Christianity and Problems of To-day: Lectures Delivered Before Lake Forest College on the Foundation of the Late William Bross

What shall be said of these contrasted views? I think first of all we must say that the issue is confused by an ambiguity lurking in the terms employed. And this is no new thing. It is, in fact, one of the curiosities of our human warfare that the most bitter disputes on the most fundamental questions often go round about in a circle because the two parties to the dispute do not see that the same word may be used in different senses. So it is certainly of content and discontent; and a man’s attitude may very well be determined by his understanding or misunderstanding of the double meaning of these words. Cardinal Newman, perhaps the keenest psychological analyst of the past century, has insisted on this distinction in one of his sermons:

To be out of conceit with our lot in life is no high feeling—it is discontent or ambition; but to be out of conceit with the ordinary way of viewing our lot, with the ordinary thoughts and feelings of mankind is nothing but to be a Christian. This is the difference between worldly ambition and heavenly. It is a heavenly ambition which prompts us to soar above the vulgar and ordinary motives and tastes of the world, the while we abide in our calling; like our Saviour who, though the Son of God and partaking of His Father’s fulness, yet all His youth long was obedient to His earthly parents, and learned a humble trade. But it is a sordid, narrow, miserable ambition to attempt to leave our earthly lot; to be wearied or ashamed of what we are, to hanker after greatness of station, or novelty of life. However, the multitude of men go neither in the one way nor the other; they neither have the high ambition nor the low ambition.

If that sounds oversubtle, or if the preacher’s assumptions seem to beg the question, let us drop the pulpit jargon and look at the distinction as it works out practically in the lives of two highly useful members of society, the plumber and the college president. Suppose a plumber is called into your house on a raw day of January to tinker up a disordered pipe in the cellar. Probably that plumber is discontented; indeed, I cannot imagine how a plumber can be anything but discontented. Nevertheless, his discontent may be either one of two very different sorts. He may be grumbling to himself because he has to work at a cold and dirty job, while you are enjoying your newspaper up-stairs over a warm and cosey fire. In that case his discontent may take itself out in slighting his task and wasting your time and lengthening his bill. These things are said to happen. And he may even carry his discontent into a view of the organization of society which expresses itself in very hardy politics. But suppose now that his discontent takes another form. Imagine him content with his lot as a plumber, even proud of it, but dissatisfied with the common reproach of slackness and extortion, ambitious to excel in his profession. I do not cite such a plumber as a probability; but all things are possible in a Bross lecture. At any rate, such a paragon would be worthy of succeeding to that famous chair of the Harvard faculty once occupied by a gentleman whom the trustees hired as the Plumber professor of Christianity, but whom the undergraduates irreverently dubbed the Christian professor of plumbing.

And so the other end of the scale, the college president. He too is said sometimes to be discontented; and again his discontent may assume either one of two forms. He may be ambitious of size and réclame for his institution, and may measure his dignity by the number of students over whom he presides. His alumni are likely to encourage him in this, and I have myself known the head of an ancient university in the East who used to scan the catalogues of the great Western institutions year by year with bitter jealousy and heart-burning as their register of students gradually approached his own, and then shot beyond it. Inevitably such discontent leads to a lowering of standards, mitigated by the pious belief that that form of education is noblest which is desired by, and accessible to, the largest number of paying candidates. Thus a debasement of education becomes identified in his mind with social service. But one can imagine another kind of discontent, which should pursue just the opposite course. Its standard would be qualitative, not quantitative, and it would fear the temptation of size, not the murmurs of ambitious alumni. It would look for its reward not in a swelling registration or spreading houses or additional courses of study, but to its success in attracting the better minds and the stronger characters and in directing these in the narrow and tried paths. It might even go so far—though this is confessedly a fairy-tale—as to lay a rough, restraining hand on that most corrupting nurse of materialism in our schools, professional athletics.

However it may be with the plumber and the college president, clearly these words, content and discontent, are replete with ambiguity; they are consequences rather than motives of conduct, and we cannot safely argue upon them until we lave looked more closely into the springs of action which control respectively the religious and the natural life. And here I must beg you to indulge me in a bit of pedantry. Our English speech, with all its practical efficiency, has never developed a very precise ethical terminology, and so to get at the distinction I have in mind I am going to ask you to consider two rather outlandish-sounding Greek words which were much in use among the early moralists of our era. One of them is tapeinophrosynê, the other is pleonexia.

Tapeinophrosynê is a compound word, meaning primarily lowness of mind; it embraces the idea of humility and meekness, but neither of these conveys its full significance. St. Paul uses it in the Epistle to the Ephesians, where it is translated specifically “lowliness,” but its force really runs through the whole passage: “I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called, with all lowliness (tapeinophrosynê) and meekness, with long-suffering, forbearing one another in love; endeavoring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Paul had in mind the saying of Christ recorded in the Gospel of Matthew, where an equivalent phrase is rendered “lowly in heart”: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” And the first of the Beatitudes contains the same idea in slightly different language: “Blessed are the poor in spirit (i.e., the lowly in heart), for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” This, then, is the virtue, or, rather, as Chrysostom calls it, the mother of the virtues, which was upheld by the fathers, without exception one might almost say, as the basis of Christian character and the motive of religious living—tapeinophrosynê. And the result of such a virtue, as it works itself out through character into content and discontent, is readily seen. It lays the axe at the very root of that restlessness, that uneasy ambition, that natural instinct of jealousy, that covetousness forbidden in the Tenth Commandment. It goes even further than that. You may have observed that the blessing bestowed in Matthew on the “poor in spirit,” in Luke is directed simply to the “poor,” or “beggars,” as the word might be translated. Now Luke, it is fair to say, introduced a disturbing element into religion by his habit of giving this materialistic turn to spiritual graces. But it remains true, nevertheless, that this glorification—the word is scarcely too strong—of poverty, or at least of the freedom from material possessions, as in itself a state of blessedness, is a note not only of all the Gospels but of most of the other great religious books that have moved the world. Always Chrysostom, to refer again to the model Christian preacher, connects humility with the twin virtue of charity. And charity, as he commends it, is not so much an act of giving out of sympathy for the sufferings of the needy and downtrodden—though this feeling is not absent—as it is a voluntary act of surrendering our worldly possessions in the belief that in themselves they may be a snare to the spirit. For Chrysostom, in a very literal sense of the word, it was more blessed to give than to receive. If religion suffered discontent to abide in the heart of a man, it would not be because he owned too few of this world’s goods, or felt humiliated by his relative rank in society, but because the world was too much with him. For true content he should look to treasures laid up elsewhere and to riches that the eye of the flesh could not count.

