CHRISTIANITY AS A PRACTICAL NECESSITY.
By DERBY
GODLINESS is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.” 1 Tim. 4:8. The rational necessity of a working theory of life, that is, for a practical basis on which to conduct both our physical and our moral or spiritual life, arises primarily from the fact of a reasoning creature, confronted by the two stupendous realities of “the life that now is,” and “the life that is to come,” being rationally bound to make provision therefor. Admitting the existence of God, the fact of a future existence of man becomes a necessary belief, flowing from the nature of God and man. And, indeed, judging from the almost uniform belief in perpetual existence beyond the grave, it may well be questioned whether it could not arise from the nature of man himself. Be this as it may, the fact that men almost without exception believe in a future, renders it their duty in the light of reason to make some provision therefor. The man who has a wife and several children, and, knowing that winter is approaching, yet makes no effort to close up the many cracks through which the weather enters his house, provides no warm clothing, lays in no stock of wood or provisions, such a man, we say, and say justly, acts like a brute. A brute has no reason, and is not expected to act rationally; but the man who acts as if he had no reason, is actually insane, or degrades himself to the level of the brute. It is a sane man’s duty to act rationally. This is the basis of pure moral science. Many other illustrations might be given pertaining to “the life that now is,” but the above will suffice. Not less brute-like is the person who makes no provision for “the life that is to come,” the certainty of which he admits. Not long ago the writer conversed on the subject of religion with a gentleman who had once been a Christian, but after being graduated from a popular university and subsequently taking a master’s degree, had concluded that all religion is “founded on a mere hypothesis,” and had given up his faith. If we are to be able to give every man a reason for the hope that is in us, as admonished by Scripture (1 Peter 3:15), this objection may well receive some attention. Let us therefore consider the reasonableness of rejecting everything that is founded on a “mere hypothesis.” Looking at the pen held in my hand, I inquire of what it is composed, and may be answered:— “And of what is gold composed?” “It is an element, and can not be further analyzed.” “But of what is it made up? Whence the mass?” “In that sense, the mass is composed of molecules.” “And molecules, what are they?” “They are masses of atoms.” “Can either of these be seen or their existence directly proved?” “They can not be seen, but neither can the mind. Their existence is shown by experiments.” “That is, by their relation to something which may affect some of our senses?” “So far, then, our knowledge of the existence of molecules and atoms is purely relative, not absolute. Is this true of all the seventy or more elements of which the whole world and all that is in it are composed?” “But further: what holds these atoms together?” “Thru what medium does cohesion work?” “Thru ether, it is supposed.” “It is conjectured to be a very rare fluid permeating all space.” “Is it composed of atoms?” “Probably it is, if our theory of matter is correct.” “By what agency are the atoms of ether held together?” “Thru what medium does the cohesion work which holds the atoms of ether together?” It is thus clearly demonstrated that our whole theory of matter, the basis of all physical science, is founded not only on knowledge purely relative, but on the unknowable (scientifically speaking), and a mere hypothesis. The absurdity of rejecting everything founded on a “mere hypothesis” becomes still further apparent when we make a few practical applications. Ask the scientist how food is converted into bone, brain, and muscle; and while he can follow it thru the digestive apparatus into the blood, in the last analysis the answer is, “It is supposed.” We must therefore refuse to believe that food sustains life, and stop eating. But surely the ridiculousness of rejecting all we can not understand needs no further amplification along the line of matter. How is it in regard to the world of mind? The existence of mind itself is known only relatively. It is known only by its relation to certain mental facts. We are conscious of thinking, feeling, and willing; but of that which thinks and feels and wills we know absolutely nothing. Is it in the nerves of the brain, or over them? Is it spirit or matter? How is it connected with brain tissue? and how does it communicate with the nerves? Every theory thus far advanced to explain these things, is a “mere hypothesis.” We must therefore refuse to think. It behooves us therefore as reasoning creatures to adopt some theory as a practical working basis. In the realm of science, a practical working theory is one which meets every practical need. The atomic theory of matter, Newton’s theory of gravitation, the undulatory theory of light, explain all the essential problems connected with these subjects, and are therefore very properly adopted as practical bases from which to work—not because they are ultimate, but because they are practical. What, then, shall we do as moral beings?