Читать книгу Outlines of a Philosophy of Religion based on Psychology and History - Auguste Sabatier - Страница 8

1. The Mystery of the Religious Life

"Thou wouldst not seek me hadst thou not already found me." In this word that Pascal heard amid his restless search, the whole mystery of piety is disclosed. If religion is the prayer of man, it may be said that revelation is the response of God, but only on condition that we add that this response is always, in germ at least, in the prayer itself.

This thought struck me like a flash of light. It was the solution of a problem that had long appeared to me to be insoluble. I had never read without a certain amount of doubt, and as an oratorical exaggeration, that promise made by Jesus to His disciples with so strange an assurance: "Ask, and it shall be given you: seek, and ye shall find: knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth: and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened" (Matt vii. 7, 8). Jesus had experienced a truth of which I am only beginning to catch sight: no prayer remains unanswered, because God to whom it is addressed is the One who has already inspired it. The search for God cannot be fruitless: for, the moment I set out to seek Him, He finds me and lays hold of me. Allow me to reflect a little longer on this mystery. I seem as if I were listening to these gospel words and promises for the first time. They sound in my ears like deep and solemn music which, bearing to me the echo of the religiously active soul of Jesus, brings succour to my own. The religious life, then, is not a fixed state; it is a movement of the soul, it is a desire, a need. The love of truth, is it not the principle of science? To love truth above all things, is not that in some way to be already in the truth? The point of departure, the inward beginning of a real righteousness, is not this repentance, that is to say the pain of not being righteous? I understand now why the Christ has made humility and confidence the sole conditions of entrance to His kingdom, why His Word has made riches spring from poverty, health from sickness, and satisfaction from the very intensity of need. Secret of the gospel, mysterious laws of spirit, pure moral essence of the kingdom of God, paradoxes which disconcert the man immersed in the ideas of the life of sense and self, but which contain the highest realities of moral life, reveal yourselves with ever-growing clearness to my consciousness, since, for me, on this first revelation all the rest depend!

I turn to another thought of Pascal. "Piety," he says, "is God sensible to the heart." If so, it is evident that in all piety there is some positive manifestation of God. The ideas of religion and revelation are therefore correlative and religiously inseparable. Religion is simply the subjective revelation of God in man, and revelation is religion objective in God. It is the relation of subject and object, of effect and cause, organically united; it is one and the same psychological phenomenon, which can neither subsist nor be produced save by their conjunction. It is as impossible to isolate as it is to confound them.

I conceive therefore that revelation is as universal as religion itself, that it descends as low, goes as far, ascends as high, and accompanies it always. No form of piety is empty; no religion is absolutely false; no prayer is vain. Once more, revelation is in prayer and progresses with prayer. From a revelation obtained in a first prayer is born a purer prayer, and from this a higher revelation. Thus light grows with life, truth with piety. This makes it possible for me to enter into communion and sympathy with all sincerely religious souls, however simple and however crude or gross their worship and their faith; but if I can comprehend them, I cannot always speak their language or share their ideas. All religions are not equally good, nor are all prayers acceptable to my consciousness. To return to exploded superstitions or to beliefs now recognised to be illusory is as much a moral impossibility as it would be for a full-grown man to return to the puerilities of his childhood. Revelation therefore is not a communication once for all of immutable doctrines which only need to be held fast. The object of the revelation of God can only be God Himself, and if a definition must be given of it, it may be said to consist of the creation, the purification, and the progressive clearness of the consciousness of God in man,—in the individual and in the race.

From this point of view, I see very clearly that the revelation of God never needs to be proved to any one. The attempt would be as contradictory as it is superfluous. Two things are equally impossible: for an irreligious man to discover a divine revelation in a faith he does not share, or for a truly pious man not to find one in the religion he has espoused and which lives in his heart. With what, moreover, and how could it be proved that light shines except by forcing those who are asleep to awake and open their eyes? All serious Apologetics must insist as a necessary starting-point on the awakening and conversion of the soul.

Having always been religious, mankind has never been destitute of revelation, that is to say of witness more or less obscure, more or less correctly interpreted, of the presence in it and the action of God. But if men have always maintained some relation and some commerce with the deity, they have not always represented in the same manner the mode in which communications have been received from Him. The notion of revelation has progressed with the growth of mental enlightenment and with the nature of the piety. It is therefore necessary to criticise that notion and to see what it has now become for us. It is to this examination that I shall devote this second meditation. The idea of revelation has passed through three phases in the course of history: the mythological, the dogmatic, and the critical.