So much for the religious motive of humility. Pleonexia, the driving force of the natural man, might be defined as its exact opposite. Etymologically, as an ethical term, pleonexia means simply the reaching out to grasp ever more and more, whether this impulse show itself in the grosser appetite for possessions, or in the ambition to overtop others in rank and honors, or in that universal craving which Hobbes regarded as the state of nature: “A general inclination of all mankind, a perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceaseth only in death.” To call this the natural state of man might seem to involve a libel against both nature and man, but by natural, as you see, is meant only the condition of mankind if all those restraints were excluded which we have defined as religious. And such a liberty has never lacked its advocates as being not only the natural but the rational, even the ideal rule of conduct. It would be easy to prove this by abundant citations from modern writers; indeed, the name of Nietzsche leaps to one’s lips; but as I have already trespassed on your patience by the introduction of Greek terms into my definitions, I will presume further by going for my illustrations to the people who coined the expression. In one of the dialogues of Plato, then, you may hear a respectable citizen of Athens rebuking Socrates for his fantastic notions of conduct, and arguing for what was really the popular code of morality:

The makers of laws are the many weak; and they make laws and distribute praises and censures with a view to themselves and to their own interests; and they terrify the mightier sort of men, and those who are able to get the better of them, in order that they may not get the better of them; and they say that dishonesty is shameful and unjust; meaning, when they speak of injustice, the desire to have more (pleon echein) than their neighbors, for knowing their own inferiority they are only too glad of equality.... I plainly assert that he who would truly live ought to allow his desires to wax to the uttermost, and not to chastise them; but when they have grown to their greatest he should have courage and intelligence to minister to them and to satisfy all his longings. And this I affirm to be natural justice and nobility. But the many cannot do so; and, therefore, they blame such persons, because they are ashamed of their own inability, which they desire to conceal, and hence they say that intemperance is base.

This is manifestly the Hobbian view of the natural state of man, thought out long before Hobbes, not to mention the naturalists of our own day. And it was not theory only, but practice. Turn to Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War, which Hobbes translated, and from which, though this is not generally known, Hobbes borrowed the principles that stirred up the seventeenth century as Nietzsche troubled the nineteenth. Read there the famous debate between the envoys of Athens and the magistrates of Melos. The Athenians are advising the Melians, whose racial affinity was with Sparta, to submit their city to the empire of Athens; and to the Melians’ argument from justice they reply with cold-blooded candor:

“We tell you this, that we are here now both to enlarge our own dominions and also to confer about the saving of your city....” “But will you not accept?” plead the Melians, “that we remain quiet, and be your friends (whereas before we were your enemies), and take part with neither.” “No,” reply the Athenians, “for your enmity doth not so much hurt us as your friendship would be an argument of our weakness, and your hatred of our power, amongst those whom we bear rule over.... As for the favor of the gods, we expect to have it as well as you; for we neither do nor require anything contrary to what mankind hath decreed either concerning the worship of the gods or concerning themselves. For of the gods we think according to the common opinion; and of men that for certain, by necessity of nature, they will everywhere reign over such as they be too strong for. Neither did we make this law, nor are we the first that use it made, but as we found it, and shall leave it to posterity forever, so also we use it.”

Such was the philosophy of the natural man in ancient Greece, and such is the philosophy of the natural man to-day, however it may be disguised and glossed over; it is based on the instinctive motive of pleonexia, the “perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceaseth only in death.” I need not dwell on the kind of discontent it begets in the soul, a discontent intrinsically and totally opposite to that which accompanies the purely religious motive.

But you will say that these principles of conduct and the feelings that go with them are mere abstractions, fictions of the analytical reason; no man is, or can be, purely religious as I have defined the term, or purely naturalistic. And that is true, is in fact the point at which I am aiming. On the one hand, no man can utterly uproot the natural impulses out of his soul; and if a few men in a generation approach anywhere near it, the saints and martyrs and lonely sages, they are by their virtues cut off from the common life of mankind. Were all men, or even a considerable proportion of men, at any time to overcome the natural discontent that drives us on to seek greater possessions and higher honors and more power, then, surely, all ambition and invention would die, the wheels of progress would slacken and stop, civilization would fail, and society would sink back into barbarism, so far at least as we measure civilization and barbarism by physical standards. Such would be the issue of “content, the bane of industry.”

On the other hand, it will be said, and by none more loudly than by the champions of sentimental naturalism who belong to Mr. Dewey’s school, that the picture of the man controlled by the “perpetual and restless desire of power,” and by that alone, is a pure caricature of human nature. Even a Napoleon, they will say, who might stand for the model of such a monstrosity, yet had thought for the glory of his land, and was a great reformer of laws and institutions. So, too, the Athenian envoys in Thucydides, cynical as were their confessions of the desire of power to rule their own people and all peoples, nevertheless were compelled to mix some honey in their gall, and tried to persuade the Melians that the hegemony of Athens would be prudently exercised and would promote the well-being of her subject states.

