THE EVANGELICAL SOCIAL MISSION
IN THE LIGHT OF THE HISTORY
OF THE CHURCH
This paper was read on May 17, 1894, at the Evangelical Social
Congress held at Frankfort-am-Main, and published in “Prussian Annals,” vol. 76
(1894), No. 3, in “Evangelical Social Writings of A. Harnack and H. Delbrük,”
H. Walther, Berlin, 1896, and in Harnack’s “Addresses and Essays,” vol. ii., Giessen,
1904.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
IN the year 1694, H. A. Francke was profoundly moved by the saying
of the Apostle Paul: “God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye,
always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.” The
words henceforth never lost their hold over him, but became the source and impulse
of his activity. The origin of very much that has since been done in our country
in the name of Christian charity may be dated from that time, and the bold confidence
expressed in the Apostle’s words has led to the accomplishment
of projects that at one time appeared impossible.
And now, after two hundred years, there is again especial need
of that same confidence. It is not that we belong, as did Francke, to a Church in
which the duty of Christian charity is neglected, but that the nature of that duty
itself has clearly changed, and is now so new and so vast that all our old methods appear inadequate.
It seems to be no longer a problem with which individuals can deal, and the principal
object of this Congress is to take counsel together, with a view to right action.
While particular points require to be discussed on the lines appropriate to each,
it is essential to have the whole question set clearly before us, to see plainly
what it is we are aiming at, and examine the means at our disposal. We are not,
however, now concerned with the problem of social questions in general, but with
the duty of the Church and the Christian community.
Such a duty is obvious if we are to apply the Gospel to present
circumstances, and I can easily understand the radical tendency of some who would
exclude all remoter matters. It is true that historical retrospect is not always
free from danger. A good steersman must look ahead, not behind; and a backward
glance over the past may check bold action, and see impossibilities where really
it is only a question of difficulties. Furthermore, history can never throw light
on the path that lies before us. Among the members of this Congress, however, there
will be no doubt that the social mission of the Church to-day can be determined only by the help of history, not merely because this is a guide to the shallows and reefs to be avoided,
but still more because the different churches in all their aspects, including that
of charitable societies, are, in their gradual growth, historic institutions. Unless
we are prepared to undervalue all the experience gained in the course of history,
we must make up our minds to preserve the links between the present and the past.
Before proceeding to deal with the problem itself, I must call
attention to a fact that may well inspire us with hope and gladness. Throughout
the whole civilised world questions are now being discussed concerning economic: arrangements and the relations between capital
and labour; this is in itself proof that much
social work has already been accomplished. It
is not long since culture, rights and human
dignity were the monopoly of some few thousands amongst all the inhabitants of Europe,
while the great masses of people lived dreary
lives under tyrannous oppression, possessing neither rights nor education, their whole existence being one long misery. To-day, on the contrary,—at least
in our own country, and among many other kindred nations,—all citizens are equal in
the eyes of the law; all enjoy the same legal protection; slavery and serfdom are things of the
past; a fair amount of knowledge and education are within the reach of all; and
labour is respected. Liberty, Equality and Fraternity are in many ways no mere empty
words, but the real framework of our individual and social life, the pillars of
the building we are raising. All this has been accomplished in the lifetime of a
few generations, and it is absurd to question the fact of progress, amidst improvements
so obvious and immense.
Yet the retort is frequently made: What in practice have this
Liberty, this Equality, this Fraternity proved to be? Have we not been deceived
by them in the past? Do they not, on the one hand, threaten us with the rule of
ignorance and folly, and, on the other hand, are they not mere catchwords, deprived
of real meaning by the dependence of Labour upon that Capital which it does not
itself possess? The truth,—say these pessimists,—is that the old oppression still
prevails,—in a different cloak, it may be, but, for all that, in an aggravated form; the worst kind of servitude is rife; legal equality, besides being imperilled
by the existence of Capital, is at best but a negative good; and education for
the masses is a mere possibility, of which they cannot avail themselves! Nominally we are all equal; but in reality a minority
lives as before at the expense of a vast majority, whose members are still consumed
by cares, and find the rights they have won to be in part but a niggardly instalment
of their dues, and at the same time a mockery of their helpless condition.
Those who argue thus are not wholly wrong, but they are not right.
The above-mentioned blessings, in which all are supposed to share, may indeed be,
and to some extent really are, mere delusions. But just try to remove them now,
or even to imagine that they do not exist! They are great and lasting possessions,
won with effort, and none the less valuable because not all-sufficient. Blessings
they still would be, even though at the present time they should result in intensifying
economic difficulties. Retrogression is no longer possible for us; and shame upon
those who desire it! Let us rather rejoice in having already achieved much that,
a few generations ago, seemed but an empty dream.
I must now, after these introductory remarks, ask you to follow
me in a historical retrospect. Before entering upon this, however, it is necessary
to consider the underlying historical question of the general attitude of the Gospel towards social arrangements. We shall then glance
at the successive epochs of ecclesiastical history, and finally endeavour to
answer the question, What is the social mission of the Church of to-day?
CHAPTER II
GENERAL ATTITUDE OF THE GOSPEL
TOWARDS SOCIAL ARRANGEMENTS
THE Gospel is the glad tidings of benefits
that pass not away. In it are the powers of
eternal life; it is concerned with repentance and faith, with regeneration and a new
life; its end is redemption, not social improvement. Therefore it
aims at raising the individual to a standpoint far above the conflicts between
earthly success and earthly distress, between riches and poverty, lordship and service.
This has been its meaning to earnest Christians of all ages, and those who are unable
to appreciate this idea, fail to appreciate the Gospel itself. The indifference
to all earthly affairs, which proceeds from the conviction that we possess life
eternal, is an essential feature of Christianity. It is the result of a twofold
mental attitude, which may be summed up in the following words: “Fear not, be
not anxious; the very hairs of your head are all numbered”; and “Love not the world, neither the things that are
in the world.” In accordance with these two precepts two principles arise. One may
be called the tranquil, quietistic principle, and the other, the radical; the former
impels men to acquiesce, with faith and resignation, in the whole course of the
world, whatever it may be, or, however it may develop, while the latter urges them
to renounce the world, and live for something new. In the Gospel itself, then, a
problem is thus presented, for it is obvious that between the tranquil and the radical
principles there is a possibility of conflicts. Indeed, the radical principle, where
it predominates to the exclusion of the other, allows of further subdivision according
as it finds expression in one of two ways,—either in complete renunciation of the
world, or in the attempt to do away with all the existing ordinances of the world,
as being all impregnated by sin, combined with an endeavour to establish a new order
of world. History will show us how, through directing one-sided attention to one
or other of these principles, instead of harmonising the two, Christians have evaded
the difficulty.
But the same Gospel which preaches a holy indifference to earthly
things, embraces yet another principle: “Love thy neighbour as thyself” This spirit
of love likewise is to be a guiding rule of the character built up by the Gospel.
Accordingly Christianity originally took the form of a free brotherhood,—a form
essential to its very nature, for, after trust in God, the very essence of religion
is brotherly love. In addition, then, to the quietistic and radical principles we
have a third,—the social, active principle. I give it this name of a social, active
principle, because the Gospel nowhere teaches that our relations to the brethren
should be characterised by a holy indifference. Such indifference expresses rather
what the individual soul should feel towards the world with all its weal and woe.
Whenever it is question of one’s neighbour, the Gospel will not hear of this indifference,
but, on the contrary, preaches always love and mercy. Further, the Gospel regards
as absolutely inseparable the temporal and spiritual needs of the brethren. It draws
no fine distinctions between body and soul; sickness is always sickness, and want
is want. Thus, “I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink.” Again, when it is
a question of giving signs to prove that the promises of God have now been fulfilled,
it is said: “The blind see, the lame walk—, . . . and to the poor the Gospel is preached”; while
in the Gospel of the Hebrews we read in the story of the rich young man: “Behold
many of thy brethren, sons of Abraham, are clad with dung, dying with hunger, and
thy house is full of much goods, and there goeth out therefrom nought at all unto
them.”Nicholson’s standard translation: but Saunders’ in “What is Christianity?” might be preferred. Thus, in the simplest and most emphatic terms possible, Christians are urged
to help the needy and the miserable with all the strength of love. But it is to
the rich that the most earnest exhortation is addressed. While it is assumed that
wealth tends to make its possessors hard-hearted and worldly, they are warned that
their perilous possessions impose upon them the highest responsibility.
A new spectacle was presented to the world: religion hitherto
had either clung to what was earthly, adapting itself readily to things as it found
them, or else built in the clouds, (and set itself up in opposition to everything; but now it had a new duty—to scorn earthly want and misery, and earthly prosperity alike, and yet to relieve
distress of every kind; to raise its head to heaven in the courage of its faith,
and yet with heart and hand and voice to labour for the brethren upon earth. The task thus set them
has never been wholly abandoned by Christians, who consequently, have held fast
the conviction that no economic system can oppose to the mission of Christianity
a really insuperable obstacle, while, on the other hand, no economic system can
ever release it from its duties.
But does not the Gospel contain much more than this? Does it
not include definite teaching on the subject of temporal welfare, and a definite
social and economic programme? So indeed men have believed, both in the early ages
of Christianity, in the Middle Age, and at the present time; and yet the belief
is wrong. Undoubtedly the Gospel contains definite teaching concerning temporal
good, but none that could be summed up in the form of national economic laws, and consequently no economic programme. Only if
the Gospel or the New Testament be regarded as a legal code, can social and political
laws be found in it; but we have no right to regard it thus, and any attempt to
do so will speedily end in failure. It is unauthorised, because our faith is the
religion of liberty, and its duties are specially imposed upon you, and upon me,
and upon every age, as an individual problem for each to solve. And it must needs end in failure, because no self-consistent
economic precepts can possibly be derived from the New Testament. Are we, in accordance
with the story of the rich young man, to sell all that we have? Or are we, at least,
not to lay up treasures for ourselves? Or are we, as taught by the Apostle Paul,
to turn to profit every gift, wealth and property included, but so as to convert
them into instruments of service? May a Christian never settle vexed questions
of inheritance? Is it right for him to make large outlay only, as in the Gospel
story, on ointments; or is this always justifiable? May he, or may he not, keep
money, in a strong-box? “Labour, working with your hands the thing which is good,
that you may have to give to him that needeth”: that surely is the gist of the
matter, and firm resistance must be offered to all attempts to read into the Gospel
any other social ideal than this: “You are accountable to God for all the gifts
you have received, and so for your possessions also; you are bound to use them
in the service of your neighbour.” Anything in the Gospel that seems to point in
any other direction is merely apparent contradiction, or is relevant only to some
particular case, or results from the undeveloped economic conditions and special historical circumstances of the time in which the Gospel arose.
An age in which capital was almost always hoarded in a useless way, as a dead thing,
cannot be compared with an age in which it is the greatest economic power; and
an age which believed the end of the world to be approaching is not to be compared
with one which recognises as sacred the duty of working for the future.
But conversely, it does not at all follow from the lack of economic
precepts in the Gospel, that the matter is one which does not concern a Christian.
On the contrary, where he clearly perceives that any economic condition has become
a source of distress to his neighbour, he is bound to seek for a remedy, for he
is a disciple of the Saviour. If a man falls into the water, one may help him by
simply pulling him out; but if any one is imprisoned in a burning house, the exits
being fast closed, the only way to help him is to effect a change in the circumstances: that is to say, to extinguish the fire. The question whether such an act belongs
to Christian economics, or is simply and solely Christian, or should rather be called
humane, may be left to those who delight in argument. Love knows that it is always
bound to help in such a way as to render real assistance .
The Church has from the first availed itself of three means of
helping the brethren and relieving misery and want; and the same three methods
are still at its command. The first of these consists in rousing the individual conscience, in such a way as to awaken strong,
regenerate, self-sacrificing personalities. This is the all-important thing; but the means to such an end vary; as the Lord’s method of teaching shows, it may either begin within, and work outwards,
or it may penetrate from without to the inmost being. But the vital point is that
there should be a Christ-like personality, and that in every action the power of
love from one person to another should operate, and make itself felt. The kingdom
of God must be built upon the foundation, not of institutions, but of individuals
in whom God dwells and who are glad to live for their fellow men.
The second method consists in converting every congregation of
individuals into a community full of active charity, and bound together by brotherly
love; for without such a bond all effort is sporadic. This fellowship was strongest
in the early days of the Church, and the consciousness that Christianity cannot
exist upon earth in any other form never altogether passed away, although, as we shall see, it became enfeebled.
Then there is still the third line of action. Religion is not
independent in its growth; even if it takes refuge in solitude, it must enter into
some relation with the arrangements of the world as it finds them, and it cannot
regard with indifference the nature of these ordinances. It was, indeed, at a
time when extortion and violence were common, and slavery and tyrannical oppression
prevailed, that the Apostles instructed the faithful to “take no anxious thought.”
But at the same time they at once began to exert their influence against so much
of the existing order of things as was in fact disorder and sin. Christians were
urged so to walk that their example should both make others ashamed and incite them
to imitation. Only a few decades later, representatives of Christianity were presenting
petitions to the emperors and the governors of provinces, and addressing written
appeals to society, demanding the abolition of gross and flagrant abuses and outrages.
But, as far as I can see, the limit of their interference was clearly defined: it did not occur to them to propose economic improvements, or to
attack fixed institutions, such as slavery. What they demanded was the suppression of such
sin and shame as could not but be recognised as sins and scandals even by a Greek
or Roman conscience. They were convinced that the divine image in man cannot be
destroyed by oppression and suffering of any kind (never was there an age of less
sentimentality with regard to want and misery than the early days of Christianity); but that it is effaced by uncleanness and sensuality, and that therefore conditions
which plainly tended in that direction,—for example, a tolerated and privileged
unchastity, secret murder, exposing of children, and wholesale prostitution,—are
altogether intolerable.
This brings us to a most important point. At the present time
Christianity is being reproached with never, at any time in its history, having
taken the lead in economic reforms. Even if the facts were in accordance with this
sweeping statement, it would be no real reproach, in view of the distinctive character
of the Christian religion.
It is enough if religion prepares men’s minds for great economic
changes and revolutions; if it foresees the new moral duties which these impose; if it knows how to adapt itself to them, and perceives the right moment at which to step in with its forces, and do its work. A religion
which aims at saving the soul and transforming the inner man, and which regards
a change in outward circumstances as but a small matter in comparison with the power
of evil, can only follow in the wake of earthly changes and exercise an after-influence; it is not qualified to lead the way in economic developments.
To be sure, that is not the conclusion of the whole matter. It
is undeniable that the greatest danger of Churches once established has always been
lest they should become in a bad sense conservative and indolent, and should
hide this indolence under cover of very lofty conceptions of their creed. Instead
of helping their poor brother, they preach to him that “pious indifference” with
which individuals should regard their own earthly fortunes. Even in the days when
the Epistle of St. James was written, Christians would say to a destitute brother: “God help you!”—and yet give him nothing. The other-worldly aspect of religion
was exploited to such an extent that love in this world was forgotten, or, in other
words, the present world was not forgotten, but love was.
It is no mere coincidence that from the very beginning this perverted quietism has always had as its counterpart
the tendency which I have called radicalism. If indifference towards all earthly
matters is to take the place of love in determining our relations with our neighbours,
there is at least as much justification for radicalism as for quietism. Therefore
let all earthly possessions be forsaken, divided equally, or held in common! The
fantastic idea, derived from antiquity, of Communism in matters economic, has always
clung to the Church like a shadow, faint at one time, at another more distinct.
Combined with thoughts of complete renunciation of this world, or with material
hopes of another world, it seemed to offer the best solution to the problem of the
evangelical-social mission of the Church, and at the same time declared war against
indolent indifference. The idea, though naïvely conceived, and never really carried
out, or capable of being carried out, was valuable in so far as it stirred up easygoing
Christians, called attention to faults in the prevailing economic order, and modified
obstinate ideas of individual ownership; but the merits were outweighed by the
disadvantages of the movement. Wherever it attempted to practise its theories—indeed,
wherever it was able to gain a hearing at all—the result was to make men blind to the duties nearest at hand
and within their powers; it always undervalued
the simple, personal acts of charity in the interests of its own institutions, supposed to be
capable of overcoming all evil, and eventually
it degenerated into the opposite of its own
ideals, its “heaven upon earth” becoming a
degradation of religion. Moreover, in those ages of the Church in which the communistic theory was most common, religion was most selfish. For the strongest
motive that impelled towards Communism was scarcely ever brotherly love; it was
at one time a desire to escape from the world, incompatible with concern for one’s fellow men; at another time, a longing for earthly
welfare, encouraged by the self-deluding belief that heaven could be established
upon earth.
I have tried to describe briefly the moral attitude of the Christian
religion towards social questions, and at the same time to call attention to points
at which an overstraining of certain ideas was bound to lead to unfortunate developments.
Let us now turn our attention to history.
CHAPTER III
HISTORICAL RETROSPECT
ANY one attempting to describe the attitude of primitive
Christians in social matters must above all be careful to distinguish between
sayings, discourses, mere exclamations, and even theories, on the one hand, and
deeds on the other—a difference not always sufficiently borne in mind. In theory
and profession we find an inextricable medley of conservatism and
radicalism—experimental ideas, so to say; everything seems to be pervaded by a
radical sentiment, which was influenced by “pious indifference” and the
prospect of the approaching end of the world. Therefore such sayings as these
are often found: “Let no man call anything his own”; “We have all things in
common”; “Forsake all earthly possessions,”
And in times of special stress and severe persecution, such words
were here and there followed by deeds: some congregation, with a fanatic as leader,
actually would sell everything, or go out into the wilderness. In Asia Minor, indeed, there were
enthusiast prophets who, for the space of some twenty years, succeeded in overturning
the natural order of things by persuading thousands of individuals and several whole
congregations to forsake the world. The further tendency to organise a communism,
obviously modelled on Plato’s “Republic,” is noticeable in various small heretical
communities, without referring to the similar attempt at Jerusalem, of which we
have no clear account. Such impulses are, however, no criterion of the general feeling of the time. In the main current of the development
of the Church, the whole movement was calm, strong, purposeful—moderate in the
best sense of the word. In the most authoritative and widely-read writings we find the subject treated in such terms as the following, taken from the “Epistle of the Church of Rome
to the Church of Corinth.”Lightfoot’s Translation. “So in our case let the whole body be saved in Christ
Jesus, and let each man be subject unto his neighbour, according as also he was
appointed with his special grace. Let not the strong neglect the weak, and let the
weak respect the strong. Let the rich minister aid to the poor, and let the poor
give thanks to God, because he hath given him one through whom his wants may
be supplied. Let the wise display his wisdom, not in good words, but in good
works. He that is lowly in mind, let him not bear testimony to himself, but
leave testimony to be borne to him by his neighbour. He that is pure in the
flesh, let him be so, and not boast, knowing that it is Another who bestoweth
his continence upon him.” Could anything be more moderate?
But in one point, undoubtedly, all Christians worthy of the name
were radical, namely, in their opposition to the world of idolatry, of impurity,
of sensuality, of debasing pleasures, of cruelty and of hardheartedness, by which
they were surrounded. “To keep themselves unspotted from the world” was for the
early Christians the highest solution of the “social question in primitive Christian
days.” To fight against this world of sin, to suffer and to die rather than be entangled
in it—this was the fundamental principle. In this war against sin, they occasionally
went a step further, and protested against all that in any way concerns the world
and the flesh. But surely it is better that a man should despise the blessings of
this life than disgrace himself by abusing them! Those ascetics and martyrs in
the fight they fought were fighting for each one of us; they died in order
that the world of immorality might perish, or at all events might hide itself in darkness; that at least the vilest and coarsest elements
might disappear from the culture and the civilisation that we ourselves have inherited.
Philosophers of the highest eminence had spoken and written in fine language of the dignity of man; but they had winked at idolatry, and
they did not possess the force of Puritanism against either idols or open immorality.
But now had appeared a society able to convert into power and action its message
concerning the worth of the immortal soul and the divine sonship of all mankind.
Next to purity of morals, brotherly love was the outstanding
characteristic of this society, and we find everything subordinated to the main
purpose of binding together individual congregations and the whole body of Christians
into one fellowship, ever ready to help its own members and the world around. It
was with this end in view that the general organisation of congregations, to the
extent of including bishops and deacons, assumed definite form, and developed with
such wonderful precision and variety. The bond of brotherhood must not merely imply
common worship, but must embrace all the relations of life. Nothing of the sort had
yet been seen; and no institution could be compared with it except, perhaps, that
of synagogues scattered about the kingdom; but these were limited to one nation,
and were less closely bound together. From the religious standpoint there was a
real levelling of nationalities, ranks and classes in the Christian congregation,
and a true manifestation of that equality which consists in the common possession
of spiritual and eternal blessings. Slaves were entrusted with the most influential
offices in the Church, and the honour and dignity of women were protected, chastity
being a fundamental principle in “renunciation of the world.” Only think, for example,
to what tender treatment of female slaves certain of the “Acts of the Martyrs”
testify! But above all, the Gospel really was preached to the poor; that is to say,
for the first time a spiritual religion was brought within the reach of all, even
of the humblest classes. In order to fathom the full meaning of this, one must study
the controversies between the heathen Celsus and the Christian Origen. Celsus admits,
and approves of the fact, that Plato wrote only for the educated and the virtuous; his view is that only those answering to the Greek “Aristocrats” can reach firm ground in regard
to the highest questions of life. To Christians,
on the contrary, the real proof of the superiority and truth of their religion lies in the fact
that it applies to all sorts and conditions of
men: it is not only the religion of compassion,
but the religion of humanity. The eighteenth
century simply rediscovered what had already
been the possession of Christians in the second century.
It is especially noteworthy that the arrangements for doing practical works of love were very closely associated with those of divine
worship. In the same place in which heavenly
gifts were received, earthly ones were given as
well; in the same place in which people were
called upon to offer their souls and bodies a
living sacrifice to God, they offered their earthly
gifts for the needs of the brethren. This
was indeed an incentive to giving, and who need be ashamed to receive gifts straight from the hand of God! The same altar-table thus expressed the joint ideas of love to God and love to one’s neighbour. This was the very heart of the “philosophy” which won the admiration of the pagans; and this, together with private
deeds of charity, became the most potent means of propaganda. “Where the common interest is concerned, they make no account
of cost;” and again, “If one of them suffers, they regard it as something touching
all.” This is the testimony of the “scoffer,” Lucian. No charitable institutions
had as yet been established, but the whole body, the congregation, fulfilled the
functions of a free institution for dispensing brotherly love and practical help.
At the same time the duty of work was inculcated. It was not
that any special blessing was thought to rest upon labour, but work was recognised
as a self-evident duty. Therefore it was incumbent upon the congregation to help
the unemployed and poverty-stricken brethren to find work. “To the sick, give relief; to the sound, work,” is the advice given in an ancient document. No legal maxim
of the early Christians can be deduced from this; it is a statement of brotherly
obligation. No one was then thinking of far-reaching preventive measures against
poverty; for poverty was regarded as a fate, which charity was bound to soften.
For a similar reason, the deep mistrust of the Mammon of unrighteousness rarely
or never led to the formation of any general rules, wealth too being regarded as
a fate, the serious consequences of which had to be averted or at least mitigated by the exercise of love.
Political, legal and economic ordinances were in part recognised,
in part merely tolerated. The subject was taught respect for the Emperor and for
all in authority, and the slave for his master, while conversely the Christian master
was to see in his slave a fellow Christian. As there were no republican tendencies in early
Christianity, so too there were no efforts to
bring about the emancipation of slaves. At
the same time it is true that Tertullian did not think it possible for an
Emperor to be a Christian, and slavery was included among the institutions destined to perish with the wicked world.
The Christian was, as far as possible, to leave
public and political life alone; opinions and practice varied as to the exact degree in which
he might take part in it, and could endeavour to reform it. Such disputes as could
be decided without going beyond the congretion were not to be carried into the public law courts, and it was a matter of course that in questions concerning marriage and family life, the Church was to follow the principles of Christianity.
During the course of the second century a development of great consequence gradually took place. From the beginning there had been voluntary teachers
and missionaries who had made special sacrifices for the sake of their calling,
enjoying at the same time special privileges and esteem; but now these disappeared,
and their place was taken by elected and official presidents. These did indeed take
upon themselves some of the obligations of the teachers they replaced, and thus
give evidence of a high standard of morality; but the privileges of the teachers
were theirs also, and they tended more and more to become the leaders of the congregations.
