The History of Religions in America by Joseph M. Kitagawa

On the sixtieth birthday of Gerardus van der Leeuw, Joachim Wach dedicated to him an essay "On Teaching History of Religions.’’ (Joachim Wach, "On Teaching History of Religions," Pro regno pro sanctuario, ed. Willem J. Kooiman (Nijkerk: G. F. Callenbach, 1950), pp. 525-32.) In this essay, Wach noted that there was no one way or method which could be handed down from one generation of scholars and teachers to the next, because the approach will have to be adapted to the specific needs of each generation and different conditions prevailing in different countries. Considering the fact that increasing numbers of educational institutions in America are offering courses in the history of religions and related subjects, it may be worthwhile for us to reflect on the nature and the scope of the discipline, and discuss some of the relevant problems relating to the research and teaching in the field of the history of religions or Religionswissenschaft in America.

It is significant to note that the discipline of the history of religions, in the sense the term is used in the present article, did not develop in America until a relatively recent date. This may be due, in part at least, to the religious background of America. During the Colonial period, America witnessed the introduction of various types of European church groups. In the course of time American cultural experience, coupled with the influence of pietism, revivalism, and rationalism, resulted in the principle of religious liberty, which enabled Americans of diverse confessional backgrounds to live together in relative peace. In this situation the religious problems which were relevant to Americans centered around the relations among different ecclesiastical groups -- between Protestantism and Catholicism, and between Christianity and Judaism. Tales were told of other religions in far-off lands, but religions other than Judeo-Christian traditions presented no real alternative and thus did not concern the citizens of the new republic. To be sure, there was one Bostonian, Hannah Adams (d. 1832), who wrote on such topics as "A Brief Account of Paganism, Mohometanism, Judaism, and Deism," and "A View of the Religions of the Different Nations of the World," but she was a rare exception.

In the latter half of the nineteenth century, however, interest in religions of the world became rather widespread in America. Philosophers, theologians, philologists, historians, and ethnologists began to be fascinated by the so-called comparative approach. In the year 1867, James Freeman Clarke was called to the chair of natural religion and Christian doctrine in the Harvard Divinity School. His Ten Religions: An Essay in Comparative Theology dealt with the historical origin and development of individual religions as well as the historical survey of certain key ideas and doctrines, such as doctrines of God, man, and salvation. Another pioneer in this field was a Unitarian minister, Samuel Johnson, whose book Oriental Religions and Their Relations to Universal Religion was indicative of the cultural climate of his day. In 1873 Boston University invited William Fairfield Warren, author of The Quest of the Perfect Religion, to become its first professor of comparative theology and of the history and philosophy of religion. Crawford Howell Toy’s Judaism and Christianity and Frank Field Ellinwood’s Oriental Religions and Christianity were also read in the same period. Parenthetically, Ellinwood, who was professor of comparative religion at New York University, was instrumental in organizing the American Society of Comparative Religion in 1890. Other books which appeared in the latter part of the nineteenth century include James Clement Moffat’s A Comparative History of Religions (1871), Samuel Henry Kellog’s The Light of Asia and the Light of the World (1885), David James Burrell’s The Religions of the World (1888), Edward Washburn Hopkins’ Religions of India (1895) and The Great Epics of India (1901), William Dwight Whitney’s Max Müller and the Science of Language (1892), George Stephen Goodspeed’s A History of the Babylonians and Assyrians (1902), and William James’s The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902). (Louis Henry Jordan, Comparative Religion, Its Genesis and Growth (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1905), pp. 197 ff.)

In the year 1881, Princeton Theological Seminary established a chair in the relations of philosophy and science to the Christian religion, and in 1891 Cornell University appointed a professor of the history and philosophy of religion and Christian ethics, and Harvard University called George Foot Moore to the chair of the history of religions. In 1892 the University of Chicago established the Department of Comparative Religion and called George Stephen Goodspeed to teach comparative religion and ancient history. In the same year Brown University inaugurated a chair in natural theology. Also in 1892 a committee representing Columbia, Cornell, Johns Hopkins, Pennsylvania, Yale, and other leading institutions established "The American Lectures on the History of Religions" for the purpose of encouraging scholarly presentation on various aspects of the religions of the world. It is also to be noted that in 1895 the University of Chicago established the Haskell (annual) and Barrows (triennial) lectureships, and in 1897 the American Oriental Society formed a section for the historical study of religions. In 1899 Union Theological Seminary, New York, joined other institutions in establishing a chair on the philosophy and history of religions.

By far the most dramatic event to stimulate American interest in the religions of the world was the World Parliament of Religions, held in Chicago in 1893 in connection with the Columbian Exposition. Its motto was:

To unite all Religion against all irreligion, to make the Golden Rule the basis of this union; to present to the world . . . the substantial unity of many religions in the good deeds of the Religious Life; to provide for a World’s Parliament of Religions, in which their common aims and common grounds of unity may be set forth, and the marvelous Religious progress of the Nineteenth century be reviewed . . . (The World’s Religious Congress, General Programme (preliminary ed.; 1893), p. 19.)

The parliament had a far-reaching effect on the American scene. Something of the nature of the parliament is indicated by the fact that the general committee, under the chairmanship of John Henry Barrows (Presbyterian), included William E. McLaren (Episcopal), David Swing (Independent), Jenkin Lloyd Jones (Unitarian), P. A. Feehan (Catholic), F. A. Noble (Congregational), William M. Lawrence (Baptist), F. M. Bristol (Methodist), E. G. Hirsch (Jew), A. J. Canfield (Universalist), M. C. Ranseen (Swedish Lutheran), J. Berger (German Methodist), J. W. Plummer (Quaker), J. Z. Torgersen (Norwegian Lutheran), L. P. Mercer (New Jerusalem, Swedenborgian), and C. E. Cheney (Reformed Episcopal). In addition to the representatives of the Christian and Jewish bodies, representatives of Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and other religious faiths were invited to come and "present their views of the great subjects of religious faith and life." Each group was asked to make the best and most comprehensive statement of the faith it holds and the service it claims to have rendered to mankind. "All controversy is prohibited. No attack will be made on any person or organization. Each participating body will affirm its own faith and achievements, but will not pass judgment on any other religious body or system of faith or worship." Significantly, at the last union meeting of the parliament, E. G. Hirsch spoke on "Universal Elements in Religion," William R. Alger on "The Only Possible Method for the Religious Unification of the Human Race," J. G. Schurman on "Characteristics of the Ultimate Religion," George Dana Boardman on "Christ the Unifier of Mankind," and Merwin-Marie Snell on "The Future of Religion."

Among the participants were many notable scholars, including historians of religions, but they attended the parliament as representatives of their faiths or denominations and not of the discipline of the history of religions. Nevertheless, in the minds of many Americans, comparative religion and the cause of the World Parliament of Religions became inseparably related. What interested many ardent supporters of the parliament was the religious and philosophical inquiry into the possibility of the unity of all religions, and not the scholarly, religio-scientific study of religions. Nevertheless, the history of religions and comparative religion, however they might be interpreted, became favorite subjects in various educational institutions in America. Even the established churches took keen interest in these subjects. For example, the conference of the Foreign Mission Boards of the Christian Churches of the United States and Canada in 1904 recommended that theological schools of all denominations provide for missionary candidates courses of instruction in comparative religion and the history of religions.

Undoubtedly, the widespread acceptance of the study of comparative religion or the history of religions in American universities and seminaries from the turn of the century was greatly aided by religious liberalism. Professor George F. Thomas suggests two reasons for the popularity of these subjects. First, the history of religions was considered a science and was thus regarded neutral in the conflict between Christianity and other religions. Second, religious liberalism stressed the continuity of Christianity with other religions and preferred the philosophical to the theological approach to the subject of religion. Many liberals were convinced that the philosophy of religion could pronounce conclusions about religious questions without Christian presuppositions. (George F. Thomas, "The History of Religion in the Universities," Journal of Bible and Religion, Vol. XVII [1949]). In short, Christian liberalism was "an expression of the Christian faith in the one human community under the reign of God." (Daniel Day Williams, What Present-Day Theologians Are Thinking [New York: Harper & Bros., 1952], p. 53.) Many liberals were naïvely optimistic about social progress as well as the "stuff of human brotherhood" crossing religious lines.

This tendency favorable to the history of religions and comparative religion has been reversed since the middle of the 1930’s, partly under the influence of the theological renaissance and partly because of the change which has taken place in cultural and educational domains. Philosophers, theologians, and social scientists who formerly were fascinated by the comparative approach to the study of world religions have begun to question the validity of such an approach. Not a few of them go even so far as to deny the integrity of Religionswissenschaft or the history of religions as an academic discipline. At the risk of oversimplification, let us cite four major criticisms of the history of religions.

First, some philosophers of religion hold that historians of religions are essentially philosophers of religion, or they ought to be if they are not already. To them, the religio-scientific inquiry of the history of religions is an important tool to develop an adequate philosophy of religion, which transcends the regional and subjective elements involved in all religious systems. Or, to put it differently, they may say that all religions are manifestations of, or a search for, one underlying primordial "religion" and the task of the history of religions is, in co-operation with the philosophy of religion, to study the relation between religion and religions and to enlighten a confused humanity so that it will eventually move toward the absolute truth.

Second, there are those who hold that the so-called objective approach of the history of religions is not objective enough, because of the very nature of the subject matter. Thus they urge historians of religions to concentrate more on the historical, phenomenological, and institutional aspects of religions, depending heavily on the co-operation and assistance of anthropologists, sociologists, philologists, and universal as well as regional historians.

There is a third group who hold that the history of religions does not take seriously enough the subjective elements involved in the study of various religions. They sometimes compare historians of religions, uncharitably to be sure, to "flies crawling on the surface of a goldfish bowl, making accurate and complete observations on the fish inside . . . and indeed contributing much to our knowledge of the subject; but never asking themselves, and never finding out, how it feels to be a goldfish." (Wilfred Cantwell Smith, "The Comparative Study of Religion," Inaugural Lectures [Montreal: McGill University, 1950], p. 42.) What is important, according to this line of thinking, is to let the adherents of each religion speak for themselves about the nature of their own religious experiences, their views of the world and of life, and their own forms of beliefs and worship.

Finally, there are still others who rule out the possibility of religio-scientific approach to the study of religions on the grounds that each investigator is incurably conditioned by his own religious and cultural background. On this basis they advocate the necessity of what might be termed as a theological history of religions, be it Islamic, Christian, or Hindu, as the only legitimate discipline. Closely related to this perspective is that of missiology or Missionswissenschaft, which utilizes the data and findings of Religionswissenschaft for apologetic purposes from the standpoint of Islamic, Christian, Buddhist, or Hindu faith.

All these criticisms have been raised by men and women in all walks of life. However, what concerns us particularly is the fact that the basic unclarity of the discipline of the history of religions has created confusion regarding the place of the history of religions in the academic curriculum in this country. Generally speaking, there are three kinds of educational institutions which are concerned with the teaching of the history of religions. In the undergraduate colleges and universities the question of the history of religions is discussed in connection with the problem of the teaching of religion. In the graduate institutions questions are raised as to the legitimacy of the history of religions as an academic discipline, and also the relations of the research method to other disciplines. In the theological schools and seminaries, the questions of the history of religions are involved in the relations of Christianity to other religions.

II

There are different kinds of undergraduate colleges in America, some private, some church-sponsored or church-related, and others are municipal or state institutions. Many of the state colleges and universities do not offer instruction in religion, while some of them provide courses dealing with the Bible, general surveys of religions of the world, and philosophical and ethical concepts of the Judeo-Christian traditions. The distinction between the private and church-related colleges is not always clear. A number of private colleges and universities were originally founded by church groups at the time when American religious life was strongly influenced by emotional revivalism. As a result, it was said in the last century that educated people had to choose between being intellectual and being pious, but found it difficult to be both simultaneously. In this historical context, one can appreciate the struggle of the educational institutions for the right of freedom of inquiry. Happily, today in most of the private colleges and universities teaching and research are free from ecclesiastical interference. At any rate, in some of the colleges there still remains an antireligious tradition, which began as a reaction against the earlier religious background of their institutions. It must also be remembered that until recently it was fashionable for intellectuals, both in the private and state institutions, to explain away religion.