Such an objection we readily grant. It is perfectly true that the creature in whom the instinct of greed and the lust of power should reign without modification or mitigation would be no man at all, but a ravening beast of prey. Both the religious man and the natural man, as I have portrayed them, are avowedly abstractions, at least to the extent that no society could exist if composed of either type in its purity. They are abstractions, but they are made such by abstracting one of the two contrasted impulses that do reign together in virtually every human breast, and by showing what would result if one of these impulses were so allowed an unhampered sway over a man’s conduct. And now and then, in some rare individual, the one or the other of these types has been realized almost in its purity, the religious type in a St. Francis of Assisi, with his ideals of poverty and chastity and obedience, the natural type, if not in a Napoleon or an Alexander, yet in certain notorious criminals who have raged through life with the ferocity of a starving wolf.

The truth we must recognize is that both these motives exist in the human heart, and that the conduct of man, not as the saint would see him in the cloister nor as the evolutionist would see him in the jungle, but as we see him in the market-place and the theatre and the courts and the home—that the conduct of man is a resultant from these two contrary impulsions.

Now, it is fair to say that religion has always recognized the legitimacy of another standard of life besides the one peculiarly its own. It has seen clearly that the ideal of poverty and chastity and obedience, which would uproot altogether the natural instincts, is possible for very few men, and that the attempt to enforce such a standard absolutely on society at large would result in a world of hypocrisies, if it did not actually run counter to the command of the Creator. So the Christian Church, even in its most ascetic days, admitted that property and marriage and prestige were the normal condition of life; and Buddhism drew up two distinct tables of law, one for the religious state pure and simple, the other for the mass of mankind who are engaged in practical affairs. But both Christianity and Buddhism held that the natural instincts were ruinous if left to themselves, and that they became salutary instruments of welfare only when limited and softened and illuminated by a law not of themselves.

On the contrary, it is of the very essence of naturalism that it should admit no standard but its own. To a naturalist and materialist of the true type all the ideal philosophy of the past, with the religion which grows out of it, is a lying cheat of the imagination and corresponds to nothing real in the nature of things; its peace is a pitiful sham cherished by those who are too cowardly to face the facts; its promise to mitigate the harsher passions of greed is only a cunning pretext devised to blind the dispossessed of their rights and to fortify the owners of wealth and power in the unmolested enjoyment of their criminal advantages. From the very beginning the double standard of things spiritual and material has been the foe of progress, and only then will justice and peace and prosperity prevail, when the deceptions of priest and philosopher are swept away and our vision of material values, as known to the scientist in his laboratory and to the blacksmith at his forge, is not confused by false lights. This, I repeat, is no caricature of the sort of naturalistic pragmatism that is sweeping over the world.

I would not imply that all these enemies of religion, or even those of them who are most influential to-day, are conscious advocates of a pitiless egotism or believe that the repudiation of religion would throw mankind into that anarchy of internecine warfare which Hobbes described as the state of nature, or which Nietzsche glorified as the battle-field of the superman. It is rather the mark of modern naturalism that it is plastered up and down, swathed and swaddled, masked and disguised, with sentimentalisms. A Dewey, for instance, wields his influence over the young and troubled minds of our generation because he stands forth as a reformer with a precious panacea for the calamities of history. It is the dream of another realm, such reformers declare, that has riveted upon us the chains of lethargy and despair; shatter these, let men become aware of their real nature, let them see that the only truth is to recognize this life as all they have, and that their only hope of happiness is to get together and increase the physical comforts of existence—let this once come to pass, and at last a peace born of universal benevolence will settle down upon this long-vexed planet. Sympathy, they maintain, is a natural instinct of the heart, as surely as the lust of power and possessions; rather, it is the genuine basis of nature, and of itself will control the other natural instincts if unhampered by false ideals. That is a pretty faith; but is it true? No doubt the human heart is swayed by sympathy and benevolence; but are these the qualities of the natural man? I will not go into the answer given to this question by the religious minds from Plato down to Cardinal Newman, who all with one accord assert that sympathy and benevolence of an active sort do not spring up from the soil of nature, but result from the reaching down, so to speak, of a higher principle into the lusts of the flesh. They all maintain, with one voice, that the only effective bond of union, whether it be of friendship or of society, is through our perception of oneness in the spirit. Mercy droppeth down as a gentle dew from heaven. I will not argue from this thesis, because it would carry us into the brier patch of metaphysics. But history and science both would seem to enforce the bitter conviction that at the best the instinct of natural sympathy is a fragile and treacherous support against the assaults of a restless and perpetual desire of power. Greece learnt this, to her frightful ruin, when she followed the law of nature as avowed by the Athenians at Melos; and to-day we have rediscovered it in the same desolation of war. That, I fear, is the lesson of history. And science has no different lesson. Indeed, by the natural man I would signify precisely the realization, if such were possible, of the principle of natural selection and the survival of the fittest by which the world is governed as the scientist, the natural philosopher, as he used to be called, sees it when he eliminates the religious idea from his view. I mean nothing more than what Huxley, the protagonist of evolutionary philosophy, meant when, in his essay on The Struggle for Existence, he thus described the law of nature as actually seen in operation:

And I think, if you look closely into the social theory based on the naturalistic, or let us say the purely economic, view of life, you will find that beneath its mask of sentimental sympathy the reality is a face of greed and animal rapacity. According to this theory, progress is a result of discontent. Because men are discontented with their present state they push out for something better. And no doubt in a half-way that is true. But when discontent is associated with material standards alone, and purchasable comfort, and worldly opportunity, or, to put the matter in its most favorable light, when success and the goal of achievement are measured by the pleasures, however you may refine them, and by the pride of a few brief years of physical existence, beyond which there is nothing, and when for failure in these no compensation is held out, no supernatural hope, no refuge of peace, here and now, such as the world cannot give—when the driving force of progress is so presented, what is there in the nature of things to offer in the long run any effective resistance to the innate desire of power after power that ends only with death? What equal counterpoise will you set against that instinct of pleonexia which reaches out for ever more and more?