These latter, meanwhile, having grown in size, lost their former character, and
no longer depended upon the free co-operation of individual members with their different
gifts, but became communities of leaders and their flocks, with a bishop at their
head. It was a natural and a necessary development, but it tended to encourage two
propensities hitherto held in check—the indolence of some, and the ambition of others,
under whose control came the whole power and property of the Church. At the same time it was the beginning of a new class-distinction
within the congregations, altogether irrespective of religious and moral qualifications.
Reference must still be made to one other point: brotherly love
was not the sole motive for almsgiving; apart from that, to divest oneself of part
of one’s property was accounted as something good in itself. The idea of renunciation
of the world began to find its way into the work involved in love of one’s neighbour,
and though it would be a mistake to be hypercritical in this matter (since living
faith in a future world and in future bliss is always in itself a moral act, and
such a faith was here the moving force), it cannot be denied that selfish aims and
a false conception of “merit” were at work.
If we look further ahead, we find that the Church, which in the
course of the third century had developed into a great, clerically-governed institution,
entered in the fourth century into very close alliance with the State, and held
in it a position of privilege.
In its theories with regard to property and economic arrangements,
the Church was becoming more and more communistic, yet without going the whole length,
and making the demand that men in general should give up all they possessed, or
literally have everything in common. Almost all the great Fathers of the Church
gave expression to utterances such as these: “Private property is the root of all strife;” “Possession
in common, that is, equal ownership, is the natural and original order of things;” “Beyond what a man requires for his absolute needs, all that he has belongs
to the poor;” “The luxury of the rich is robbery of the poor;” “What the poor
ask is not thine, but their own.” But in the ultimate issue, all alike are unwilling
to surrender the principle of voluntary action. Some, and notably Lactantius, do
expressly speak of Plato’s communism as mistaken, and others do not scruple to defend
riches when rightly used.
Meanwhile, however, the general feeling seems to have tended
towards a communism in which the wants of life should not be felt. How is this to
be explained? Brotherly love was not the one clear, prominent motive; other motives
were included. First, there was the old esteem for the contemplative life, with
its few wants as compared with the active life; and the influence of Aristotle’s
“Law of Nature,” and Plato’s “Republic,” in spite of the criticism to which the
latter was subjected. Then there was the stern exigency of the time, which made
it appear almost a deliverance to be rid of one’s all at a single stroke. Even those
who loved their wealth, but were groaning under the unendurable pressure of taxation, might in the end prefer to
cast away their fortune with their own hands rather than be ruined by slow degrees.
Moreover, existing social conditions were so tyrannical and at the same time so
precarious; the rich men, forming a new caste which was then growing up, were often
so inhuman; and the old hereditary failing of the Romans, avarice and love of gain,
had reached such a pitch that a person with a moderate degree of sensibility might
well find life in such a world intolerable. Further considerations that must be
taken into account are the old Christian distrust of the mammon of unrighteousness; the difficulty of answering the question as to the amount that ought to be given
in charity; the conviction that all giving is meritorious, and effectual for the
saving of the soul of the giver; and finally the supposed example in the Bible
of the communistic Church at Jerusalem. All this is sufficient to explain the tendency
towards communism and renunciation of the world.
But, as already pointed out, the result was not communism, but
only voluntary almsgiving and donations, together with what was perhaps most important
of all, a certain modification of the selfish Roman idea of proprietorship. Property is a trust, held under definite moral conditions; this conception was forcing its way in. It is in history as in nature: an apparently
enormous expenditure of power is required in order to produce a new result which
is seemingly insignificant.
The practice of the Church itself was not at all in keeping with
its communistic theories. Rather does it appear in the light of a great conservative
power, itself embracing all the old ordinances, and so defending at the same time
the economic order. Indeed, one may go still further, and say that when all else
besides itself was falling into ruin, the Church, as a firmly established institution,
was eventually able to turn to its own almost exclusive advantage the legal and
economic order of the decadent Roman Empire. Thus, when slavery was becoming too
costly an institution, and, in spite of the efforts of the State to prevent it,
serfs were gradually taking the place of slaves, the Church, while pressing upon
its individual members the good work of emancipating slaves, was perhaps itself
the last slave-owner. This was because it had gradually become the wealthiest
landed proprietor, having obtained great privileges during the stormy times of the
great migration of nations, when all private tenure was imperilled. It was an age of dissolution. “Populus Romanus moritur
et ridet;” and amidst the general decline, the Church was the guardian of the
former culture, and, like a great insurance company, treasured up all such wealth—spiritual,
intellectual, and temporal—as was capable of longer existence, and, without arbitrarily
changing it, transmitted it to new nations. That, it may now be said, was the social
function of the Church at that time. It did not reform, but it preserved. From that
day to this, the Church, as an organised body, has felt called upon rather to discover
and preserve the good forces yet extant in old and moribund institutions than to
disengage forces full of new life. Thus it took no part in determining the issue
of the great economic revolution of that time, for one can scarcely ascribe any
special influence to its prohibition of usury, which was commonly ignored.
The question suggests itself, How did it reconcile its practice
with its theory? First, by means of a kind of fiction: we mean, the idea that
it itself, with all its wealth, was nothing but an enormous society for the relief
of the poor; and, secondly, by very great liberality in face of increasing poverty,
together with numerous beneficent institutions, founded especially during the period from the fourth to the sixth centuries,
in aid of the destitute of every kind. These great institutions, which excited the
admiration even of the Emperor Julian, by degrees relieved the congregations of
the work of caring for the poor; but the congregations as such were gradually disappearing,
and were being replaced by episcopally governed parishes. In Germany, for example,
congregational Christianity was never even seen. Such institutions did undoubted
good, but they had entered upon a struggle with the misery of the masses, of which
none could foresee the end; and among individual Christians the feeling that each
one is responsible for the condition of his brother was becoming increasingly weaker.
The more the Church dictated to the laity in religious matters, the more egotistical
its religion became. A church which is only a church, and not also a congregation,
isolates even its most pious members, and so makes them selfish.
It is, however, impossible to speak of the Church in the days
of Imperial power without mentioning its momentous influence upon Roman legislation
previous to the downfall of the Roman Empire. This was a great opportunity for social
work, and the Church made use of it. It was not only in cases of flagrant wrong that noble
arid courageous bishops faced cruel and unjust emperors and officers of state, and
protected the innocent, the weak, and the helpless; but from the days of Constantine onwards they also exercised a most salutary effect upon
actual legislation. In the Roman code of Justinian I could enumerate a long list
of laws the origin of which was influenced by the action of the Church. Among these
were enactments dealing with the defence of the weak, the moral elevation of whole
neglected classes, the sanctity of marriage, the protection of children, the
care of prisoners, public morality, Sunday rest, and even questions of property.
In spite, however, of this influence,
the alliance between the Church and the world was regarded by the very devout as an evil; and, in consequence, people who had practised
asceticism in an isolated way formed themselves into communities. From the end of the
third century dates the growth and spread of
monasticism, the devotees of “apostolic life”
aiming at the way of perfection and the sure salvation of their own souls, but still without
departing from the principle of Christian liberty.
Thus, while the Church of the world recognised the monastic orders, they in turn acknowledged this worldly Church
to be a Christian institution of second rank. This development ensured what had
long been imminent—the abandonment of the attempt to introduce effectively into
the national life of all countries the highest Christian ideal of life, as it was
then understood. Such monasticism, born of “pious indifference,” was not originally
founded with a view to works of charity, and had for long little to do with charity; but it soon became an economic power, and that in quite a different direction
from what might have been expected.
The Church reached the Germanic peoples, and, in place of the
Romans, there appeared the Romance nations. These races were the first that might
fairly be described as children of the Catholic Church, and it was consequently
among them, and in the Middle Ages, that the Church, no longer having a rival in
the ancient order of society, was able to make really authoritative its theory and
practice. Ideas suggested wholly by the contemplation of another world ruled both
spiritual and intellectual life; fear of that other world, and of purgatorial fire,
together with hope of future bliss, held universal sway. “Pious indifference”
to earthly concerns and anxiety for individual salvation effectually checked all thoughts of this world’s natural claims. The idea
was predominant that earthly things are never more than means, form, empty show—if
nothing worse. All who thought and reflected at all lived in the other world—and
how intimate their acquaintance with it!—while the rest lived in naïve worldliness,
though they suffered from a bad conscience.
In the social system corporate life alone prevailed; the individual
was no more than a member of a class to which he belonged. It may easily be imagined
that in such a state of society the nomadic life was a hard one. Those in possession
of power enforced it sternly; but their subordinates were not only governed, but,
as a rule, taken care of, and regarded their service simply as a law of nature.
It was only the inequality of wealth and its arbitrary administration that introduced
into the iron order of social caste some trace of freedom and variety. For that
very reason this intractable element, and particularly commerce, became an object
of suspicion.
The Church did not interfere with the slow process of economic development, whereby money as a medium of
exchange was substituted for primitive payment in kind; on the contrary, as a landowner
on a large scale, its own position was radically affected by this change—a fact no
less true of the monastic orders. Even the great reforms of western monasticism
may, as Uhlhorn has recently pointed out, be regarded as illustrating the economic
development of the age. Thus the system of the Cluniac order was an indication of
general economic reorganisation in France after the break-up of the Frankish kingdom
of the Carlovingians. By that time only great monastic foundations—centres, as they
were, of important agricultural communities scattered all over the country—were
in a position to provide for the people a new mode of existence; while, on the
other hand, the forms taken by the mendicant orders corresponded to the development
of town life and the general use of money. The great monastic corporations formed
in many parts a kind of agricultural circle, within which there was patriarchal
care for the inhabitants; and, till the thirteenth century, clergy and monks alike
everywhere belonged to the ruling classes. The services they rendered to civilisation,
and their philanthropic work, were not, as a rule, determined by brotherly love,
but rather by a desire to maintain their economic position as lords and patrons.
But although the Church was now fully developed as a hierarchical
institution, supreme above all, it continued to prescribe to others an attitude
towards property the very opposite of that adopted by itself, and it still hid this
inconsistency under the fiction that it was the embodiment of charity. And as long
as it did, in the persons of its great Popes, defend justice and right, and really
was a civilising and educative, helpful and protective power, men bore with this
contradiction between theory and practice.
The theologians of the Church proclaimed community of possessions
to be the natural and ideal order, and generally proceeded from this to the further
ideal of freedom from possessions and desires; extolled a contemplative life spent
in voluntary poverty, and saw in work especially a punishment for sin. But when
it came to practice, how could this Church fight vigorously against involuntary
poverty as an evil, when it declared voluntary poverty to be a blessing, and deemed
even involuntary indigence necessary, that there might be scope for the virtue of almsgiving? How could it promote
activity and work, when its highest ideal was still passive contemplation? Almsgiving
was all it could really encourage; for it was only the existence of misery in the world
that made it possible for busy people and men of property to be saved. There was,
indeed, a certain attempt at progress in the endeavour to specify the exact extent
to which those who are possessed of means are really bound to give as a duty. It
was recognised that there is such a duty, and that was of the highest importance.
But the precise directions which were drawn up were only rules upon paper, which
led to pharisaic casuistry, and deadened moral feelings. They encouraged the illusion
that a man does enough if he gives a little of his superfluous wealth to such of
his neighbours as are in the last extremity of want. This was, of course, not the
intention of those schoolmen who set themselves to trace in bold outlines a Christian-Social
state, but many understood it so. How instructive it is that the only attempt known
in the history of the Church to define the extent to which it is a positive duty
to exercise charity and share one’s wealth with others, only succeeded in restricting
and paralysing love!
In process of time the result of all this was that rigid and
selfish ideas of personal property were gradually relaxed, giving place to lavish
almsgiving and a purposeless profusion of liberality. The Middle Ages are sufficient proof that alms cannot
cure pauperism. At the same time it was during these very Middle Ages that charity
often proved itself capable of breaking the spell of “pious indifference” and
“deeds of merit.” There were continually appearing great, saintly, self-sacrificing
men, who preached not only repentance, but also mercy. There was a constant succession
of these from the eleventh century till Savonarola in the fifteenth. They did what
is rarely done now even by those who are most self-sacrificing: they themselves
lived as the poor did. And yet these pious and compassionate souls were purposely
helping to keep open the very wounds they sought to heal, and it soon came about
again that personal ministration, the duty of neighbour to help neighbour, was passed
on from one to another, until it was left to the very poorest class, who had not
strength to take it up.
The reaction began in the fourteenth century. The Church, whose
wealth consisted wholly in kind, failed to keep pace with the change by which money
became the medium of exchange; and the monasteries, as wealthy landed estates,
became impoverished. The Roman Curia was then gradually transformed into a financial department conducted without re-11 ference to charity. This it was
that gave the impulse to traffic in indulgences. At last the laity of different
countries discovered the contradiction between the preaching and the practice of
the Church, with the result that, as a financial institution, the Church fell into
discredit.
At the same time opinions with regard to work, property and poverty
began slowly to change, not from any principle, but owing to the force of altered
circumstances. Men began to feel a vague, yet overmastering consciousness of an
urgent social duty which could not be fulfilled hi the cloister or the cell. So
it came about that the mendicant friars were no longer monks properly so called,
for they now have their place and their work in the world. This feeling led to further
steps in the same direction, and there resulted a kind of semi-monachism and even
a class of what might be called “fourth-part monks,” forming independent religious
communities, who bound themselves by some of the monastic rules, but meanwhile worked
for others in all manner of ways, and held that feeding the poor was better than
a passive life of contemplation.
At this time, too, owing to the gradual emancipation of the different states and nations from the secularised
theocracy of Rome, attention began to be drawn to the special and peculiar duties
of States and towns as regards the earthly welfare of the citizens—so much so, that
a branch of scholastic theology was actually devoted to these points. Furthermore,
it was then that, in place of the class-divisions and castes of the Middle Ages,
the idea arose of individual personality, its rights and its value. In the towns,
both the happiness caused by vigorous work on the one hand, and the pressure of
want on the other, helped men to recognise that earthly welfare is in itself good,
that it has a significance of its own, and yet is closely connected with morality
and with eternity. With such a conception, the object of charity once more became
simple and straightforward, while at the same time new methods were demanded, so
that in this direction, as well as in others, the way was being paved for the Reformation.
But all effort was still held in check by the fear of the other
world and the idea of reward, which argument and persuasion were alike unable to
overcome. Apart from some attempts at municipal relief of the poor, everything as
regards social and charitable work was, at the close of the fifteenth century, in exactly the same
position outwardly as it had been during the thirteenth century. Mendicancy still
ranked as a profession, as an art even, and as “work;” while aversion to labour
was still a widespread evil, encouraged by the endless holidays of the Church. The
moral consciousness of the time had not as yet come to regard want and misery in
a new light. The large displacement of wealth during the period of transition to
the new money currency, the tremendous fluctuation of prices, the ruin of whole
classes and their subsequent concentration of effort upon the re-establishment of
their own position—all this tended to provoke great economic crises; malcontents
indulged in bitter cursing of ecclesiasticism, and saw in the prevailing conditions
of Church and State the kingdom of Satan and of Antichrist. But all they could set
up in its place was at best the old communistic ideal, of which the Church, in its
monachism, had long ago made unsuccessful trial. More often it was a strange
and naïve medley, in which the Franciscan freedom from earthly needs was mingled
with very terrestrial covetousness, seeking to satisfy itself by force, on the ground
that the existing order was near its end. It was only towards the close of the period that there began to emerge certain demands
capable of realisation and full of promise for the future.
At this juncture came the Reformation. Its political and
social teaching took its tone entirely from the conditions which had been
growing up during the two preceding centuries, and from these it would almost be
possible to infer the views of the Reformers with regard to social and economic
questions. But the novel feature was that they now claimed the authority of the
Gospel, and thus for the first time rested upon a religious basis. What were
these ideas, and in what practical results did they issue?
The underlying theories found expression in Luther’s “Sermon
on Good Works,” his “Letter to the Nobility of Christendom,” his “Treatise on
Christian Liberty,” and others of his writings. Serious as he was, he too did full
justice to that fundamental idea which, in the primitive Church and in the Middle
Ages, had shown itself as “Pious Indifference;” only he understood it in its
purest, simplest, and most vigorous sense, that is, as unshakable confidence and
trust in God; arid for that very reason it no longer appeared merely as a quietistic
element, leading to renunciation of the world, but also as an active motive, able to overcome the world: the faith of a Christian makes him free, and gives him the mastery over all things.
That is one point, and the other is a return to brotherly love, in place of the
selfish refinement to which almsgiving had been reduced. By simplifying the idea
of brotherly love, new depth was given to it, and it came to mean: “A life freely
given to others, in glad and willing service.” The Reformation sapped the very foundations
of the pretended “merit” of good works, by insisting that only by grace and through
faith can we have any dealings with God. Consequently alms and good works ceased
to be regarded as worth anything in themselves, but were accorded their due value
in a life of steady work at a useful calling, the main point being that a man should
not live to himself, but unto God and for his fellow men, since through love a Christian
shall be servant of all. Moreover Luther appreciated the fact that love of God and
of one’s neighbour are inseparably connected. Only he differed from those who had
gone before him in recognising more fully their inner unity, for to him all secular
work, performed in faith, and of public utility, was worship. Charitable and social
work of every kind thus became one special side of a general course of action,
prompted by a constant frame of mind, and finding scope in the ordinary business
of life. Luther’s indignation against useless and excessive almsgiving was extended
to that so-called “Love” which was content to wait until the sufferer was at the
last extremity, and then to do such a minimum as would satisfy the bare demands
of duty. He also recognised that earthly blessings are blessings, although of a
minor order; and work, when done in the right spirit, was valued more highly by
him than by the theologians of the Middle Ages, inasmuch as it was no longer regarded
as mere “negotium,” the negation of “otium,” but rather as a joyful exercise.
Such convictions necessarily gave rise to new principles for the guidance of social work. Of these I shall mention only the most important: first, real and
effective assistance must be rendered, genuine help being the ultimate, and indeed
the only, object; secondly, it is to be given not to the lazy, but to the
helpless; thirdly, the aid given must be duly proportioned, and not excessive; fourthly, there must be method in relief; fifthly and lastly, such social ministration
is especially incumbent upon municipalities: authorities generally, and, in short, the whole civil power, for to its care God has committed
the temporal welfare of the people, though, first of all, it must recognise its
own Christian standing, and act accordingly.
During the Reformation period a certain beginning really was
made towards carrying out all these ideals. Here and there existing means of relief
were combined and centralised, guardians of the poor were appointed, a general relief
fund was started, and poor rates were levied. But unfortunately the final results
may he summed up in a word: in the end nothing of importance was achieved. Indeed,
it must further be admitted that the Roman Catholics are justified in asserting
that theirs, not ours, was the revival of charitable work in the sixteenth century, and that, as far as Lutheranism was concerned, the practical social problem was soon
in worse plight than before. How is this disappointing fact to be accounted for? How was it that the movement which had led to the formulation of new and better principles, did, as a matter of fact, produce hardly any improvement?
There is, even now, a great deal to be learned
from the answers to these depressing questions.
In the first place, it must be remembered that in spite of the high esteem in which Luther had always held
civic authority and the State, his original intention was to reconstruct the Church
on the simple basis of government by the congregation. He had visions of a congregational
life founded upon fellowship, and on principles of Christian liberty, fraternity
and equality. It was further his idea that the national element should find free
expression—only the nation then meant the Roman Empire of German nationality—and
he had in view an improvement in the general economic condition of the country,
an increase in its culture, and the upraising of down-trodden classes. Not that
those were in his eyes separate and independent ideals; rather he was convinced
that a return to the Gospel would inevitably bring about their realisation. Therefore
there was no immediate need to press them; he could afford to wait, if necessary; only the Gospel must have free course.
But he could not expect that this conception
would be generally understood. His message
was hailed by classes numerically powerful,
though still groaning under the oppression and
want which they were no longer sufficiently
servile to tolerate. These were the peasantry
of Southern and Central Germany, and the poorer class of artisans. It was just at that time too that their
demands had become articulate, and their strength and their deserts both seemed
to entitle them to claim from the privileged classes a recognised status of their
own. The time seemed, moreover, to be nearly ripe for the realisation of that ideal
state in which all ranks should be knit together in one great bond of brotherhood; the privileges of the clergy, of the nobility, and of the guilds be curtailed; and the nation be established on a new social basis. No wonder, then, that the
downtrodden and oppressed hailed with gladness the works of Luther, and understood
them to confer upon the deliverance that had been planned the sanction of the Gospel.
“It is the will of God;” this was the interpretation put upon his writings.
You know how it ended. All were to blame, but most of all those
princes, rulers and cities by whose authority the movement, having become revolutionary,
was quenched in streams of blood. Nor was Luther himself innocent. One may draw a fine distinction and say: “He committed no fault, yet he was not innocent;” or it may be
asked in return how he ought to have acted; but, in spite of all excuses, one fact
is obvious, that ever since the days of the Peasant-War both the German State and the German Evangelical
Church have had a debt to pay and an obligation to fulfil. Unless appearances are
utterly deceptive, in those days a great opportunity was wasted.
Nothing came of the programme, which had aimed at making the
congregation the broad basis on which to build up the Church, and at knitting together
in brotherly unity all classes, sharing equal privileges; and the new Church that
had suddenly come into being was destined to be organised and managed by the secular
authority, the princes of the land, and by theologians.
But even though the original ideals were abandoned, how did it
happen that so deplorably little was accomplished in the way of social work—in some
directions less even than before? Why did not the newly-formulated principles I
have mentioned bring forth at least a scanty harvest? The fact is that a variety
of reasons contributed to this result. In the first place, theologians had dwelt
too exclusively on pure doctrine, and their tenet, that no amount of good works
can in themselves be anything but defective, was not calculated to inspire men with
energy and self-sacrificing zeal. They were right in excluding the theory of merit, only they required first of all to educate their hearers
up to a higher conception. The lazy and selfish were glad to be told that God cares
nothing for good works. In the second place, the collapse of the congregational
idea soon caused the sense of fellowship to fail also; and without that, nothing
on a large scale can ever be accomplished. It became a familiar notion that those
in authority ought to do everything, although they were in fact doing less and less.
Moreover, the general distress again increased after the Peasant war. The number
of idlers, voluntary and involuntary, was immense; and no joy in work could be
awakened in a people that was not free. Yet another reason lay in the financial
position of the Lutheran country churches, which before long became exceedingly
embarrassed. Without means of their own, and soon reduced to mere dependencies of
the State, they were often obliged to be content with a wretched endowment for clergy
and schools. The “general fund,” where there was one, dwindled away, while the
immediate care of the poor, undertaken without experience and with untrained forces,
was as before transferred from one to another until it became nobody’s duty. Furthermore,
the new prerogatives of German princes and the introduction of Roman law
enabled the Roman idea of private ownership to force its way in again, and to oust
existing and better views on property. Finally, spiritual poverty and paralysis
were everywhere characteristic of the later representatives of Lutheranism. Everywhere
their horizon was of the narrowest; how then could anything of importance be accomplished
in any direction? That was the state of affairs when the Thirty Years’ War broke
out, and almost cost our nation its life.
But things looked very much better in the Reformed than in the
Lutheran Church. For in the Reformed Church congregational control really did exist; its members were more actively energetic, because they did not confine themselves
exclusively to preaching the pure word of God, and because they were generally not
in a position to rely upon the secular authority. They borrowed New Testament institutions
and points of view for the conduct of their ecclesiastical and social affairs;
they revived the original diaconate of the early Church; they sought, in contrast
to Roman Catholicism, to train up a new and really Christian society, and they succeeded
in doing so.
Lutheran Protestantism produced nothing to be compared with the spectacle of refugee communities of the
Reformed Church, Presbyterians in Scotland, and Huguenots in France. These revealed
the growth of an evangelical people, who did not stop short at mere care of the
poor and charitable effort—a people in whose midst religion knit all classes together
with brotherly bonds of unity, and who really did create a new social order
of fellowship without communism. The Puritans, indeed, who founded the States of
New England, were for whole generations a standing proof that a community in which
religion and morality are as powerful as law, is possible upon earth.
Here in Germany the immediate consequences of the Thirty Years’
War showed themselves in the lamentable growth of the divisions that separated class
from class, and in the establishment of an absolute government, supported by the
nobility. It may be that in no other way could even the small amount of culture
that was left have been preserved. It was then, however, that the Lutheran Church
showed that it was not yet powerless, but possessed, as it were, hidden treasures,
only waiting to be brought to light. This brings us to the first beginnings of the
present epoch, for we are still in the process of development that commenced
with the appearance of Pietism on the one hand, and of the Enlightenment on the
other.