Since World War II this situation has changed somewhat. The present religious scene in America is even described as an "Indian Summer of Religious Revival." In this situation, many educators, students, and parents ask: "What is the place of religion in the college curriculum?" Some people, while recognizing religion as a legitimate subject matter, maintain that religion is basically "caught" but not "taught," thus arguing against inclusion of courses in religion in the curriculum. Others, who admit the importance of religion in the curriculum, nevertheless have an instinctive fear that such a step might become the opening wedge of a wholesale invasion of religious groups into the academic institution. In this setting many questions are inevitably asked, such as whether or not the history of religions teaches religion, whether religions of the world can be or should be taught without value judgment, and finally whether the history of religions is to provide intellectual understanding about religions or contribute to the religious growth of students.

These questions are especially relevant to a program of general education. In many colleges, the first two years are devoted to general education and are followed by two years of a specialized program; in some others, both types of educational program are given side by side; in still others, the general education program is built in a pyramid fashion -- for instance, three general education courses are taken in the first year, two in the second, and one each in the third and the fourth years. In the specialized program, it is taken for granted that there are a number of courses dealing with the subject matter of religion in one way or another, such as courses in sociology, anthropology, history, philosophy, literature, and the fine arts. But the place of the study of religion as such in the general education program is a subject of heated discussion and controversy.

The famous report of the Harvard Committee, published in 1945 under the title, General Education in a Free Society, (Harvard Committee, General Education in a Free Society [Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1945]). did not propose courses on religion as such. Instead, certain aspects of religion were included in the humanities and the social sciences. For example, in recommending a course on the study of the "heritage of philosophy in our civilization," the report said:

Western culture may be compared to a lake fed by the stream of Hellenism, Christianity, science, and these contributions might offer an extremely valuable way of considering the conceptions of a life of reason, the principle of an ordered and intelligible world, the ideas of faith, of a personal God, of the absolute value of the human individual, the method of observation and experiment, and the conception of empirical laws, as well as the doctrines of equality and of the brotherhood of man.

The Harvard Committee also proposed a course within the social sciences on "Western Thought and Institutions," which was designed to examine the institutional and theoretical aspects of the Western heritage. In the words of the Committee:

The attempt is not to survey all history and all political and social thought but to open up some of the great traditions, to indicate the character of some attempted solutions of the past, to study a few of those topics and of the great statements of analysis or of ideals with some intensity.

Columbia University’s introductory courses on "Contemporary Civilization" are similar to the Harvard Committee’s proposed course on "Western Thought and Institutions." Along this line, most colleges and universities in America offer courses in which the place of religion in Western history and culture is treated. It is a sound educational principle to discuss the writings of, say, Thomas Aquinas or Luther in the economic, social, and political context of their times, for in a real sense they were "great expressions of ideas which emanated from certain historical backgrounds."

It is significant that today there is a definite trend toward offering courses in religion within the context of general education. A recent catalogue of Harvard University shows that all students are required to elect three elementary courses in general education, one to be chosen from each of three areas (humanities, social-sciences, and natural sciences). The elementary courses in humanities include such titles as "Ideas of Good and Evil in Western Literature," and "Ideas of Man and the World in Western Thought." The second group of courses in humanities include such courses as "Classics of the Christian Tradition," "Classics of the Far East," "Introduction to the New Testament," "New Testament Thought and the Mind of Today," "Religion and Culture," and "Roots of Western Culture." The social sciences also offer an interesting variety of subjects, such as "Natural Man and Ideal Man in Western Thought" and "Freedom and Authority in the Modern World" in the elementary courses, and "History of Far Eastern Civilization," "Introduction to the Civilization of India," and "Introduction to the Civilization of the Middle East" in the secondary group. (Official Register of Harvard University,LII, No. 20 [August, 1955], 19.)

This is not an isolated development at Harvard. Many colleges and universities offer at least one course in religion. "Typically," says Professor Harry M. Buck, Jr., "it is a three-hour course in ‘comparative religions’ in which Christianity, Judaism and all the religions of Asia are surveyed in a single semester by lectures, textbook assignments and collateral readings." Buck points out that "developments in the methodology [of the history of religions] have quite outstripped the practices in most undergraduate institutions," and "the demands placed upon instruction in this area in our own day compel a radical reappraisal of aims and methods.’’ (Harry M. Buck, Jr., "Teaching the History of Religions," Journal of Bible and Religion, XXV [October, 1957], 279.)

Who teaches such courses, and how are they administered? Here, again, wide variety may be observed. Where there are scholarly talents in specific religious and cultural areas, their participation is solicited to form a team. More often than not, however, what is nominally known as teamwork in teaching a number of religions in a single course degenerates into a "cafeteria" system. On the other hand, a single teacher cannot be expected to keep up with all the important researches in reference to many religions and cultures. To make the matter more complex, in some institutions courses on world religions are offered in the department of philosophy, in others in the departments of history or religion. In some cases, teachers with personal interests, say a historian, linguist, anthropologist, philosopher, biblical scholar, or a returned missionary, persuade the college administrators to let them develop courses on world religions under the titles of the history of religions or comparative religion. Although the accurate statistics are not yet available, it has been estimated by some that two to three hundred teachers, full-time or part-time, are engaged in teaching the history of religions in America, and nearly a hundred more may be added if we include Canada. All these teachers are wrestling with the question how best to teach the history of religions in the undergraduate setting.

We agree with Wach that there is not one way or one method of teaching, because the approach will have to be adapted to specific needs and different conditions. However, Wach’s seven suggestions seem to be sound as general principles. He states that instruction in the history of religions must be (1) integral, (2) competent, (3) related to an existential concern, (4) selective, (5) balanced, (6) imaginative, and (7) adapted to various levels of instruction. Buck also makes helpful suggestions, emphasizing the importance of (1) selectivity, (2) thoroughness in context, (3) comprehensiveness, and (4) a balanced perspective. Far more urgent, however, is the clarification of the nature, scope, and method of the discipline of the history of religions itself. This is the problem which is debated heatedly in the context of the graduate program as much as in the undergraduate setting.

In a real sense, the chaotic picture of the undergraduate teaching of the history of religions can be traced to the lack of adequate graduate training centers for Religionswissenschaft in North America. Thus, when teachers of world religions are needed at many undergraduate colleges, they usually appoint either philosophers of religion, historians, biblical scholars, or theologians who happen to have personal interests and perhaps had taken two or three courses in the history of religions or comparative religion. If and when a person is trained solely in the general history of religions, he will have difficulty in fitting into the undergraduate teaching program. In retrospect, one is struck by the fact that the vogue of comparative religion, which started in the latter part of the last century and lasted until the 1920’s, did not penetrate graduate institutions to the point of establishing strong centers of research and training in the field. Even where the so-called graduate departments of comparative religion were instituted, they usually centered around one or two scholars, who offered courses with the assistance of scholars in related fields.

In today’s academic world, especially in the graduate institutions, scholarship implies specialized knowledge and competence. Unfortunately, from the standpoint of academic specialization the current teaching and research in the field of the history of religions appear to be ambiguous. The history of religions inherited the encyclopedic interest of the age of the Enlightenment. Its pioneers were interested and trained in several disciplines, such as philology, history, folklore, philosophy, and psychology. These "auxiliary" disciplines were regarded as necessary tools of research, to be called into service contemporaneously and employed by the same investigator. Today few, if any, can claim competence in all phases of the encyclopedic Allgemeine Religionswissenschaft. By necessity a historian of religions must concentrate on one or two of the auxiliary disciplines and also on special fields, such as primitive religion, antiquity, Middle Ages, modern period, or any one of the major religious systems. It is inevitable that those historians of religions majoring in specific areas are constantly rivaled by scholars outside the field of religion who are interested in the same areas. It has come to be taken for granted, for instance, that Islamicists, Indologists, Sinologists, and Japanologists are "specialists" of Islam, Hinduism, Chinese religions, and Shinto, respectively, and that anthropologists are "specialists" on primitive religion. Hence the "Memoirs of the American Anthropological Association" include such works as Studies in Chinese Thought (Memoir No. 75), Studies in Islamic Cultural History (Memoir No. 76), Islam: Essays in the Nature and Growth of a Cultural Tradition (Memoir No. 81), and Village India (Memoir No. 83). The scholars of these rival disciplines, equipped with adequate research personnel, facilities, and financial backing, are in a better position to pursue research in their endeavors than the historians of religions, and they often question the competence of the history of religions as an academic discipline.

It has also been observed that some disciplines are developing comprehensive outlooks, from their own perspectives, which often touch upon the problems that have been in the past dealt with in the systematic dimension of Religionswissenschaft. There is no denying that philosophers such as Hocking, Radhakrishnan, and Northrop, missiologists like Kraemer, and historians like Toynbee have much to say on the subject of religions. It is but natural that many people ask whether or not historians of religions have a special contribution to make which these scholars cannot make.

Thus it is that in both the undergraduate colleges and the graduate institutions questions have been raised concerning the nature of the discipline of the history of religions. Similar questions are also viewed with the perspective of theological schools and seminaries. One of the main features of American theological institutions is that the overwhelming majority of them are denominationally oriented and autonomous institutions, loosely related or unrelated to graduate universities. Although theological study itself is supposed to be graduate work, for the most part it tends to emphasize professional preparation, concentrating on ministerial training. The majority of seminaries, with the exception of interdenominational graduate theological schools, have little access to universities, and thus are more sensitive to the movements within the churches than to the trends in the academic world.

Most seminaries in America consider either comparative religion or the history of religions as a tool for the Christian world mission. In this connection, it must be remembered that American denominations developed as missionary churches. While European churches generally depended on semiautonomous missionary societies for the missionary work abroad, most American churches accepted the missionary obligation as a task of the total church body. Starting with the formation of the Baptist missionary society in 1814, most major denominations established their own denominational missionary societies in the nineteenth century, and American churches played increasingly important roles in the domain of the Christian world mission. Some of the American missionaries were well trained in comparative religion, and they made significant contributions to scholarship It is also to be noted, as stated earlier, that comparative religion was a favorite subject of American seminaries from the latter part of the nineteenth century to the 1920’s.

Today, however, under the impact of a theological renaissance, American theological schools and seminaries are preoccupied with theology. Professor Nels Ferré analyzes the recent theological trends in America into two major kinds, those that stress objectivity and those that emphasize the subjective response. Under the former, he lists Fundamentalism, the High Church wing, and "Barthian" biblicism; under the latter, he discusses liberalism and existentialism. (Nels F. S. Ferré, "Where Do We Go from Here in Theology?" Religion in Life [Winter, 1955/56).]) Here we cannot go into the analyses of each of these trends or the adequacy of Ferré’s interpretation of the recent trends in American theology, except to say that theologians of different persuasions, with the possible exception of the so-called liberals, while recognizing the usefulness of the history of religions, nevertheless agree with Professor Hendrik Kraemer in stating that only theology "is able to produce that attitude of freedom of the spirit and of impartial understanding, combined with a criticism and evaluation transcending all imprisonment in preconceived ideas and principles as ultimate standards of reference.’’ (Hendrik Kraemer, Religion and the Christian Faith [Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1956], p. 53.) Such assertions imply that only those who view religions "from within" are competent to understand them. They do not exclude the validity of the history of religions; they insist, however, that the history of religions must for its own sake be aided by a theology.

Confronted by such serious questions and criticisms in the undergraduate colleges, graduate institutions, and theological seminaries, the history of religions is compelled to re-examine, from its own standpoint, its relation to other disciplines and in so doing to clarify the nature and scope of its own discipline.