2. The Mythological Notion of Revelation

Among the faculties of man, the first to awaken in the mental life of the child and of the savage is the imagination. All literatures begin with chants, all histories with legends, and all religions with myths or symbols. Poetry always makes its appearance before prose. One can only see the effect of an inveterate rationalism in the promptitude with which men are scandalised at any attempt to point out in the Bible or around the cradle of Christianity legends and myths serving as sacred vehicles for the purest and sublimest religious revelations, as if the divine Spirit, in order to be intelligible to the simple and the ignorant, could not as well avail Himself of the fictions of poetry as of logical reasonings, of the chants of the angels at Bethlehem as of the rabbinical exegesis and argumentations of the Apostle Paul. A myth is false in appearance only. When the heart was pure and sincere the veils of fable always allowed the face of truth to shine through. And why so much disdain? Does not childhood run on into maturity and old age? What are our most abstract ideas but primitive metaphors which have been worn and thinned by usage and reflection?

It is none the less true, as St. Paul says, that in advancing in age we have left behind the speech and thought of infancy. The first men did not know how to distinguish between the substance and the form of their beliefs. This distinction has become easy to us. The most conservative minds can no longer read the stories or the monuments of the ancient religions without criticising and translating them.

The men of other times, timid and ingenuous as children, saw everywhere material signs by which they believed the will of the gods was manifested. They early formed the art of divination—an essentially religious art. It is found among all peoples, the ancient Hebrews not excepted. The thunder was to them the voice of God. They consulted Him by the Urim and Thummim, and by the sacred ephod. They did not doubt, any more than the Greeks, either the divine origin or the prophetic sense of dreams. Elsewhere they evoked the dead, they interrogated the flight of birds, they listened to the sound of the wind in the foliage of the oaks, or to the noise of waters in sonorous caverns. That was an external and, in some sort, physical conception of revelation, from which modern peoples have escaped, but with which all set out.

In the oldest traditions of Hebraism, God speaks to Adam, to Noah, to Abraham, to Moses, as one man speaks to another, by articulate sounds perceived by the ear. The sacred formula, Thus saith the Lord, serves as the uniform introduction to civil, political, and ritual, as well as to moral and religious, laws. Religion then embraced and regulated all the life. The great empires of antiquity all claim a divine origin. As to ancient legislations, there is not one that is not said to have come from heaven. The Egyptians refer theirs to the god Thoth or Hermes; Minos, in Crete, is said to have received his laws from Jupiter; Lycurgus, in Sparta, from Apollo; Zoroaster, in Persia, from Ahura Mazda; Numa Pompilius, at Rome, from the nymph Egeria. Moses does not stand alone. I am not here comparing the value of the things; I am simply pointing out the identity of the representations.

Nor was it only religious and political institutions that they referred to the will of the gods; they referred to it all kinds of decisions and enterprises; declarations of war, raids to make, the order of battle, the extermination of the vanquished, the sharing of the spoils, conditions of peace, expiations to be made; everything was done in obedience to supernatural orders the authenticity of which no one thought of discussing. In the same way, a divine inspiration explained the gift of predicting the future, the eloquence of orators, the sagacity of statesmen, the genius of great soldiers, the verve of poets, and even the skill of the more famous artisans. "Legends!" it is said. No doubt. But these legends are universal. Men speak everywhere the same language, because everywhere they think in the same fashion.

A great progress, however, is accomplished in Israel. The notion of revelation gradually becomes interior and moral. Among the prophets, revelation is conceived of as the action of the Spirit of Jehovah entering and acting in the spirit of man. It is true that the mythical conception still persists and betrays itself in this: divine inspiration is represented as the invasion of a human being by another being alien to him,—as a sort of mental alienation or possession. The divine Spirit is represented as a force which comes from without, a wind from above which no one can resist, of which the elect are as much the victims as the organs. Its action is measured by the agitation and commotion of the inspired, by the disorder of their faculties, by the incoherence of their gestures and their speech. The delirium of man becomes the sign of the presence of God. Madmen, valetudinarians, epileptics, are regarded almost everywhere as the favourites of Heaven. Their strange words or acts men believe to be divine oracles delivered unconsciously and against the will.