Philosophy is full of mockeries. These honorable gentlemen who are teaching a pure naturalism in the schoolroom, who denounce the content of religion and other-worldly philosophy as a base acquiescence, who in the restlessness of an itching egotism go out as missionaries to the people of the far Orient, may deceive themselves and may try to deceive us; their language may be sleek with the sentiment of brotherly love, but strip off its disguise, and the social theory they are proclaiming will leer forth in its true face as an incentive not to progress but to the anarchy of the jungle. These men are distilling into society a discontent that knows no satisfaction, that must engender only bitterness of disappointment and mutual distrust and hatred, and that in the end, if not checked by other motives, will bring about internecine warfare and a suicide of civilization of which the hideous years through which we have just passed are a warning admonition. And these teachers have the field to-day. We applaud them for their pretensions of philanthropy, even when we doubt the utility of their philosophy. We are browbeaten by the volume of their noisy propaganda. We are mealy-mouthed and afraid to speak out in open denunciation, even when secretly we burn with indignation at the baseness of their words. We sulk in silence, as if we had nothing to say. Meanwhile they have had the field to themselves, and the world every day is more filled with fear and disquiet.

There is no danger that by opposing other views of life to this insolent naturalism we shall put an end to that normal discontent with material conditions which may be a necessary incentive to natural and social progress. Certainly, however it may have been at other times, we need apprehend no such danger now. In a world manifestly distracted and blown from its moorings, in a society seething already with envy, it is not the part of wisdom to sow broadcast words that are calculated to inflame discontent into passionate hatred or sullen despair. That way leads to madness. What we need is rather a clearer perception of, and a firmer insistence on, those immaterial values which it is within the power of every man to make his own, whatever may be the seeming injustice of his material condition. We need rather to emphasize the simple truth that poverty is not the only, or indeed the worst, of mortal evils, that happiness does not consist mainly in the things which money can buy, that the man of narrow means may enrich himself with treasures which only he can give to himself, and which no one can take from him, that the purest satisfaction is in the sense of work honestly done and duties well met, and a mind and conscience at ease with itself. Even to the very poor, if such must be, religion may offer manifold compensations. “Blessed be ye poor,” it was said, “for yours is the kingdom of God.” Shall we say that these words were spoken in ignorance or jest or mockery? I think not. We for the moment may have lost the key to their meaning, we may have listened to teachers who turn them into ridicule; nevertheless, they are true words, rich with a gift of solid content.

But it is not the less fortunate and the poor alone, or I might even say chiefly, who need to hear the precepts which the new philosophy is drowning with its clamorous tongue. If the home of theoretical materialism is in the lecture-rooms of philosophy, the home of practical materialism is in the offices of Wall Street. If there is any truth that needs to be reiterated to-day, it is the simple truth that a man may heap up riches and increase his power indefinitely, and command all the visible sources of pleasure, and still be a poor, mean creature, a mere beggar in the veritable joys and honors of life. He that has many possessions needs be a strong man to escape their strangling grip. They wrap him about, they color all his thinking, they hang like a heavy curtain, as it were, between himself and his soul. You have heard the saying: “It is easier for a camel to go through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God”; that is a hard lesson, but in reality it is only an Oriental way of expressing what Plato had taught long before in the Academy: “Neither when one has his heart set on gaining money, save by fair means, or even is at ease with such gaining, does he then bestow gifts of honor upon his soul; rather, he degrades it thereby, selling what is precious and fair in the soul at the price of a little gold, whereas all the gold on the earth and under the earth is not equal in value to virtue.” That is the invariable lesson of religion and the idealistic philosophy. Certainly, it is a truth we shall not recover by listening to the words of the new naturalism. It is not by a philosophy that preaches social discontent as the means of progress, and measures content by material values, however it may disguise the banality of its aims in a sentimental philanthropy—it is not by such a philosophy that justice and mercy and humility shall be imposed upon the natural pride of those who have the larger share of this world’s goods.

It is true that religion, or religious philosophy, as its friends and foes have seen from the beginning, is an alleviator of discontent and a brake upon innovation; but the content it offers from the world of immaterial values is a necessary counterpoise to the mutual envy and materialistic greed of the natural man, and the conservatism it inculcates is not the ally of sullen and predatory privilege but of orderly amelioration.

RESEARCH PROFESSOR OF GOVERNMENT AND PUBLIC ADMINISTRATION, AND DIRECTOR OF DIVISION OF ORIENTAL COMMERCE AND POLITICS, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

(Note.—This address was delivered on November 4, 1921, before the Conference on Limitation of Armaments and Far Eastern Questions began its work. It is now published some months after the Conference was held. Readers who are familiar with the work of the Conference will be interested in noting how far the Governments concerned followed the principles laid down in the address. Most will probably agree that no other important international conference dealing with questions of this type has come so near following the principles of Jesus’ teachings here laid down as did the Conference at Washington. Certainly it will be of interest to those who read the address to compare its principles with those followed by the conferees.)

I. Introduction

No other political event of the past year has awakened so great interest and hope as the calling by President Harding of the Conference on Limitation of Armaments and Far-Eastern Questions. The greatest statesmen of Europe, America, and the Far East have avowed their belief in the supreme significance to world civilization and political and industrial progress of such a conference, and the sincerity of their statements is proved by the caliber of their representatives.

Secretary Hughes has expressed the desire that leading Christian bodies in the United States be active in presenting their views to the public and to the members of the conference, in the hope that thereby the influence of a powerful public opinion may be exerted along the noblest lines. It seems peculiarly fitting, therefore, and in full accord with the spirit of the Bross Foundation, that an attempt be made to search out the bearings which the teachings of the founder of the Christian religion may have upon the solution of these most important political problems. Moreover, if we are to be just and helpful, his teachings must be analyzed and treated not as religion and therefore sacred, but as psychology and political or social science, as are those of Aristotle or Kant or Herbert Spencer.