Pietism it was that revived the dormant consciousness of Protestantism,
together with the sense of philanthropic obligation. By treating religion as an
all-important and personal matter, and encouraging warmth of feeling, it at once
brought into prominence the neglected duty towards one’s neighbour. To the founders
of Pietism we owe the great impulse then given to active charity and care
of the poor, on the part of municipalities as well as of private individuals and
societies. To their example is mainly due all the work of Christian charity performed
by Christian associations from that time to this. But the Pietistic movement was
always confined within somewhat narrow limits, and selected its methods in deference
to a one-sided principle. It was determined to accomplish everything by means of
institutions, and it made no use of congregational organisation, of which, indeed,
only a wretched travesty survived. The need of trained forces everywhere, rather
than of a few amateur dispensers of charity, was not understood, nor yet the fact
that the whole nation had to be educated and elevated; the magnitude of this
task was for the most part beyond the intellectual horizon of the Pietists; and
at that time, indeed, where was the German nation? Another power was required to
give impetus to such a work as that.
In the whole of history there is, perhaps, nothing more remarkable
than the rise of the Enlightenment movement towards the end of the seventeenth century,
and the story of the changes it underwent before it became the Socialism of to-day—a
gradual evolution which furnishes more than one example of the phenomenon known
as direct and retrograde motion.
The starting-point of the movement was the idea of absolute government—primarily
in the sense of the absolute power of the sovereign —together with that of the supreme
right and duty of the State to care for the welfare of the citizens. Under pressure
of this idea, all that remained of the rights of the Diet, and of historic forms
and institutions generally, was swept away, excepting only such formalities as were
connected with the Court. But from their very ruins there arose, like the phoenix
from the ashes, the idea of humanity. The ideal which ancient philosophers had long
ago declared to be the natural system, and which in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries had seemed to be on the point of realisation—only to be
lost again in the din of theological conflict—now reappeared and attached itself
to the new conception of the rights of man, as proclaimed and expounded by the
inspired prophet of this doctrine, Rousseau. Whatever the history of its growth, the
idea was there, gained ground, and succeeded in
raising out of the darkness of world-weariness
and pessimism into the radiance of the gladdest
and most confident optimism all the ideals that
had hitherto passed muster in religion, transferring them from the history of the past into
a glorious future, to which it looked for their
realisation. Only one step, it promised, and
the victory would be won! If individuals and
nations would but consider their own interests,
if they would but will it, they could at a single
stroke make happiness their own; freedom of
development would be possible to each one,
the highest sense of well-being would be
attained, and every one might then with joy
and gladness reach out his hand to his brethren,
sharers in a free self-realisation. Liberty,
Humanity, Happiness—these were the watch-
words, and this was the Gospel preached.
Meanwhile our country was wretchedly poor, its lower classes being uneducated, in bondage, destitute of
rights, always on the verge of starvation! The nobility first took up the new idea,
and toyed with it; but its mighty power was soon reflected in literature. Then
it caught hold among the middle classes, forced its way in the most developed country,
France, and penetrated by degrees to every nation in Europe.
Whatever be thought of this movement, there are two points on
which all will agree. In the first place, the eighteenth century clearly II bestowed
upon us certain blessings that can never again be taken away, namely, the recognition
of the rights and personal value of each individual, and a sense of the dignity
of humanity as a whole. These blessings are, indeed, contained in the Gospel. They
had been brought to light again by the Reformation; but it had failed to turn them
into living realities. Secondly, it will be admitted that it was a frail foundation
on which the Enlightenment sought to establish these blessings; further, that they
were never obtained, but always involve a problem ever new, and that their realisation
demands sacrifices—very substantial and personal sacrifices—of which the Enlightenment
did not even dream. Its promoters failed to see that the stumbling-block in the way of the “happy
man” is no less formidable an obstacle than man himself—that is, the natural, selfish
man.
We do not deny to the Enlightenment credit for the blessings
to which I have referred. On the contrary, we acknowledge with gratitude that to
it is due the recognition of these truths, together with the origin of many convictions,
laws and institutions, both social and political, the existence of which seems to
us a matter of course. This movement it was which first indicated a real departure
from the standpoint of the Middle Ages, and through it the whole aspect of society
was changed from top to bottom. We confess with shame that there is some truth in
the poet’s parodox, that Rousseau turned Christians into men. But in spite of all
we owe it, we do criticise the spirit in which the Enlightenment has worked, and
still works. We join issue with its idea of natural Rights, and see in it a dangerous
illusion; for helpless man does not come into the world with any Rights, but his
very existence is dependent upon the love he finds there. To the one-sided interest
in temporal welfare, encouraged by this movement, we oppose higher interests—the
well-being of the soul, the living God, the blessings of eternity.
Lastly, we protest against that blindness which cannot see that all the ideals of
the Enlightenment must end in empty schemes, or even become the terrible means of
a general disintegration of society, if the selfishness in man be not overcome by
the action of mighty forces of good, bringing gladness in their train. To this the
ready answer is returned “Yes, of course—altruism; but once the general conditions
of life are ameliorated, that will come of itself as a result either of self-interest
rightly understood or of a sort of inborn good nature, or of the social instinct.”
Of all falsehoods and delusions, this is about the worst and most mischievous. We
shall have long to wait before an economic scheme is . framed in which selfishness
can play no part, or which can make the love of humanity a natural outflow of the
human heart. The French Revolution and all subsequent experiences show that this
Enlightenment movement by its own strength alone can produce nothing permanent;
and that unlimited freedom is not constructive, but destructive. It was not until
a return was made to the old historic lines, and to religion, law, and custom, that
form and durability could be given to the true and valuable elements in the ideas of the Enlightenment.
It must be admitted that during the first two-thirds
of the nineteenth century this process was anything but an edifying spectacle,
for amidst the endless obstacles due to a fierce reaction all progress was
bitterly and wearily contested. The Church was generally on the wrong side,
a fact which still rankles in the memory of the nation, and is not without
influence on the economic struggles of the present day. The relations between
the different classes, and the state of the country generally, might perhaps
be happier to-day were it not for this dark shadow over the immediate past.
Not even the greatly increased interest of the Church in philanthropic work
during this last century, and the grand extension in the scope of its efforts,
can suffice to blot out that reproach. Just as in the days before the Peasant
war, so in those succeeding the wars of Independence, a great opportunity
in our nation’s life was allowed to slip by unused, with precisely the same
effect as before, namely, that of estranging thousands from the Church.
Meanwhile, a complete change of policy had taken place in one section of
the Enlightenment movement.
The simple truth had at length been recognised, that so long
as men are endowed or equipped with different powers, absolute liberty must necessarily
lead to the most complete suppression of the weakest. Natural science had at the
same time come to be regarded as the only true form of knowledge possible to man,
and, under its influence, anything in Rousseau’s ideals that did not bear upon material
existence was entirely brushed aside. “The struggle for existence” became an all-powerful
magic phrase. This development led to a reaction in which the original idea of the
absolute supremacy of the State again came to the fore: out of Individualism arose
a demand for Socialism, as being the only possible means of satisfying the pretensions
of the individual-a result not to be achieved by means of unrestricted liberty,
or, in other words, by Anarchy. Our Social Democracy of to-day is—at least in part—merely
a modified and disguised form of the eighteenth century Individualism, and knows
no higher ideal than the temporal well-being of the individual, and no forces superior
to the instinct of self-preservation and the universal right of suffrage. The word
“Social” is introduced partly to conceal, partly to facilitate, the unlimited pursuit of a merely individual and earthly happiness.
But we are all acquainted with this last development, which has made rapid way with
the march of machinery and increased facilities of world-wide intercourse.
The question now before us concerns our position and our duty at
the present time.
CHAPTER IV
THE SOCIAL MISSION OF THE CHURCH
OF TO-DAY
IT may be said that the Social mission of the Church to-day is
both new in kind and of greater urgency than in the past: not because poverty and
distress have increased—for that is, to say the least, not capable of proof; nor
because the Church is more negligent than before in works of charity—quite the reverse
is true; nor yet because self-sacrificing and trained workers are less numerous
than hitherto—on the contrary, they have never been so numerous as now. In what
sense, then, can the Church’s task to-day be called new and more urgent than in
the past? Well, to begin with, history proves that new .and urgent duties never
come to light during the dark days of declining movements. In the dreariness and
distress that then prevail, all available energy must be exerted to hold fast at
least the things that remain. It is only in a progressive age that the obligation to new and higher action can be felt; and
so at the present time it is just the progress we have already made that thrusts
new tasks upon us. In indicating briefly the various lines along which we have advanced,
I hope to say nothing with which you will not all agree.
First, we have no longer to do with classes in a state of tutelage,
but, though in some respects they may still be powerless, all have equal recognition,
and a certain measure of education now belongs to all. I need not enter in further
detail into this matter, in which the immense progress of the last century is clearly
shown. It is only in small sequestered districts, or under special circumstances,
that it is still possible for the relief of the poor to take the form of patriarchal care or patronage by the upper classes of those beneath them. Now
that all classes have dealings with each other on the footing of legal equality,
a similar freedom of intercourse on equal terms, whether friendly or the reverse, has become more and more general in all the relations of life—a condition towards which the spread of education
and equality of political rights have been largely conducive. This only serves to
heighten the contrast between wealth and the lack of it, as represented by Capital and Labour, opposed
to each other as though they were impersonal forces; and to render more intolerable
a state of affairs in which whole classes of the population, after enjoying a good
education and acquiring thereby a genuine taste for the blessings of culture, must
yet spend their lives in such straitened circumstances that they are able to appropriate
but few of those blessings, and are, moreover, liable to be ruined by the slightest
economic disturbance.
Secondly, conscience is more alive, and there is a keener sense
of duty than before with regard to the welfare of all the members of society; that
is an unmistakable advance, of such cogency as to compel people to take part in
it outwardly, even if they do not really do so in their hearts. Moreover, we have
learned to regard poverty and distress as a serious social danger, in a sense very
different from that formerly thought of, while at the same time we have become aware
that no thorough reform can be effected except by preventive means. The obligation
arising from the recognition of these facts is an entirely new one, such as no past
generation ever felt. In coping with it, the study of sociology and economics is found to resemble that of therapeutics, where attention
is more and more being concentrated upon hygiene, the science of preventive measures.
Thirdly, everything to-day is dominated by the mighty power
of an economic system embracing the whole world; nothing can escape it; its influenee
is felt on the remotest village handicraft; it alters or does. away with existing
conditions, and threatens with insecurity the economic existence of whole industries.
No wonder that it also affects the organisation of the Church; to mention one point
alone, congregational life is endangered by those facilities for migration which
follow naturally upon the improved means of communication throughout the world.
Both in the great cities, and outside their bounds, there is a vast nomadic population—a
class of people in whom, as every page of history shows, it is very difficult to
maintain a high standard of morality and religion.
In the fourth place, we are face to face, no longer with merely
naïve ideas of Communism, but with Socialistic systems of considerable economic
development, founded on a materialistic view of life. These systems and these views
are gaining ground among the nations, and already crowds of people are definitely and deliberately giving up, not only membership in
the Church, but also the Christian Faith, and Christian ethics, so that Materialism,
theoretical and practical, is becoming a power in public life. But even this development
can by no means he regarded simply from the point of view which condemns it as “desertion” or “backsliding.” Before talking of desertion, we must prove that there
was, to begin with, real membership in a corporate body. But large numbers, who
are now termed “deserters,” never did lay claim to living membership, and it is
only from having been so long disguised that this fact now appears the more striking
and appalling. Such make-believe is, to be sure, under certain circumstances a restraining
and humanising influence, and one may therefore regret the disillusionment. All
the same, it is a step in advance when one theory of existence is straightforwardly
confronted with another. Besides, there are even worse things than deliberate materialism,
namely, absolute indifference or calculating selfishness, endeavouring to get what
advantage it can for itself from all theories of existence at once, and hating every
conviction that threatens to destroy its own comfort and impose duties upon it.
These are the principal factors which go to make up the existing
situation, and they must be kept in view while seeking for an answer to the question: What is the special social mission of the Church to-day? There are two mistaken
notions which I surely no longer require to correct, namely, that it is the duty
of the Church to disentangle these difficulties, and that it is in possession of
a sovereign remedy for all ills. The Roman Catholic Church does indeed sometimes
seem to imply that it holds such a secret panacea, and is only waiting for the nations
to swallow it; but it does not seriously mean it. As a Christian Church, it, too,
cannot eventually disregard the fact that the peace promised by the Gospel is a
peace which the world cannot give, and that the improvement of economic conditions
is not the duty of religion. Therefore, when we are speaking of the Social mission
of the Church—of our Evangelical Church—our object must simply be to settle what
form, under present circumstances, this task must assume, a task always one and the same in its fundamental nature, but differing
much from time to time in its characteristic forms. So, too, the means at its disposal
never really change, but the use to be made of them varies with the period.
Above all it must be remembered that the chief task of the Church
is still the preaching of the Gospel, that is to say, the message of Redemption
and of eternal life. Christianity as a religion would be at an end if this truth
were obscured, and the Gospel were to be changed into a social manifesto, whether
for the sake of gaining popularity, or owing to excessive zeal for reform. More
than that;. none dare ultimately expect more for himself from the message of the
Church than a firm, consolatory faith, able to triumph over all the troubles of
life. “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul?” This conviction and the glad tidings of Jesus Christ the Redeemer constitute
the essence of the Gospel, from which is developed that view of life—that is to
say, that way of thinking of the soul and the body, life and death, happiness and
unhappiness, riches and poverty—which is the truth, and therefore makes men free.
But the power that lies in every definite theory of existence is proved at the present
day by the Socialistic movement. At one of our last Congresses it was eloquently
demonstrated that it is just to such a clear theory of life that the Social-Democratic
movement owes its strength. Its thousands of adherents do not want merely bread; they know full well they
do not live by bread alone; they want an answer to all the questions of the universe
and of life, and for that—for their faith—they are ready to make sacrifices. For
that very reason, the work of the Church is easier at the present time than at any
period in the past, since never before were so many men filled with such longing
as to-day for firm and consistent convictions. In spite of social divisions and
apparent disintegration, there is an all-penetrating force which binds men together
with close ties of spiritual fellowship, namely, Thought and Speech. And the strongest
expression of Thought will prevail. Men are ready to-day to give anything for a
conviction that is real conviction—for a belief that really is believed in. Men
are not so base that they can find satisfaction in the gratification and the service
of their individual existence; they require convictions as to the meaning of life.
But the demand is for a faith in which there is real faith; and to provide this,
constitutes the mission of the Church—its task both new and old. It has to proclaim
to the present generation the living God and life eternal. It has to testify of
the redeeming Lord, whose person still wins reverence and love even from those who are most alienated. Zealously and earnestly it must
teach that sin is the ruin of mankind and the strongest root of all misery; and
must preach that truth both fully and freely, in au intelligible form, so expressed
that all may understand. When that is done, the main part of its Social Mission
will already be fulfilled. But in order to be able to do so, it must ally itself
with all real knowledge and with truth of every kind, or else it will bring discredit
on the message it proclaims. It is true that one ray of Gospel light is often sufficient
to illumine the heart, and make a man free; and the lowliest servant of Jesus Christ
may prove a true saviour to his neighbour; but in the great battle of intellects,
where one theory of the universe is opposed to another, the victory can only remain
with that interpretation which is a complete whole, and can prove itself true and
strong in every way.
I said that none dare ultimately expect more for himself from
the message of the Church than a firm, consolatory faith, able to triumph over the
troubles of life. The emphasis here is on the words “for himself;” it is a
very different matter with regard to other people. Our historical retrospect
has shown us that it is an essential part of Christianity to weld the individual members of a congregation into a brotherhood full
of active life, and then to knit such congregations together into a great association
of willing helpers, and that when in course of time congregational life collapsed,
this meant a serious loss to the Church. In the early days of Christianity active
philanthropy was one of the most persuasive methods of propaganda, and Jesus Christ
Himself preached the Gospel while He went about doing good. If sin is at the root
of misery, misery and error in turn produce fresh sin and shame. Therefore war must
be waged upon misery; but to win the day two things are essential—personal influence
from man to man, and the growth or genuine congregational life. Of the first of
these there is no need to speak at length. We all know that in the end it is only
personal love that really counts. Institutions and charitable organisations touch
but the fringe of the matter; only that which proceeds from the heart and addresses
itself to the heart is of real moment as weighed in the balance of eternity. In
helping one’s neighbour, one must set oneself neither above nor beneath him but
beside him. Brothers, not patrons, we are called to be; and in answering this call,
Christian charity finds its scope and proper work—a work the more necessary the more the relations between the classes
assume an impersonal form owing to the development in our midst of our modern economic
order.
With regard to the second point, it is certain that where there
are no close congregational ties, all effort remains isolated. We should therefore
be grateful to those who are now once more calling attention to the fact that ever
since the Reformation our Church has been called upon to build up real congregations,
and so to revive a vigorous corporate life. The following objection is often heard: “It is too late for that now; organisation of that sort is no longer possible; neither is it compatible with the bureaucratic constitution of our Church, nor
yet can living congregations be formed from the kind of Christianity professed by the masses and the State.” To be sure such a task is hard
enough, but we need not yet despair of its fulfilment. if we really had to abandon
it, I do not know where we could turn for help, for the service of the congregation is one that no public institutions can perform, and for which neither their social work nor their coercive
measures are any adequate substitute. We have much to be thankful for in the survival
of the congregation, even in a defective form; and it would be a fatal error to despise
what remains to us, and search for other ideals of organisation. As every one knows
and feels, these Congregations are in their original intention communities in which
all distinctions of high and low, rich and poor, are swept away, and class differences
count for nothing; in fact, just such institutions as we have special need of at
the present time. Therefore we must do all in our power to build them up, and give
them life, and then patiently wait to see whether their existence will not lead to the gradual transformation or abandonment
of State-government in our ecclesiastical polity. Next to the preaching of the Gospel,
the reconstruction of congregational life is the chief evangelical-social task now
before the Church. The pusillanimous, who regard with despair the fulfilment of
this task, on the ground that existing conditions would never allow of such an organisation,
would do well to consider the example set by the Social-Democratic movement. It
has succeeded in creating and maintaining, among a migratory population, and in
face of obstacles of every kind, an organisation closely knit, operative alike in
the cities and the provinces, both national and international. Why could we not do the like? Because, it will be
said, that movement is essentially concerned with one class, and with a common interest
serving as a link between its members. But have not we, too, a common interest,
and have not we a message which unites the different classes in a spiritual union? If our congregations neither are nor become what they ought to be, it is not the
fault of circumstances, but of lack of faith and love.
It is, indeed, certain that we can no longer draw people into
congregations whose sole end is Divine Service, and that such congregations are
necessarily without real efficacy. But the early Church furnishes a pattern of what
true congregational life should be, and the lines along which charitable work in
the Church has developed during the last century point in the same direction. It
is no empty dream that, in the history of Christianity, there have been congregations—capable
of supervision, well ordered, bound together by close ties—in which, next to divine
service, active charity was the central point—in which, rather, service to God and
active charity were merged in one. And dare we say that for us that is unattainable? Nay, rather we must keep it clearly before us, as the goal towards which we constantly
aspire. For this reason all great works of Christian charity must not only
be fostered and extended, but also made more and more congregational in their organisation.
Where one congregation is too small to do by itself all that is required, several
must join together so as to form eventually a strong local association. The
church-building must also be an assembly-hall for the community, or, better still,
there must be an assembly-hall in addition to the church, and people should meet
together, not only to hear sermons, but also to take counsel about benevolent work
of every sort. A true Christian sense of honour must be aroused, allowing none to
call himself a Christian unless he is ready to come forward in person to minister
to the distressed and. help the needy; and, besides this, there should be professional
trained deacons and deaconesses at work in every parish. Not one of the destitute
should any longer be able to say that nobody cares for him. The present age is one
that delights in Utopias—dangerous toys with which it is only too ready to play.
This idea is not Utopian, but can be realised. Upon its realisation, and the consequent
triumph over indolence, avarice, and selfish love of ease, depends, not indeed the
actual existence of our Church—for it has many supports, and might possibly hold out for a very long time—but
at all events the existence of a really evangelical Christianity, and the claim
of our Church to appeal to the hearts of the people.
At the same time, our opponents are right in saying that the
formation of such congregations is a task demanding time, and that the present conditions
of public life necessitate action of another and more immediate kind. Can and should
the Church—I am referring to the organised Church—do anything more than preach the
Gospel, and revive congregational life? This is a most important question, and
we have to answer it. Some—and the majority —reply most decidedly in the negative,
and they explain their reason for doing so in very different ways. Others answer
it in the affirmative, but generally not without qualification; or else they evade
it by the reply that, whatever the Church may do or leave undone, individual Christians
are bound to carry the Gospel into public life and bring it to bear upon current
conditions.
We need not here discuss the duties of individuals, but there
seems to me to be no question that since our Church still holds a great and influential
place in the State, and in the life of the nation, it is bound to make use of this position
for the advancement of evangelical social ideals, and accordingly to seek the most
opportune ways of making its voice heard. Otherwise it will always be suspected
of being merely an accommodating tool in the hands of an “Aristocratic Government,”
and will incur the blame of allowing an ever-widening breach to divide Christian
ideals from the social ordinances of public life. Even in the days when it was numerically
weak, the early Church raised its voice against abuses in the State. We saw that the Church of the Empire, as it became
after the reign of Constantine, was faithful to its obligations, and exerted its
influence to bring about the suppression of moral evils. In the Middle Ages, too, the Popes opposed tyranny and violence, as well as open immorality, and they do not to this day forego
their claim to pronounce judgment upon important ethical and social questions. It
is, indeed, on this very point, that the difference is so marked between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism. To the former the “Church” means simply the hierarchical institution, with
which, consequently, all responsibility rests, whereas, according to Protestantism,
the spirit of Christianity is not confined to any organised ecclesiastical body, but is to be found also
in the mundane pursuits and ordinances of Christendom. Therefore Protestants believe
that if the Government or other secular authority exercises its power rightly, it
will be at one with the ethical ideals of Christianity, and accordingly, the ordering
of temporal affairs may safely be left in its hands. But this in no way debars the
Church from raising its voice in protest against moral and social evils, and from
influencing both public opinion and the conduct of matters of national interest.
It becomes, indeed, its duty so to do, if the State shows itself negligent or callous.
Within the last thirty years our churches have become better able to express their
opinions. But to what purpose have they this voice—in congregational representation,
district, provincial and general synods, ecclesiastical courts and high consistories—if
not to testify in the parish, in the city, in the province, in the whole country,
on questions of moral and social welfare, and to declare: “This is right; that
is wrong”? Are they to deal only with church rates, church formularies, and unimportant
details? This may satisfy people for a time, but in the long run it will prove
intolerable, and must soon excite feelings of pity or worse towards the organisation of the Church as a whole; for
its vast apparatus has a right to exist only if it renders real service to the whole
body—not by words, but by evangelical-social work, work in which every order must
perform its own share.
But the more stress is laid upon this, the more need there is
to define the limits within which the Church must confine its activity—bounds that
do not include economic questions. It has nothing to do with such practical questions
of social-economics as the nationalisation of private property arid enterprise,
land-tenure reforms, restriction of the legal hours of work, price-regulations,
taxation, and insurance; for in order to settle these matters, such technical knowledge
is required as is altogether outside the province of the Church, and if it were
to meddle with them at all it would be led into a secularisation of the worst description.
But it is its duty to interfere in public conditions wherever it finds that serious
moral evils are being tolerated. Can it be right for the Church, as it were, to
shrug its shoulders and pass prostitution by in silence, as the priest did the man
who had fallen among thieves? Is it enough to collect money for penitentiaries,
leaving it to particular Christian associations to fight against the evil? Is the Church not bound to set its
face against duelling? Dare it, again, keep silence when it sees a state of things
destructive of the sanctity of marriage, and of family life, and devoid of the most
elementary conditions of morality? Dare it look calmly on while the weak are trodden under foot, and none lends
a helping hand to people in distress? Dare it hear, without rebuking it, language
which, in the name of Christianity, destroys the peace of the land and sows scorn and hatred broadcast? Is it really only a bureaucratic institution, or is it not its duty, as an established
Church, to preserve peace, both civil and international, to draw together rich and
poor, and to help to break down mischievous class-prejudices? There will, it is
true, be found plenty to reply that the Church has enough to do if it preaches the word of God and administers the
sacraments. But the same answer was made to the demand that it should undertake
foreign and home missions. To that suggestion, too, the Church at first was deaf,
asserting that such an undertaking formed no part of its office; but it has since
come to see that by not attending to these matters it is neglecting its duties.