III

The term the "history of religions" means different things to different people. To some it is a sort of Cooke’s tour in world religions, in the sense that various aspects of religions are depicted and studied, using the comparative method. To others it is essentially a philosophical study of "religion" as it underlies all historical phenomena of various religions. To still others it is a historical discipline, analogous to church history, dealing with not only one religion but a number of religions. Is the history of religions a discipline auxiliary to philosophy of religion or to a social science? Or is it an autonomous discipline? And, if so, does it belong to the theological curriculum or the humanities?

This apparent ambiguity of the nature of the discipline of the history of religions is reflected in the diversity of names by which it has come to be known, such as comparative religion, phenomenology of religion, science of religions, and history of religions. All these terms, with minor differences, refer to a general body of knowledge known originally as Allgemeine Religionswissenschaft. In the English-speaking world the imposing title of "general science of religions" has not been used widely, partly because it is too long and awkward, and partly because the English word "science" tends to be misleading. Thus, the world-wide organization of scholars in this field has recently adopted an official English title, "The International Association for the Study of the History of Religions." It is readily apparent that the term "history of religions" has come to be regarded as a synonym for the "general science of religions," and as such the nature of the discipline must be discussed in the total context of Religionswissenschaft.

It must be made abundantly clear that the history of religions is not proposed as the only valid method of studying religions. Actually, it is only one among many different approaches, such as philosophy of religion, psychology of religion, sociology of religion, and theology. Unlike philosophy of religion and theology, however, the history of religions does not "indorse" any particular system offered by the diverse religions of the world, nor does it advocate, as many ultra-liberals think it ought, any new universal synthetic religion. On the other hand, there are those who study other religions much as the commander of an invading army investigates enemy territory, and with much the same motivations. Such an approach is, of course, not acceptable to the history of religions, for this discipline does not prove the superiority of any particular religion over others.

There are three essential qualities underlying the discipline of the history of religions: First is a sympathetic understanding of religions other than one’s own. Second is an attitude of self-criticism, or even skepticism, about one’s own religious background. And third is the "scientific" temper.

Historically, the encounter of different peoples and religions has often resulted in serious conflicts and the subjugation of one group by another, but in some cases it has also fostered sympathetic understanding and mutual respect among individuals of different backgrounds. Sometimes, knowledge of other religions, or a crisis in one’s life, leads one to question one’s own religious faith

For example, in sixth century B.C. Greece the traditional faith in local gods began to be questioned for a number of reasons. Similar things happened in other parts of the world. In ancient times, however, questions about gods and religions were more often than not approached and solved "religiously" rather than "intellectually." Thus, the Hebrew god triumphantly challenged the skeptical man in the Book of Job:

And the Lord said to Job:

"Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty?

He who argues with God, let him answer it.’’ (40:1-2)

Then Job answered the Lord:

"I know that thou canst do all things,

and that no purpose of thine can be thwarted,

‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’

Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand,

things too wonderful for me, which I did not know." (42:1-3)

During the Middle Ages three monotheistic religions -- Judaism, Christianity, and Islam -- existed side by side in the Mediterranean area. The relationship among them was amazingly amiable in certain areas, and Christians, Jews, and Muslims had ample opportunities to "compare" their religions with others and ask serious questions. Indeed, some of them did ask fundamental questions, but their questions and answers were dealt with theologically and philosophically, not "scientifically" in the sense of Religionswissenschaft. This "scientific" temper in the study of religions developed only at the dawn of the modern period, namely, during the Enlightenment.

Few words are necessary to emphasize the importance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when the intellectual climate of Europe changed with the discovery of the non-European world. Knowledge of the sacred texts, rituals, and customs of non-European religions gradually became accessible to European intellectuals. Confronted by the diversity of religious phenomena, thinkers like Lord Herbert, Berkeley, Locke, Hume, and others tried to reconcile the rival claims of religions by digging deeper into the nature of religion itself. The thinkers of the Enlightenment attempted to find the meaning of religion in terms of "reason," rather than depending solely on the authority of "revelation." Locke was hopeful that revelation would confirm the natural knowledge of God given by reason. Hume sought the meaning of religion in its origin, as evidenced in his book, The Natural History of Religion. Leibniz differentiated between "contingent truths" and "necessary truths" in religions.

The expression Religionswissenschaft was first used in 1867 by Max Müller. Like the Enlightenment thinkers, he was concerned with religio naturalis, or the original natural religion of reason, and assumed that "truth" was to be found in the most universal essence of religion and not in its particular manifestations. The process of differentiation of the original truth into diverse religions was seen in much the same way as the Old Testament described the origin of different languages in the legend of the Tower of Babel. Significantly, Max Müller’s key to the scientific investigation of religions was philology. He and his disciples were hopeful that by studying the development of languages they could arrive at the essence of religion "scientifically." He used the term Religionswissenschaft in order to indicate that the new discipline was freed from the philosophy of religion and from theology, even though in actuality his "science of religion," embracing both comparative theology and theoretical theology, was not too different from philosophy of religion. A Dutch historian of religion, C. P. Tiele, also regarded the science of religions as the philosophic part of the investigation of religious phenomena. While Tiele held that philosophic doctrines of belief and dogmatic systems should not be dealt with in the science of religions, nevertheless this discipline remained a philosophy of religion in Tiele’s view. Another Dutch scholar, Chantepie de la Saussaye, did not find a qualitative difference between the science of religions and the philosophy and history of religions, here using the term "history of religions" in its narrower sense.

In retrospect it becomes evident that the scientific study of religions was a product of the Enlightenment. In the study of religion the Enlightenment period accepted the deistic notion of reason and rejected the authority of revelation. The Enlightenment thinkers also accepted the concept of religio naturalis or a universal religiosity underlying all historic religions which was to be perceived by reason without the aid of revelation.

The rationalism of the Enlightenment was followed by romanticism, in which the doctrine of religio naturalis was again foremost. Van der Leeuw provides us with a careful analysis of the impact of the three romantic periods on the scientific study of religions. First, the period of philosophic romanticism "endeavoured to comprehend the significance of the history of religion by regarding specific religious manifestations as symbols of a primordial revelation." Second, the period of romantic philology, while reacting against the unfettered speculation of romanticism, remained romantic "in its desire to comprehend religion as the expression of a universal mode of human thinking." Third, the period of romantic positivism, preoccupied with the principle of development, still accepted religion to be "the voice of humanity." Thus, Chantepie de la Saussaye, for example, "sought to comprehend the objective appearances of religion in the light of subjective processes.’’ (Gerardus van der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation, trans. J. E. Turner [London: George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., 1938], pp. 691-94.)

The early historians of religions, notwithstanding their conscious "emancipation" from philosophy, had definite philosophical assumptions, be they rationalistic or romantic, and they dealt with religio-scientific data "philosophically." According to Joachim Wach, Max Scheler was probably the first scholar who made the distinction between philosophy and Religionswissenschaft. Following Max Scheler, Wach held that the religio-scientific task must be carried out not "philosophically" or "scientifically" but "religio-scientifically," with its own methodology. While Wach acknowledged the necessary contributions of philosophy to the scientific study of religions, he rightly insisted that the point of departure of Religionswissenschaft was the historically given religions.

Obviously the history of religions or Religionswissenschaft does not monopolize the study of religions. Normative studies, such as theology and philosophy, and descriptive disciplines, such as sociology, anthropology, and others, are concerned with various aspects of religions and religious phenomena. At the same time it must be made clear that the history of religions is not merely a collective title for a number of related studies, such as the history of Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and primitive religion, or the comparative studies of doctrines, practices, and ecclesiastical institutions of various religions. In short, the history of religions is neither a normative discipline nor solely a descriptive discipline, even though it is related to both.

Our thesis is that the discipline of Religionswissenschaft lies between the normative disciplines on the one hand and the descriptive disciplines on the other. Following Wach, we may divide Religionswissenschaft into historical and systematic subdivisions. Under the heading of "historical" come the general history of religion and the histories of specific religions. Under the heading of "systematic" come phenomenological, comparative, sociological, and psychological studies of religions. All these subdivisions are regarded as integral parts of Religionswissenschaft or the history of religions, in the way we use this term.

While Religionswissenschaft is an autonomous discipline in the sense that it is not a composite of various disciplines concerned with the study of religions, it does not claim to be a self-sufficient discipline. That is to say, Religionswissenschaft depends heavily on other disciplines, including both normative and descriptive studies of religions. For example, the descriptive aspect of the history of religions must depend on the disciplines which deal with the historical delineation of each religion. Moreover, the analytical aspects of the history of religions must depend on psychology, anthropology, sociology, philosophy, philology, and hermeneutics in its study of various features of religions, such as scriptures, doctrines, cults, and social groupings. This does not mean, however, that Religionswissenschaft regards itself as the queen of all disciplines dealing with the study of religions. It simply means that from the standpoint of Religionswissenschaft other disciplines can be regarded as its auxiliary disciplines. On the other hand, from the standpoint of a normative or descriptive discipline, Religionswissenschaft may be regarded as one of its auxiliary disciplines.

Careful attention must be given to the relation between Religionswissenschaft and other disciplines. This is an important question in today’s academic world, especially in America. The question of the sociology of religion may be cited as an example of the relation between Religionswissenschaft and another discipline According to Professor E. A. Shils: "It is scarcely to be expected that American sociologists would make contributions to the sociological study of religion along the lines of Max Weber’s Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie. American sociologists are usually too poorly educated historically and their religious ‘musicality’ is too slight to interest themselves in such problems." Nevertheless, Shils cites such works as Kincheloe’s The American City and Its Church, Niebuhr’s Social Sources of American Denominationalism, Mecklin’s Story of American Descent, and Pope’s Millhands and Preachers as examples of American "sociology of religion." (E. A. Shils, "The Present Situation in American Sociology," Pilot Papers, II, No. 2 [June, 1947], 23-24.) The crucial question arises as to whether the sociology of religion must be viewed as a subdivision of Religionswissenschaft or of sociology.

It is our contention that there are two kinds of sociology of religion, one derived from sociology and the other from Religionswissenschaft, despite Wach’s hope: "We would like to believe that, though there is a Catholic and Marxian philosophy of society, there can be only one sociology of religion which we may approach from different angles and realize to a different degree but which would use but one set of criteria." (Wach, "Sociology of Religion," Twentieth Century Sociology, ed. G. Gurvitch and W. E. Moore (New York: Philosophical Library, 1945). Wach 1931), pp. 479-94.)himself defined the task of the sociology of religion as "the investigation of the relation between religion (s) and society in their mutual ways of conditioning each other and also of the configuration of any religiously determined social processes."

(Wach, "Religionssoziologie," Handwörterbuch der Soziologie, ed. A. Vierkandt, No. 1 [1931], pp. 479-94) Throughout his life, Wach tried to bridge the gap between the study of religion and the social sciences from the perspective of Religionswissenschaft. In his conclusion of Sociology of Religion he states: "The fact that this study is limited to a descriptive sociological examination of religious groups need not be interpreted as an implicit admission that the theological, philosophical, and metaphysical problems and questions growing out of such a study of society have to remain unanswerable. They can and most certainly should be answered." (Wach, Sociology of Religion [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1944], p. 374.) But the sociology of religion as a subdivision of sociology is interested in religion within the framework of the objectives of sociology, that is, "to gain a knowledge of man and society insofar as it may be achieved through investigation of the elements, processes, antecedents and consequences of group living." The sociologist, in his study of the sociology of religion, despite Wach’s admonition not to view religion as a function of natural and social groupings and as one form of cultural expression, has to start from the fundamental assumption that "the conduct of the person -- his ways of thinking and ways of acting -- and the nature of the social order -- its structure, function and values -- are to be understood as a product of group life." (Philip M. Hauser, "Sociology," Encyclopedia Britannica (1957 ed.). Thus, although both kinds of sociology of religion deal with the same data and may even utilize similar methods, one sociology of religion inevitably views the data "sociologically," whereas the other views the same data "religio-scientifically." Similar observations can be made regarding the relation of Religionswissenschaft to other disciplines.