Any careful student of the New Testament recognizes at once that however deep Jesus laid the philosophical foundation of his life-work in human nature, his teachings dealt directly with the day-by-day practical activities of the individuals with whom he talked. His direct appeals to his hearers were so to change their outlook upon life as to make of them new creatures. They were to do their life-work in a new and better way, and the final outcome of this changed, wiser, and loftier mental and spiritual attitude on the part of great masses of people was to be a new type of society, a better world which he designated the Kingdom of God.

II. Jesus’ Fundamental Teachings

Through the years of his ministry Jesus met and discussed the issues of life and society with many thousands of people. We have the records giving an account of his sayings in many specific cases and of the marvellously illuminating illustrations of his principles of living contained in his parables. Moreover, the account of his life and his dealings with his contemporaries—friends, critics, and persecutors—illustrates better, perhaps, even than his teachings his fundamental principles of living. A careful analysis of the various topics which he discussed and of the accounts of his acts will show that there were a few principles which are absolutely basic, and which are of such a nature that as they entered the consciousness of men they changed their lives; and in consequence, in the course of the centuries that have followed, they have wrought a very considerable transformation in society.

Our international problems to-day, both economic and political, have to do primarily with men’s motives and purposes. If men and nations can attain the right spirit toward one another and toward their own duties, the most difficult problems are well on the way toward solution. It is worth while then to analyze with care the principles of living of this greatest moulder of human motive.

III. Truth

The first of these principles to be enumerated is “Truth,” taking the word in its most comprehensive sense.

In the light of our modern social studies every one must concede that truth is the greatest social virtue, and a lie the greatest social sin. It may well have been the case in barbarous times that fear was the binding force that held society together and that caused its different members to function; but there can be no doubt that in modern society, both economic and political, confidence is the chief essential factor to any effective functioning. It is a commonplace among business men that modern business rests upon credit, and that credit depends absolutely upon the confidence that men will live up to their contracts, and that a man’s word, however given, must be kept literally and rigidly. Trickery and deception may win temporary gains, but no great permanent business can be built except on the basis of fair dealing. Good measure and the qualities represented by strict accuracy in the maintenance of standards are all required if a business is to succeed. Even advertising is now conducted with strict regard for truth. In politics, too, as well as in business, truth pays in the long run, as even the diplomats are beginning to concede. Truth, too, means seeing straight as well as talking straight.

There is perhaps no more striking characteristic of Jesus’ mental attitude toward truth than his clarity of vision, the keenness of his insight into the real meanings of things. He did not believe in “cleansing the outside of the cup or of the platter and leaving the inside untouched.” He did not think that a courteous manner and fair promises revealed the character of a man. “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” He did not believe in long prayers that recite the virtues of the petitioners. God looks into the heart as Jesus did and sees the man as he is.

Moreover, in his interpretation of the law he was not content with the mere word. He must understand the purpose and significance of the law. Life and life’s activities were with him not matters of form; they were matters of purpose and intent. When criticised for violation of the law regarding the Sabbath Day, he recognized to the full the sanctity of the day, but claimed that the purpose and not the form of the deed determined its sanctity. “The Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath.” If the purpose of one’s acts is the uplift of humanity or the bringing of comfort to a suffering soul, the deed is good, the Sabbath is not broken. These traits of Jesus show clarity of mental vision and mental integrity, the ultimate essence of truth. He does not necessarily condemn the moral integrity of those who keep the letter of the law in good faith, not seeing its spirit; but he does say that they do not know the truth.

Aside from this, however, no other sin of humanity seems so to arouse his righteous indignation as does wilful misrepresentation, conscious hypocrisy. “When ye pray, ye shall not be as hypocrites: for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have received their reward” (Matt. 6:5).

“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye tithe mint and anise and cummin, and have left undone the weightier matters of the law, justice, and mercy, and faith: but these ye ought to have done, and not to have left the other undone.... Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which outwardly appear beautiful, but inwardly are full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but inwardly ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity” (Matt. 23:23, 27, 28).

Jesus recognized also how imperative is the need of a clear statement of thought and opinion, if one is to deal honorably and successfully with others. Not only does he condemn profanity in the taking of oaths, but he goes still farther than that. “Let your speech be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay; and whatsoever is more than these is of the evil one” (Matt. 5:37). Throughout his teachings we see how direct and clear are his own statements, so that it is impossible, if one considers those to whom he was speaking and the circumstances under which his words were uttered, to misunderstand his meaning.

Nevertheless, there seems to be equal evidence that he saw the need of suiting his words to the occasion and to the people with whom he was dealing, in order to secure the best effect for what he was saying. “If thy brother sin against thee, go, show him his fault between thee and him alone: if he hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother. But if he hear thee not, take with thee one or two more, that at the mouth of two witnesses or three every word may be established. And if he refuse to hear them, tell it unto the church: and if he refuse to hear the church also, let him be unto thee as the Gentile and the publican” (Matt. 18:15-17).

Observe the skill with which Jesus dealt with his questioners when they attempted to corner him in argument. When the chief priests and elders asked him by what authority he did those things, he responded by saying: “I also will ask you one question, which if ye tell me, I likewise will tell you by what authority I do these things. The baptism of John, whence was it? from heaven or from men? And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say, From heaven; he will say unto us, Why then did ye not believe him? But if we shall say, From men; we fear the multitude; for all hold John as a prophet” (Matt. 21:23-26).

When the Pharisees inquire whether it is “lawful to give tribute unto Cæsar or not,” he shows them their Roman coins with the image and superscription of Cæsar and replies, “Render therefore unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s” (Matt. 22:21).