There would at first sight seem to be more weight in the objection that the representatives
of the Church have no power to enforce their decisions on questions such as those
I have mentioned; and that, owing to the peculiar composition of ecclesiastical gatherings,
there is a risk of proposals being put forward without regard to their practicability,
and therefore coming to nothing, as well as of meddling and interference in matters
with which the Church has no concern. Such apprehensions are not unfounded, but
the anticipation of mistakes in carrying it out is no adequate reason for opposing
a course of action in itself necessary and good. Church assemblies will learn to
measure their strength and to recognise their field of work only by practice in
that work; and the well-defined arid special relation in which the German Evangelical
Churches stand to the State is sufficient guarantee against too ambitious schemes.
I have so far tried to indicate the social mission of the Church,
but, besides this, there are many important tasks which Christians cannot regard
with indifference, although their accomplishment lies outside the actual scope of
the Church. Purely economic questions must admittedly be estimated and decided only
from an economic standpoint; but there are many which affect vitally the moral
conditions of the people. Therefore the Church must not obstruct the
discussion of such questions amongst its members—as, for instance, at these Evangelical-Social
Congresses—for it is to the interest of the whole Church that warmhearted, clear-sighted
Christians should so study the subject as to be able to distinguish those efforts
at reform which are full of promise for the future from such as are merely visionary,
and to point out the nature and extent of their connection with moral questions.
They should be ready to make sacrifices for social progress on sound lines. It cannot,
indeed, be denied that the whole history of the Church shows that when warm-hearted
Christians take up economic questions, they tend to favour radical projects. For
their demands bearing on political economy they are wont to claim the support of
the Gospel, and they endeavour to construct from it a socialistic programme. It
must be admitted that we are even now threatened by this danger. Even Protestantism
is not free from the danger that some day a second Arnold of Brescia may appear
in its midst, Patarenes again arise, and clerical students of political economy
attempt, in the name of the Gospel, to prescribe to others, as with legal force,
the attitude which, if they are to retain the name of Christians, they must assume
towards social questions. There is certainly an element of danger in that coquetting
with the Social-democratic movement which may already be noticed in certain quarters.
As long as the leaders and journals of that party inculcate a life devoid of religion,
of duties, of sacrifice and of resignation, what can we have in common with their
conception of life as a whole? It is, again, a more than questionable procedure
to prejudge and condemn “the rich” and whole classes of the nation, and dream
that it will be possible by beginning at the bottom to construct by degrees an entirely
new Christian commonwealth. As yet, indeed, these are only fragmentary and passing
indications of what might happen in the future. There is as yet no one among us
who does not believe that only such claims ought to be put before any individual
in the name of the Gospel as are addressed to his conscience, his free choice and
his love; and it is still clearly felt that the Gospel is concerned with supplying other than temporal needs; but things have their own logic, and those who have sown
the wind will reap the whirlwind.
This warning is, however, not intended to dissuade either evangelical Christians as such, or clergy and
theologians generally, from occupying themselves with economic and social questions,
and forming their own opinions upon them. On the contrary, Christianity ought to
stand aloof from no common experience of life and the world, and it should he open
to the consideration of all great questions. Thus for centuries its connection was
of the closest with philosophy, and especially with metaphysics, in which all the
intellectual life of the time was summed up. No one was then an educated Christian
who was not also a philosopher. In like manner, history and social questions occupy
a prominent place in the intellectual life of to-day, and those who wish to participate
in this life cannot afford to neglect them.
But, above all, it is the want and misery of our fellow countrymen
that act like a goad, urging us on to study and investigate the construction of
the social organism, to examine which of its ills are inevitable, and which may
be remedied by a spirit of self-sacrifice and energy. The magnitude and importance
of this task make everything else that we have to do on and for this earth seem
small. How can we as Christians leave this work undone, and how, if, through our selfishness, indolence and sloth, our
position becomes ever more difficult and critical, can we be surprised when we
find ourselves overwhelmed with radical proposals from those who think
differently from ourselves?
A few words in conclusion. The signs of the times seem to point
to further development of the socialistic principle of State administration of public
and economic affairs. There are many who hail this tendency with unmixed delight,
but I cannot number myself unreservedly among them. We have certainly reason to
rejoice when sources of poverty and want are stopped, and misery is obviated. But
we must not forget that every fresh regulation of this kind acts also as a check
upon free development, and so compels us to devise new ways and means whereby conditions
necessary for the training of free and independent personalities may be maintained.
If it were all to end in legalised slavery; if, hemmed in from childhood by coercive
measures, we were to lose all individual character, what a disaster that would be!
Three great tasks have been committed to our charge, as duties
not only towards ourselves, but towards future generations. These are the defence
of the Evangelical Faith, the prevention, as far as in us lies, of distress among
our fellow men, and the encouragement of education and culture. In the heat of economic
conflict, and amidst rival schemes for allaying it, the last of these is apt to
be forgotten; and yet moral and economic ruin would follow speedily upon the decline
of culture. But the successful pursuit of education depends upon certain fixed conditions,
which cannot be changed in an arbitrary manner, and by which, therefore, the nature
and scope of all social and economic work must in part be determined.
Education can no more be brought within the bounds of one unbending
system than Truth, from which it draws its breath, can he reduced to one dead level.
But the Evangelical Church would be false to its own nature were it to renounce
its alliance with truth and education, no longer making it its aim to train up free
and independent Christians. This too is a great evangelical social work, and we
have good reason to attend to it, since powers hostile to education stand in strong
array against us.
Evangelical Faith, a heart sensitive to the wants of others,
and a mind open to truth and
the treasures of the intellect—these are the powers on which
our Church and nation rest. If we are but true to them, we shall realise more
and more the truth of the promise expressed in your brave hymn of faith:
“Now is there peace unceasing;
All strife is at an end.”
THE MORAL AND SOCIAL
SIGNIFICANCE OF MODERN
EDUCATION
This paper was read on May 22, 1902, at the Evangelical Social
Congress held at Dortmund, and has been published in Adolf Harnack’s “Addresses
and Essays,” vol. ii., Giessen, 1904.
CHAPTER V
THE PURSUIT OF EDUCATION
THE Evangelical Social Congress has imposed upon itself the task
of critically investigating all those great movements of the present day which affect
moral and social life, whether by acting as a stimulus or as a check, whether by
constructiveness or reconstructiveness. Its purpose is to examine their nature,
their worth, and to discover the spirit which ought to animate them. There is no
doubt that the modern pursuit of education is one of the most prominent social features
of our time. But at no period is it possible for one who wishes to study the general
conditions of a nation to overlook its educational position; he must determine
the standard this has reached, the strength of the interests bound up with education,
and the measure of sacrifice made for it. Now in our day these questions are twice
as important as they were; for the most cursory glance is enough to show how immensely
the pursuit of education has increased. The contrast is so great
between the present and the past—even between now and thirty years ago—that the
pursuit of a wider and deeper education may positively be said to be an essential
characteristic of the present epoch. My task would be well-nigh endless were I to
attempt to describe to you all the institutions which this pursuit of education
has produced, and in which it manifests itself everywhere. I shall therefore only
remind you of a few facts with which you are all familiar.
Let us take, for example, one of the larger German towns. We
shall find there many much-frequented public libraries; we shall find, besides
technical schools, voluntary and compulsory continuation-schools of every kind.
Lectures in every department of knowledge are delivered to every class of audience,
and are enlivened and illustrated by experiments and pictures of such excellence
as to throw light on the most obscure points and bring the most distant objects
near to people. Where there is a university or other adequate means of instruction, we hear of special courses being held in connection
with it, in which particular subjects or the elements of the various sciences—their
methods as well as their results—are brought within the reach of those who have riot had the advantage
of an advanced education at school. By the universities again holiday- and continuation-courses
are organised, and by their means those who left the university years ago become
acquainted with the latest discoveries of science. Then there are courses of applied
science; classes to promote first aid to the injured and care of the sick; instruction in the new code of civil law; series of lectures
on social and political subjects and on the theory of education; discussions, or
continuous courses of instruction, on fundamental questions of ethics or religion.
Not only that, but posters call attention to cheap dramatic performances of the
masterpieces of our poets, or to concerts for the people: Bach and Handel may be heard in church, or Beethoven and Wagner in public halls. Not only is there free
admittance to museums, but provision is made for expert explanation of the collections
and works of art contained in them. Even late in the evening, and right on into
the night, there is no pause in the work of supplementing and extending the education
of those who could not obtain thorough schooling in their youth; or of instructing
aspiring artisans in the underlying principles, the interconnection, and the development of their particular trades. Not
only elementary manuals and school-books, but also the best literary works of every
civilised nation, are sold at the lowest possible prices; so that any one who knows
how to go to work can for ten shillings procure a valuable library for which, only
a generation ago, he would have had to pay ten times as much. In the country, too,
a new scheme has recently been initiated, and professional agriculturists are being
sent to give instruction in farming, fruit-growing, and other rural occupations.
In every direction it is clear that that education which in former days only fell
by chance to the lot of the few, or was the hard-won prize of the zealous and self-denying
student, is now being systematised and made easily accessible to all. Finally, mention
must be made of the great quantity of educational matter which finds its way into
practically every house through the Press, either in the form of political newspapers
or of special journals. Every industry, each handicraft, every branch of manufacture,
has its own publication. These contain detailed information about all improvements
in the special line of business with which they deal, and they are edited by men
who, apart from their very exact knowledge of that particular trade, are well acquainted
with the economic dependence of their industry upon other industries, and with the
statistics of the produce market and of commerce—in short, by men who possess knowledge
of a very extensive and varied character. The Waiters’ Journal, for example,
recently came in my way, and showed me with what serious purpose and care such a
paper is conducted, and how much advice and information its readers may gain from
it.
But in order to complete our review of the contrast between the
existing state of affairs and that of a generation ago, we must take particular
note of certain classes which are now taking a special part in the upward movement,
though at that time they were scarcely stirred by it. I refer to artisans and women.
The pursuit of education by these two classes is the really distinguishing
feature of the present epoch.
As far as the working classes are concerned, there are many of
them who put to shame all other social grades. Quite recently it was once more
authoritatively stated at Hamburg that the splendid courses of lectures which
have been organised there are mainly attended by the so-called “lower classes.”
Our interest and admiration cannot but be aroused by the zeal now shown by these “lower classes” or artisans,
who are ready to make sacrifices, for the sake not only of improving their material
condition, but also of raising themselves intellectually and taking a part in the
progressive world of thought. This does not mean that they are free from the desire
to satisfy as soon as possible some passing need; nevertheless it is undoubtedly
knowledge itself for which they are striving. They have a burning longing, a hunger
and thirst for real knowledge—for a scientific view of the world. Even if their
ideas as to what knowledge can achieve are often extravagant and visionary, even
if they under-estimate to an extraordinary degree the difficulties to be surmounted,
there is something impressive in their firm belief in the efficacy of knowledge,
and in its power to bring liberty, there is something touching in the light-heartedness
with which they set out on their pilgrimage to an unknown paradise.
But a yet greater movement—indeed I might almost say a more
fundamental and universal movement—is the pursuit of educacation by women. We read
in history of great nations being suddenly seized with the impulse to wander abroad,
leaving their homes to migrate to distant lands of bluer skies, more fruitful soil,
and keener sense of life; and this is the sort of phenomenon we are reminded of
when we come to consider the “Woman’s Movement” of the present time. But just
as those tribal migrations prove, on closer examination, to have been caused, not
by some vague inexplicable feeling, but by need, as well as by an instinctive love
of action, so in this case, too, the impulse is due to necessity as well as to an
urgent longing to get out of the narrow rut, and to a consciousness of strength.
There is not at the present day a single class of women which has not been stirred
by this impulse. Those who are in narrow pecuniary circumstances, and are obliged
to fight for their very existence, are by no means the only ones who join the ranks
of strenuous women; nay, those whose material position is perfectly secure enter
the lists also, and, from year to year, with every fresh influx of girls leaving
school, the movement increases, and grows in geometrical progression. They want
to have a share in all that the intellectual development of the present day has
to offer; they want to train and emancipate their minds, and to be the equals of
men as regards knowledge, education, independence. It is essentially a question of knowledge and of
learning, and they demand admittance wherever knowledge is imparted, and
privileges are conferred upon the basis of its acquisition. Jests about an army
of “bluestockings” or of “Amazons” long ago became out of place, and indeed,
are more and more rarely heard; for the movement has grown far too powerful for
derision, and become so closely bound up with the inmost being of womankind that
it is now rightly spoken of as the “Woman’s Movement.”
Before I conclude this brief survey, you must allow me to glance
cursorily at the attitude of the State towards the whole movement. Since in Germany
the State has almost, if not altogether, the monopoly of instruction and education,
it follows that its line of action in this matter is of the utmost importance.
It may be generally affirmed that in most directions the State
meets the new educational movement with sympathy, wisdom and active help. It is
due to it that many of the above-mentioned institutions for the promotion of learning
have been established; it contributes to the support of others, having approved
of their foundation. It is fitting that it should not be too ready to take the initiative,
but should prefer to leave it to associations, municipal bodies,
or private individuals to originate and execute new ideas, and so long as it does
not repress healthy movements, no harm is done when it resists ill-considered haste,
and, generally speaking, checks rather than urges on the pace. In its own special
province, that of elementary education, it has just introduced an important and
most satisfactory improvement. The new regulations for the course of instruction
at Teachers’ Training Colleges are excellent and altogether praiseworthy. The two
following rules in particular now determine the arrangement of the whole curriculum: first, that a gradually progressive course should be pursued from the lowest to
the highest class, so that, in place of wearisome and spiritless repetition, and
monotonous drill in the same task, genuine educational advance may be made; secondly,
that in the upper grades interest should be aroused in the principal achievements
of those branches of knowledge with which the teachers are most nearly concerned,
as well as in the methods and objects of science and learning generally. Both these
ideas are in accordance with wishes long felt by teachers themselves, and it may
confidently be expected that the banishment of the old routine will lead
to the gradual disappearance of the abuses which were so closely associated with
it, and that the new arrangements will produce as great an improvement in the elementary
schools as in the Training Colleges. The State is also determined, in common with
those who wish to promote healthy progress, that no false or obsolete knowledge
shall be imparted, but that the idea of duty and right shall be instilled into all
citizens; where this principle is concerned, elementary schools can and shall make
no exceptions.
CHAPTER VI
MEANING AND VALUE OF EDUCATION
THIS review shows that we are justified in speaking of a modern
educational movement, and in regarding it as a distinctive feature of our age. The
real question, however, with which we are concerned is that of the ethical and social
value of this pursuit of education. But before investigating this, it is necessary
to form a clear idea of the essential meaning of education generally, and of the
particular character of modern education. We are not now dealing with what is called
“Civilisation.” Education and civilisation are, of course, very closely connected; but we are accustomed, and rightly so, to regard civilisation as something external,
which may be enjoyed even by those who are little influenced by real culture. We
are here concerned with culture.
There are countless definitions of education, and their multiplicity
proves how many-sided education is, and from how many aspects it may be regarded. If, in the first place, we consider man with
reference to his innate capacities, education will mean the full development of
all his latent powers; by education a man will be enabled to become what he really
is, or rather, what he has it in him to be. In this view, the highest aim of education
is the complete unfolding of a person’s individuality, and, as a result of such
self-realisation, an attitude of freedom towards the external world—a return, as
it were, to such freedom and simplicity as is the surest token of a self-determined personality:
“He stands undaunted at the helm:
The ship is tossed by wind and waves,
But wind and waves shake
not his heart.”
If, in the next place, we consider man in his relations towards that Nature of which he is a part, education will be seen to have a two-fold function to perform.
On the one hand, it will be a weapon of defence against Nature, a protection against
her threat of overwhelming force; so far as possible, it will master Nature, gaining
possession of her secrets by cunning and skill, in order to subjugate her and make
her a willing servant. On the other hand, it is the office of education to lead,
by knowledge of Nature, to reconciliation with her; to disclose the intimate connection between all things
that have life; and to knit yet closer every healthy bond by which they are already
connected. From this standpoint, again, the. highest aim in view is power and liberty.
If, again, we consider man in the light of history, and as a
member of the human race, then education will be that which renders a man capable
of gathering up with sympathetic understanding all that is human, and of reflecting
it again in his own person, which keeps him open-hearted and open-minded, giving
him the key to the innermost soul of others, and which makes his intellect and his
emotions delicately responsive organs, able to see and hear in regions where the
senses are of no avail. Through education he will feel himself at home in many places,
and yet will shut himself up in none; he will learn how to shape his own life steadfastly
and worthily amidst change and instability, how to make it dignified amidst monotony
and triviality, how to gain self-control and patience in face of human littleness,
and how to maintain an attitude of reverence towards all that is human and divine.
Lastly, if we think of education in the narrowest sense, in its
bearing on the special calling of each individual, then it may be defined as the sum
of all that knowledge and skill which are necessary if the duties of our calling
are to be discharged with thoroughness, freedom, and ease. Thus in this case, again,
freedom is the final result: it is built up in the exercise of one’s profession,
and is the reward of those who, instead of being weighed down by the burden of their
daily work, so use their knowledge and power that the exercise of them becomes second
nature. This education in the narrower sense of the word, technical or professional
education, must never be underrated; particular training is the normal starting-point
for general education, and without the former the latter is difficult, if not impossible,
to attain.
Some among you have very likely smiled at my enthusiastic panegyric
on education, or have even felt annoyed. You have thought of the kind of man dubbed
“educational pedant,” and of all that has been justly said about him. But those
who believe in education as I have tried to define it, will be among the strongest
opponents of such sham educationists. For the pedant is to the educated man what
Wagner is to “Faust,” or what a lay figure is to a living one—a thing that has
no life save in its own conceit! The pedant is devoid alike of toleration and of patience,
of freedom and of reverence, of personality and of love; the fruits of knowledge
all vanish in his hand, and he holds but husks, which he takes to be the inmost
essence of real things.
But, besides these, there have appeared from time to time genuine
and serious anti-educationists—no ignorant barbarians, but educated men, who yet
oppose education. The attitude is obviously paradoxical, and such that the fallacy
might almost be left to perish through its own inconsistency. There have been, and,
indeed, still are, highly-educated Romanticists who, having failed to reap all the
benefits they had expected to receive from great culture, turn and abuse education,
contrasting it unfavourably with Nature, or Life, or something else utterly indefinable.
That is no new thing; the eighteenth century had its Rousseau, and we have still
our petty but not uninfluential Rousseaus. When they are not opposing education
in order to commend a life of impulse, or in order to shake themselves free from
all concern for their fellow men, and from all responsibility for the course of
human affairs, what they attack is not really education as such, but a false, narrow,
corrupt view of education. This was notably the case with Rousseau; therefore our
thanks are due to him, and on many points we are at one with him. But we cannot
acquiesce when he simply extols Nature at the expense of Education. If there is
here no delusory playing with words, and if no extraneous idea is imported into
the term Nature, we cannot subscribe to his formula, “Back to Nature.” We ought
certainly to be sincere, unaffected, without hypocrisy, and we ought not to let
ourselves be captivated by anything that is at variance with our truest being;
but Nature cannot be our teacher on all points, for she lacks two elements which
to us are absolutely indispensable, that is to say, self-determining personality
and goodness. These are not to be learned from Nature, but are found only in life
as revealed in history.
But finally, there are yet others—and that among the ranks of
our friends—in whom unqualified praise of education arouses mistrust. There are
earnest Christians who warn us against esteeming education too highly, and insist
at the same time that it can never be of more than limited value. Their position
is easy to understand, for, in the first place, in all that concerns the higher
life, a sure and confident knowledge of one’s aim and ideal is of such paramount importance that it can compensate for many shortcomings,
so that a truly religious man will always be an educated man, though he may happen
to possess little “culture.” In the second place, education of any reality and
depth can only be the outcome of painful conflict and hard struggle; toil and effort
are required to win it and to guard it. Now, since this truth is often forgotten
by superficial thinkers, who confuse education with mere erudition; and since they
further overlook the fact that education matures but slowly, and involves a lengthy
process of gradual growth, or of being educated, with many successive stages, the
suspicion with which some earnest people regard our watchword “Education” is well
justified. But education itself is not to blame for the superficial and inadequate
ideas current about it; therefore every word uttered against it should be carefully
weighed. Moreover, it is hardly wise to pass disparaging judgments on education,
because religion confers such great blessings. Certainly the want of education is
least felt where there is a genuine religious life, so complete in itself as to
be capable of transfiguring the whole personality. But if an individual possesses
this inner light, and has little education, he is restricted in his outer activities by very definite
limitations; while certain specific vocations may be open to him, he is excluded
from most, and he must leave to others the work of improving and preserving this
world of ours. The fact remains, then, that the only opponents of education are
those who are ignorant of its nature, or, at least, mistaken with regard to it—while
those who declaim against it usually find themselves in the curiously inconsistent
position of thinking in its terms and speaking its language. And even though it
may be true that wherever education is decried, we have an indication that there
is something unsound or corrupt in the prevailing educational movement, it is utter
folly or audacity to wage war against education as such, or to represent it as a
matter of no importance. To combat education by any means, or in any kind of utterance,
witty or otherwise, with the object of making it appear contemptible or superfluous
in the eyes of the people, is to incur the heavy responsibility of confusing and outraging all sound beliefs. From this point of view I regard as very questionable
the influence of even Tolstoi’s writings, and can only find sorry consolation in
the thought that most of his readers remain unaffected by them, except to the extent of
feeling a passing emotion. On the whole, indeed, we may venture to predict that
neither these nor any other attempts at repression can check that mighty, urgent
impulse towards education which is working in our midst. The movement is stronger
and more full of life than ever before; and naturally so, since it is only in our
days that the whole world has for the first time become as it were one single arena.
Modern facilities of communication have broken down all barriers, and at the present
day countless kaleidoscopic impressions assail our senses on every side. The light
of publicity flashes upon everything; nothing is hid from the eyes of the world.
Competition, in every sense of the word, is the ruling principle everywhere, and
in any one question endless others are involved. An uneducated man is utterly helpless
in face of such a state of affairs, and there will soon be no quiet corner left,
in which he may take refuge. His only arm of defence is education, and in this fact
lies the prime cause of the educational movement of to-day.
CHAPTER VII
MAIN FEATURES OF MODERN EDUCATION
LET us now consider the principal direction in which this educational
movement manifests itself; for although all education is fundamentally one, from
time to time various aspects come to the fore and preponderate. In my opinion, the
following stand out clearly as the principal features in our present pursuit of
education. First, it shows a hearty preference for such knowledge as is intrinsically
real; secondly, its most serious aim is to gain independence, economic and personal; and thirdly, it reveals a longing for a keener sense of life and a desire to obtain
a fuller share in life, in one’s relations both to the outer world and to the inner
self.
I have said that the new educational movement discloses, in the
first place, a strong preference for real knowledge, or, as it might with equal
truth be expressed, for a knowledge of the real. To provide this is the object of
most of the above-mentioned institutions and enterprises. It is a
pleasure to genuine scholars to observe the unfeigned eagerness and zeal with which
the pursuit of scientific knowledge is carried on to-day. Fine words and interesting
tales no longer suffice; men want to know the world of reality, and to study the
progress made by knowledge; that is why single lectures on popular science are
being abandoned more and more in favour of consecutive courses of instruction. There
is increased interest in the history of the discovery and recognition of reality
and truth; or, at any rate, an earnest desire to see facts as they are, and to
guard against deceptive appearances. But the most notable point of all is the manner
in which the two leading ideas of modern science have spread in all directions,
and have already become the test by which to measure the validity of knowledge generally—the
theory, that is, of the conservation and transmutation of energy, and the doctrine
of evolution. We rejoice that this is the case, and it is a mistake to imagine that
it is a step which can ever be retraced. The perception that every special form
of energy is an integrant part of a general system, in and through which alone it
exists, and that any individual phenomenon possesses reality only as
a link in an evolutionary series, is such a revelation as, once perceived, can never
again be lost sight of; for through it we are enabled to discern and to comprehend
as much of the world around us as it is given to us to know. In this sense the characteristic
of our times may justly be said to be the pursuit of realism, and the description
is one that we can use gladly, not reproachfully. We rejoice to live in an age in
which, in spite of ever-abundant stupidity and superstition, there is such an overpowering
impulse towards reality. Honesty and sincerity are at the bottom of it—honest work
and sincere endeavour—and I do not hesitate to ascribe to this tendency a high ethical
significance. We shall duly examine its limitations, but at any rate those who strive
with a single mind to gain a knowledge of the real are, in so doing, showing moral
activity, and those who, for the same object, make sacrifice of strength and of
means, are making these sacrifices for a moral end.