What does it mean to view the data "religio-scientifically"? This is not a simple question. Basically, the point of departure of Religionswissenschaft is the historically given religions. In contrast to normative disciplines, Religionswissenschaft does not have a speculative purpose, nor can it start from an a priori deductive method. While Religionswissenschaft has to be faithful to descriptive principles, its inquiry must nevertheless be directed to the meaning of religious phenomena. Professor Mircea Eliade rightly insists that the meaning of a religious phenomenon can be understood only if it is studied as something religious. "To try to grasp the essence of such a phenomenon by means of physiology, psychology, sociology, economics, linguistics, art or any other study is false; it misses the one unique and irreducible element in it -- the element of the sacred." (Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, trans. Rosemary Sheed [New York: Sheed & Ward, 1958], p. xi.) To be sure, Eliade is aware that there are no purely religious phenomena, because no phenomenon can be exclusively religious. But we agree with him that this does not mean that religion can be explained in terms of other functions, such as social, linguistic, or economic. In so stating, however, the historians of religions confront many serious methodological problems.

IV

One of the fundamental problems confronting the history of religions is that traditional Western scholarship in the field of Religionswissenschaft has been too "European" and "Western" in basic orientation and framework. There are two implications of this problem. First, Religionswissenschaft, if it is to remain and grow as a religio-scientific inquiry of religions, has to reexamine its methods and categories of interpretation in the light of the criticisms of non-Western scholars in the field. Second, American historians of religions must articulate their unique tradition of scholarship so as to make significant contributions to the world-wide co-operative inquiry in the religio-scientific study of religions.

It is apparent that from the time of the Enlightenment Religionswissenschaft has been operating with Western categories in the study of all religions of the world, in spite of its avowed principles of neutrality and objectivity. We know, however, that world religions are developmental movements grounded in historic communities. Thus, the ultimate assumptions of each religion have been colored by decisions of human communities in particular historical and cultural situations. Yet the ultimate assumptions of each religion must be subjected to critical analysis if there is to be any Wissenschaft at all. The difficulty is that the assumptions and methodology of Religionswissenschaft are also products of Western historical culture. There is no denying that in practice the history of religions has acted too often as though there were such an objective frame of reference. Even those concerned with Eastern religions have asked, unconsciously if not consciously, "Western" questions and have expected Easterners to structure their religions in a way which was meaningful to Westerners. Admittedly, the Eastern emphasis on an immediate apprehension of the totality or essence of Ultimate Reality has been also conditioned by the Eastern historical communities. But the fact remains that the Western historians of religions, with their preoccupation with "conceptualization," have tended to interpret non-Western religious phenomena and attempted to fit them into their logical non-regional abstract systems of Religionswissenschaft.

The difference of outlook between Eastern and Western historians of religions seems to be magnified as time goes on in regard to the methodology, aim, and scope of the discipline. Historically, it was the Western scholars who discovered Eastern religions as the subject matters of academic discipline. They too were credited for the training of many Eastern scholars in Western universities. These European-trained Eastern historians of religions, upon returning to their native countries, faced precarious situations.

In the nineteenth century people in the East, under the strong impact of the West and modernity, reacted against the West in several ways. There was a small minority of those who, in their enthusiasm for everything the West stood for, became "denationalized" for all practical purposes. On the other hand, there was another minority who, looking back to their own religious and cultural traditions with a newly acquired Western-type national consciousness, became extremely conservative and rejected the West in toto. In this situation, those European-trained Eastern historians of religions became suspect to the conservative elements in the East because of their emphasis on "Western scientific methodology" in the study of traditional religions. At the same time, these newly trained scholars "discovered" afresh the meaning of the Eastern religions; consequently, they were not welcomed by the progressive people who rejected everything traditional. In fact, it took some time for the history of religions to become an accepted discipline in the East. In the course of time, Eastern historians of religions began to reconcile their Western scientific methodology and Eastern world view.

The Eastern attitude, borrowing Dr. Radhakrishnan’s oftrepeated expression, may be characterized by the statement, "religion is not a creed or code but an insight into reality." Religion is understood as the life of the inner spirit, available anywhere and everywhere in the universe. Easterners are inclined to feel that religious truth is the sum total of all the religions of the world. This Eastern attitude and understanding of religions enables us to appreciate why the first- and second-generation disciples of Max Müller in Asia were such enthusiastic advocates of the World Parliament of Religions and similar endeavors, and why some of them, such as Radhakrishnan and Anesaki, found their way into the International Committee of Intellectual Cooperation of the League of Nations, and later into UNESCO.

On the other hand, Western historians of religions implicitly feel that religion is not the sum-total of all religions, but rather that "religion" underlies all religions. A religion is thus understood as the particular expression of a universal mode of human reaction to Ultimate Reality. Even today, in the Western tradition of Religionswissenschaft, there is an undertone of a search for "universals in religion" or "pure religion" underlying all the empirical manifestations in various religions of the world. Characteristically, many Western historians of religions often suspect the Eastern cosmological outlook as "mystical or intuitive," and not worthy of systematic investigation. On the other hand, the Eastern scholars are becoming critical of the Western scholarship in the field. For example, Dr. D. T. Suzuki observes: "Formerly Buddhists were glad to welcome a scientific approach to their religion. But nowadays a reaction seems to have taken place among them. Instead of relying on scientific arguments for the rationalization of the Buddhist experience they are at present trying to resort to its own dialectics." (Quoted in Modern Trends in World-Religions, ed. A. Eustace Haydon [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934], p. 38.) It might be added that such a development in the East has something in common with the Western development of a "theological history of religions." (Cf. Joseph M. Kitagawa, "Theology and the Science of Religion," Anglican Theological Review, Vol. XXXIX, No. l [January, 1957]).

In the American setting, it is our fond hope that there will develop several centers of learning in the field of the history of religions. The European centers of learning, nearly all of which were affected by two world wars, continue to devote great interest to this discipline. But the practical difficulties under which they have to work place an increasing responsibility upon American scholarship and initiative. It is encouraging to note that since World War II facilities for the study of Eastern languages, histories, and cultures have been greatly expanded in the United States, but provisions for the study of Eastern religions are still far from adequate. The crucial problem is how to develop coordination and co-operation among (a) theoreticians of the systematic aspects of the general history of religions, (b) historians of religions who deal with regional cultures and specific religions, (c) historians of religions who are competent in auxiliary disciplines, as well as scholars in the related subjects. From this point of view the introductory address on "The Actual Situation of the History of Religions" by Van der Leeuw at the Seventh Congress for the History of Religions, held in 1950 at Amsterdam, is significant. In it he stressed two main tasks of the history of religions for the future: (1) the need of a friendly relationship between the history of religions and theology and (2) the importance of contacts with other branches of learning, such as philosophy, archeology, anthropology, psychology, and sociology. (Proceedings of the Seventh Congress for the History of Religions [Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Co., 1951], p. 20.) His statement is particularly pertinent to the American situation. Furthermore, American scholars in the field are in a strategic position to mediate between European and Asiatic schools of thought.

In a comprehensive discipline such as Religionswissenschaft, communication among the scholars in the various subdivisions of the field does not develop automatically. For example, the historians of religions who are engaged in the religio-scientific inquiry into Buddhism or Hinduism tend to be preoccupied with their subject matters and do not always relate their findings to the generalists in the field. They would rather work with Buddhologists or Indologists who have little interest in Religionswissenschaft as such. In reality, these specialists or those historians of religions engaged in the study of regional cultures or specific religions need informed criticisms both from, say, Buddhologists or Indologists, and from generalists in the field.

It is our observation that in the past both generalists and specialists have tended to be sharply split between inquiries into the theoretical or doctrinal aspects and the historical, phenomenological, institutional, or cultic aspects. It goes without saying that both aspects are important, but what is more important is the study of interplay between theoretical, practical, and sociological aspects of religions. In order to understand the history of a specific religion integrally and religio-scientifically, one cannot ignore the problem of its origin, which, incidentally, fascinated the historians of religions of the nineteenth century. However, one must remember the admonition of Tor Andrae that the origin of religion is not a historical question; ultimately it is a metaphysical one. Thus, the popular theories of Urmonotheismus or high-god, interesting though they may be, cannot be used as the basis of the religio-scientific study of religions with utmost certainty. What is probably most meaningful and fruitful is an approach toward a historic religion as a "wholeness." This task, however, is not an easy one. As a working hypothesis, we agree with Professor Gibb that Islam, or any other religion for that matter, "is an autonomous expression of religious thought and experience, which must be viewed in and through itself and its own principles and standards.’’ (Sir Hamilton A. R. Gibb, Mohammedanism, an Historical Survey ("Home University Library" ed. [London, 1953]), p. vii.) In order to follow this principle, one must study the historical development of a religion, in itself and in interaction with the culture and society. One must try to understand the emotional make-up of the religious community and its reaction or relation to the outside world. Finally, there must be added a religio-sociological analysis, in our sense of the term, the aim of which is to analyze the social background, to describe the structure, and to ascertain the sociologically relevant implications of the religious movement and institutions. One must be sensitive throughout to the internal consistency of the various aspects of the religious community. This is indeed a difficult task.

The term "internal consistency" is used advisedly in order to get away from popularly accepted genetic, causal theories, such as that Buddha rebelled against Brahmanism, therefore Buddhism rejects the caste system. Unfortunately, the field of the history of religions is plagued by many such dangerous oversimplifications. The pioneers in the field were largely responsible for this. Many of them had definite ideas about the so-called essence of each religion, such as its concepts of deity, of the nature and destiny of man and of the world, which have been handed down to us through manuals and handbooks that are abundant in the European tradition of Religionswissenschaft. These shorter treatises are useful and instructive, especially on the introductory level, but they must be used with great care. It is dangerous to explain, for instance, all the cultic and sociological features of Islam solely in terms of the religious experience of Muhammad. There is a gap between ideals and actual practices in all religions. At the same time, what is happening in remote villages in Turkey or Indonesia cannot he understood without some reference to the life and teaching of Muhammad. Such is the problem of internal consistency.

Let us take another example. What does it mean when we say that the Vedas are central in Hinduism? If we accept the religious authority of the Vedic literature in the orthodox schools, we must also be aware of the fact that the Vedas have been interpreted, modified, believed, and abused by men throughout the ages. Or we may study the sacrificial system of Hinduism, but that again is not all of Hinduism. How, then, can we possibly understand the internal consistency despite these seeming contradictions which characterize historic and contemporary Hinduism? And yet, all aspects of Hinduism -- theoretic, cultic, and sociological -- are held together, and they are closely related to arts, literature, customs, politics, economics, and other aspects of Hindu history and culture. The task of the historian of religion is to try to feel and understand the "adhesiveness" of various aspects of historic religions.

But can we understand the adhesiveness and internal consistencies of religions and cultures other than our own? Here is the crux of the problem for the historian of religions. It is small comfort to know that other scholars, such as those who deal with intellectual history, confront similar difficulties. (John K. Fairbank (ed.), "Introduction: Problems of Method and of Content," Chinese Thought and Institutions [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957]). The historians of religions, in order to understand other religions of various cultural areas and historic epochs, must think of themselves as observers and investigators. Their own assumptions inevitably prevent them from entering into the inner world of other peoples, to say nothing of the difficulties involved in the linguistic and cultural gap. Often, written records must be checked by oral traditions and "acted myths." Language is dynamic; it is always changing. It influences the culture, but men’s thinking and experience also influence language. It is impossible to abstract such words as moksha and nirvana from the historical contexts of ancient and modern India, China, Burma, and Japan and expect these words to have the same connotations.