This violent opposition between the supernatural action of the divine Spirit and the normal exercise of rational faculties is gradually attenuated in the course of the ages. It is easy to see that in the great prophets of Israel the formula Thus saith the Lord, while still frequent and still expressing the same subjective certitude of inspiration, has become a simple rhetorical form. God speaks henceforth to His people by their eloquence, by their faith, by their genius. "The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me," cries the second Isaiah; "because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings to the meek," etc. (Is. lxi. 1-3).

This evolution appears to have been completed in the soul of Christ. Here inspiration ceases to be miraculous without ceasing to be supernatural. It is no longer produced by fits and starts or intermittently. An ancient gospel ("The Gospel of the Hebrews") admirably marks this change. At the moment of His baptism the Holy Spirit says to Jesus: Mi fili, te exspectabam in omnibus prophetis, ut venires et requiescerem in te. Tu enim es requies mea. (My Son, in all the prophets I awaited Thy coming in order that I might repose in Thee. Thou art indeed my rest.)

Being continuous, the inspiration becomes normal. The ancient conflict between the divine Spirit and the human vanishes. The immanent and constant action of the one manifests itself in the regular and fruitful action of the other. God lives and works in man, man lives and works in God. Religion and Nature, the voice divine and the voice of conscience, the subject and the object of revelation, penetrate each other and become one. The supreme revelation of God shines forth in the highest of all consciousnesses and the loveliest of human lives.

This progress, is it not admirable? Should it not strike the attention all the more inasmuch as, instead of being the effect of rational criticism, it is, in Christianity, exclusively the work of piety? This, become more profound, has conquered the ancient antithesis created by the ignorance of early times. Divesting itself more and more of foreign and inferior elements, the idea of revelation has been found to be more human as it has become more inward, more constant, more strictly moral and religious. Christ has not given us a critical theory of revelation; He has done what is better; He has given us revelation itself—a perfect and permanent revelation; He presents God and man to us so intimately united in all the acts and moments of His inner life, that they become inseparable. The Father acts in His Son, and the Son reveals the Father to all who wish to know Him.

Though he still retained many remnants of the ancient mythological notion (visions, dreams, ecstasies, delirium of tongues), the Apostle Paul seized with energy the distinguishing characteristic of the Christian revelation, and propounded the theory of it with a sacred boldness. That theory consists in the effusion and habitation of the Holy Spirit in the souls of Christians who, in their turn, become "children of God," and enjoy, by this Spirit, the same direct and permanent communion with the Father. This Spirit is no longer an alien guest or a perturbing force; He becomes in us a second nature. That is why the Christian is set free from all the old tutelages; he judges everything and is judged by nothing; he has his law within himself, so that from this inspiration springs his autonomy and his liberty.

But neither this spiritual piety nor the lofty conception which flows from it could long be sustained. Preoccupied in founding its authority, and only being able to succeed in it by returning to the idea of an external revelation, the Catholic Church made it to consist chiefly in rules and dogmas, and, by this change, it naturally transformed the mythological notion of revelation into a dogmatic notion not essentially different.

3. Dogmatic Notion

"The Greeks," said Paul, "seek philosophy; the Jews demand miracles." From these two tendencies combined, from Greek rationalism and Hebrew supernaturalism, sprang the new notion that may be summed up and defined thus: a divine doctrine legitimated by divine signs or miracles.

These two elements of the theory are mutually dependent, and form an indivisible whole. Given to man in a supernatural way, the doctrine surpasses the reach of the human understanding; hence it must not be imposed upon the mind by its own evidence or examined by natural reason. The supernatural doctrine demands supernatural proof. This proof can only be found in the miracles which have accompanied the doctrine from its birth. Thus mysteries, incomprehensible in the order of reason, will necessarily be established by inexplicable events in the order of Nature.

The theory, in this way, becomes coherent, but it is not complete. A third term must be added. The divine doctrine must be embodied in a form which distinguishes it from all others, and placed under an authority that guarantees it. For Protestantism, the form and the authority of revelation is—the Bible; for Catholicism, it is the Bible sovereignly interpreted by the Church. The scholastic notion of revelation is now complete. The doctors teach us to distinguish three things in it: the object, which is dogma; the form, which is Scripture; and the proof or criterion, which is miracle. This construction appears to be compact in all its parts; in reality it is so fragile and so artificial that it crumbles at a touch.