We saw, in the second place, that this educational movement
reveals a fixed intention to gain, by means of education, an independence, both
general and economic. What is it that urges crowds of workmen, full of zeal for education, to devote
their scanty leisure to technical training and to the further cultivation of their
minds? Not merely the yearning for knowledge as such, but also the keen desire
to improve their condition, and to win for themselves a more secure position in
the labour market by means of increased intelligence and skill. What, again, is
one of the principal causes of the great Woman’s movement, to which I have alluded? Here, too, it is the desire for independence, the wish of each one to be self-supporting,
and, by means of a fixed occupation, to win for herself a definite and secure
place in the world. This is an altogether praiseworthy aim, and may indeed be regarded
as an ethical tendency in the strictest sense of the word. A human being, man or
woman alike, who has no vocation and no definite sphere is a useless person. One’s
calling is the backbone of one’s life, and that which lends it stability; without
a settled sphere of duty arid the consciousness of filling a place where one is
really required, no life can be healthy. Now, since there are very many girls to
whose lot matrimony will never fall, and since domestic work has diminished enormously
in quantity as compared with former days, it follows that women must seek for other vocations, and be admitted to them.
Nay, one must go further yet, and agree with those who say that no girl ought to
be brought up with a view to marriage only, and solely as a future helpmeet for
man, but ought rather to be so educated as to be qualified for the duties of some
suitable calling. This is a perfectly just demand, not only because the eventuality
of marriage is always uncertain, not only because of the importance of improving
the pitiable position of countless widows, whose poverty and dependence were formerly regarded as their inevitable destiny,
but also because the stage of development we have reached requires that every normal
citizen should be able to fend for him or herself, and should look upon independence
as both a duty and a right. In other times these matters were regarded differently,
but a new epoch has arisen—an epoch to which we are proud to belong. Further results
that may be looked for from this dawning movement of reform are the raising of the
moral standard of the female sex where this is required, and an ethical improvement
in the relations of the two sexes towards each other. It is true that the movement
is not free from its own new and peculiar dangers, of which we must speak later; nothing human is without its darker side; but there can scarcely be any doubt that some of the blackest shadows which disfigure
the whole circumstances and lot of women can be swept away, or at any rate lessened,
by the growth of economic independence among them. It is impossible, for example,
that prostitution, either in its coarser or more refined form, should continue to
its present extent if the education of women is made to include preparation for
definite callings. Then this new order of affairs must necessarily re-act upon men
also, and on this point I heartily agree with Mr. Wychgram, one of the most ardent
promoters of the woman’s movement, who writes as follows in the opening article
of his new periodical, “Women’s Education”: “The furtherance of women’s education
will, if it is conducted on sound principles and by right means, prove a blessing
both to women themselves and to society generally. For there are two chief considerations: by better training of the feminine intellect we are, in the first place, raising
the general position of the sex; and, by doing this, we believe that we are, in
the second place, enriching our whole life of culture, by importing into it a new,
valuable and reproductive element. To womankind we are giving a higher and
nobler independence—a word that can and must be understood in a double sense,
ethical and economic. It is true in an ethical sense, because, whatever may be
said to the contrary, it is the highest possible development of his mental
powers that best fits the man of to-day to take a serious view of life and its
duties, and because, in the case of every thoughtful nature, such a grasp of
life becomes in turn an inexhaustible source of happiness. In the economic
sense, independence raises us above that sad plight in which we are obliged to
live by other’s toil, and are unable ourselves to produce any work of value to
others. This touches upon questions of the deepest import, and if no thinking
man can doubt that happiness consists in work—rightly undertaken, executed, and
remunerated—then we must enable women to perform such work.”
We observed, in the third place, that there is manifested in
this movement a yearning for a greater sense of life, and for a fuller share in life in all its relations. But this is a matter by no means easy to understand aright. It is not a craving for
mere pleasure that I mean, although that, too, might to some extent be justified,
and it is very easy for those to scorn it who can easily procure for themselves hundreds of pleasures
unattainable by the objects of their righteous indignation. Nor do I mean the latest
romantic fancy for frenzied and artificial excitement of the senses; such a practice
is the very opposite of true education, and absolutely inimical to it. What I do
mean is the endeavour to escape from the dull monotony which is all that life itself
still offers to thousands, and to enrich and invigorate existence by widening the
range. This purpose has now become a mighty force, animating many who feel
that the mere alternation of night and day is not sufficient to keep a man’s faculties
healthy, but that he further requires change during the day, and that he can only
remain vigorous and alert if he can look beyond his immediate occupation, and share
in the general happiness of humanity. But if this wider life of his is to extend
beyond the crudest pleasures, he cannot dispense with a certain amount of progressive
education, and that which will bind him to others who have similar aims, for in
this matter none ever attains his end in isolation. This truth is felt by the aspirants
themselves, for it is by no mere chance or coincidence that the movements for social
and educational reform work together hand in hand to bring about the enrichment of life. From the ethical
and Christian point of view it is impossible to find fault with this struggle, for
in view of the fact that every life is considered to have an eternal significance,
the end of life is Life itself.
I have tried to indicate the most important and distinctive features
of the educational movement of the present day. In the process its ethical and social
value have revealed themselves in every direction, without being in any way obtruded
by me, and apart from any mention of particular effects. And indeed, numerous as
these are, it is not in them that the prime import of the movement consists. I may,
for example, point out the beneficial effect that improved education will have upon
the question of the housing of the poor—that most urgent problem of social life.
Since we may reasonably regard the condition of the home as a fairly exact measure
of the education of those who live in it, and since we everywhere observe that higher
education leads to a demand for better dwellings, it is obvious that in this point
domestic circumstances are affected by an intellectual impulse, and that this can
easily be proved. I may also call attention to the fact that higher education tends to promote social equality, and that by it the different
ranks and classes of a nation are drawn together, and learn to understand and sympathise
with each other. In this connection University Extension lectures are of special
value, and it is easy to perceive that underlying all such undertakings is a strong
social element, namely, that mutual recognition that makes for unity between the
classes. And lastly, I may observe, that educated men are, as a rule, prudent and
thoughtful; therefore extreme and eccentric opinions will give way to a growing
sense of the necessary limitations imposed by circumstances, and this again will
tend to the establishment of social peace. But, as I said before, any particular
effects must only be regarded as parts of the general result, which consists in
helping the individual by means of higher education to become a real personality,
and so to increase his social value also. We cannot see the goal that awaits a nation
united in peaceful work, in mutual recognition and in solicitude of class for class,
nor the final outcome of a “universal ethical alliance,” in which “all men bind
themselves in one, with all their strength, with heart and soul, intellect and affection;” for these, like all ideals, lie beyond our vision. But this at least is certain, that we are not turning our backs upon them,
but are in the right way to attain them, if we promote the educational movement
in every direction, and, in the midst of our anxiety for economic reform, never
cease to look for the ideal, which is after all the most truly real.
CHAPTER VIII
DANGERS OF MODERN EDUCATION
AT the same time we should be guilty of thoughtlessness and of
dangerous superficiality if we were content with merely emphasising the great value
of the educational movement of the present day from the ethical and social standpoint,
and with urging that for this reason it must be encouraged and made use of in every
possible way. Rather it is our duty to examine the objections which have been raised
against it, and to recognise the special dangers attaching to it; by so doing we
shall gain a clearer apprehension of its moral and social significance.
The first danger we have to encounter seems to be that of half-education.
Not only “reactionaries,” but even men who are anxious for social improvement and
in favour of healthy progress, are among those who view with suspicion the present
educational movement, and the institutions founded in connection with it. To these we readily confess that the special dangers
of half-education—vagueness, confusion, ridiculous conceit, and discontent—cannot
immediately be removed, and may, indeed, in existing circumstances, increase for
a time among a certain section. But to oppose the present educational movement and
try to repress it on that account, would be the most perverse course of action possible.
We cannot repress it, for it is far too strong; we should only force it back in
the direction of bad teaching and poor methods of instruction. One cannot hope to
combat the dangers of half-education by condemning people to no education at all,
but only by providing them with thorough education. The best men must offer themselves
for the work, and the best books must be written to facilitate it. While showing
to students the most important results of the sciences, it is essential at the same
time to arouse in them an interest in scientific methods, and a sense of the enormous
difficulty of attaining to positive knowledge in any department. This accomplished—and
it can be done—the main point is achieved, and the greatest risk of half-education
is averted. Certainly, none can soar aloft to the highest stage of scientific knowledge,
nor is there any royal road to learning; great thinkers will stand by themselves
to the end of time, and there will always be a kind of knowledge beyond the reach
of the general public. But there are grades of knowledge as of education, and it
is not true that clear and bracing air can be breathed only on the highest peak
of the mountain. The bad associations of the words “popular science”—once almost
equivalent to “pseudo-science”—need not always cling to them; indeed, I think
they have to some extent vanished. When half-truths and trivialities are excluded,
when reverence is awakened for truth itself and the investigation of it, and when
the particular kind of knowledge set before each individual is likely to be of real
use to him in his daily life, popular science is indeed good and true science.
This last condition brings us face to face with a second danger
in the present educational movement—that of indiscriminate levelling. This peril
appears to me to be very great, and most pernicious in its effects; it is, indeed, one of the principal causes of half-education at its worst, and would necessarily in the long run
prove destructive of all real knowledge. In every single direction its results are
fatal; its influence is anti-social, inasmuch as it destroys the firm foundations of society
and interferes with the free development of original and independent natures. By
“levelling,” I mean the endeavour to impose upon, or at least to prescribe for,
all alike an exactly identical education, and as far as possible a precisely similar
course of training, regardless of the distinctions of sex, individuality, or vocation.
The consequences of such an attempt may be seen in the downfall of ancient schools
of learning, but even we ourselves have seen something of these bad results, and
shall have to buy our experience more dearly yet. It is easy enough to understand
that, with the removal of various external barriers, the simplest plan might seem
to be to enforce upon all and sundry one dead level of uniformity. But this is a
notion based upon the most superficial and fatal idea of education—as if it were
something that could be bestowed upon people like an object altogether outside of
themselves, whereas in reality its possibility depends upon its association with
the natural characteristics and special vocation of every individual. Apart from
these it is mere surface lacquer—the nasty, sticky, shiny stuff that varnish is—or
rather, it is something much worse, a poison, capable of destroying vigour and health of mind and soul, and very often of body too.
In this respect, I cannot acquit the modern woman’s movement of grave errors in
various directions, although it is but just to begin by mentioning certain excuses
for them. Such are the hard struggle for daily bread and for bare existence, the
laudable ambition to gain economic independence; and further, the lack of thorough
qualifications, which hampers women’s work; and the competition with male labour,
which is too often forced upon them at the present day. I recognise the force of these excuses, but I can only regard
as a grievous mistake the widespread theory that, because woman is the equal of
man as regards human value, it straightway follows that the same course of instruction and the same occupations should be thrown open to her as to man. In some quarters there
is even an affectation of treating the question of sex, in its bearing on work and
civil standing generally, as altogether archaic and irrelevant; and where this
leads, as it sometimes does, to an attack upon marriage itself, it is nothing short
of social disintegration that we are threatened with. I retract nothing of all I
have already urged in justification of the woman’s movement; but I do not admit the conclusion that women’s education must be modelled exactly on the
lines selected for the education of men, or that society is in a healthy state when
women are competing with men in every sphere of action. Equality does not imply
absolute parity, and woman would still not be inferior to man, even if it should
be proved that her intellectual average is lower than his. To the eyes of all but
the wilfully blind, it has, in any case, long ago been clear that physically woman is less fitted than man for a number of occupations. The difficult task that lies before us is to determine
what professions are suitable for women, and to see that these are undertaken only
under such conditions as are adapted to the mental and physical organisation of
the sex. This task is but newly commenced, and until it is accomplished, there will be constant sacrifice of
valuable human lives. In the meantime all care must be taken to avoid any levelling
process, the injurious effects of which have already been exposed. Furthermore, although women must certainly not be brought up with a view solely to marriage and the care of a family,
that must still be the primary aim of their education. If it is objected that, in
the case of men, preparation for domestic life is not the first consideration, the objection
indicates at the outset a radically false view of the whole matter. This becomes
yet more apparent when we find the old question of the Middle Ages being dis-cussed once more, as to whether matrimony is in any case an estate
worthy of a free personality. It is not only by frivolous pleasure-seekers that this
question is raised, although the convictions of those who argue it are very far
removed from those which, in former days, resulted in monasticism. But all such
controversies appear to me to be merely symptoms of a temper both anti-social and
opposed to the teaching of the Gospel, and I find in them the very disagreeable
expression of a selfishness which is none the more creditable because it seeks to
ally itself with the pursuit of education. Although there is unfortunately a whole
literature on the subject already—a so-called “polite literature”—I purposely
pass over in silence these impious attempts to undermine the foundations of society
in this respect, and to throw open contempt upon marriage as an institution.
It is, however, not only in certain developments of the woman’s
movement and of the sex-problem that this tendency to unlimited and dangerous levelling appears; it may be observed in other
directions also. As a clear expression of the opposite aim, by which we ought rather
to be inspired, I will quote a piece of character-drawing from a wonderful speech
by Mommsen on the Emperor William I. He says: “The Emperor William was, as all
true men should be, a man with a profession. He completely mastered the duties belonging
to it, and, as his high calling as a soldier demanded, he spent his life in the
theory and practice of military science. There are not many who have as seriously
devoted the years of youth and manhood alike to the art of war as he did. Consequently
he was amateurish in nothing. He delighted in beauty, and was wont to follow with
enjoyment the discussion of learned questions.” This shows us the element that must
be introduced, if we are to counteract excessive uniformity. Special training, with
a view to individual vocation, must be offered in the first place, and must become
both the starting- and connecting-point for all further advance in knowledge, which
must henceforth grow round this in concentric, but ever-widening circles. Such a
method both avoids the dilettanteism resulting from attempts at absolute uniformity,
and at the same time succeeds in producing that true veneration for knowledge, which
tends more than anything to open the minds of those who possess it, and to make
people more modest.
But there is yet a third danger that must be faced; it arises
from the special character of the modern educational movement, with its eager endeavour
to attain knowledge of the real—an aspiration which may be productive of the greatest
good, but unless it is combined with strict moral training, will do harm. Goethe
once said of one of his friends that his ability and learning were greater than
his strength of character was able to bear; and in another connection we find the
profound saying: “Everything that sets free our intelligence without giving us
self-control, is fatal.” That is a terse and striking epitome of the matter; but
it is a heavy task that devolves upon educationists. We have to learn that, with
all our excellent institutions for the spread of learning and knowledge, we have
only accomplished half—nay, not half—of our mission. If we are unable to influence
the morals of those whom we are instructing, it is a dangerous work that we are
carrying on. All earnest search after truth and pursuit of knowledge does indeed
include a high moral element, but this requires to be brought to the light, and explicitly
shown to the learners. Above all, the personality of the teacher must be so armed
with the moral force of truth as to be able to exhibit it and impress it upon others; in every kind of teaching—in the higher grades no less than in the lower—the personality
of the teacher is of pre-eminent importance. We can learn all sorts of things from
books and by other impersonal means through which knowledge is transmitted, but
we can be educated only by educators—by personalities, whose own force and life
make a deep impression upon us. But who can deny that in this respect the work of
education at the present time leaves much to be desired? The pursuit of knowledge
so eagerly carried on among us now calls for a type of personality full of hope,
love, faith, moral power, more mature and possessing a deeper sense of life than
ever before. It calls for a personality which will enable every pupil to see
that all true education—or formation of character—is transformation, painful in
process, but resulting in freedom; something old must perish, something new must
come into being and wax strong!
Very closely connected with this is another point which goes to the root of the
matter: all true education starts from a complete and definite theory of existence,
and it is only valuable in so far as it enables men to see life steadily and see
it whole. Yet such a comprehensive view of the world cannot be other than idealistic; that is to say, it must be rooted in the conviction that personal life and moral
consciousness are worth more and rank higher than any mere life of nature, and that,
as it is in God that we live and move and have our being, we are accountable to
Him. But are the intellectual leaders of our nation of the present day animated
by such a conception of the universe—that is to say, by a faith that is sure of
itself? Who dare affirm it? Since the Enlightenment movement came to an end at
the beginning of the nineteenth century, we have had no one consistent, elevating,
and ennobling theory of life. Neither the subsequent revival of religious belief
nor the great idealistic systems of philosophy have succeeded in giving our people
such an outlook on the world. This state of affairs, which has lasted so long already,
this lack of faith and diversity of beliefs, is most prejudicial to all healthy
progress to-day; it is the cause of our weakness in every direction, including
our ineffectiveness in face of the political and ecclesiastical system of
Roman Catholicism. We have practically prevailed against materialism as a philosophy; we may liken it to a disease that time and the healing influence of nature have
cured; but we are very far from being really sound yet, for such a cure does not
produce positive health. It was no theologian, but an opponent of theology, the
philosopher John Stuart Mill, who, in his autobiography, wrote as follows: “When
the philosophic minds of the world can no longer believe its religion, or can only
believe it with modifications amounting to an essential change of its character,
a transitional period commences, of weak convictions, paralysed intellects, and
growing laxity of principle, which cannot terminate until a renovation has been
effected in the basis of their belief, leading to the evolution of some faith, whether
religious or merely human, which they can really believe: and when things are in
this state, all thinking or writing which does not tend to promote such a renovation,
is of very little value beyond the moment.” If we omit the expression “merely human
faith,” which to me is meaningless in contra-distinction to religious faith, Mill’s
is a most accurate description of the present situation, and of what must necessarily ensue. It is useless to expect
that the mere study of particular sciences can avert it; for in this matter neither specialised learning, nor knowledge as a whole, can avail anything. Men must be
exhorted to retire into their own souls, in order that, while immense realities
throng upon them through their acquaintance with the sciences, they may not overlook or forget the real nature
of Reality itself. They themselves, in the first instance, are this Reality—their
souls, that existence of theirs which is lifted above nature. This, to be sure,
is a matter, not of knowledge, but of faith, since it can be present in the mind
only as a struggling and growing conviction; yet it is the motive power of all
mental, and ultimately of all social life. “It is characteristic of belief to impel to action; it is characteristic of unbelief
to destroy the joy of work, to deny to man his creative destiny, and so to force
him back upon bare existence and primitive instinct, till humanity, grown tired
of the attempt to spiritualise existence, wearies at last of life itself.” Now modern
science has necessarily adopted the genetic method, which consists in going back
everywhere to first beginnings, and in tracing things to their original elements, and to the lowest forms from which they appear to have
sprung; and this does, indeed, tend to cause great confusion in weak and unstable
minds, and to confirm any inclination they may already have to underestimate their
own human value. It is not a state of affairs that is bound to last for ever; the
time must come when it will be recognised that the gradual development of truth
results, like consecutive acts of creation, in bringing to light new marvels of
great and valuable power; but in the meantime we are called upon to put forth all
our strength to cope with the situation. As far as it is in our power to influence
the course of events, we must never encourage the dissemination of knowledge or
spread of education, unless at the same time the moral consciousness of those who
are taught is invigorated, the inner harmony of their personalities strengthened,
and the eternal significance of their lives enriched. This must be our constant
aim, but especially with regard to instruction in social history and social questions. Of all current phrases, none is more open to objection than the saying that social life must be regarded in
the light mainly, if not altogether, of economics, and economics be considered by
itself, and absolutely apart from anything else. Such a dictum
is objectionable in the first place because it is false; but it is also regrettable because it lends support to blind and petty prejudices, and hinders ethical progress. Those who
give utterance to it in good faith, imagining that such a view will simplify matters
and win for them more ready hearing, do not know what they are doing; and fortunately
they are refuted by their own practice. At the bottom of all great social questions
and all intellectual problems, seekers after truth will always light upon the moral
and—closely bound up with it—religious element; these can never be neglected without
doing injury both to facts as they really are. and to mankind. But it is no use
for us to try to idealise that universe presented to us by a knowledge of the
external world and embellish it with all kinds
of aesthetic notions: quick eyes will see through
I the device, and we shall not thus attain our
object. Nothing can satisfy, on the one hand,
the sense of the individual value of the human
soul, and the requirements of its inner life;
and on the other, the ideal set before us of the
universal brotherhood of mankind, except the
Christian idea of God—“God is the Lord, and
He is love.” As we were created by Him and
for Him, so too our knowledge and education must be rooted and grounded in Him. This feeling lifts us above
the region of the transitory into that of the everlasting and eternal; it ennobles
the meanest work, and cancels all mere surface value. In this spirit, then, we must
work and educate.
Every member of this Congress is equally persuaded of the truth
I have just enunciated, and is convinced that, as beseems Protestants, it is our
duty to fulfil this task in enlightened agreement with the traditions of our Evangelical Church. But how much there is to do, and how lacking we are in zeal, assiduity, and persistent effort! The educational movement of to-day has laid open to us an immense field of action,
and none can excuse himself by saying that he does not wish to waste his time sowing on the stony ground or among thorns. There is a general readiness to hear, to learn,
to exchange ideas, and to ponder new conceptions. There is keen and living interest
in the deepest questions which concern human life, as well as in social problems—issues which are most intimately connected, and are, indeed,
fundamentally one. The responsibility would be ours if this modern pursuit of education
were to end in despair, either because men were not given the bread of life they ask, or because that offered them had ceased to
be life-giving; it would be our fault if it were to result in disgust and scepticism,
and in the conclusion that reality is barren, and knowledge fruitless. That must
never he. May to-day’s Congress help to intensify our feeling of responsibility
towards our people, and to increase our strength!
All discoveries—nay, all knowledge, for the time being so exciting
in its novelty—soon become cheap and insignificant; but all the same it has eternal
life in it, if it gives depth and fuller life to the inward being, and help in the
great work of transformation into a higher self.
THE MORAL TEACHINGS OF JESUS
A paper read by Dr. W. Herrmann of Marburg at the Evangelical Social
Congress held at Darmstadt in 1903; and published separately, and in an enlarged
form, in 1904.
CHAPTER IX
THE SENSE IN WHICH THE GOSPEL BECOMES A REAL POWER
THE Gospel teaches us that we escape from a barren existence
only when we are ready to live for others of our own free will. It is then that
we are made to feel more keenly how miserable and empty is the existence of a man
intent upon seeking his own. It can, however, be to us a Gospel, only if it further
actually brings and proclaims to us the beginning of a life with power. It must
act upon us as a renewing force. Yet if it is really to accomplish this it must
mean something more than a collection of ideas, which it is our duty and desire
to accept. It is, indeed, certain that if we do not dismiss these ideas, but let
them in course of time become habitual to us, our resolutions may be very powerfully
influenced by them, especially by the thought of a Father in Heaven, inflexibly
stern yet full of infinite goodness and mercy. Still, however pregnant the ideas so freely bestowed upon us by the messengers
of the Gospel, they can never do more than stimulate the nature that we have: they
cannot transform us.
Only in so far as we are able to apprehend the truth of doctrines
can we make them our own. We must understand their purport, and perceive that the
idea contained is the expression of a reality, revealed to us ourselves. When we
find a thought expressing something which we have been made to feel in such an experience,
it becomes in a peculiar sense our own. But if, without this, we try to adopt it,
we may end by quietly changing it, till it suits ourselves; and if we do not even
do this, our inmost being can have nothing to do with it at all. To say that we
want to appropriate it can then only mean that, in our intercourse with others,
we refuse to say anything against it. It constantly happens that the ideas of the
Gospel are only “appropriated” by people in this sense. Many fancy they possess
them, to whom they are no more than something they refuse to attack, but are unable
to utilise. And many whose earnest endeavour it is to utilise them, work at them
continually till they have made them assume such a form as they can assimilate.
The result is not that they are transformed, but that the ideas of the Gospel
are altered by their own character. The power of the Gospel can never be effectual
in its working, while people are so insincere as to propose “to appropriate by
faith” the ideas contained therein.
The ideas are always so shaped that their truth is obvious to
those alone who in their inward being experience a great transformation. The very
conception of God as the Almighty Father is true only when it expresses this kind
of experience. When the idea is presented as the message of the Gospel, it may indeed
attract us by promising deliverance; but if of the contents of the Gospel we learn
nothing more, it will soon recall to our minds many of our own experiences testifying
in the opposite direction. In a world so full of suffering no Heavenly Father meets
our gaze. Nor can it be in our own hearts that the idea originates of the everlasting
power of good, as inexhaustible goodness towards ourselves; for here the consciousness
is present that our own nature is altogether in contrast to such goodness. A Gospel,
to be deserving of the name, must so operate upon us that we may embrace as very
truth the above conception of God. It must have the power so to influence us that the divine character—the capacity freely to live for others—begins
to take shape in us. Unless this happens, we can have no real understanding of the
message concerning the Father in Heaven, since otherwise we cannot number ourselves
among those who are ruled by His goodness.