With all of his insistence upon absolute uprightness and truth-telling and plainness of speech, we find no hint of a lack of courtesy or kindness, or of diplomacy in the best modern American sense of that much-abused word. The direct, truth-telling, open diplomacy that is imperative upon a democratic government like the United States, where it is impossible to have secret treaties or for any great length of time even confidential understandings between nations that are not public in their character, is quite in accord with the teachings of Jesus; whereas the secret treaties such as those that led to grave misunderstanding on the part of the United States when it entered the Great War are directly contrary to the spirit and practice of Jesus’ teachings. It is not sufficient to call such practice of a secret diplomacy “discreet,” which would be proper; but often, as in the cases mentioned, where vital interests of others are involved, such treaties lead to direct deception, and, in consequence, to injurious practices. Indeed, it is often because of the unjust nature of such treaties that the attempt is made to keep them secret.

In the farewell visit with his disciples just before his betrayal, Jesus showed them how throughout the period of their discipleship he had been gradually teaching them as they were able to understand. He had not taught them all his life principles to begin with, because they were not yet ready to receive all of the truth. And even in this last discourse, when he was rehearsing for the disciples the nature of his relations with them and their relations with the world, he still gave them to understand that only as they became equipped to receive the truth could all the truth be given them. “I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now. Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth....” (John 16:12, 13).

In his final words to them he expressed his conviction that he had already so put his principles of life and action into the minds of men that through their gradual fruition in the future there would be given unto us a new earth, a new society, and he concluded: “These things have I spoken unto you, that in me ye may have peace. In the world ye have tribulation: but be of good cheer: I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). His task had been completed. He was confident that his principles in time would conquer and give the world peace.

IV. The Worth of the Common Man: Individual Responsibility

The greatest single contribution that Jesus made to social and political science was his insistence upon the worth of the common man. That is practically a declaration of the moral equality of all mature individuals, rich and poor, bond or free, a declaration of their duty to make their own decisions on questions of right and wrong, and in consequence the recognition of the responsibility which each must bear for the conduct of his own life.

This was a new philosophy that Jesus brought into the world. No one of the great teachers among the Greek philosophers had dreamed of such a doctrine. In the Republic of Plato and in the writings of Aristotle we find, indeed, a type of republican form of government, but in that government the rulers are to be the intellectual aristocrats, the philosophers, while the great mass of the common people are to be subservient. Among the ancient Hebrews, even in the days of the kingdom, there was more than an inkling of a democracy. The common man had many rights which were protected by the law, but he had relatively few responsibilities. If he obeyed the law as that law was given him by the priests, he was doing right. The responsibility did not rest upon him to interpret the law. And in the days when Jesus lived, the priests and the commentators prescribed in minute detail the application of the law to life: the clothing which should be worn, the food that should be eaten, the work that should be done on the Sabbath—all the minute forms of religious ceremonial were matters of prescription which the common man need not think about. He was to do as he was told. How revolutionary, then, was this doctrine that Jesus taught of the infinite worth of the individual human soul!

“Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; and your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not ye of much more value than they?” (Matt. 6:26).

And again: “If God doth so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?” (Matt. 6:30).

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? and not one of them shall fall on the ground without your Father: but the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore; ye are of more value than many sparrows” (Matt. 10:29-31).

But with this doctrine of individual worth is combined, of necessity, the principle of individual responsibility. Each man is to decide for himself what his life shall be, and his punishment or reward at the hands of God, that is, the development or degradation of his own character and soul are dependent upon his determining decision.

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and rust consume, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth consume, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: for where thy treasure is, there will thy heart be also.... No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon” (Matt. 6:19-21, 24).

“Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, he shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:19).

Then again: “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” And it is his individual decision that determines.

This development through the bearing of responsibility demands, of course, independence of judgment. We have already noted how in his own life, in interpreting the ancient laws and in determining his course of action, Jesus held himself independent of the decisions or interpretations of the laws as given by others. He must think out by the light of his own reason, independently, his course of action. He likewise expected his disciples, as he sent them on their mission, to judge and determine their own actions.

But if I demand from others the right to think independently and to determine my own line of action, it is, of course, imperative upon me to grant that same right of independent action to my fellow men. I ought not to insist upon my right to bear my own responsibilities without being tolerant of the rights of others; and Jesus nowhere in his teachings or life shows any lack of tolerance. Perhaps the most striking incident of this trait of character is found in the broad-minded way in which he dealt with the woman taken in adultery. With ironical scorn for her hypocritical accusers he said: “Let him that is without sin among you first cast a stone.” And then he gives a judgment as merciful as it is just. “Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more.” So long as repentance and determination for right living in the future is secured, forgiveness can be granted. There must be no prejudice about formal rules or customs.

In his scornful condemnation of the scribes and Pharisees, he always placed the emphasis not upon any difference of opinion, but upon their hypocrisy and cruelty. A difference of opinion need not be condemned, but hypocrisy, falsity in mind and heart, is worthy of the utmost contempt and punishment.

No person who bears responsibility can safely make decisions without proper study of his problems and preparation for his work. Jesus’ life and teachings exemplify this principle completely. So much emphasis has been placed by many Christian teachers and writers upon the divine nature of Jesus that many assume that there was given him all knowledge and wisdom in some superhuman way entirely different from that by which ordinary human beings attain their knowledge and bases of judgment. Such persons apparently overlook the fact that if that were true Jesus could not have been tempted in all points as we are. From the evidence given in the New Testament, Jesus, when a boy of twelve years of age, showed a remarkable precocity and mental grasp of the deep problems of life in his discussions with the wise men in the Temple. Nevertheless, he did not venture upon teaching in any formal way and making public his convictions regarding life and society until he was some thirty years of age. Moreover, there was a progressive development in his views and plans for the redemption of humanity. During his period of preparation, he made himself master of the Hebraic law and the writings of the leading commentators upon it. Evidently, also, while he was working at his trade of carpenter, and presumably also as master carpenter and contractor and citizen, he had been studying and reflecting most deeply upon the traits of human nature as manifested in the people whom he met and those with whom he had come in contact through his work and studies. When he began his public ministry, he had at his command the most profound knowledge of human motive and of human nature possessed by any of the great teachers of history. While he left us no formal analytical discussion on psychology, and probably never made one, as did Aristotle or Immanuel Kant or William James, none of them had more completely understood the ways in which human hearts and minds are to be touched and convinced so as to change their entire nature. It is not too much to say that as regards the practical working knowledge of human nature and the way in which it is to be influenced and changed, Jesus Christ is the greatest social psychologist of history. He had made himself such by long and patient study during a period of from eighteen to twenty years of preparation.