—Precisely the same. And infinitely greater is our obligation to reckon with spiritual things than with material things. At a mass-meeting held in the famous Old South Church on the occasion of Lovejoy’s murder, Wendell Phillips was one of the speakers. Among other things he said:— The disputed right which provoked the Revolution,—taxation without representation,—is far beneath that for which Lovejoy died. [Confusion.] One word, gentlemen. As much as thought is better than money, so much is the cause in which Lovejoy died nobler than a mere question of taxes. James Otis thundered in this hall when the king did but touch his pocket. Imagine, if you can, his indignant eloquence had England offered to put a gag upon his lips. But infinitely above the right for which Otis thundered, infinitely above freedom of thought, for which Lovejoy died, is the question of eternal life. Our spiritual nature has needs immeasurably greater than those of our physical nature. Shall we, then, degrade the dignity of reason below the level of the brute creation, and refuse to make provision for our moral and spiritual needs? And what we need most of all is not an ideal theory of life and duty, but a practical religion, one which meets all the essential facts of our spiritual nature.4 What, then, are some of these needs? First, a revelation of the meaning and purpose of life, of the nature and destiny of man. Of these things, without a revelation, man possesses but little knowledge; all is dark. For some solution of these things we exhaust the resources of mind. The mighty glass that sweeps the sky, revealing the immensity of space, serves only to emphasize our impotence; the scalpel and the microscope lay stress upon our ignorance. We con with eager eye the accumulated wisdom of seers and sages. Like the Persian poet, we feel that— “We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the sun-illumin’d lantern held
In midnight by the master of the show.” In vain we search the sacred tomes of the nations. We scrutinize each line of the Vedas; but India, with her Vedas, gives no clew. We turn to the 325-folio volumes of the Buddhistic Tripitaka; but there is no divine explanation. We interrogate the Parsee; but his most ancient Avestas, or the Delphic oracle of Greece, offer not a satisfactory key to the great mysteries of life and death. “Into this universe, and why not knowing,
Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing,
And out of it, as wind along the waste,
We know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.” Then the philosophers come each, and explain their little guess; but it is only a guess, there is no authority. Wearied at last with all their vanities and vagaries, we are prepared to resign our search as hopeless, exclaiming, with Omar Khayyam:— “Why, all the saints and sages who discussed
Of the two worlds so wisely—they are thrust
Like foolish prophets forth; their words to scorn
Are scattered, and their mouths are stopt with dust.
“The revelations of devout and learn’d
Who rose before us, and as prophets burned,
Are all but stories, which, awoke from sleep,
They told their comrades, and to sleep returned.” These words from a heathen mind serve to illustrate the dark, vague “questionings of invisible things,” the uncertainty concerning these deep mysteries which pervade the minds of those without the light of revelation. Note the confession of awe with which he contemplates the obscurity which enshrouds death:— “Strange is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of darkness thru,
Not one returns to tell us of the road,
Which to discover we must travel too.” Vain, alas, how vain, our best endeavor, without a revelation, to solve the sphinx riddle of life, or penetrate the gloom encircling the grave! There is a pathetic illustration of the deep heart longings of mankind for authoritative utterance on these things, in the words of the old alderman in the rude heathen days of early England, when he stood up amid an assembly of the wise men of Northumbria, who had met to deliberate on the new religion brought by the Catholic missionaries, and in solemn earnestness declared:— So seems the life of man, O king, as a sparrow’s flight thru the hall when you are sitting at meat in the winter-tide, with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, but the icy rain-storm without. The sparrow flies in at one door and tarries for a moment in the light and heat of the hearth-fire, and then, flying forth from the other, vanishes into the wintry darkness whence it came. So tarries for a moment the life of man in our sight; but what is before it, what after it, we know not. If this new teaching tells us aught certainly of these, let us follow it. Thus it is shown that even the heathen mind recognizes that spiritual needs are practical needs. DERBY.