The Gospel is a message of glad tidings only because, when it
really reaches a man, it does not present him with mere ideas, but furnishes practical
proof of the love of God, convincing him of God’s infinite goodness towards him.
Then begins that inward transformation whereby our lives may be fashioned according
to Gospel ideas. We must detach ourselves from what hitherto we have desired for
ourselves, and be ready to sacrifice it for the community. Otherwise the Gospel
has not yet given us a foretaste of heaven. If we have no free and God-like goodness
towards others, we cannot believe in God’s goodness towards us. But the inward emancipation
from accustomed habits of possession and enjoyment is possible on one condition
only. We must ourselves hold the conviction that the whole meaning of our lives
is different from what we had been wont to imagine. We must ourselves experience
a new fact, the influence of which upon us is so strong as to lessen the power over our souls
of all our former possessions and enjoyments. Our own advantage may be seen to consist
in a fact of this kind. We may, for example, recognise clearly what a loss it is
to us if vast numbers of our people do not, and possibly cannot, rejoice in the
sense of nationality. It is obvious that if we do perceive this fact we may promote
social activity and stir .up the will to help; for stupidity is always unsocial.
Yet social efforts based upon prudence arc bound by narrow restrictions, whereas
there are no limits to the readiness to serve and to help that may be produced by
the Gospel. For it results in an experience so rich that it can deliver a man from
all cares concerning his own life, making him so free that the commonwealth, rather
than his own advantage, really becomes the object of his desires.
The Gospel not only sets ideas before us, but presents us with
a mighty fact, such as, once experienced, gives to our life such height and depth
as seems to enable us for the first time to perceive its immensity. This fact, which
we must not merely “believe,” but ourselves see, is the Person of Jesus Christ.
In the New Testament it is enclosed in a series of narratives, as to the authenticity of which no efforts of
learning are able to tell us anything very definite. To many Christians the narratives
are nevertheless a matter of absolute certainty, while to others they are not so.
The decision of this question does not depend upon the moral attitude or religious
earnestness of the individual Christian; nor does its determination affect his
spiritual fate, or the relation in which he stands to God. On the other hand, if
a man is to lay hold of the Person of Jesus, as a reality which he himself cannot
choose but admit, he must needs be morally alive; and upon such contact with Jesus
Himself depends that inward sense of liberty which constitutes the Christian. Those
who are not struck by the sincerity, strength, and wonderful assurance of the man
Christ Jesus have no suspicion of what Christianity is. The decision which prompts
a Christian to forsake the ways of the world and follow Jesus, leaves them all untouched; their hearts are strangers to the joy that cannot be taken away, and to the delight
in active service, which mark the essential difference between one who is, and one
who is not, a Christian.
But if we are indeed to apprehend the Person of .Jesus in all
its wonderful reality, we need a two-fold method of transmission. One of these is Holy Scripture; the other, human life, permeated and kindled by remembrance of Him—or, to use
the old names, Scripture and tradition. Once we have begun to recognise as our greatest
good this contact with the Person of Jesus, we shall seek the society of those whom
His power has stirred, and the assemblies where He is likely to be preached. Before
long we shall note further that, on any ideals we already possess, a new light is
thrown continually by thronging memories of Him derived from Scriptural accounts.
Thus the mystical power of His Person gives to Biblical tradition a value beyond
any that dogma can confer, and, at the same time, is the warrant for complete freedom
in scientific study of the Bible. For if we are convinced that this tradition reveals
to us the highest gift the world can bestow, we shall also see that here, if anywhere,
those laws must faithfully be observed that render possible the successful investigation
of reality. Thus the Christian who knows and seeks nothing higher in all the world
than the inward life—that is, the Person of Jesus in its power over the mind—is
carried far above the conflict which is now agitating Protestantism; above the
anxious piety that hardens into a legalism devoid of morality; and no less far above such investigation
of truth as, sensible of no bonds of living history to bring it into touch with
the traditional, is lacking in all piety.
That Jesus of whom we ourselves have laid hold as a reality,
undeniable and wonderful, works in us a transformation exceeding great in power.
For contact with Him means that there dawns upon us a revelation of God that can
never again be obscured. The first page of a book widely read at the present day
contains the statement that no man who has once learned to know Jesus Christ can
ever again be quite what he was before. One who can echo Harnack in this, feels
that contact with the Person of Jesus marked a turning-point in his life. He may,
indeed, often have to confess that it has not been followed in his case by very
much that is new, but he will surely always admit in his heart that it might have
been. In the Person of Jesus we at least seem to recognise a constant cause of uneasiness—of
a disquietude that prevents us from settling down too comfortably in the world.
Now, so long as that is our experience with regard to Jesus, He is indeed above
us; and only in proportion as He Himself stands in that relation towards us can His words bring us a Gospel. Above
all, they can really convince us, only when they interpret and throw new light upon
the realities around us. We are told how Jesus Himself endeavoured to remind men
of the traces of God’s goodness revealed in their own lives. Yet after all, ultimately
the one fact of our experience that lends undoubted testimony to the goodness of
God towards us is the manifestation of Jesus Himself. It is when our inmost being
is stirred and quickened by His Person that we are able to grasp something of the
realities of which He speaks; and then, and not till then, His words become to
us a gospel of power. But the fact that Jesus reveals the power and the goodness
of God will soon be felt when once we realise that if we call to remembrance His
will and His actions, they make demands upon us which are eternally binding. Jesus
made provision for this by His death upon the Cross, and by explaining that Death
in the Last Supper.
CHAPTER X
CONFLICT BETWEEN THE EVANGELISTIC AND
MODERN OUTLOOK
YET the Cross itself would be of no avail if it happened that
in seeking our moral goal we had to look beyond Jesus Himself: Along the path of
duty He must always be our Guide. This implies not only certainty on our part that
He offers no opposition to duties indisputably self-evident to us, but, further,
the ever fresh experience that it is the power of His Spirit which actually reveals
to us those duties. If we were divided from Him in the work in which we ourselves
recognised moral necessity, it would mean a separation radical indeed. We can continue
to be Christians, only if we can honestly confess that the growth of moral earnestness
and liberty within us brings us into closer touch with Him. Once we perceive any
civil obligation of our age to be due to a moral necessity, we must be able
to discern in it the victory of Jesus Christ. Otherwise we are indeed severed from Him, and circling already round another sun.
To many, however, at the present time it seems impossible in
this kind of work to be reminded of Jesus as a power, and especially so to those
who refuse to take the words of Jesus lightly, and possess such a view of the duties
of our Age as people can only possess when they are not merely looking on, but are
themselves taking part in its work. By rendering to themselves a clear account of
the meaning and aim of their exertions, they soon become aware of their remoteness
from Jesus, if indeed they think of Him at all.
Many of us devote our life-work to matters in which Jesus not
only displayed no interest, but which He could not even know of, since they were
not yet in being. Natural science was still unheard of; hence no glimmering conception
of natural law enabled men to see an intelligible order in the realities around
them; and systematic investigation had not yet extended the dominion of man over
nature. In short, every kind of work arising out of natural science, with its own
particular forms and aims, was for Jesus non-existent. It may, indeed, be said that
both His attitude and ours towards morality are unaffected by that fact. Just as a peasant of to-day may, as regards moral development, put to
shame a natural philosopher, so Jesus might still be our Guide in all matters
of morality, even though he lived in a world of narrow limitations, whereas to us
there is an infinite depth of meaning in realities constituted in accordance with
fixed laws.
We cannot, however, fail to note something else which made Jesus
quite different from us. He betrayed no stronger interest in those departments of
labour and business in which at that time able men were engaged. He was, indeed,
acquainted with the husbandman toiling for the fruits of the earth and caring for
his live stock. He was familiar also with the banker and the power of capital;
yet there is not a word to show that He realised the importance of all these forms
of work. He does not seem to have thought that the worth of a man is, as a rule,
dependent upon his serving the community in some such way. Had He been as firmly
persuaded as we are, that fidelity in this work of the world is the foundation in
many a man of eternal righteousness, He would, one would think, have referred to
it in some way, since His aim was to help men in their moral needs. Yet the Gospels
nowhere relate that He did so; and it may therefore be presumed that in His sight it was not in faithful
performance of such work that true righteousness consisted. It necessarily followed
as a result of His energy, that He sought to release men from the burden of toil,
and set them free for the one thing needful.
There is no need to advance this as our own conclusion, for in
every ear those words resound in which Jesus seems to deprive His disciples of the
motive for remunerative work in general.
We are not to be anxious. But the origin of all work of the above
description is anxiety concerning food and raiment; and the efforts to secure these
are incumbent upon man because, since he is a man, he has outgrown a purely animal
existence. In proportion as we really desire to be of more value than many sparrows,
we develop wants which unaided Nature is not able to satisfy. Thereupon follows
anxiety as to how they can be satisfied; and yet we are told: “Be not anxious.”
We cannot escape the force of this saying by supposing that in the land where Jesus
lived the lavish gifts of nature sufficed for the daily needs of man; for it was
just the same there as here. The seed, indeed, grew of itself, but it had first
to be sown; and though one man might support life on locusts and wild honey, all could not have done
so. People were just as little able as we are to live without work—the result of
anxiety with regard to food and clothing. Anxiety is always, moreover, the concomitant
of labour. We must take thought for the safeguard of our possessions, in order to
assure the success of our work, and we must consider whether the means we can command
are sufficient for the task before us. It matters not whether these means of work
are implements, landed property, capital; or the intellectual and physical powers
we have inherited and developed, and the time at our disposal: such distinctions
do not affect the main issue, as to the possibility of performing, without anxiety,
the work imposed upon us the day we became men. We must resist the claims of the
moment when they threaten to rob us of those instruments of work which will be required
by the future. Yet Jesus tells us the reverse. We must, He says, be willing and
ready to lend, and not only satisfy requests trenching upon our worldly possessions, but give even more than we are asked; and we must act in like manner
with that which is often more precious to us than any goods—our time and our strength.
It is obvious that in this workaday world such principles are impracticable; no business can be conducted
on these lines. Yet that is just what Jesus seems to want. His disciples must separate
themselves from the world of business transactions; for the proceeds of such work
are once for all made obnoxious to them by His words concerning riches: “Lay not
up for yourselves treasures upon earth.” Accordingly, if a man has great possessions,
the best thing he can do is to get rid of them in the form of alms; and to resist
such counsel is to renounce perfection. Still, in the ultimate issue, all possession
is wealth as compared to the penury of others; so that, if I try to retain for
myself any such advantage, I am in bondage to riches. Nevertheless; “Ye cannot
serve God and Mammon.” How then can a disciple, who owns allegiance to the words
of Jesus, be a citizen of that world where people work for gain and for
possessions?
One may, indeed, try to explain the saying about anxiety in such
a way as not to disturb the current mode of thought—Jesus only meant, it may be
said, that amidst all anxiety about his earthly calling, a disciple must always
keep his heart at liberty; and to no Christian need that ever be impossible. I
share this mode of thought, but I cannot agree that Jesus meant this by
“Be not anxious.” He could never have spoken so had He not thought it fitting that
at that particular time the aims of industrial life should be left out of view;
and this fact is shown even more clearly by His words concerning capital. The saying,
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,” calls upon men to choose between
directing their whole attention now to the good things of eternity, and allowing
themselves to be tied down to earthly things. Any attempt to interpret this saying
as capable of being obeyed while we retain our capital, would merely confirm the
anticipation of .Jesus, that riches are stronger than those who fancy they possess
them. According to the view taken by Jesus, the earthly treasure we acquire becomes
our master, hindering us from serving God. We cannot eventually escape from the
oft-repeated reproach: Christendom as a whole is not sincerely Christian so long
as it declares itself willing and bound to obey the traditional words of Jesus,
but remains in possession, or, as Jesus would say, in the service, of capital. If
we allow ourselves to take up a doubtful position on this point, the compromise
will paralyse our whole Christian life. We shall assuredly be separated from Jesus, not so much by seriously declining to obey
some particular saying handed down to us as pronounced by Him at that particular
time, as by assenting to the sum of all His words, if in practice that involves
the refusal to obey them severally. It is inconsistency of this kind that insinuates
into our trust in the Redeemer the constant doubt of His ability to redeem us if
we do not really follow Him, though professing our willingness to do so.
For many of us even now, work that is simply remunerative has
no real moral character. We may indeed wonder what the result would be if all Christians
were to decide for the perfection required of the rich young man in Luke xviii.; but we do not feel the demand to he one that compels us to withdraw from our moral
duties. The words of Jesus, however, which urge us to forsake earthly possessions,
do also strike at the root of moral obligations that bind us all—namely, the arrangements
of human society. Such an attack is implied in the demand that we should, in order
ourselves to attain to a higher grade of morality give away the goods, the time,
and the strength that we possess; for we are well aware that all these belong,
not to ourselves alone, but also to those who are more or less nearly related to us by the established
order of society. When Jesus speaks as though these possessions were our own absolute
property, and might therefore without scruple be given away, He disregards the social
institutions by which we are particularly bound to individual men. The fact that
He treated these institutions as of slight account, of itself separates Him from
us. But He goes much further than that; for with incisive words he summons men
to loose themselves from these bonds. Consequently, those who proposed to follow
Him would soon feel that family ties are fetters to be cast off; and failure to
throw them off would mean separation from Jesus. He who does not find something
to hate in his father and mother cannot be Jesus’ disciple (Luke xiv.).
To us the repudiation of the State by Jesus is even more impressive,
because more easily understood. Those who disallow the use of force, and authority
based upon power, not only take no part themselves in civil life, but are fundamentally
opposed to the State, since it must, according to their view, of necessity be wrong.
The dissemination of such views tends to the downfall of the State, for to act on
the principle of non-resistance to evil, and so refuse the legal remedies offered by the State, is to reject
the State itself as devoid of any value.
Thus Jesus brings us into conflict with social duties to which
we all wish to cling. Our ambition is greater than merely to care for our own family,
and so vindicate the sanctity of special ties that bind us to particular people.
We wish also to preserve intact family life in general, as an indispensable means
of morally developing every member of the human race. We call by the name of Father
the eternal Power of Good, and so suggest the idea that the relation of parent and
child reflects that light and warmth in which alone the youthful soul may grow and
thrive. We see quite clearly too that the highest relationships, and those most
full of meaning, between the individuals of any considerable group of human beings
could not come into being, if their social life did not lead at the same time to
the growth of the State.
Had human nature not recognised as rational the existence of
the State, the varied powers of individuals must have been mutually destructive,
instead of complementary. While, however, establishment of law conduces to liberty
as a whole, by affording free scope to social morality, it will, in particular instances,
be felt to be a constraint. Consequently, it becomes permanent and effective
only when subject to a ruling power. We are the more ready to serve this power,
the more we realise that the good we desire in our own hearts is helped to win its
way without by enforced order. At the same time we know that law itself has a right
to exist only as a means designed to promote contemporary social life, and so we
are anxious to co-operate in the alteration and expansion of the law. Not content
with bemoaning the hardships that exist, we make use of the power at our disposal
to change the rules of the State and make them more or less stringent, to suit our
needs. But to Christians who wish not merely to reverence the words of Jesus, but
also to obey them, withdrawal from this struggle between rival powers in the State
appears to be necessary, because no political measure can be carried that is not
oppressive to some. Yet how reconcile this with the temper that hopes through meekness
to prevail? It is a strange way of obeying the words of Jesus: “So shall it not be among you.” A Christianity that enforces its own advance seems to admire what
Jesus says, and to do the opposite.
Such ideas as the foregoing have again and again been mustered afresh, and addressed as passionate reproaches
to the Church, on the ground that, while venerating Christ as God, it treats His
words as though He were powerless against the world he claimed to have overcome.
Even in our own Evangelical community at the present day there are ready listeners
to such complaints. There are always amongst us still those who regard as mutually
exclusive, obedience to the words of Jesus, and a compliance on serious moral grounds
with civil obligations. We know no magic spell able to calm and clarify this ferment
of confusion, but our own effort may enable us quietly to recognise the antithesis,
without letting it separate us either from Jesus, or from those civil pursuits to
which we are sure that God has called us. It is a vital question for Christianity,
whether we can acknowledge Jesus Christ to be indeed our Leader. Yet neither the
primitive Church, nor Protestantism in its early days, was able to explain how we
could all, with an open heart, follow our Leader; and even now, it is from the
very men who clamour loudest for absolute earnestness in following Jesus, that the
beginnings of a right understanding of the matter meet with the most violent opposition.
One obstacle to such understanding is a misuse of the moral directions of Jesus, secured in its position at
an early date by the appearance of being a particularly zealous form of Christianity.
With regard to this misuse, two things must be kept distinct—the circumstances,
namely, to which it owes its origin and its support. Its main support is to be found
in the fact that there was no clear knowledge of that historical situation from which
the words of Jesus—viewed as the words of a sincere and earnest man—in large measure
derived their meaning. Its origin is due to an extraordinary neglect of the Person
of Jesus Himself.
In the early days of Christianity, the first step was the perception
of the fact that life and work in civilised society are in blunt contrast to many
directions of Jesus. The Church proceeded to deal with this fact by assigning the
two indispensable and irreconcilable sets of duties to two distinct classes of Christians.
One of these was, within certain limits, to devote itself to the acquirement of
power and possessions, while the other was to apply itself to obeying seriously
the directions of Jesus. The former provided the necessaries of earthly life, but
received something higher in exchange; for, in order that they too in their station,
and in spite of their extremely defective obedience, might be saved, by the help of the second class, they were brought
into union with Christ and into touch with salvation. Thus the very contradiction
which at first had threatened to make the Christianising of society impossible,
was afterwards used to promote it. This expedient has two great advantages which
explain the fact that to many Christians it still gives satisfaction. In the first
place, it is easily understood, in common with the whole system of Roman Catholic
ethics, which, according to the “Grenzboten,” is distinguished by intelligibility.
In the second place, such an arrangement keeps alive the idea that a life spent
in imitation of Jesus is something excessively great, calling for efforts surpassing
the power of the common run of men. This was a decision equally pleasing to the
serious-minded and the frivolous; and as Christian society is usually composed
of both classes, it was, and is still, a useful notion. Such a device for embracing
two very opposite tendencies is, like Catholicism in general, excellent policy;
but the most perfect contrivances of statesmanship are powerless to solve moral
problems. The question of morality, for whose supremacy Christendom was supposed
to be ripe, was for the time completely shelved.
The conflict between rival claims, the battlefield of which must
be the individual conscience, had made way for a conflict of institutions, which
was adjusted by the world-dominion of the Church. Acquiescence in this political
solution of a moral question, means, however, for serious as for thoughtless men,
that they cease to be moral. The flagrant immorality that was always reappearing
in the monastic orders, among the would-be “perfect” class, was no mere degeneracy,
but was actually a result of the want of discipline inherent already in the principles
of monasticism, the worst feature of that life being its very ideal of perfection.
Luther it was who first presented in this light the religion and morality of Catholicism,
thus bringing discredit on its solution of the problem now before us.
To Luther the radical evil of monastic life was the undisciplined
arbitrariness of its aims. Especially noteworthy is the fact that Luther’s first
thought in the matter was not of disobedience to the commands of Jesus. To him the
essential point seemed to be that we should each one consider what are the duties
laid upon us simply by the particular powers given to us in our definite place in
the world; failure to do so was in his eyes very deplorable self-will. He felt that for any man to despise the obligations arising out
of his natural position in the world means revolt against the will of the Almighty,
to whom he owes his existence. The object of the monk is to show perfect obedience; but by evading calls which he cannot but recognise as the voice of God, he becomes
wholly disobedient and undisciplined. Other people, faithfully pursuing their ordinary
business, do remain in the school of God; but their life, too, is poisoned by the
Church, since they are compelled to bear the secret reproach of having failed to
choose the way of perfection, though it was open to them to do so. The Church, indeed,
encourages them to stifle such self-reproaches; their mode of life is necessary,
or at least useful, to the Church, and the perfect way is only recommended, not
required. For a considerable time, too, men’s consciences may be satisfied thus.
Sooner or later, however, those to whom a measure of Christianity
has hitherto sufficed, will have to face the question as to what is absolutely necessary
for themselves. If monastic withdrawal from the world is perfection, a man, though
admitting the fact, may for a season be satisfied by the doctrine, that God has
not done more than counsel such perfection. But in the end he cannot fail to perceive that this God
is a phantom. For the living God of the conscience is inexorable in His demand,
that we ought to do what in our own mind we recognise as perfection. He Himself
is perfect, and we are to be even as He is. Moral corruption is more intense among
the monastics, because, in their dream of perfection, conscience is lulled to rest; amongst the Christian laity, conscience may be actively alive, though only in
a state of restlessness and uncertainty. Both lack the open-hearted submission to
necessity, that constitutes moral obedience. Self-will leads, in the one case, to
vain-glory, in the other to uncertainty.
Although Luther recognised this fact, he had not yet succeeded
in solving the problem. He had only pressed home once more upon the conscience of
the individual Christian the question as to how he was unreservedly to follow Jesus,
and yet take his share of strife and struggle in the world of secular work. Luther
had, moreover, found courage to face this question through faith in the Father of
Jesus Christ, but he could not show how to settle it. The result of the Reformation
on this point was to promote not progress entirely, but also a reaction, as compared with the Church of Rome.
An Evangelical Church, trying to maintain its position in the
world, without the means of coercion Rome had employed, had all the greater need
of coherent strength within. But this it could not have, if it was the duty of the
evangelical Christian to give himself up to work in the world, and at the same time
to hearken to the words of Jesus which forbade him to do so. A Church that had to
fight for its very existence could not afford to harbour such an unexplained contradiction.
The individual unrest and the battle of intellects caused by tormenting questions,
seemed altogether opposed to the resolute bearing so urgently required. Our fathers,
therefore, endeavoured to save the Evangelical Church by exhibiting such a dogmatic
certainty as also obliged them to suppress to the utmost any idea that, in the sphere
of morality, there were questions still unsolved by them. The consequence was that
in dealing with the present question they went to even lower depths than Catholic
ethics had done. The tendency became habitual to hide, as far as possible, the contrast
between the words of Jesus and the secular life upon which men were entering with
such vigour. Practically the same kind of thing is still prevalent among us to-day.
But as long as it continues we lack a very important factor in the vital energy
of the Church of Rome—an element that is founded on truth, namely, a vivid sense
of the above contrast, and an unrest on the part of Christians in their dealings
with the world.
We are, however, beginning to rise above the level reached at
the Reformation. It will help us to do so if we consider the limitations by which
Luther himself was bound when he dealt with the problem. These limitations, insurmountable
by Luther, explain why we too still allow ourselves to be perplexed by the contrast
between the meekness and compassion of Jesus and our own desire and ready use of
power. Rightly understood, the contrast is of inestimable service to us—a fact that
cannot much longer be ignored. For the limitations which prevented Luther from perceiving
this are gradually being removed, in the case, at any rate, of those who are heirs,
not only of his mantle, but also of his life and spirit.
To Luther it was the sacred duty of every man to work in the
world to which he belonged, since God has planted him there. Luther’s thought was
powerfully influenced by the fact that a Christian may, in the conduct of his life, and in the
definite character impressed upon his existence by the force of nature, discern
the will of his Creator and Father. The greatness of Luther lay in his keen sensibility
towards this revelation of God, a revelation such as a Christian cannot find in
the Bible, but must, by inward conflict, gain for himself. For a man to be induced
by the statements of certain authorities, to refuse obedience to this revelation,
was in his eyes godlessness. He had experienced the power of a faith that is neither
custom nor illusion, since it begins when a man has the courage to consider his
own position, and becomes serious enough to yield to realities.
In moral questions, on the other hand, Luther was less clear-sighted.
The moral character, or religious sincerity, did indeed find in him free
scope, but his actual ideas on morality were still essentially restricted by Catholicism.
He only laid a heavy burden on the false ideals of Catholicism, making it hard for
them to survive the due appreciation of that secular work which, according to his
view, every individual is bound to recognise as required of him by God. Luther did
not overcome that misuse of the moral directions of Jesus, which in the Church of
Rome displayed it full and fatal strength. He, too, takes it for granted that
a Christian at least is bound to obey every word of Jesus that has been handed down
and was not expressly addressed to a particular individual; without inquiring if
the demand it contains really concerns himself in his own particular circumstances.