V. Love: Welfare of Humanity: Golden Rule

The third great principle laid down by Jesus for the conduct of life is love: devotion to the welfare of others.

This principle had been enunciated by all of the great religious teachers, but never before had it been so emphasized as by Jesus. The Buddha had taught kindness and mercy, and among the Buddhists even to-day it is not uncommon for people to make gifts to the community, such as bridges or rest houses by the wayside, or public buildings, in order “to acquire merit.” Likewise Confucius and the Hebrew lawgivers teach mercy and kindness and devotion to the welfare of the community. Nowhere, however, in all literature have we quite the same range of touching human sympathy as is expressed in the parable of the Good Samaritan, or quite the same direct guide to human action as in the Golden Rule. Most Christian teachers, indeed, have spoken of this principle of love as the cardinal principle of Jesus’ teachings, often as if it were almost the sole principle of social import; whereas, far-reaching as it is, the principle was not so new in social science as that of individual responsibility.

The social value of this principle is most clearly demonstrated by recognizing the fact that Jesus apparently made the welfare of humanity the basis of his ethical teachings, his test of right and wrong. And that is perhaps, on the whole, the best test that can be applied to individual or social action to-day. Much has been said by Christian teachers, and by the teachers of other religions, of the Law of God; and the test of what is right and wrong has seemed to be either some specific commands, such as, for example, the Ten Commandments of the Hebraic law, or other pronouncement of priestly doctrine; but Jesus, in his interpretation of the ancient law, sought for a fundamental principle which was to be applied to individual human action by the individual himself. In his declaration, “The Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath,” in his parable of the Good Samaritan, in his condemnation of the Pharisees for their hard-heartedness, in his enunciation, indeed, of the Golden Rule itself, we find various ways in which the truth that whatever tends to benefit humanity is right and whatever tends to injure humanity is wrong is made the basis of judgment.

This principle of Jesus would generally, I believe, be accepted for the basis of individual action. Of course, customs, habits, laws have so passed judgment upon most of our every-day acts that we do not need to stop to argue with ourselves the question as to whether stealing or killing other human beings or bearing false witness are for the benefit of humanity or for its detriment. We know it, we feel it; custom has made it instinctive; and yet our laws make very clear the distinction between murder and the execution of the death sentence or killing in self-defense; and the basis of the distinction is, of course, the welfare of the community.

Many writers, however, especially perhaps some of the leading German jurists, have drawn a sharp distinction between personal ethics and governmental ethics, arguing that though it may be wrong for an individual to lie, it is entirely proper for a government to deceive, if by so doing its own immediate welfare can be promoted. Along the same line is argued the justification for wars, seizure of territory of weaker peoples, and other acts of government that throughout all history have been assumed to be right, or passed over with little condemnation.

On this point again there can be no question that this broad principle, the promotion of the welfare of humanity at large, comes the nearest of any test of right and wrong that has been, probably that can be, discovered. This makes no distinction between underlying principles of governmental ethics, personal ethics, international ethics. The differences, whatever they may be, lie in the different influences that are brought to bear by the acts of an individual in his private and in his governmental capacities. It is, however, not difficult ordinarily to make the distinction.

Whatever the varying conditions may have been that guided governmental actions in the upward progress of civilization, the best test, perhaps, of national morality and of a higher civilization is that as time goes on the principles which should guide individual action in a society shall more and more become the rules by which governmental action within the society and also in international relations shall be guided. The higher civilizations, in their dealings with one another, and especially in their dealings with weaker peoples, should base their actions more and more upon truth, development of the individual through responsibility, the Golden Rule.

VI. These Principles of Action Produce Democratic Government

If we review hastily these principles of personal action which are really the summary of the most important of Jesus’ social teachings, we note that in enunciating these principles Jesus laid the foundations of democracy. He dealt the death-blow to imperialism, even to a benevolent despotism. When the mature individuals in a community deal truthfully and frankly with one another, when they feel a keen sense of individual responsibility for their actions, judging those actions with independence of spirit, with tolerance for the same independent judgment on the part of others, with the consciousness that they must study and prepare themselves for the bearing of their responsibilities, and when they also feel that they must devote themselves with all that they have and all that they are to the promotion of the welfare of the community at large, we have the ideal democracy. Is not this true? I have asked many thoughtful students of government whether or not these principles are the fundamental principles of popular self-government, and whether any other principles besides these are needed to be brought into play in order to give us popular self-government of the best type; and so far I have found no one who denied these to be the principles of democracy or who had anything to add to these principles. If, then, these are the principles of Christianity, if these are the complete summary of Jesus’ fundamental teachings, is it not the fact that Jesus, although not dealing directly with government, is nevertheless the founder of democracy, of self-government? It is certainly true that before his day the various attempts that had been made toward the establishment of republics or of democratic governments did not recognize the worth of the common man. In all of the earlier attempts that had been made there was a substantial equality of rights among the so-called better classes in the community; but the great masses of the serving classes, of the working classes, if not slaves were at least not supposed to bear the responsibilities of guiding the affairs of the community. Even in Great Britain, until after the great reform acts of the middle of the last century, there was no real democracy.

Moreover, the chief difficulties in democracy arise from the fact that we do not have in the great mass of our citizens in any community by any means a universal acceptance of these principles of Jesus. Although these are the principles of the ideal democracy, not until these principles are accepted and acted upon by the great masses of individuals in the community shall we have a perfect democracy. To improve our governments, therefore, if we are to accept Jesus’ guidance in our actions, our efforts should be devoted primarily not so much to increasing the power of individuals in the community or to weakening the power of leaders, as to increasing, on the part of our individual citizens, the capacity for wise, independent self-judgment and bearing of responsibility through increase of knowledge and increase of the spirit of unselfishness.

