants face each other. Error, in full armor,—backed
by the sympathies of the audience, greeted by the
clamorous cheering of the spectators; and Truth, scorned,
scoffed at, and hated. "The issue is a foregone conclusion,"
murmurs the vast audience. "Error will trample Truth under
its big feet."
The battle begins. The two clinch, separate, and clinch
again. Truth holds its own. The spectators are alarmed.
Anxiety appears in their faces. Their voices grow faint. Is
it possible? Look! See! There! Error recedes! It fears
the gaze of Truth! It shuns its beauteous eyes! Hear it
squeak and scream as it feels Truth's squeeze upon its wrists.
Error is trying to break away from Truth's grip. It is making
for the door. It is gone!
The spectators are mute. Every tongue is smitten with the
palsy. The people bite their lips until they bleed. They cannot
explain what they have seen. "Who would have believed
it?" "Is it possible?"—they exclaim. But they can not doubt
what their eyes have seen. That puny and insignificant looking
thing called Truth has put ancient and entrenched Error,
backed by the throne, the altar, the army, the press, the people,
and the gods—to rout.
The pursuit of truth! Is not that worth living for? To
seek the truth, to love the truth, to live the truth? Can any
religion offer more?
What is the remedy for the pessimism that asks, "Is life
worth living?" A sound mind in a sound body. There is no
better preventive of that depression of spirits whence proceed
the diseases which menace life, and mar the happiness of man,
than health—moral, intellectual, physical—health; individual
and social health. The highest ideal of Christianity is a man
of sorrows. The highest ideal of Rationalism is a man of joy!