To make of dogma, that is to say of an intellectual datum, the object of revelation is, in the first place, to eliminate from it its religious character by separating it from piety, and in the next place it is to place it in permanent and irreconcilable conflict with the reason, which is always progressing. In vain do they appear to deduce this scholastic theory from the Bible; it is simply an unfaithful translation of the Biblical notion. They tear up from the soil of the religious life the revelation of God in order to constitute it into a body of supernatural verities, subsisting by itself, to which they make it an obligation and a merit to adhere, silencing, if needs be, both the judgment and the conscience. Faith, which, in the Bible, was an act of confidence and consecration to God, becomes an intellectual adherence to an historical testimony or to a doctrinal formula. A mortal dualism starts up in religion. It is admitted that orthodoxy may exist apart from piety, that a man may obtain and possess the object of faith apart from the conditions that faith presupposes, and, at a push, serve divine truth while inwardly an unbeliever and a reprobate. Get rid of this illusion, frivolous and irreligious man! Whatever your authorities in earth or heaven, you are not in the truth, because you are not in piety. God has not spoken anything to you. To the prophets He has spoken, doubtless, and to Christ and the apostles and the saints; to you He still remains a stranger and unknown. His revelation has not been to you a light, for you are walking in darkness. You are like the Jews who built the tombs of the prophets and crowned their memory with empty honours. Had you been living in the time of the men of God, you would have been the first to stone them.

This idea of revelation is at bottom entirely pagan. In the region of authentic Christianity you cannot separate the revealing act of God from His redeeming and sanctifying action. God does not enlighten, on the contrary He blinds those whom He does not save or sanctify. Let us boldly conclude, therefore, against all traditional orthodoxies, that the object of the revelation of God could only be God Himself, that is to say the sense of His presence in us, awakening our soul to the life of righteousness and love. When the word of God does not give us life, it gives us nothing. It is true that that presence and that action of the divine Spirit in our hearts become in them a light whose rays illumine all the faculties of the soul. But do not hope to enjoy that light apart from the central sun from which it flows.

The scholastic notion is not only irreligious; it is anti-psychological. In entering the human understanding this supernatural knowledge introduces into it a hopeless dualism. The sacred sciences are set up alongside the profane sciences without its being possible to organise them together into a coherent and harmonious body, for they are not of the same nature, they do not proceed from the same method, they do not accept the same control. You have thus a sacred cosmogony and a profane cosmogony, a sacred history of the origins of man and a purely human history of his beginnings, and of his first adventures, a divine metaphysic and another purely rational. How to make them live together and unite them? If, by a subtle theology, you succeed in rationalising dogma, do you not see that you destroy it in its very essence? If you demonstrate that it is essentially irrational, do you not feel that you are instituting an endless warfare between the authority of dogma and the authority of reason? One remembers the generous attempt of mediæval scholasticism, taken up again by the Protestant theologians of the seventeenth century, and one has not forgotten its twice fatal issue. One would need to have no notion of the laws of human thought to be astonished at it. Nominalism in the fifteenth century and rationalism in the eighteenth were the two natural heirs of orthodoxy.

The intervention of miracle as a criterion or proof of doctrine does not remove the difficulties of the theory; it multiplies and aggravates them. In consequence of the lapse of time, the incertitude of the documents, and the demands of modern thought, miracle, which formerly established the truth of religion, has become much more difficult to demonstrate than religion itself. The relation between the two has been reversed. The foundation of the edifice has become more ruinous than the building. Examples? Consider, then, on the one hand, the Decalogue, and on the other the thunders and lightnings of Sinai. Peals of thunder may have served to convince the Hebrews that the law of Moses came from the Eternal; for they looked upon thunder as revealing the presence, in some sort material and local, of their God. But who does not see that it is much easier to-day to prove the excellence and the truth of the Ten Words of the Law than the divine character of the most terrible of tempests? Make the opposite experiment: you are familiar with the Books of Joshua, Judges, Kings. You have read in them those orders issued by Jehovah for the total extermination of peoples whose crime was the defence of their country against the invaders. Prodigies abound in them: the walls of Jericho fall down at the sound of trumpets, etc., etc. Are these events sufficient to warrant us in admitting the affirmation of the Hebrew historian that these terrible reprisals, these crimes and violences, which were then common in all the Semitic tribes, were commanded either by the heavenly Father of Jesus Christ or by the impartial God of the universe? Our conscience resists and protests. Prodigies the most brilliant cannot make it do violence to itself or bend the law of righteousness and love beneath any manifestation, however striking, of brute force. Let us go further; let us come to the miracles of Christ. Let us interrogate the best Christians of our time: let us ask ourselves, Is it the cures that Jesus wrought which make us believe to-day in the divine truth of His word or which give authority to the Sermon on the Mount? Is it not rather the Gospel that helps us to believe in the miracles by persuading us that a man who spake like this man must have been able to do things and work works as beautiful and as wonderful as the words which He spoke? The most conservative Apologists of the traditional school confess to-day that miracle has lost its evidential force; it might move those who witnessed it, but its action and its prestige have necessarily been diminishing day by day for the generations which have followed them.