The religious commitment, or lack of commitment, of a historian of religions must also be taken into account. Regardless of his formal affiliation with any ecclesiastical institution or adherence to a faith, he is never free from commitments on various issues, partly because of his upbringing and partly because of his fundamental decisions about life. In the words of Professor Benjamin Schwartz: "While these commitments are bound to color his understanding to some extent, he can make an effort to distinguish in his own mind between his commitments and his attempts to understand the conscious response of others. On the other hand, the illusion of complete non-involvement, with all the self-deceptions it nourishes, is more detrimental to objectivity than a lively sense of involvement controlled by the desire to understand." (Benjamin Schwartz, "The Intellectual History of China," in Fairbank, op. cit., p. 74.)

One’s religious faith is both an advantage and a disadvantage in the religio-scientific inquiry. It is true that "the only and the best way to learn how to pray is to pray." We may recall Professor Hocking’s account of Jesuits in Kurseong, who are "poised, unhurried, with firm judgment and far vision," dedicated to the study of the religions of India. More often than not, however, those who study other religions with firm conviction about their own faith are what Hocking calls "partly prepared men." He says: "It is as though the graduate level of adept preparation were out of tune with our sense of haste and scantiness of means. . . . The real lack . . . is a lack of perception; a certain triviality . . . a supposition that we already know enough, and that more thinking is a luxury that can be dispensed with." (William Ernest Hocking, Living Religions and a World Faith [New York: Macmillan Co., 1940], pp. 206-7.) Furthermore, it must be kept in mind that the historian of religions is engaged in the religio-scientific inquiry of religions for the sake of "understanding," and not for the service of the propagation of any particular faith. While we recognize the important role of a "theological history of religions," this is a theological discipline, and we must maintain a wholesome tension between the history of religions and a theological history of religions. (Kitagawa, "The Nature and Program of the History of Religions Field," Divinity School News, November, 1957.)

Nevertheless, the religio-scientific inquiry of a historic religion cannot stop there. Any religion is man’s experience of, response and commitment to, Ultimate Reality in a specific historic situation. No religion, however regional and ethnocentric, can be interpreted without reference to universal human themes, such as birth, death, love, marriage, frustration, meaninglessness, and beatific vision. Just as in intellectual history, the religio-scientific inquiry has to proceed in the manner of oscillation between the universal religious themes and particular religious systems, communities, and histories, because all religions, both lofty and superstitious, are integral parts of the universal history of religions. Even for the sake of understanding one specific religion, we must relate it to the larger framework. As Fairbank suggests, "each step in such an oscillation leads into problems," such as the problems of a text or a historic figure. "Inevitably we are faced with the broad question of the cultural circumstances, the social institutions and events. . . . In this stage of our process there is no logical stopping place short of the total historical comprehension of human history on earth; we must use our understanding of the whole historical process, such as it may be." (Op. Cit., pp. 4-5) Here we enter the most difficult stage of the Allgemein Religionswissenschaft, "It is less difficult to amass factual data, on the one hand, and to understand generalized concepts, on the other, than to fit them all together in an integrated, articulate account." (Ibid., p.5.) Ultimately, such a synthetic systematization must depend on many years of research and the genius of individual scholars, whereas individual scholars must be engaged constantly in the co-operative inquiry with like-minded scholars, who can provide them with informed criticisms, insights, and suggestions.

We discussed earlier some aspects of the problems of teaching the history of religions in colleges, universities, and seminaries in America. Questions have been raised again and again as to the real significance of the history of religions. The answer is to be found, in part at least, in the aim of education itself. We agree with John Henry Newman, who held that the object of a university is intellectual and not moral, and we might paraphrase him by saying that the significance of the teaching of the history of religions must be intellectual and not "religious" in the traditional sense of the term.

This essay was written with the conviction that the curriculums of all institutions of higher learning should include courses in the religio-scientific study of a variety of religions, including some of the major religions of the East as well as the Judeo-Christian religious traditions of the West. While many institutions are consciously attempting to present alternative interpretations of significant religious and philosophical questions in the Western tradition, a surprising number of leading schools in America have as yet done nothing to acquaint their students with the questions which have been raised in the non-Western religious and cultural traditions. We are not advocating that all students must become experts in Religionswissenschaft. But certainly in this bewildered world of our time, students ought to be exposed to some of the deepest issues of life, as they have been experienced and understood by the noblest men and women through the ages, in the East as well as in the West.

The history of religions, if it is taught competently in the undergraduate colleges, universities, and seminaries, can widen the intellectual and spiritual horizons of students by bringing to them these deeper dimensions of life and culture in the dreams and faith by which men live.

Preface by Jerald C. Brauer

The study of the history of religions appears to be at a critical point in its development. This is true of the discipline both in the East and in the West. For decades it seemed ready to come into its own as a major area of study in the universities and colleges. At a few European institutions it achieved such a status, but in the universities of English-speaking countries and most European schools, it remained an honored but peripheral discipline. At best, history of religions found its place in a rather uncomfortable position between the social sciences and the humanities.

Today the history of religions will either develop into a major specialty, playing a key role within and between the social sciences, humanities, and theology, or it will lapse into respectably tolerated standing within one or several of these disciplines. It is to be hoped that the former alternative will prevail, and already numerous signs indicate that this will be the case.

lt is a most auspicious period for the history of religions to become one of the pre-eminent disciplines in university life. It has more to offer both Eastern and Western man than ever before. The world condition is such that modern man, of the East and of the West, is struggling to comprehend this revolutionary age, with its sweeping changes and newly emerging pattcrns of life. One way in which man seeks to understand the present is to see it in relation to the past out of which it comes.

The world’s religions are everywhere resurgent. For the first time in modern history, Christianity, the predominant faith of the West, is faced by reinvigorated Eastern religions. This development can be explained only partially by the rising Eastern nationalism. The fact is that Western man cannot understand or appreciate the Asian peoples unless he has some knowledge and understanding of their religions. This in itself puts history of religions on a new footing in the modern university. It is no longer merely an interesting, esoteric, but respected pursuit. The history of religions is now necessary to apprehend our world situation and thus ourselves.

Another factor that has brought about this change in attitude toward the discipline is the new perspective that has been at work for the past quarter-century and is now beginning to dominate the mind and spirit of much of Western mankind. This new perspective grows out of developments in science, anthropology, and theology, but it is certain to expand in counteraction to a false equalitarianism. It upholds the uniqueness and givenness of vast expanses of human experience. Unlike the approach which seeks to reduce all experience and reality to a few basic ingredients or principles, this new perspective strives to grasp a given reality in its own terms, in its own uniqueness, and in its own context. Basic similarities are not stressed at the expense of peculiarities or differences.

Not only has the history of religions gone through this basic shift in viewpoint, as demonstrated by Professors Kitagawa and Smith, but it has helped to establish and deepen the new perspective. Religions are to be studied and understood for their own sake and not simply to provide self-knowledge, social knowledge, or ammunition to uphold a given religion. To be sure, all these things will be done, and therefore ought to be done with skill, imagination, and method, but at its best the history of religions goes beyond any one of these functions. It seeks to penetrate one of the few cardinal facts of life -- the phenomenon of man as a religious being. To properly investigate and explore this fundamental, one must begin with an attitude of respect and openness toward the religious reality itself as it is encountered in specific historical forms.

It is interesting to note that at this moment in history, when people everywhere are called upon to understand the heritage of others, a perspective dominates in the history of religions that demands investigation from a point of view that takes seriously the uniqueness and particularity of each historical religion. The discipline does not give up the search for universals or types, but it has moved far beyond the possibility of locating these in a few clear moral, ethical, or national common denominators. It can be argued that the enterprise now seeks the basically religious by moving through individual historical religious experiences rather than by ignoring or moving around the peculiar or particular experiences. Thus the discipline has much to contribute to modern self-understanding and will make its impact felt increasingly in university education.

In spite of the favorable contemporary circumstances, it will not be easy for the history of religions to establish itself as one of the leading scholarly activities in the modern university. In fact, the great danger is that it will be completely absorbed by certain other fields. The history of religions deals with materials handled also by philosophy of religion, psychology, sociology, anthropology, history and theology. Its problem is to demonstrate that it is not merely ancillary to these other studies but is a discipline in its own right, drawing upon, yet making unique additions to, these areas of knowledge.

This is the question with which Professors Eliade, Danielou, Pettazzoni, and Massignon wrestle. It is the question of the methodology appropriate to the discipline. Unless a satisfactory answer can be found concerning the content and method adapted to the history of religions, it will not be able to fulfill its potential role. The late Professor Joachim Wach was probably correct in stating that there is no single procedure forever suitable to the study of the history of religions but that the method will have to be adequate to the total epoch and prevailing conditions of the time to which the study is directed. That is the point at which this discipline has now arrived. The essays of Danielou and Eliade make this quite clear.

On the other hand, there appears to be a good deal of effort in this undertaking to develop a satisfactory method and thereby to make its contributions. That is the purpose of this volume. Faced by an almost incomprehensible amount of material always contained in the most complex linguistic, political, and social contexts, the history of religions has moved ahead in the attempt to mark out its own responsibilities and contributions. It is as aware as any other discipline of the tension between objectivity and subjectivity, and it too is fighting the battle to achieve balance between unavoidable specialization and the necessity for generalization.

Scholarship in the United States sustains a notable burden in these circumstances, not only because of its unmatched financial resources, but also because of its unique position as the middle ground between European culture and the culture of the Asian nations. In this central situation American scholarship should be eager and willing to play a new role. Because of the vast amount of research in the social sciences, American universities are especially well equipped to become great centers for the study of the history of religions. They must of necessity retain a close connection with European universities while at the same time they develop and expand relations with the East and Africa.

One further practical consideration places a special obligation on American institutions. The history of religions faces increasing demands throughout American colleges and universities, but the reasons for this are not all good. Nevertheless, this presents a golden opportunity for the history of religions to seize the initiative and to turn it in the right direction. It could become as universal and as necessary a study for the college or university student as is mathematics or history. We live in the kind of world that compels us in the direction of such a movement.

It is planned to produce additional volumes in a series on the history of religions in order that specialists and other scholars may be kept abreast of developments in this investigation. An attempt will be made to focus on the major problems and areas of interest in the particular field, but an endeavor will also be made to deal with the interrelations of the history of religions to other disciplines.

It is fitting that the editorial work for this volume was done and two of the essays written by Professor Eliade and by Professor Kitagawa, a former student of the late Joachim Wach. Professor Wach was determined to build a strong discipline of the history of religions in the midst of a great American university. As his writings demonstrate, he was concerned that the question of method take temporary precedence over other aspects of study. He felt this was necessary if it was to survive as a distinct discipline and to play the creative role to which the history of religions was called by this era.

Mircea Eliade, Wach’s successor as chairman of the field of the history of religions in the theological faculty of the University of Chicago, continues in his own unique way the concern that the discipline develop and exhibit a method adequate to its own content, problems, and materials. It was to be expected that the first in a series of volumes on the history of religions edited by these scholars would deal with the central problem of methodology.

Jerald C. Brauer

 

Chapter 5: "And the Life Everlasting"

Thousands upon thousands, Sunday after Sunday, end their confession of the Christian faith with these words: "and the life everlasting." How many believe them? For those who do, what do these words mean? Even among theologians no topic is touchier. Many of them would rather not discuss it. They often use, sometimes heatedly, phrases and symbols, words like "resurrection" and "life eternal," but all too often they have changed the meaning so that these symbolic phrases do not stand for life after death. For such confessors, the biblical question still remains: "If a man die shall he live again?" Or perhaps the question does not remain because it has long ago been silently answered in the negative.

On a large university campus the faculty member who represented the university on the Religion in Life Committee came to me for a private talk.

"I have no Christian faith," he said, "but I want others to believe. Am I being dishonest? I believe that there is no God who controls history and that when I die, I’ll be cold and hard like a chunk of cement. And that’s the end of it. More than that: I know practically every active layman among our churches, and at least seventy-five per cent of them believe exactly as I do. Do you think I should tell the students my stand or should I go on pretending to believe? I have a daughter and I want her to believe. I think faith is wonderful for those who can have it, but I myself can’t make myself believe. All these fanciful claims of religion don’t spell anything for me."