Obedience of this kind is, however, a monstrous misuse of the words of Jesus, and
to a Christianity whose aim is to abide in the world, it eventually leaves no choice
but a division into clerics and laity, to the moral detriment of both. Thus it is
that even on Reformation soil the old weaknesses are wont to reappear, concealing
under cover of moral earnestness an entire lack of discipline within. Yet, granted
that where such use is made of the words of Jesus, the result is as stated above,
we should still have no right to call it an abuse of words, if Jesus Himself so
intended them, that every man must blindly obey, even without apprehending the truth
they contain. Let us consider the facts.
Undoubtedly Jesus did make demands to which He expected from
all His disciples unconditional obedience. But He never required any one blindly
and hastily to comply with His words, without understanding them. He asked in every
case for something more than this; not merely submission, but the inward obedience of a free agent.
His words are binding upon those who really accept them; and this real acceptance
they win by promoting the tendency to independence inherent in the will. Thus the
true disciple of Jesus can never throw off the influence of His words, for they
have become a revelation of necessary truths.
It is becoming easier for us than it was for our forefathers,
or for Luther himself, to gain this right attitude towards the words of Jesus, because
to us something has been given that at the outset may greatly depress us. We can
listen to the Man Jesus, speaking in His own generation, and addressing His contemporaries.
For Luther, on the other hand, it was as yet impossible to grasp the meaning of
many of the words of Jesus, simply because the historical study of the Bible, started
by himself, was in its infancy. We admire his argumentative skill in exposition,
wherever religious vigour alone could reach the root of the matter; and we excuse
his deficient explanations, where nothing could avail but the historical method
—only developed since by the gradual work of centuries. As long as the Man Jesus
could not be seen in historical perspective, it was possible to regard all His words
as addressed to the people of to-day; but the historical research of the
present time makes that impossible.
To many this is a source of pain. The Biblical scholar, indeed,
the result of whose work has proved of special help to us in this matter, remarks,
in reference to the needs of the moment, that we would give anything to have words
of Jesus showing how to deal with the political and economic obligations of modern
life; yet we possess no such directions.J. Weiss, “Die Predigt Jesu vom Reiche Gottes” (“The Teaching
of Jesus concerning the Kingdom of God,”) Second edition, 1900, p. 145. These sad words of resignation show how
easily historians misinterpret the results of their own investigations of the past.
The one great benefit conferred upon us by their studies is the way they
help us to get rid of such longings and regrets. They show us why guidance of
this sort cannot possibly be found in the words of Jesus. We may grieve if something
possible is denied us, but we must reconcile ourselves to what, with our own eyes,
we perceive to be impossible.
The Biblical knowledge of the present day teaches us that many
duties of social morality, unavoidable by us, were quite unknown to Jesus. Thus to Him it was not yet a problem how far the State
can give assistance in economic life. More especially, however, He held a view of
the world that left Him no concern for the future of human society, for He looked
upon this as having in store no future at all, but as being near its end. He saw
the beginning of the destruction of the world approaching; He felt the final judgment
to be near. This caused Him to overlook many ties whereby we of necessity are bound,
and, since He aimed at preparing souls for this approaching glory, He was bound
to make of them demands coloured by this expectation. In particular cases, perhaps,
it can seldom be determined with certainty how far the words of Jesus are influenced
by His expectation of the approaching end of the world; perhaps only one can be
mentioned, namely, the prohibition to “lay up treasures upon earth.” Laying by
so as to enhance our own existence by acquiring a wide control over circumstances
is altogether meaningless if a complete transformation of existence and environment
is actually imminent. But even with regard to this, every disciple, even though
he did not share this expectation, must still have read in these words an urgent
warning to himself. Unless he can detach himself from earthly gain, unless he can say that something
incomparably great entirely fills his soul, he is a fool, like the rich man laying
up his corn. Only in so far as it is our aim to press all earthly interests into
the service of this one true good, as yet unrealised in the present world, can these
interests themselves be objects of our desire.
The expectation of an impending change in the established order
of things is further shown by the quietly negative attitude with which Jesus passes
by the forms and claims of existing civilisation, not finding it necessary to emphasise
any feature thereof as important for His followers.
In every other case isolated demands involve, indeed, not rules
of universal application, but possibilities that may, under special circumstances,
become matters of moral necessity, and are unaffected by the proximity or remoteness
of the end of the world. Above all, eager though we may be to turn to full account,
in explaining the words of Jesus, His eschatological standpoint, we must not be
tempted thus to explain also the command to love our enemies. We cannot think to
make this intelligible by saying that the approach of the last day would, with our
other wishes, remove all desire for revenge. The demand to love our enemies
is indeed tremendous, and necessarily beyond the comprehension of all but those
who, in the Person of Jesus, have found the beginning of a new life; but the fact
of Jesus Himself is yet more tremendous. Even to the disciple of Jesus to love his
enemies is a task too great for his own strength; yet it is to Him an elementary
and, beyond any doubt, morally a perfectly reasonable demand.
It is, indeed, certain that, once our attention is called to
the eschatological standpoint of Jesus, we are compelled to make two admissions.
In the first place, we feel that a barrier is raised between Him and us by our having
honestly to confess that we do not share that standpoint—we are not very greatly
affected by the idea of an approaching end of the world. Secondly, circumstances
in which we see the promise of a better future, in His eyes were only harbingers
of ruin. In Him there was nothing of the zeal of the political and economic reformer.
Grief at separation from Jesus due to these important features
in His conception of the world is, however, as nothing compared with our joy at
the benefits we receive from God in this knowledge. If one of our links with esus is removed, it is one which He denied us himself. By
the dream now disturbed, all our powers are paralysed, even those that really unite
us with Jesus, because given by Himself. Sympathy with Jesus and readiness
to obey each word that bears His name, is beneficial when He Himself
is working in us. It is therefore a rude awakening, when we perceive that Jesus
does not respond to this sympathy, and that we must consider for our own selves
our actual position. We feel as it were deserted, when first we realise that detachment
from all earthly things, to which Jesus in those days invited His disciples, is
for us impossible, in the different world in which we live. What for them was a
vigorous pursuit of their whole conception of the universe, and consequently sincere,
would for us be self-deception, because we do not feel ourselves to be face to face
with the end of the world but with innumerable obligations imposed upon us by the
world.
Now, historical research, by revealing this difference, prevents
us from following Jesus in the same way that those who aim at perfection, in the
Church of Rome try to do. The result is a great gain, for such supposed imitation
of Jesus must eventually produce insincerity. Where it prevails, we find manly energy expended in restricting men to a childish existence. Seeking
to emancipate themselves from the world, people sink into a barbarism that is in
truth the highest degree of secularisation of human life. They wish to abandon all
struggles for earthly ends, and to be free to serve God; in reality they do but
exchange for petty tortures, in a close and narrow atmosphere, those exertions,
worthy of their strength, for which God provides in His world such vast opportunities.
Where is there more quarrelling than among those who, in all the world, find nothing
worth their while to do? Endeavours to imitate Jesus in points inseparable from
His especial mission in the world, and His position—which is not ours,—towards that
world—efforts like these lacking the sincerity of really necessary tasks, have so
long injured the cause of Jesus, that our joy will be unalloyed when scientific
study at last reveals to every one the impossibility of all such attempts.
It is true that this impossibility is not yet recognised by all.
Friedrich PaulsenDeutsche Monatschrift für das gesamte Leben der Gegenwart (German Monthly Review of Contemporary Life). Berlin, 1903. October issue, p.
125. looks upon the name “Tolstoi” as in itself a proof that it is possible even now so to obey the words of Jesus
that one would not shrink from condemning the basis of modern civilisation, the
power of the State. It is mostly, we may add, among Protestants that the numerous
and enthusiastic admirers of Leo Tolstoi are to be found. They extol him not only
as a great artist, not only as a powerful and venerable man, thus according him
rightful praise; but they further reverence him as a pioneer in the region of moral
thought, as a prophet preparing the way,—and that expressly on account of his so
applying the words of Jesus as to destroy the fabric of civilisation. Yet all this
is no proof of the practical and moral possibility of absolutely obeying in our
rule of life to-day, the traditional words of Jesus. It merely discloses the fact
that even yet a want of moral clearness too often allows men to fancy such an attitude
to be possible, or actually commanded.
Neither Tolstoi’s greatness nor our veneration of him, as a man,
need suffer if he may be reproached with a certain lack of moral clearness. In our
experience complete freedom from such limitations belonged to One alone,—Who is
thereby exalted above us all, and in Whom it was inseparable from the consciousness of His dignity and mission as Redeemer. It is one
of the most encouraging signs of the times that so many people are powerfully affected
by Tolstoi’s moral greatness. He has given the world of civilisation a gift of inestimable
value in the extraordinarily graphic descriptions,—contained, for example, in his
“Confessions,”—of his struggle up out of the artistic life of glitter and amusement,
and a mere luxuriating in fine feelings, and his decision for a life of action.
Even more important are his deeds of sacrifice, and the emphatic witness they bear
to the tremendous obligations of those who occupy high places in the world and hear,
from depths of misery, the groaning of the multitude.
Nevertheless, we who are Evangelical Christians must not let
our gratitude to Tolstoi prevent us from quietly insisting that he misuses the words
of Jesus in a manner which, through a weakness in Christianity, has long been familiar
to us. Evangelical Christians who extend their admiration of Tolstoi even to this
matter are without excuse, except perhaps on the ground that others have not properly
revealed to them that new understanding of the Gospel which came into vogue at the
Reformation. For Tolstoi, on the other hand, there is every excuse: he bears the impress of the Russian State, of Russian civilisation, and of the Russian Church. The best feature in the Russian Church
is its reverence for tradition, and in this respect Tolstoi is a true son
of the Church. All its other restraints he was able by his strength of character
to cast off, daring to trust solely in Jesus and His Word. But in the attitude
which he takes up towards the precious gift of tradition, he is again
overpowered by the forces of Eastern Christianity. Towards the Word of Jesus,
where he cannot develop the truth of its meaning, his attitude is one of
resignation; for he asserts the necessity of obeying the word of Jesus, as a
rule of universal application: “Resist not him that is evil.” Yet he does not realise that he himself would
be responsible for the disorder that must result from such voluntary endurance
of wrong and such renunciation of the use of force. Such a responsibility
does not press heavily upon a Russian Christian: it is overpowered by the consolations
of piety; and though he should thus deny the State its right to exist, the matter
is one that troubles a Russian less than it would trouble us. For he has obviously
not yet reached that point of historical development where moral enthusiasts, such as the Apostle Paul, are the
first to recognise clearly the moral value in the power of the State. Finally, it
is easy to understand why a Russian is ready to accept the words of Jesus about
renunciation of the world, for he cannot fail to see on every side the havoc wrought
among his people by an exotic civilisation. But what, in the case of this powerful
Russian, may be explained by the light of history, ought, for us Evangelical Germans,
to be a moral impossibility. Even Friedrich Paulsen will admit that we cannot conscientiously
follow a line of conduct suggested to Jesus by an expectation we no longer share.
Historical research in this respect has helped to emancipate us.
CHAPTER XI
THE REAL MIND OF JESUS
OF far greater importance, however, than this deliverance from
the yoke of a transitory past, is that closer union with Jesus Himself and His inmost
thoughts, which is worthy to prevail for ever and ever. Yet it is not by scientific
research that this can be attained, but by a moral insight into the moral conceptions
of Jesus. Nor can it be denied that from time to time monks, or those who, in their
would-be imitation of Jesus, revert to the standpoint of anarchy, do surpass the
student of history by retaining closer hold of tradition, and by seeking not merely
to know one historic fact out of many but Jesus Christ Himself. In the hearts of
individual Christians the spiritual power of Jesus has long supplied what was lacking
in Luther’s works upon the Church—that moral insight, whereby we still may recognise
Jesus as our Leader and perceive the illuminating truth of the words which, if treated
as patterns to be copied exactly, separate men from truth, and so from Christ.
A single word of Jesus may kindle this understanding; yet neither any one of them,
nor all of them together, can make us realise their truth. This can only happen
if we seek Jesus Himself. By this nothing fanciful is meant, but simply the endeavour
to understand the mind whence proceeded these wonderful, terrible, and yet gracious
words. The words of Jesus, indeed, can be tabulated, but not His moral ideas. For
these we can only apprehend when we recognise them as the outcome of a Will that
is not something arbitrary, but a mind at peace in eternity.
Of the mind of Jesus and His Person we can gain a clear idea
by observing the nature of the moral difference between Himself and those around
Him. Does it consist in the principle that righteousness is a matter not only of
outward action, but of inward disposition? Is that what is meant by the better
righteousness towards which He sought to direct His disciples? But to men familiar
with the words of the prophets, “This people honoureth me with their lips, but
their heart is far from me,” and with the prayer, “Create in me a clean heart,
O God,” this distinction surely was not new. In this respect the difference between Jesus and the righteous of His nation can only have consisted
in the thoroughness with which He applied the principle; and this it was that gave
Him the right to call them hypocrites. If, however, we stop short at this point,
we are far indeed from really comprehending Him in the strength and unity of His
mind.
That which is peculiar to the moral thought of Jesus is that
He actually develops this principle further, and so for the first time exhibits
its full force. He is riot content, like the prophets, to attack hypocrisy in the
sense of a deliberate discrepancy between what one really is and what one would
like to appear; He also exposes its radical nature. Jesus undoubtedly knew that,
in the ordinary sense of the term, the Pharisees were no hypocrites—ready, as they were, whenever the inviolability of the law was at stake, to
face death at the hands of the Romans. Nevertheless, Jesus did plainly decide that
the fearful corruption of their spiritual nature made them ripe for the judgment
of hell. He further tells them that they say, but fail to do; nor
do they themselves fulfil the demands which they make. But it was not from want of activity,
as commonly understood, that they left any duties undone; they were zealous to the last degree. The thing they lacked was in their eyes of
secondary consequence—something for which they had no time, because for them the
all-important matter was to fulfil the law with the greatest possible exactitude.
To them, therefore, it was not an object of close concern that their will should
be sincere and at one with itself, conscious of its eternal right. They did, indeed,
aim at fulfilling the law, but only in order to prove themselves righteous, and
so to attain something quite different. They wanted to serve two masters—a feat
that, according to Jesus, is made impossible by the nature of the will. In seeking
to understand in minutest detail a variety of isolated precepts, they overlooked
the one essential matter of the law, the demand for justice, mercy, and faithfulness,
as a means to genuine fellowship. They were not grounded upon the truth; they neglected
that sincerity which must see for itself the meaning and rightful claim of the law,
and thus discovers how to fulfil it. They made of the law a burden grievous to be
borne, but did not themselves feel its weight, because it was easy for them to satisfy
unintelligible demands, and because they rightly saw how possible it is to finish
and be quit of such tasks as are not understood. They imagined they really did well-nigh fulfil the law, and looked
upon themselves as profitable servants. Meanwhile they were preventing its moral
ideas from taking effect, because they thought it not worth while to investigate
their truth.
The morality of the Pharisees still flourishes among us. Of the
leaders of thought in our nation many are horrified at being told that a man can
do what is good only if his will is directed towards the pursuit of truth, as he himself perceives it. They say that, on the contrary, we require “objective”
ordinances, telling us quite definitely what we have to do. If they meant that there
is general need of law, custom, and personal authority, they would indeed be right.
To ignore the fact is as childish as it is dangerous, for only in the peace and
order due to these forces can the good make progress among us. What such leaders
of our people mean, however, is that to obey these authorities is in itself to do
that which is good, and, worse still, that we arrive at a knowledge of the good
by deducing it from laws impressed upon us by nature and by history. They therefore
declare that they have no eyes to see for themselves what is good. Yet these blind
leaders of the blind are full of honest zeal, although different in kind from that of
the Pharisees, who are otherwise their prototypes. They at least direct the people
towards Jesus Christ,—a fact we acknowledge with gratitude and wish to turn to account.
Only by observing how Jesus goes to the root of the insincerity
and indolence underlying this conception of morality can we see clearly the meaning
of his moral ideas in their bearing on ourselves.
In the course of His unrelenting war upon the self-deception
of the righteous men around Him, He reveals beyond dispute the source of in ward
sincerity and singleness of purpose. This, according to Jesus, is implied in the
nature of volition. We can only will one thing. Contrive as we may, we cannot serve
two masters, and if we persist in attempting it we end in insincerity and enter
into conflict with a law within ourselves, the truth of which is evident. Just as
the eye must needs be single, not wandering hither and thither, but fixed simply
upon one point, if it is really to give to the organism the necessary light, so
the whole inward man is full of darkness unless the will can concentrate its every
impulse in one direction, in the thought of one eternal goal.
But in order to do that we must know the goal. Did Jesus perhaps
think that His mission consisted in showing men where to find it? Not so. He knew
that the essence of the law was known throughout Israel, the commandments enjoining
love to God and to one’s neighbour—both comprised in one. He knew too that, after
all, it is easy to draw from every man the acknowledgment of who his neighbour is,
and that consequently when any is unmerciful he is self-condemned at the same time.
Jesus aimed rather at proving that by no word coming to us from without can we come
to know what is good; the undeviating direction of our will must receive its impulse
from within. For this purpose He employed a twofold method: in the first place,
as against mere piety, He vindicated the claims of moral righteousness, and in the
second place he explained the meaning of love.
It is indeed certain that in a manner altogether unique Jesus
lived in the thought of God as all in all, our one and only good. For, when at length
He saw in His own victory the coming of the Kingdom of God, for Him this meant solely
that blissful future, whose necessary condition is that God alone shall reign within
us. All good things that do not exactly draw us nearer to God prepare the way for our destruction. We
can attain to freedom, life, and goodness, only if we renounce all else for the
sake of God. True righteousness is love of God. But from these fundamental principles
of piety the conclusion came to be drawn that our supreme duty is obedience to the
traditional will of God,—a procedure whereby we are exposed to a danger terrible
indeed, since it leads to a form of piety fatal to any moral clearness. For, amongst
commandments handed down as expressing the will of God, there is always a tendency
to rank those highest which set forth our immediate duty to God. It necessarily
follows that precepts relating to the cultus assume greater prominence than commandments
dealing with conduct towards other men. This Jesus found in those righteous enthusiasts
round Him who with ever greater care, strove to develop and elaborate the rules
delivered to them for the service of God. But in His eyes the righteousness of such
a method of serving God was subversive of a living service; IIe saw in it the carcase
round which the eagles are gathered together.
Jesus will not hear of our allowing the claims of the cultus
to thrust aside the duty of ministering to the needs of any committed to our charge. His stern condemnation of conduct of that kind is shown
in the example of the pious son, who might thus excuse himself for refusing succour
to his aged parents, if what might have been of service to them was offered to God as a sacrifice. In this passage in Mark vii.,
Jesus calls attention to the discord produced within, when a distinction is drawn
between parents’ needs and God’s demands. Yet why should regard for parents take
precedence of cultic observance, since that, too, is included in the Mosaic law? Because, it might be replied, the prophets already had said that mercy is better
than sacrifice. Of this teaching there was doubtless, in the days of Jesus, a vivid
recollection in Israel, as is clearly shown by the Scribe mentioned in Mark xii.; yet under the fostering care of these Scribes there had sprung up and flourished
a religion whose life involved the death of morality.
Jesus was the first to show how to overcome this monstrous state
of things. Once we hold that nothing can tell us what is good but a tradition given
by God, religion will preponderate over the moral sentiment in a manner fatal to
itself. Our only safeguard consists in perceiving that moral earnestness,—in other
words, sincerity of the will,—is the first step in that religion wherein the living God is truly sought. The
Biblical expression for religion is: Trust in God, Love for God. Genuine trust
in God consists in feeling oneself to be a child of God; and love for God consists
in setting before one, as the one final object of one’s will, such union with God
as implies desire to become a child of God. Now, according to Jesus, this can only
be attained by moral obedience, by such love for one’s neighbour as is unmoved by
the enmity of men. Thus he looks upon moral discernment as a primary element in
all truc religion. We cannot love God unless we have begun to feel that inward peace
which culminates in the love of our enemies. It is impossible to long for God Himself,
if we know not what is good: for God alone is good. If we are to find and follow
God, we must recognise the good. Thus Jesus attacks the mistaken idea that, in order
to recognise the good, we must first know God, and understand His commandments.
To those who hold that view, He puts the question: (Luke xii.) “Why even of yourselves
judge ye not what is right?”
The same truth Jesus has deeply impressed upon us by His explanation
of the commandment as to love. The moral ideas of Jesus are surely especially those that unfold the meaning of this love
which constitutes the unity of His mind. But to attain a real understanding thereof,
it is not sufficient simply to point out that it is a love of God which is also
love of one’s neighbour, and a love of one’s neighbour which is at the same time
love of God. For that does not as yet reveal the characteristic temper of love.
Jesus, to show this, explains wherein it differs from mere just dealing. This method
of elucidating the matter has, it is true, not infrequently served to obscure it.
Thus it may easily appear that the nature and operation of love are distinguished
from stern justice by greater laxity. But that is not at all the love that Jesus
means. Of this love we may attain a clear conception by noting wherein it differs
from justice; and the first distinction is that it is more stringent than any justice.
Justice admits exceptions; love knows none. Justice has no one constant aim, but
follows the changes of human nature revealing themselves in history. What may at
some future date be justice it is impossible to tell. Love is ready, indeed, with unwearied versatility, to adapt itself
to every impulse; but its aim is unalterably directed to a goal it knows—namely,
a personal fellowship, wherein all feel in each other a happiness which surpasses every other
joy. The will to love seeks to produce and intensify such fellowship around it,
recognising this as its eternal goal, and regarding it as unthinkable that it could
ever will anything else. The peace of mind produced by a clearly perceived and constant
goal makes the will to love both stronger and sterner than any form of justice.
The love that .Jesus means must be thought of as the highest exercise of will-power,
the concentrated force of a mind that knows the object of its will When Jesus calls
upon men to love their enemies, He is not asking them to do something extraordinary,—something
marvellous, and impossible to understand; but to give a clear example of that exercise
of will whose sole object is personal fellowship. Such purpose is supported by the
clear discernment of its own eternal law; and consequently is not loss of individual
life, but the most intensely concentrated and living action of the will.
Love is in the second place distinguished from justice by the
character of its motives. Legal obedience is always induced by definite enactments; love is not. A will dependent on such impulse from without is not of the nature of love. Genuine love takes its orders from itself. The fact
that others set before us the goal of true personal fellowship, cannot determine
us to lead a life full of love; for this goal, standing fast in its right for ever
and ever, can be understood only by one who is full of love, and by free choice
makes it his own. Again, as love is the recognition from within of an eternal goal,
it is guided step by step by its self-determined course. What it itself judges to
be, in its especial circumstances, the best way to reach the eternal goal, must
always be its way; it is acquainted with no other. Should it submit to any other
laws, either its free confidence would be overcome by fear, or its energy sink into
indolence. Though, like the heroic Pharisees, a man suffer martyrdom for his faith,
that is, for obedience to the law, if he has not in himself something of this sincerity
and independence of love, according to the Apostle Paul, he is nothing.
Now it is true that, in point of time, love begins in every case
only when a man experiences love. Whence the ceaseless efforts of Jesus to rouse
men to a sense of the unfailing love actually experienced by them. But, once this
dawning consciousness has done its quickening work, a man possesses life within himself. Then will his activity no longer be based, like mere
just dealing, upon regard for his own interest, which might be advanced by promoting
the welfare of others; nor upon promptings of sympathy, arising from a fellowship
already established. Once love has come into being, its operation is entirely self-determined.
It cannot accept laws from without, but from its own inner consciousness lays down
the law for itself. It is no longer dependent on an object worthy of love, as it
was at the outset, when it was first kindled, but, like God’s sun, freely and abundantly
scatters abroad its peculiar riches. To it the sublime calmness of creative power
belongs; its nature and its force are divine. Jesus teaches that this is so; and
yet He says that love, and love alone, is required of every man. The fact that Jesus
can demand it, because He knows there will spring up this free and active power
of love in those who gather round Him, and in whose lives the light now shines through
His manifestation of Himself:—this is what Redemption means for us.
In the third place, the scope of love is unlimited; its work
is never at an end. Any duty which we may hope to finish and have done with, is
not a moral duty. Those whose sole knowledge is of finite tasks, have not yet attained to the
inward life and liberty of a moral frame of mind. The accomplishment of anything
felt by love to be a duty, leads to new obligations, greater than the last. If any
man, striving after fellowship with those amongst whom he is thrown, imagines he
can set any limits to his labours, that man’s will is not yet moral in its nature.