What if we were to press the idea of miracle itself which is in process of vanishing in proportion as the idea of Nature is transformed? What is Nature? Who knows its secrets and its limits? The theory of the evolution of things and beings, does it not show Nature to us as in travail, and as if perpetually giving birth to marvels? And if this creative energy which is in it can only religiously be referred to the constant activity of God in the universe and in history, how can we still oppose the laws of Nature to the will of God? Moreover, nothing is to-day more indeterminate, more impossible to define than the notion of miracle; it floats without ever being able to fix itself, between the idea of an absolute violation of the laws of Nature now no longer witnessed anywhere, to that entirely relative one of an extraordinary event, which, seeing that it may be encountered everywhere, no longer proves anything.

Lastly, if from the object and the criterion of revelation, we pass to the form which conserves and warrants it, i.e. to the Bible, questions become still more numerous and insoluble. In the seventeenth century the notion of the Bible and that of revelation were coincident and commensurate. But this identity depended upon two dogmas much impaired to-day. The one was the divine origin of the two Biblical Canons, i.e. of the Old and New Testaments: the other, the verbal inspiration of all holy Scripture, considered as divinely dictated.

History and exegesis have dissipated the illusions and the ignorance on which these two strange affirmations rested. The Bible appears to us as the work, slowly and laboriously constructed, of the ancient Jewish Synagogue, and of the Early Christian Church. It needed more than four centuries to establish and to delimitate the New Testament. The books which compose it were still in the time of Eusebius divided into two classes: books admitted everywhere and books contested. Why then should we not have the same liberty as Origen of doubting the authenticity of 2 Peter, e.g., or as Denis of Alexandria in discussing the apostolic origin of the Apocalypse? As to the theory of verbal inspiration, which makes the sacred writers God's penmen merely, no savant nowadays can defend it, so thoroughly have biblical studies set forth the personal originality of each of them, and the merits or the imperfections of their works. Moreover, the distinction clearly made in all the schools between the sacred writings and revelation must be considered as an inalienable conquest of modern theology. There is no one now who does not admit this truth, which would have seemed intolerable to our fathers, namely, that the word of God is in the Bible, but that all the Bible is not the word of God.

If this be so one sees new questions surging up and awaiting solution. What is the relation of the word of God to the Bible? By what sign may we recognise the first and distinguish the second? Further, if there be any word of God outside the Bible, if there has been any revelation of God beyond the limits of the Hebrew people and primitive Christianity—and how can we deny this without denying the worth of religion?—what relation is there to establish, and what synthesis to make, between the biblical revelation and the other revelations suited to the various human families? Lastly, what place does the religion of Jesus occupy in the religious evolution of humanity? Modern theology seems deaf to these questions. Despairing of a solution, it hesitates to approach them. But they must be answered. Contemporary philosophy presses them upon the conscience of Christians. The scholastic theory, it is clear, cannot bring any solution to these new problems. As soon as the distinction is made in our consciousness between the word of God and the letter of holy Scripture, the first becomes independent of all human form and of all external guarantee. It is with it as with the light of the sun. It is only recognised by the brightness with which it floods us. But take care to introduce this criterion of religious and moral evidence into the scholastic theory is to deposit an explosive in the heart of it which shatters it to atoms.... I leave to others the task of masking or repairing the ruins. A task more urgent and more fruitful awaits us. We must build up, on a new principle, a new theory of revelation, a theory that will at once bear the test of criticism and give satisfaction to piety.