I looked at him and loved him. What had I to say?

On another occasion a distinguished theologian, an honest and humble spirit, had invited me to dinner. A few of us finally warmed up in conversation concerning life’s basic meaning and hopes. The great man’s face was sensitive with the world’s hurts. Before us sat a giant intellect and a saint’s heart, visibly shaken by my suggestion that the Christian faith could not be genuine apart from faith in life after death.

"For me," I had said, "your thinking is profound and illuminates all my experience. You are one of the two men who have helped and stimulated me the most. If only you could believe in a personal God of providence who initiates action for the world’s good and who answers prayer; and if only you could believe in life after death!"

Pulling back a bit with pain, the theologian spoke to this effect:

"Lately I have been far from happy about my position that individual life ends at death. My thinking offers no explanation and hope, for example, for idiots. As a matter of fact, I have been considering that even reincarnation offers more of a solution. I may come out for it in my lectures within the next four or five weeks. The Christian position where people are changed all at once at death does not seem to me to take the meaning of this life seriously enough. Why should we have all the trouble of striving in this life and what does it amount to in the end if we are all magically changed? Augustine left the idiots in limbo. The Roman Catholics at least have purgatory after death. That is some better. They take the moral problem more seriously."

Such in general ran his line of thought. A profoundly learned and thoughtful man whose very face showed the deep sensitivity of his nature, thus pondered the three main positions that seem open to us on the question of everlasting life.

Many of Christianity’s leading theologians in America have wrestled silently and come to no confident conclusion, or have been forced in honesty, not to deny life after death, but to admit frankly that they cannot be convinced of it. What are these three positions and what attitude should we take toward them?

I

The first is that eternity is a quality of life; it is participation without the right of duration, in the case of man, in the life everlasting; the second is that life is a continual stream of choices and consequences, of living and dying, of repeated reincarnations in this world; and the third is that God reawakens us to life after death in another realm beyond this earthly existence.

Our attitude on all these questions should be one of humble faith and openness. Each of the above positions will be developed only in kernel. Some would say dogmatically that only the last of these is Christian; a very few would call the second Christian, although historically it definitely is not; many others would allow the first as well. In our day, however, the nature of the Christian faith itself is being reinterpreted. Perhaps any view that honestly interprets life in the light of what it sees in Jesus as the Christ has the right to claim his name. Some believe that the very survival of Christianity depends upon such a bold facing of modern man’s knowledge. Every man’s report should be as humble, honest, and open as possible in this realm. In such a spirit I advance the following suggestions.

The first view of life eternal is that it is a matter of man’s participation in God’s life. It emphasizes quality rather than duration. It is a kind of life rather than length of life. Man as such is not eternal. He is a creature. He lives and dies. But man is not therefore merely an animal. On the contrary, he is a child of God capable of eternal life, of sharing God’s own presence and power.

For some this is the only honest answer to man’s deepest dread: that life is meaningless. To be sure, we shall all die and be no more. But meantime we are more than we know. At least we do not thus postpone our problems for some fancied existence. We know and take seriously the fact of death. This kind of eternal life is also something we can experience and be sure of here on earth.

For some this means participation in life eternal amidst the busy demands of ordinary life. Life is hard and we are frustrated. It is next to impossible to be the kind of person we want to be -- husband, wife, son, daughter, or friend. We fail and feel guilty. We work, and sometimes we succeed even to the point of enjoying the success; but at other times we are disappointed with the results or ache over our own lack of satisfaction in achievement.

Sometimes we feel like the thrifty New England housewife who kept using the apples that were spoiling in the barrel so that most of the apples she used were the spoiled ones while the good ones were always there for the eating! We worry over the one or two things that bother us and fail to be grateful for the many things that are right. We are anxious over possible threats to our planning or living while we never rejoice over the many securities and satisfactions life brings. And what is worse, we cannot by willing change this basic life attitude.

Therefore the offer of forgiveness for those who hold this position is good news. The Gospel of grace means for them that we can be accepted beyond our desert. We are glad for even partial participation in a strength not our own that quiets our anxieties and takes the edge off our fears. We are grateful for the faith that life is not meaningless. In this view while God may not be personal, there is peace to be had. We shall all die, they say, but while we live we can find the resources to be better persons, better family members, better members of the church and the community. If religion gives us no more than this, we can honestly and humbly be thankful for eternal life, for our being touched and moved by our participation in it.

Others who hold this position have more hope, even though they, too, believe that death ends all for each and all of us. They believe that we can become new beings by the power of the Gospel. They believe that by the participation in God’s life the basic quality of life itself can be changed. For some of them this experience is a matter of being found at least from time to time within a "Gestalt of grace," a pattern of Gospel power. In either case we do not have and cannot command this power of eternal life. It is a free gift of God. Or in other terms, it is the possibility for us within the hidden resources of reality in its dimension of depth.

For still others of this group who hold that eternal life is an aspect of our experience in this life, everlasting life offers the possibility of being caught up into the ecstasy that can never be contained within time and space and that can never be explained from within our finite and evil existence. It is mystic union with eternity itself. It is sharing beyond explanation in joy at the depth. It is participation in the freedom from self and society, and from the whole world of things, that only those can know who have ever broken through the spiritual time and sound barrier of existence.

All these interpretations offer eternal life by participation. They hold that eternity is timeless, that eternity transcends completely and indescribably the failings and finiteness of time. Reality beyond the limitations of space-time existence has somehow come into people’s lives to help them, whether by touching their lives by a new quality of beauty and strength, by offering, that is, a new level of being, or by releasing them into the mystic ecstasy of immediate participation, beyond all knowledge, in eternal life itself.

While life lasts, they say, there is beauty in the wave, even in the breaking of it. At last, however, every troubled sea finds rest. The divided life is freed from the fever of existence. It sinks back into the ocean of being, after having been used on the surface, to rest in the depths of calm. The weary returns home. The tired finds rest. The separated bit of being finds its harmony within the whole to which it now fully belongs. There is peace.

For most people even this view of life eternal may seem unreal. They know only the humdrum of existence with its duties and demands, its bits of hopes and joys, its many sorrows and its final death. But many testify to the reality of the presence and power of eternal life in the midst of ordinary existence. The quest then becomes an eager reaching for a life less frustrating and more fulfilling. The central hope of life becomes the partaking of eternal life for the power of a new being, whether by touch, by newness of life, or by rapture. And after patient service comes the peace of silence; after life’s wrestling, rest in reality.

For those who know this reality of eternal life, there is no denying it. Problems remain, however, to haunt the thoughtful. If the world should come to an end, our total existence would be as though nothing had ever been. Then, too, what final justice or hope is there for idiots and the morally diseased? For them, within the point of view of this position, there is no eternal life. There is a certain snobbishness or parochialism in a view that provides eternal life only for the elite. Most people are untouched by such a high claim, and since death ends all, they become untouchables.

For that matter, many of those who hold this view neither act nor look as though this doctrine had vital reality. It seems often a kind of substitute faith for the classical Christian view. The theologian at the dinner party, we recall, had come to see how empty was the hope and how limited. He wondered, therefore, whether reincarnation did not offer far more hope. It does!

II

Reincarnation is eternal life without beginning or end. Each life keeps being reborn. Its character is responsible freedom. Reincarnation, from many angles, is the most reasonable explanation of life and the one viewpoint that most fully corresponds to our actual world while still having an eternal standard of right, wrong, and salvation.

From this standpoint there is no problem as to the origin of life. There is no origin. Each life is eternal by nature. Similarly there can therefore be no question as to the end of life. There is no end.

Furthermore, life is a matter of free choices continually. The choices come weighted with the consequences of our past choices, but, ever and ever, there is a chance to better our lives. Even though the cards of life are dealt to us according to our past, we are always free to play creatively for the future.

In reincarnation, what we do is put into a reservoir of deeds. Whatever we receive in life, of good or bad, is due to what is in the reservoir. We do not, to be sure, get everything at once. An evil deed may create consequences that are funneled back at a much later time. But we are what we do. We get what we deserve. Some interpreters of reincarnation emphasize deeds as acts, others as knowledge, and still others as love, but from whatever aspect of self we act, the result is stored in the reservoir. Life exhibits, therefore, perfect justice within an order of responsible freedom.

Rebirth may be into the order of human beings once again; or according to the classical form of the doctrine, transmigration into the animal realm; or into a higher order of heavens; and at the highest, the delivered self can escape from the round of rebirth to rest within the reality of eternity. This reality has been interpreted as consisting of being, plus intelligence, plus bliss. Such resting is identification with reality. It is being accepted by, and accepting, the center of what is truly real and right, which alone can fully satisfy what is real and right in man.

Such identification is finding the bliss of being in intelligent fulfillment. It is escape from the severed and fragmentary life. It is love’s union beyond our divided understanding of it. It is freedom with no overagainstness. It is perfect peace through full finding. Beyond the mere vision of God, it is full participation within the bliss of his perfect being, beyond the lacks and faults of human emotion. This identification is the negation of all that we know, the very finding of the perfect attainment we hoped for in our knowledge.

Here is fruition without frustration. Yet the spirit is free, and responsible choice remains. Those who wish can keep striving, losing or gaining partial satisfactions; those who will can find eternal life itself and enter into it.

No wonder our theologian friend was attracted. Who can see and not admire such freedom and justice, with such a wide spread of possibility? No credulity is needed to believe in irrational beginnings or in miraculous endings. The problem of evil is met fully without hopelessness.

Interest in this doctrine is rising sharply. All over the United States and Canada, I have come across people who believe in reincarnation while professing Christ. A Presbyterian minister, for instance, told me that in a ministers’ discussion group to which he belonged, most of them had confessed, once they had "let their hair down’" that they had abandoned the Christian point of view of eternal life in favor of the doctrine of reincarnation. Recently several leading writers, religious and secular, have openly or subtly taken leads along this line.

With classical Christianity at the crossroads, decisions have to be made honestly and creatively. For most educated people, the world view of the Christian faith as a whole in its supernatural dimensions is a shell. Emptiness is bound to suck in some faith. What shall it be? The traditional views of immediate translation into heaven or hell are hollow. Emptiness cannot be filled by emptiness! Perhaps taking the Christian center and rethinking in its light the doctrine of reincarnation may be a creative step. Certainly this second view, of reincarnation, is far more reasonable, considering all problems of beginnings and becomings, than the first view’s claim that there is no rhyme or reason to our origins and ends before and beyond this life.

I personally have been long and heavily tempted to make a try at such a synthesis. Now with the world becoming one, if it remains, and with our leading Western universities importing religious teachers from the East to teach students the religions that brought forward views like reincarnation, not to mention the success of missionaries in our midst from non-Christian religions, we Christians had better think long and deep concerning these religions, not only to be honest with ourselves, but to do justice to the central realities of our faith.

Reincarnation is certainly an improvement on the emptiness of naturalism. No wonder our great-minded and great-hearted theologian pondered the possibility of reincarnation as a step beyond his own position, which is basically in our first category as described above. I even suggested to him that evening that with his creative capacity he might develop a view going beyond both reincarnation and traditional Christianity to some form of fulfillment implicit in the Christian faith, but not yet brought to light. The classical Christian center seems to me to involve, in any case, a far more just and dynamic view of eternal life than has so far been expressed in traditional formulations, a view which accepts and incorporates whatever is true in the first two.

III

The Christian view of life after death is not easy to describe. The authority for it is Christ as the context of God’s love. Our standard of truth is: "God is faithful.’’ That affirmation on the subject of life everlasting implies everything basically Christian. In humility and honesty we must leave the far future in God’s hands. As Roger Shinn puts the case: It is not so much what we believe as Whom we believe. All that is needed is to draw the implications of the main confession.