If genuine fellowship with others is really the sole object of our will, we shall
content ourselves with nothing less than an infinite capacity for service. We shall
then be prepared for the possibility of having to disregard all boundaries whereby
our rights are fenced, if we would be able to fulfil our purpose of serving the
community. If real love is ours, we are ready for any sacrifice that may establish
a common bond of kinship between ourselves and those around us. That is the self-denial
to which we are called by Jesus; not a meaningless abandonment of our own individual
powers, but the exerting of them to the utmost, the willingness to give them all
to the great cause. What arises on this foundation is no mere “frame of mind in
fashion like a house of cards;” for where service is of this kind it is upon an
open recognition of necessity that a man is built up. If he is a Christian, he rejoices in the promise that his sacrifice
is the key to those riches of the world that quicken the heart of man to its deepest
depths.
The mind that is alive in Jesus, and that He requires of us,
is rooted and grounded in the knowledge that one thing alone is good,—a will intent
upon the fellowship of self-conscious beings,—in other words, love. This mind, in
accordance with His explanation of love, is uniform, independent, exhaustless volition.
Its crowning-point is the perception that this will is the power over all, is God.
When we have so understood the mind of Jesus and the unity of His moral ideas, we
may return to those words of His which seemed to require that we should utterly
renounce what to-day we can separate no longer from the obligations of social morality, namely, the pursuit of power and possessions.
We shall now be able, in explaining them, to avoid former errors.
Above all, a fallacy underlies the very desire to derive from
these words “the moral conceptions of Jesus.” The attempt might be permitted in the case of a confused and indolent thinker, who may
possibly be the recipient of certain inspirations containing luminous moral ideas.
But if we have at least come to know Jesus as a person full of moral clearness and vigour, it should
be obvious that in seeking His moral ideas, we must look to the unity of His mind,
before asking the question how, in relation to His whole mind, and the circumstances
of the case, such and such individual sayings are to be understood.
The particular circumstances in which the words were spoken require
careful consideration. But this does not mean, as some modern historians sometimes
contend, that it is mainly in the anticipation of the approaching end of the world
that the key is to be found to those words of Jesus which run counter to the way
of thinking common among men. We cannot, of course, deny that this expectation had
a certain amount of influence; but the characteristic note in the words of Jesus
is due above all to His intentness upon the eternal goal, whereby the verdict is
determined in the day of judgment. As a natural consequence of such intentness on
the end, it follows that no intervening objects. can be unreservedly, and so in
all sincerity, objects of the will. It ought in any case to be impossible to include
among the words explained by the idea that the end of the world was approaching,
those dealing with the love of peace. Yet they have been said to express the unapproachable exaltation with which
one who is set free from a perishing world can face his enemy; and accordingly,
not really to refer to the will to help that enemy, and establish relations with
him, in order to win him over. In like manner, the saying concerning the blow and
its requital has been explained as meaning willingness to suffer further. But such
an attitude towards an enemy or offender would, if not Merely in harmony with the
action, but actually the motive for it,—imply a lack of love. Could Jesus have been
induced to take such a view by the imminence of the end of the world, and of judgment? Such an expectation might cause Him to overlook anything else, but surely not
the judgment itself, wherein every one is condemned who has not love.
The most wide-spread and worst mistake in interpreting these
words consists in taking them all as laws, to be fulfilled in every case. That is
impossible; for they can in no way be deduced from the mind of Jesus as universal
expressions of His unchanging will. His own demeanour in His intercourse with men
shows that it was not His purpose to present in Himself such an abnormal type of
humanity, nor yet, for the sake of heaven, to make of His surroundings a barren wilderness. Had He meant these words to
be universal rules, He would have been worse than the rabbis whose teaching He opposed.
Hillel, with his scruples about the lawfulness of eating eggs laid on the Sabbath
day, would, in comparison with Jesus, have been a charitable exponent of the law.
Such a conception of the words of Jesus is possible only to those who wish to explain
His words without troubling about Him, since it is sharply opposed to the moral
consciousness of Jesus which he wished that others too should possess.
Those who, in spite of that, cling to these demands, as to rules
of universal application, have not yet asked themselves the question, What is the
way in which the mind of Jesus Himself directs us? They cease from really following
Jesus, in order that they may obey words whose bearing as words of Jesus they have
not understood. True following of Him is possible only if we become like-minded
with Him, and if, having this mind in us, and sharing his independence, we aim in
our own station, at the eternal goal. But if we are willing to obey any words we
hear, merely because they are traditional words of Jesus, even though we do not
recognise His mind, that is to say Himself, in them—by so doing, we are resisting
the person who sought to unite us with Himself, and to save us from the darkness
of self-deception.
In this matter it will be hard to give up the long-accustomed
habit of an insincere obedience; for that requires nothing beyond the reach of
our purely human powers, and makes it possible for us to be satisfied with what
we do, and rest upon our labours. On the other hand, the independent, originative,
self-sacrificing love, that really is required of us, transcends the limit of our
power. We can understand its moral necessity, and therefore we condemn ourselves
when we perceive that we have it not. Yet we cannot gain it unless those conditions
within us have been made favourable to its growth; until that has happened, the
idea of it will suggest that it would rob us of all joy and peace. If, then, we
still desire to take Christianity seriously, our obvious course is to turn aside
from that which, in its inexorable severity, is morally intelligible to us, and rather try to follow that unusual course which Jesus seemingly demands of us in many isolated
sayings. It is a device that the more readily occurs to one because of the secret
thought that the stern necessity of things will take care that such an attempt does not result in
anything more than a mere dallying with the absurd.
But that such feeble trifling has nothing to do with Christianity
is clear when we recognise that the whole force of Jesus’ soul is concentrated in
a love which is ready for any sacrifice. He who cannot summon up the will to be
like H i m in this, is none of His. He who can, on the other hand, becomes quite
indifferent to the claim that he should let himself be enslaved by what in some
of the words of Jesus seems to be incomprehensible. For he knows that, were he to
submit to such disturbance and confusion within, the effect would be disastrous; it would mean separation from Jesus Christ.
So far, however, are the words themselves from being useless,
and much less disastrous, that they are a magnificent proof of spiritual freedom
and power. Let us consider first any passages whereof the key is to be found in
expectancy of the approaching end of the world. It is such words, and the whole
attitude of Jesus upon this point, that reveal His wondrous energy. Everything dictated
by this conviction He carries out as a matter of course, and expects His disciples
to do the same. Friedrich Naumann, in his “Letters on Religion,”“Briefe
über Religion,” 1903, pp. 41-42. has
shown in an excellent way how unreasonable, as compared with this, is the attitude
of those modern Christians who feel bound to share the eschatological standpoint
of Jesus, but take good heed not to treat the things of this present world with
indifference and as though they were not likely to continue. With regard to these
utterances of Jesus, we confess that we cannot possibly comply with them, since we
do not share His conception of the universe, and so are living in a different world.
On the other hand, the mind which they reveal should be present also in us; that
is, the will really to act in accordance with our own convictions.
Among the other directions of Jesus, those again must he singled
out which refer directly to the frank and inexhaustible spirit of love, which is
alone required; or to conduct directly resulting from it, such as absolute fidelity
to bonds of matrimony, not already dissolved by the sin of one of the parties;
or, again, to conduct directly prohibited by it, as, for example, lustful desire,
or thoughts of enmity murderous in their intent. In words like these is set before
us the law that must unconditionally be obeyed, because we
perceive it to be the expression of moral necessity.
Our position, however, is different with regard to those other
words, which require us to renounce possessions and the use of force, including
law.
In using such words, Jesus wished in the first place to lead
men on to a morality that should not be content to stop short at justice. Thus he
attacks the delusion that it is possible to induce moral conduct in a man by a number
of regulations curtailing his independence. At the same time He reveals the peculiar
character of moral conduct; namely, the fact that it can be engendered only through
the free movement of a man’s own mind. All sincere action originates in the free
will of the agent; and such action alone can he understood as fulfilling the law
of love. In order, like Jesus, to insist upon conduct both loving and sincere, it
is necessary to combat the indolence that expects to find adequate guidance in what
others say. To those who, then as now, have been led by moral insincerity and slackness to look for such regulations, or to imagine they already possessed them, Jesus
addresses the words “But I say unto you.” He cannot possibly mean that His aim
is to set before them for the first time right statutes of the same kind. On the contrary,
because Jesus wishes to open the way for a right disposition within, He is intent
upon destroying the preconceived idea that such regulations could even exist, as
would be able, regarded as an external authority, to cover all and sundry occasions
of moral conduct. Therefore He demands that, instead of acting on the obvious legal
principle of retaliation, encroachments upon property protected by law should not
be resisted, but met by voluntary surrender.
Taken as a pattern for exact imitation, is that particularly
hard to follow, or not rather very much easier than the serious duties of love?
An indolent man could desire no better way of making his morality easy than by regular
obedience to such a command. It is true lie would not thereby attain to the superhuman; he would sink to the lowest depths. On the other hand, such a demand, if understood
as a general rule, is not only extremely difficult, but absolutely impossible for
any morally earnest man to fulfil. Therefore, the very men whom Jesus aimed at helping
would be obliged to reject this saying, if presented to them as a general rule.
Consequently, Jesus cannot possibly have intended it in that sense. To do so, would have been to act in opposition o His own mind.
The fact that Christians have so long overlooked this, and still occasionally seem
to forget it, may no doubt largely be due to that pious attitude which was thought
to be necessary towards the words of Jesus,— a piety that expressly abandons any
attempt to be morally earnest and sincere. When He who emancipates the conscience
speaks, people think it unnecessary to inquire how His words can be understood as
the expression of strict sincerity and earnest love; and thus Jesus, who was so
full of sincerity and love, is made responsible when people seize upon His words,
without any question as to sincerity and love, and suppose that by time-serving
they can draw nigh to Him.
By such words as these, Jesus aimed at explaining, to all who
have ears to hear, that demands may be made upon them so inexorable as to preclude
any otherwise justifiable recourse to law. They arise out of particular circumstances
wherein the disciple of Jesus has his Master with him, and the power of the mind
of Jesus is suggested by the way in which He breaks down every barrier. We hold
fast therefore to these demands, as capable at any moment of becoming practical
for us. But as rules of universal application we cannot accept them. If we tried
to obey them as general rules, we should in so doing cease to follow our Guide;
for we could not find in them the Jesus whom we know. His power and His greatness
shine forth, on the other hand, in the thought that none can be protected by his
legal rights against the claims of moral necessity.
If then the words of Jesus be understood as due to His mental
outlook, - they will not obscure the fact that the pursuit of power and possessions,
as protected by law, is a moral obligation. Unless, in particular circumstances,
love requires us to sacrifice these things, it is our moral duty to do battle for
the conditions under which we exist on earth. Those who feel that. Jesus not merely
summons them to earnest self-examination, but also hinders them in the fulfilment
of this duty, surely make Him a kind of Jewish rabbi, who would keep us in the leading-strings
of ordinances, and sustain us with something incomprehensible. Friedrich Naumann
truly says: “He who considers that conduct alone to be Christian for which he
can quote direct words of Jesus, must no longer be in favour of maintaining the
State by a system of armed force” (op. cit. p. 48). Certainly any one who thinks of Jesus as a Jewish law-giver will be able to
find a “complete Christianity only in monasticism, or in Tolstoi’s paths of anarchy.
If he cannot decide in favour of these, he must, like the Catholic laity, be content
with a semi-Christianity. In some of his statements Naumann himself seems to reach
this result. When, for example, he says, “Not all fulfilment of duty is Christian” (op. cit. p. 42), he seems to mean that our moral consciousness may lead us beyond
the limits of Christianity. In my address at Darmstadt I understood him in that
sense; and many will still take him to mean that Christianity is far too kindly
and gentle a force to co-operate in the human struggle for existence; that the
character of Jesus is made up of compassion and modesty, love and asceticism; and
that consequently lie is no leader for men who with the means given them in this
world wish to attain some definite object. Perhaps it is a good thing that Naumann,
with his incomparable gift of discovering the secret thoughts of the soul and speaking
to the hearts of men of the present day, does give the general impression that in
his own case an exceedingly rich and spiritual Christianity and resolute pursuance
of secular work are clearly distinguished. For in this way he helps to pay off an old debt, incurred, not indeed by Luther, but by Lutheranism.
We must not overlook the judgment implied in the hard sayings
wherein Jesus tells His disciples that it is necessary to renounce power and possessions.
Unless we are ready to sacrifice that which is safeguarded by the law, we are false
to our own manhood. To earn and enjoy all the gifts of civilisation is not the life
appointed for man, the life that Jesus lived, and wished to reveal to His followers.
The really free and fruitful life of the spirit prevails, not in all those forms
of civilisation whereby we seek to enchain and dominate nature, but in a self-sacrificing
love, produced in us after we ourselves have experienced an inexhaustible Love or
become conscious of God. To man, called to be free, all those other good things
are as much a menace as a help.
They are a means to life; but those who are troubled and anxious
about them are in constant danger of forgetting life itself, in their pursuit of
these means. The extent of the risk is proved by the fact that it is generally in
the State, especially in foreign policy, that the dangers of power first appear,
while those of possession become noticeable in the higher grades of finance. The
noble folly of the cry “Disarm!” would be just as much in place in the field of competition
as in that of real warfare. It is hard to say on which arena the violence is more
terrible, the suffering worse. The Christian must never forget that the results
of his labour—industrial, scientific, artistic, political—open up an abyss that
threatens to engulf his future. The only salvation for his personal life lies in
the power of his moral consciousness to impel him to something higher than all this
pomp. Where this strong attraction to the other world is missing, Christianity is
at an end. By it the difference between the Christianity possible to-day and that
of primitive times is lessened, for in this respect both must needs be alike.
At the same time, let us thank God that such distinction is not
wholly swept away. Through its existence we are detached from that which was transient
in Jesus, to be the more closely united with Him who abides for ever and ever. When
we perceive that the world in which we are placed is different from that of Jesus,
we are prevented from allowing the dead circumstances of His life on earth to hide
from us Him, the living mind, that overcame His world, as we must overcome ours.
In early Christianity there are two points or equal importance
to us,—the typical extreme of energy with which men sought another world; and an
aversion to the tasks of civilisation, such as we cannot seriously, and therefore
should not, desire. The first of these is a powerful reminder to us, but so too
is the second, and the second is far more apt than the first to be disregarded by
us. At the present time there can be few Christians who would not readily echo the
following words of Friedrich Paulsen: “Even for us who are representatives of
a modern civilisation, there would be something lacking if primitive Christianity,
with its supramundane and unsecular ideas, were to die out altogether. Christianity
mingles with the civilised life of modern nations something quite different that
keeps it within the bounds of healthy moderation; like salt it preserves it from
corruption. Since Jesus appeared on earth, a change has taken place: men can no
longer be engrossed entirely in this world. Just as for us it is possible no longer
to worship power, and deify the State or the representative of political authority,
so we have ceased to devote ourselves entirely to power and possessions, to pleasure
and to culture; in other words, we are no longer entirely satisfied by the benefits of civilisation. With Christianity
there has been implanted in the soul of the Western races of humanity a new feeling,
the feeling for another world, a world different from all that here gladdens and
saddens the hearts of men.”Deutsche Monatschrift für das gesamte Leben der Gegenwart” (German Monthly Review of Contemporary Life). October 1903, p. 126. Would that among the men of modern civilisation many
really felt this working of Jesus in themselves, and had sufficient conscientiousness
to give Him His due! At any rate, we are grateful to Paulsen for his excellent
statement of the case.My thanks are due also to several who took part in the discussion
at Darmstadt, such as Pastor Christlieb and Licentiate Weinel, as well as to Dr.
Rade for his article in the Christian World, for the way in which they insisted
on renouncement of the world as a vital cord of Christianity, and endeavoured to
supply what, in my address, they evidently felt to be lacking. They may rest assured
that I would willingly have dwelt upon the subject with as much stress as they,
but, in an address already too long, I was not able to treat of every important
matter with equal emphasis. At the same time, the point on which they lay stress
was not omitted entirely.
It is, however, even more important to ponder the meaning of
the fact presented in the distinction here drawn, and actually made in history,
between Jesus and His mode of life. Ourattitude towards the world cannot be that of Jesus; even the
purpose to will that it should be so is stifled in the air that we breathe to-day.
The state of affairs is very clearly described by Naumann, who says with truth:
“Therefore we do not seek Jesus’ advice on points connected with the management
of the State and political economy.” (Op. cit. p. 49.) But when he goes on to say: “I give my vote and I canvass for the German fleet, not because I am a Christian,
but because I am a citizen, and because I have learned to renounce all hope of finding
fundamental questions of State determined in the Sermon on the Mount,” we can detect
a fallacy. He regards as painful renunciation what ought, on the part of the Christian,
to be free decision and a voluntary act. If we have once understood the mind that
Jesus wishes to produce in us, we cannot fail to see that we must become as free
and independent as He.
As a result of that frame of mind whereby We are united with
Him, we desire the existence of a national State, with a character and with duties
with which Jesus was not yet acquainted; we will not let ourselves be led astray,
even if in this form of human nature various features are as sharply opposed to the mode of life and standpoint
of Jesus as is the dauntless use of arms. We cannot say, then, with Naumann, that,
under pressure of troubles from which no living religion is free, we renounce a
“complete Christianity.” For, after all, complete Christianity is the personal
life of discipline and freedom revealed to man in Jesus. Anything in Jesus that
we cannot understand as triumphant personal life is not for us part of a complete
Christianity, but at the very most of a bygone Christianity. The inward independence
that we gain when the good begins to work within us, is protected when we recognise
the extent to which, in many points, Jesus’ conception of the world has, by the
guidance of God, become remote from ours. This result of science and historical
research we will not deplore, for it is God’s gift to us, and if resolutely turned
to account, must put an end to much in Christianity that at present is of a sluggish
and timid character. To remove this, we must further free ourselves entirely from
the sentimental desire to adopt in our own lives even elements in Jesus which we
cannot decide to be eternal. That is a kind of relic-worship that seems to be widely
popular in the Evangelical Church, but is assuredly not in accordance with the mind of Jesus,Baumgarten, in the
Monatschrift für die kirchliche Praxis (Monthly Journal of Church Practice), 1903, p. 417, shows clearly that we lose
nothing by deciding to hold fast to that Jesus alone of Whom we can honestly say,
“The same for evermore.” I must protest against just one phrase he uses concerning
the “average man, who stands in need of a certain literal legalism.” That
we all require. though He would regard
it in a kindly way, as betokening adherence to Him, if as yet of a hazy kind.
Naumann’s full discussion of the question also suggests something
else that is necessary if we are to place in their true setting the moral directions
of Jesus,—a setting it is essential to understand if we are to make right use of
them.
Naumann says our life can never be a life wholly determined by
Christianity. It would be more correct to say that it cannot be complete as a whole,
because it can never be a life completely determined by morality. We are always
in a state of transition from the constraint of a natural existence to the freedom
of a personal life. Naumann, in his own way, describes the position admirably
(op. cit. p. 40): “Go to the Pope, to the chief Court chaplain, the monk,
the professor, the pious lady, the pious man of business, the pious peasant, the
pious beggar, the pious grey-headed wife; everywhere you will find, bound up with the spirit of surrender
and brotherly love, a natural basis of common sense, intent on the struggle for
self-preservation.” “And now what shall we say? Shall we continually deplore this
state of affairs, or simply acknowledge that it exists? Of the two courses, the
latter appears to me the more straightforward and sincere. Whatever cannot be altered,
must be clearly understood in its full bluntness, before one can be thoroughly reconciled
to it. To put it briefly, I know that, in order to live, we must all recognise as
the principle of our being, the natural conditions of the struggle for existence; and also that it is only upon this basis that we are free to realise the higher
morality of the Gospel, as far as it is possible to do so upon such a foundation” (op. cit. p. 46). “The actual circumstances of life are given quantities,
and there is but small scope to shape them freely. But it is just within this free
space that our personal ego has power to work” (op. cit. p. 50).
Here is a clear statement of a very important fact, which, to the great loss of
Evangelical Christianity in Germany, Schleiermacher failed sufficiently to
appreciate.Cf. my “Ethik” (Ethics) 2nd edition. J. C. B. Mohr, 1901,
pp. 116-122.
Naumann, however, mistakes the nature of this fact. He thinks
that in so far as we are subject to such necessity, our union with Jesus suffers; in reality we have to admit that what takes place is quite different. In what
we do under this stress of compulsion, as creatures of circumstance or children
of nature, we do not realise the good; we are not morally active. Yet as Christians
we are not thereby separated from Jesus and His God. On the contrary, we serve Him
aright if at the same time we live in the belief that by the Father of Spirits all
things are created. Thus we believe that, in the stern pressure of circumstances,
we experience fatherly care, which requires us to enter into competition with others,
as a condition of real and effective life. This belief can have no place in us if we do not train the will to do ultimately
everything in our power for the service of love, and so raise men higher and bind
them to us in genuine fellowship. Now this faith in the power of the good element
in real facts is supported and strengthened more by the fact of the Person of Jesus
in this world than by anything else. Jesus is therein our Redeemer. For it is a
case of redemption, when a man engaged in moral conflict is able with a good conscience
to take his part in the life of nature that he must share if he is to exist at all and
to any purpose. In the Words of Jesus the conception of morality, as independent
and productive love, is clearly developed; and when the goal of morality was thus
disclosed to mankind, a fact was at the same time supplied that brings within the
reach of Christians a moral existence upon earth, by leading us to faith in the
power of this love, or becoming to us a revelation of God.
To live for others of our own free will is possible only at those moments when we can feel that the eternal revelation of God, the victorious power
of love, gives us a joy which time cannot impair, nor eternity exhaust. We believe
that when men are hampered by a feeling of guilt, and uncertainty as to their fate, God has many ways of setting them free to live for others. Yet the means are ultimately always the same
that God uses: the power of personal goodness, which in its self-sacrifice humbles
and raises a man at the same time. This memorable experience of moral contact
may open our eyes to the redeeming power of Jesus. For we know no personal goodness
expressing in such spotless purity the will to sacrifice itself for us, as that
of Jesus in His Death. If we are sufficiently in earnest not to let this fact escape us, an experience will one day be granted
us which, for the individual as for the human race, is the beginning of a new life.
The sense of being forsaken during an endless night, oppressed by utter loneliness,
will cease when the wonderful figure of Jesus compels us to open our hearts. In
Him alone in all this world is given to us that pure manifestation of a power to
which we gladly unfold ourselves and unreservedly yield. This joyful trust in the
mysterious greatness of Jesus is our redemption from moral helplessness. We must
indeed ever rouse ourselves afresh, and strive to attain the peace of mind in which
this happiness may grow; and, if we do, our joy in the gift of God in Jesus Christ
will continually gain strength, and become in us a power to deal honestly with his
Words and conform to the knowledge of righteousness to which we are led by them.
Then, as the redeemed of Jesus, we shall be united with Him, and really obey His
directions. That is a simple account of the substance of the Gospel; any one may
understand it who does not shrink from the plain truth of moral facts, and has no
desire to ignore the realities around him. But we all need the Gospel; for we all
wander in darkness, isolated in our inmost being, till this light shines in our
hearts.
We must accept the directions of Jesus, neither as enforced and
arbitrary laws, nor yet as mere outbursts of emotion, but as the effulgence of His
mind. They are not cords He has wound about us, but clues to direct us to freedom.
Tf in that sense we apprehend them, we shall further perceive that the spirit that
moves within them is also that which is truly active in the life of the present
time. For the power to assert itself, that is characteristic of life, belongs particularly
to this spirit, which is bent only on serving; and the ease with which a living
force adapts itself to circumstances is found nowhere so much as in this will to
love, invariably intent upon an eternal goal. There can be no doubt as to whether
the directions of Jesus can be harmonised with the claims of social morality to-day; but it is questionable whether many as yet are able to understand them. To do
so must be difficult for men by whom Nietzsche is “falsely esteemed a philosopher”; and by whom, in their passing moods of disgust with civilisation, Tolstoi is
honoured as the prophet of a new era of moral perception. Still harder is it for
those who, possessing the Christian tradition, nevertheless are so uncertain and
confused that they seek for new revelations in Buddhism, or even in occultism. Least able, however, to
understand the true force of the moral ideas of Jesus,—the unity of His
mind,—are the numbers of religious people who are practically tied to the
principle of pharisaic morality, according to which certain rules may teach us
the nature of the good, and a will that is ready to be hound by them may be
accounted good. Yet even among all these, every one will at length understand
His thoughts, who draws so near to the person of Jesus that he is conscious of
His power to deliver, and becomes free for service as He was. May we Christians,
perceiving how little the moral clearness of Jesus has up till now been allowed
to operate among us, have our consciences stirred to discontent, and our hearts
filled with zeal!
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