This leads us naturally to a brief consideration of the principle of self-determination on the part of nations and peoples, which has been so much discussed since the Great War. Perhaps there has been no other watchword that has been more misused in its application to governments and peoples than that of self-determination, but if we note carefully the way in which Jesus applied these rules that have been enunciated, we shall find the key to a wise and just application of this principle of self-determination. What limitations did Jesus place upon the principle?

When he said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me; forbid them not; for to such belongeth the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14, 15); and again (Mark 9:35-37), “If any man would be first, he shall be last of all, and servant of all. And he took a little child, and set him in the midst of them: and taking him in his arms, he said unto them, Whosoever shall receive one of such little children in my name, receiveth me: and whosoever receiveth me, receiveth not me, but him that sent me”—he clearly had in mind the humility and receptivity of children, their eagerness to learn, and had no thought at all that they should decide for themselves what to do. He seems throughout his teachings quite in accord with the teachings of Paul in his epistles to the Ephesians and Colossians, that children should obey their parents, and that it took mature men, measuring up to the spiritual stature of Christians, to decide their own beliefs and actions. It is, of course, recognized in the laws and customs, as well as in the good judgment of all peoples, that children are not yet persons in the legal sense of the word. The same principle applies to weak-minded individuals. One of the great problems of self-government is to determine at what age or at what stage of development people are to be considered competent to make decisions for themselves, and, in governmental matters, for other members of the community. In America we have assumed that at twenty-one years of age people may properly be asked to take that responsibility. In some other countries twenty-five years is assumed as the proper age. In most countries, before people are allowed to act as representatives to pass on the making of laws, a still more advanced age, and, in consequence, a greater degree of maturity, is required.

What is only good judgment and common sense as applied to children is also good judgment and common sense, and good Christianity, in accordance with the teachings of both Jesus and St. Paul, as applied to certain peoples where the majority are so untrained or incapable that they cannot judge. It is not at all a question of social status. The extreme radical change that Jesus made was in that field. Jesus taught that there were no people born better than others, or in a ruling class, who could remove responsibility from any individual for deciding his own beliefs and determining his own actions. On the other hand, there is no reason for thinking that Jesus in any particular fostered the doctrine that any individual or small group of whatever degree of immaturity of judgment should under all circumstances be allowed to determine their own acts or their own form of government, and especially to control their relations with other peoples.

A second limitation upon the privilege of self-determination is, of course, the rights and the welfare of others. While we are to decide our own actions in accordance with the spirit of Jesus, we should impose upon ourselves the limitation that we will not act contrary to the interests of others or contrary to the welfare of the community, and this same principle would properly apply in any democratic community or state. While it is right for them to seek their own development, people should avoid injury to other peoples or races, and resistance to such injury is justified. Jesus did not hesitate to denounce the Pharisees for their unjust treatment of others, nor to expel forcibly from the Temple those who were desecrating its precincts to the detriment of the faithful.

I have heard the parable of the Good Samaritan cited by extreme pacifists as an argument against all war, and have heard Jesus characterized as “The Great Pacifist.” In addition to the present parable, I have sometimes wished that he could have left us another in which he depicted the scene a little earlier, just at the time when the wayfarer was struggling in the hands of the robbers. The priest might well have shrunk from a contest. Pleading to himself that it would ill become one of his cloth to be involved in a wayside brawl, he would pass by on the other side. The Levite, too, arguing to his conscience that the victim was a stranger to whom he was under no obligation, and that, at any rate, the robbers were too many, would pass by on the other side. But the Good Samaritan, seeing only a neighbor—though a total stranger—in dire distress at the hands of scoundrels, would hurl himself like a bolt into the fray. And if, after deadly conflict, he too lay robbed, bleeding, and sore by his neighbor’s side, there would be no glimmer of regret in his heart; but as each helped the other to bind up his wounds, their hearts would rejoice that each had found a friend in a good fight for the right.

The main difficulty in the application of the principle of self-determination is, of course, the apparent conflict of interests and benefits that occurs at times. Judgment should be rendered as nearly as possible by a consensus of opinion of the least prejudiced and best informed and most unselfish, disinterested observers. It is in exactly this field that we look forward to an ultimate international court of nations to which such questions as are formally justiciable may be put, and to a council of nations that may discuss, determine, and formulate the opinions of the nations on questions that are political in their nature. We may look forward to a time when such a decision rendered by such a court or such a council will be practically self-enforcing through the public opinion of the world. In the meantime, however, it should be a matter for the consciences of the statesmen of all of the different nations to settle this question with the spirit of Jesus and in the light of experience. Most thoughtful people of the present day, if their interests are not immediately concerned, would concede that the welfare of humanity and the progressive development, not only materially but also intellectually and spiritually, of the most backward individuals and peoples would be furthered by limiting the extent to which they may determine their own actions, especially so far as they concern other peoples through international relations. Heretofore such questions have been decided by the nations that had the greater power to enforce their will. Cases could be selected where the nation from whom the right of self-determination has been taken was probably better able to judge wisely its own acts than the dominating power. On the other hand, probably far more instances could be cited where the limitation for a time of the self-determining power in international matters has been beneficial to humanity. The right principle and the Christian principle would seem to be that an effort should be made to develop the capacity for self-determination on the part of backward peoples, and to withhold the power of self-determination in matters which involve deeply the interests of others, until such self-determining capacity has been developed to a degree to make its use safe for other peoples and nations. Doubtless as a practical matter for some time to come it will be the will of the stronger power in individual instances that will settle this question of the degree of self-determination that shall be granted and its application; but eventually the world court or council which has been mentioned may determine such matters in default of agreement among the peoples immediately concerned.