With the first point of view in this chapter I agree that life everlasting is basically a participation in the life of God. It is first of all a quality of life. We are not interested in mere continuation of life. That could be both bad and miserable. It could be a decidedly selfish wish, based both on the fear of death and on a drive to be at the center of things. It could also amount to a postponing of life’s present problems for the sake of some fancied solution by or after death. The New Testament talks of a new life, a new being, not a mere continuation of life. For this reason many biblically minded thinkers dislike the term "immortality" and use the term "resurrection" instead.

Nor should life be thought of as eternal in its own right. That would mean that man himself had become self-sustaining forever. That would imply that man can become independent of God. To speak in such fashion is indeed to make man God. It is to be Platonic and not Christian. The Christian knows that man is mortal by nature. The breath God gave him in creation is the breath of earthly, not of eternal life. Man lives and dies as a human being. His life beyond this life, whatever it is, is surely a life of relation to God. It is a life of participation in God’s immortality. It is a new being, a new quality of life. With this main assertion I reaffirm my agreement.

Nevertheless, must we substitute quality for quantity? Why not have both? The better life is, the more it deserves to continue. If the basic meaning and reality of our lives are partaking of God’s love, that quality ought to insure the quantity. If everlasting life is life beyond the evils of temporal change and failings, why should not everlasting life last? The posing of quality as an alternative to quantity not only prejudices the question, but makes the answer necessarily deficient.

The longing for such a life is no more selfish if it is desired for a lifetime, or for eternity, than for an hour. For that matter, life everlasting in Christian terms is the death of selfishness. Such is its quality. No one can enter eternal life in reality unless he is willing to give up his own centrality in order to find a true center in God and in a community of love. Such a losing of self into life everlasting is the basic threat to selfishness. How, then, can the hope of such life after death be selfish?

To face God and eternal life aright, each person must face reality. Flight from God is the flight of fear. Acceptance of God is the acceptance of the love that involves the acceptance of self and others. It is the acceptance of life. How, then, can a genuine faith in life everlasting involve the postponing of problems in this life for the sake of some mysterious solution in the next?

We can, consequently, accept the positive truth of this first position without falling prey to its negative conclusion. We accept participation and permanence, quality and quantity, a new life now and in the world to come.

The second position presented reincarnation as eternal life without beginning and without end, the life of continuously responsible freedom on man’s part and of continuously perfect justice on the side of reality. This view, we saw, makes a strong attempt to be honest and realistic in its dealing with the mysterious question of life after death. Reincarnation offers life after death for each and for all. We have stressed this position in the belief that Oriental religions will be heard from with great vigor in coming generations. Many of the emphases of reincarnation are of utmost importance for Christian thinkers who have done little, for instance, with the question of the meaning of animal life and pain.

The most appealing part of reincarnation is its reasonableness and its morality. If all we knew of life were that it had always been here and had always been a mixture of good and evil, reincarnation would be even more tempting than it now is. As it is, we know that our main evidence is of a lightning quick history which has burst out of the unknown. In the light of Christ, our most adequate context for understanding the meaning of our total experience, we see that our world has not always been here, but has come into being as a special creation with a special goal. There are still problems aplenty and no one can be glib about ultimate matters. Our little world history, however, points toward God’s deeper meaning for us, not only in the future of our world within this cosmic process, but in the future of all life beyond death.

The governing thought in reincarnation I can accept insofar as it stresses both our responsible freedom and perfect justice in the universe. To this justice, however, the Christian faith adds God’s perfect love beyond our own deserving and capacity. God is seen in Christ as the sovereign Love who controls all the conditions of this life and beyond.

We can also maintain and develop reincarnation’s inclusion of the animal world as an enriching aspect of the Christian faith. Christians must be increasingly sensitive to God’s purpose for the whole of creation. Even animal suffering has its place there. The fulfillment of animal life in some way is surely in accordance with God’s most inclusive plan. I have tried to indicate several ways of such fulfillment in Evil and the Christian Faith. The God of perfect love is even more concerned with animal life than any ultimate reign of justice could be!

For a Father’s love, however, each and every individual is everlastingly important. The Christian faith because it believes in a personal God of love believes also in the perpetuation of human personality. God whose love is everlasting loves every individual forever.

Life everlasting denies the perpetuation of what is falsely individual. The selfish and the finite who take themselves too seriously cannot participate in God’s perfect love, while the truly personal life of love lives forever in it. The Christian faith teaches the perpetuation not only of the personal, but of the person. Such perpetuation is not only by participation in the divine life but by the eternal partaking personally of it.

Would a God of love create us to find no fulfillment beyond this life? Is the wish for fulfillment selfish? If we have to choose between believing in a selfish man and a selfish God, it is far better to keep faith in the ever-faithful God of creative concern. Thinking to be noble in not desiring life after death, we become most ignoble in our accusation of God as the creator of such a world as this with nothing more to follow! The Christian views of God and of life after death are inseparable. Apart from life’s continuation there is neither conquest of evil nor fulfillment of life. God is not the God of frustration but of the fullness of love.

Eternal life involves, naturally, the divine fruition of community. Man is not a person apart from others. He lives in, through, for, and by community. Individual life as such is a myth. True individuality is always reality of self-being as a social self. The Christian faith promises, by its very bedrock authority of God in Christ, that Love cannot lose his own.

How, when, and where we shall live after death we cannot tell, but we know that we shall be as Christ is. For us to try to predict the details of personal and community fulfillment is far harder than for a cocoon to envisage the life of a butterfly. No earthly eye has seen, no earthly ear has heard, and no earthly mind has conceived what heaven will be like. All we know is that the God we meet in Christ will exceed immeasurably every expectation and all imagining.

We have no right to believe, of course, that a magical change will take place at death. The meaning of this life has to be taken with all seriousness. Morality would be violated if God were to translate all immediately into the eternal perfections. This much we can surely learn with profit from the doctrine of reincarnation. The Christian view must be fully as moral, fully as patient, and fully as dynamic as any and as all alternate positions.

A weary life desires escape from all life’s problems. There is much appeal in the Buddhist doctrine of nirvana, which literally means "being blown out" of existence. Fear is fond of such an escape. Death as cessation is dear to a large side of our experience. We cannot build on our desires, however, one way or another, but only on God. When we build on God we shall find his mercy underlying the next life still offering us the challenge of growth and the chance for new grace.

Life everlasting can be had only by freely accepting God’s life of love. Love alone is eternal; love alone is free. Perfect love casts out fear. God has given us freedom of choice in order that through it we might find freedom of life. Freedom of life comes only as, through freedom of choice, we learn that God’s will for us is best.

God made us for fulfillment through freedom. In making us for himself, he created us for unconditional and universal love. We are free only as we find this kind of love from, for, in, and through God. The anxiety of the loveless is a chain of fear.

Our earthly experience and whatever similar experiences may be in store for us beyond death exist for the sake of our free choosing of God as we learn from the consequences of our action that God and his way alone are worth having. God never shoves heaven at us; like the father of the Prodigal Son he leaves us to come to ourselves as we discover the results of our lives. When we are ready, however, he is already there to offer the freedom of love and the reality of eternal life.

The final outcome is in God’s hands. We can trust him for the best result possible. He will find, but never force. He will free, but never force. He will fulfill, but never force. God is Love and he is faithful. Does not such faith give light on the way and strength to walk it?

The Christian who believes, in line with all classical Christianity, that Christ truly rose from the dead knows -- whatever elements of truth the doctrine of reincarnation may have on the lower levels of life -- that for man the final truth is personal resurrection. The disciples encountered the same person they had known before he died. To be sure, the resurrection of Jesus is a mystery both for history and for thought. So is man’s living again. But in both instances we are dealing with the mystery of the faithfulness of God.

When God is unreal and unknown, life after death becomes either a threat or an escape. When he is known as real, living, and Lord, our faces turn toward death with the quiet assurance of those who put their lives into fulfilling hands. Life everlasting, in the Christian sense of fulfillment, has the deepest meaning of all for those who within a life of love have already begun to glimpse the faithfulness of God. For them argument has less and less relevance, for they rest on the reality of God.

"And this is eternal life, that they know thee, the only real God, and him whom thou hast sent, even Jesus Christ."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapte<B> </B>4: Grace Abounding

Sin holds the spotlight among contemporary theologians. We have a new understanding of its depth and stubbornness. Though we are not sure about many essentials, we are sure about the reality and power of sin. We even run the risk of turning sin into a popular topic. To put heavy stress on sin pays off in popularity in some theological circles.

We can be thankful for the rediscovery of the cost and magnitude of sin for it cuts deep wounds into humanity; it even curses nature. If we care for men we must wrestle with the problem of sin. If we ever enter at all into God’s nature and purpose we must do battle with sin. Thus every adequate theology must deal with the deadly power and awful reality of sin.

But we must not put a false and one-sided stress on sin. We can talk about sin in grave tones, without ever really coming to grips with it. We can discuss sin without either repudiating it or fighting its power. We can even become theologically "right" by stressing sin without ever taking up the cross to follow the Christ. By so doing we encourage men to emphasize man’s sin rather than God’s grace; we prompt them to let sin usurp the place of God in human consciousness; we lead them to become more sure of sin than of the Gospel. When sin assumes such proportion in theology, theology itself becomes sin.

I

We cannot indicate the main dimensions of sin without looking at the meaning of sin, salvation, and sanctification. Each dimension exhibits sin in a new light. As always, our examination of these Christian doctrines must be in the light of God in Christ as universal, holy Love. Only the Person of Christ, as we have already seen, exposes sin in all its ugliness and darkness.

We begin with a look at the difference between sins and sin. In the Prayer of General Confession we acknowledge the many sins we from time to time have committed. We find it easy to confess such sins, if their confession keeps us unaware of our sin. Sometimes deep contrition accompanies the confession of sinful acts not so much out of sorrow for the sins we know we have committed as for the fear we may discover that we are basically sinful. We do not like to think of ourselves as basically evil. So we shudder when we discover the power of sin in us.

Such repentance over a gross or overt act of sin is possible alike for Christians and non-Christians. Why? Because sin is a most pervasive reality; and, too, because our response to it is exceedingly subtle, perhaps even largely subconscious.

Sin is what we are; sins are what we do. Sin is the response of the entire self to God in faithlessness or rebellion; sins are our deliberate acts of faithlessness and rebellion. Because we are sinful we act in sinful ways; we sin and commit sins.

Some distinguish between "material" and "formal’’ sin. They define the former as doing wrong. Man can do wrong without intending evil. He can be both faithful and loyal, yet do wrong out of ignorance; he can break God’s law, fall short of God’s command, or miss God’s mark. Such unintentional instances of doing wrong illustrate the meaning of material sin. But they are not occasions of sin in the formal sense. This distinction readily lends itself to a sub-Christian and unworthy interpretation. God holds us responsible only for what we know or for what we would know if we cared.

So we return to sin as the source of man’s trouble. Sins, though real and serious, are only ugly flowers on the vine of sin. Sin is always intended by the self. Sin is a chosen state. Sin is what we are and do because of what we choose to be and do.

But our choice of sin is seldom conscious and clear. Sin is a work of darkness; it thrives in the shadows rather than in the light. Seldom does sin involve a well-thought-out course of action in defiance of God. Seldom do we consciously tread the path of faithlessness.

Usually the choice of sin takes place below the level of consciousness. Down in the deep recesses of the subconscious, with consummate craft and in self-deceit, we distort our actual situations and true choices into a caricature. We analyze our situation in the light of self-interest, subtly ballooning the points in our favor and quickly belittling the unfavorable aspects of our situation. We let our eyes dwell on what we think we like, until reason touches up the situation to the point where we become convinced we are doing only what is good and wise.

We sin most deeply by refusing to see ourselves as sinners. We sell ourselves on ourselves, not by clear and conscious deception, but by clever and subtle misrepresentation. Self-interest transplants us in a false world, then prompts our minds to work overtime in search of the defense of that world. Thus reason becomes a tool of self-justification, if not of self-glorification.

We exercise reason in the hope of proving ourselves right and others wrong. Seeing a false world in our conscious minds, we act in accordance with our warped reason. Without conscious intention, and therefore without any feeling of guilt, we do many things others deem wrong; in fact, we, too, would think them wrong if our vision were sound. We even pin the label of evil on such actions when performed by others, unless we pause long enough to remember that we are condemning ourselves by this judgment of them. Whenever the true world manages to pierce this picture we experience conscious guilt.

Nevertheless powerful allies work mightily to keep this conspiracy in guilt under cover. Occasionally we even use repentance to distort and falsify our basic situation. Sometimes we "repent" of our sins to protect our sin!

So the self-critical are far nearer the Kingdom of God than the self-righteous; so long as men do not feel the pain of sin, they deny God and deceive themselves. But they do not go scot free. Their self-deception exacts a high toll in the deeper self. It begets a guilt-feeling in the subconscious. This in turn aggravates moral decay. And, worse still, moral decay spreads its poisonous contagion.

Why is sin so hard to detect in ourselves? Because it is the very set not only of the self but also of society. Not that this "set" eliminates responsibility, for sin involves choice at every level. Although we cannot choose sin for others, we can choose sin with others. Our capacity to do this explains our birth into a sinful order. From the very beginning men have joined hands with their neighbors in the hope of making their hiding place secure from God. Clever and ingenious are man’s devices to conceal his depth-hiding from God. Individuals and communities sinning together over long generations have built formidable barriers against the light of God.

Some seek escape in atheistic theory; more seek it in religious practices and doctrines. Because God stands at the center of the human situation, both the self and society feel driven to distort his nature and will. Sinful selves find mutual support and comfort in their construction of some idealistic religion as a refuge from God. Religion in the history of mankind has most often been a product of human fear, and religious practices have usually been a mixture of good and bad. Though the self can scarcely fool itself into looking on the bad as good, or society deceive itself into mistaking darkness for light, both self and society can dim the rays of light in a smoky half-darkness.

Thanks to this mixture, church people can unashamedly defend segregation as an expression of God’s will, justify war as divine service, defend ruthless competition in business as a part of the natural order, and reflect hostile and uncharitable attitudes generally; they can bless personal and social evil in the name of religion.

Only rarely does the self have to invent such protection against the light or build such strong support of sin from a fresh start. Usually he has only to acquiesce in the social order. As a matter of fact, he finds it hard to do otherwise. Afraid of public opposition, he takes refuge from persecution in the crowd. He dares not break "faith" with fellow refugees from the light.

The prophets and saints are the greatest enemies of "normal" social order and practices. Jesus had to be crucified. They are deemed most guilty of social misconduct who expose man’s religious subterfuges and lay bare the sin of churches. Alfred North Whitehead, accordingly, maintains that it is merciful to stone the prophets. Like the ancient High Priest, many can see nothing especially wrong with the practice of letting one person die for the people.

This body of sin, molded through the ages by the set of society against God, suggests the permanent meaning of original sin. In this sense man is generically sinful. We are born into a sinning order.

Theologians illustrate this fact by their tendency to acquiesce in views of God that are unworthy of him. By so doing, they allow views inconsistent with God’s universal holy Love in Christ to rob the Gospel of its full powers of judgment and salvation. Worse yet, they permit themselves to be led astray in their search for the full illumination and judgment of sin. They look for this illumination and judgment in religion or "Christianity," but not in Christ as God’s universal holy Love come to earth. They fail to see that the judgment is the Light: the Light of Love who came into the world!

II

If sin is so deep and serious, if repentance of sin as well as of sins requires such a wrench in the self and such a break with society, then how can the Gospel be good news? Is it not the part of wisdom and kindness alike not to expose people against their will to the full light of God’s holy, universal love in Christ? By no means, for all men must pass through suffering on the way to salvation. Indeed, to be unsaved is to suffer. Men who do not know God as Father and who run from him down the dark alley of their subterranean life cannot help suffering.

They suffer from their fear of self, from their fear of others, and from their fear of God. Most of such suffering takes place below the level of conscious awareness. It is not only people who lack inward peace and the sense of ultimate reality who experience such suffering. So also do they who straddle the fence between God and ordinary behavior; these latter suffer from an inability to feel at home among either world-lovers or God-lovers.

They also suffer, of course, who take up the Cross and follow the Christ. But they suffer redemptively. They suffer for others, even for those who inflict their suffering. Unlike other sufferers, they experience the joy of the Gospel even in their pain and agony.

To hope for a life without suffering is futile. No one will ever be saved until his measure of suffering is fulfilled. God has ordained suffering for our good. Only by suffering can we learn to know how false the way of the fearful, self-centered self is, in the first place, and want to find another way, that of the self fulfilled in God. Even then suffering comes, but love’s suffering, which, deepest down, satisfies the self and draws us nearer to God. We all must come to God by the way of suffering. The old Gospel song says truly: "The way of the Cross leads home."

By using suffering for God’s glory and for his purpose, and not just enduring it as helpless victims, we can triumph inwardly through suffering; in us, as in Jesus Christ, the victim can emerge the victor.

While men may be regarded as "full of sin" in the sense of being permeated through and through with its contagion, they never become so sinful that they can do no good. God lives and works in all men. In fact, most individuals, apart from undue pressure, are a fairly decent lot; they ask only to live and let live. The theologian who paints men as "a mass of corruption" not only distorts the facts; he betrays both God and man.

The wrench in the sinner does not constitute a hopeless chasm; nor his break with society, absolute separation. After all, all men seek right adjustment, which is what salvation is. Very few sinful men ever fall so low that they can no longer applaud the saints. Sinful man, after all, is a sinner seeking salvation. The sinner remains divided in his own response to the Revealer of salvation. But the Gospel hits too hard and hurts too much to let him remain neutral forever.

Why, then, do we call salvation life’s truest good? Why is salvation "Gospel"? Because salvation means getting right with God, and such a state alone can give man full satisfaction. To be saved means to be right with God, to be in line with his will. Salvation is life’s goal because man is God’s creature. Salvation is man’s main need because God is life’s final goal. So we cannot long continue at odds with God until we begin to be at odds with self. We cannot long enjoy our denial of the very satisfaction for which we are made.

But how do we get right with God? The answer is simple: God has already paved the way for us. God himself came in Jesus Christ as holy universal Love to fulfill the life of past human history in the life of one historical person; his coming paved the way for the fulfillment of the life of every man.

Salvation has two requirements. The first is to be right with God who came in Jesus Christ as suffering and victorious Love; the second, to be right with men.

What does this first aspect of salvation involve? What does it mean to be right with God? The answer is: to accept the only security on which we can fully and firmly rely. Any person who is right with God, by being aligned to his will, knows life’s truest security. God alone never fails. He alone can be trusted implicitly. He alone can lend certainty to our life in a world riddled with uncertainty. He alone can lend permanence to our fleeting existence in time. God alone can give reality to the dream of that part of life we have already lived. He alone can brace us for the walk down the problematic tomorrow. He alone can steady us for the jump off the brim over which we cannot look back.

Certainly the hard facts of human existence justify our search for security. Often the healthy and strong die first, perhaps through accident. Disaster lurks behind every corner. Meaninglessness threatens us on every side. Friends may desert us. Possessions may forsake us. Even when we have them, we fear their possible loss or theft. Nothing seems certain in life except death, and people fear what may happen to them after death, despite the advertising slogan of a cemetery in California: "Permanent protection for your precious departed."

Man can find permanent protection only by losing himself in God. He can find safety only in salvation. He can count on the future only if he counts on God. Man can find eternal security only as he seeks security in God. He cannot be saved except by the grace of God. The saved man knows this. So he endeavors to commit his life without reserve or condition into the hands of God -- come what may! So he turns toward the path of faith and freedom in fellowship with the Father.

Salvation, in addition to security in God, brings deliverance from something. When God gives us a new Spirit in Jesus Christ, he also saves us from the power and pain of self-centeredness, from the fear-ridden, "natural" self. Indeed the presence or absence of salvation can be determined only by the presence or absence of the fruit of the Spirit. The fruit of the Spirit may be thought of as the characteristics of those saved from self: love, joy, peace, and all the other Christian virtues.

The self is a hard taskmaster. No one can be harder on a person than his own self. Self can punish and keep punishing. Self can drive with feverish ambition, keeping him ever restless. Self can plague with blinding fear, denying true peace. The self can dodge discipline and spoil life with fickleness. The self can coddle desire and go to pieces. The self can grieve over self from morning to night. The self can go on, day after day, with no energy and no zest. The self can spurn every attempt to set himself free for faith. The self can go on sinning and still rue his role as slave rather than master.

But when, saved by grace and faith, man finds a new self, the old and all-spoiling self has to release its tyrannical hold on his life. Then he discovers how free and secure the self can be if only he remain within the will of God.

Salvation, insofar as it is effective, also saves us from too heavy dependence on others. We find in God-directedness both a live alternative to and a sure cure for constant fretting over what other people think of us. We neither become overly depressed by their expressions of disapproval nor elated by their words of praise.

Many people suffer from clumsiness in personal relations. They cannot get along with others. They are either falsely aggressive or unnecessarily defensive. They either hurt and blaze forth or hurt and smolder.

Only when we know God as our refuge and strength can we live with others as genuine persons. Only when we have God as our Father and Judge can we live with others and with our own strong convictions without constant tension. Only when we are forgiven by God can we accept ourselves to the point where we feel no desire to blame others.

Forgiveness by God and by ourselves releases us from the tensions which keep us from being generous in our judgment of others. We no longer feel we have to be either sentimental about others’ faults or shocked by them. Instead in proportion to salvation’s being real in us, we view others realistically -- not blind to their faults, to be sure -- but within the hope and purpose of God.

Once we personally experience God’s love in Christ, once we know the Spirit whose we are, we can also be saved from our bad habits. Trivial as this aspect of salvation may appear, it is crucial. Innumerable people long for escape from some habit they loathe but cannot conquer. Many drunkards hate drinking, but cannot leave off. Many sex deviates deplore lust, but cannot resist its drive. Whatever the habit may be among the legion that threaten us, when it rules, we lead an unhappy and enslaved life. God can release us from the tyrannical power of these insidious destroyers of self-respect and freedom.

God likewise sets us free from the bondage of the past. Multitudes find in their own past something they can neither forget nor forgive. Some go to psychiatrists in search of relief. Some try so to change their way of life as to forget their oppressive past. In both instances at least temporarily, the irretrievable past puts under bondage the inescapable present

Multitudes contain in their lives a whole reservoir of past shame that has never been forgiven or swept out of the subconscious. They feel guilty but cannot tell why. They blame themselves but can find no rational basis for so doing. They cringe within but cannot articulate the reason for their fear.

When a guilt-sufferer genuinely accepts God in Christ, he begins to undergo a radical transformation. With a new Spirit comes a reorientation of life, a sweeping clean of the past and a full facing of the present. The light of salvation starts chasing the clouds from his future. He henceforth sees hope not as cowardly escape but as solid reality.

Salvation also includes deliverance from the wrath to come. Often men live as if they could get away with living for themselves in this life. And, sometimes, they do -- in this life! But in the world to come they must face God and face up to what they have done. God’s forgiveness of our guilt does not exempt us from the obligation either of paying for our wrong deeds or of working to set things right. We do not get away with anything before God; we only think we do.

In spite of our persistence as sinners, we can have our reward in this life; we can defy God in this life; we can have fun and folly in this life, but, as sure as God is holy and just, in the life to come each of us shall pay every debt not made good in this life.

Salvation is no bargain-counter product. We have to pay for it in full. Though God pays for the guilt of personal relations and freely offers us full restoration to fellowship, we still have to pay for the consequences of our deeds in works of faith and love within the grace of God. Sin is more serious than any human being can fully understand.

Yet we are saved not only from but for something. We are saved for a new self. The more fully saved we are, the more we are in tune with God. The perverted self becomes more and more the fulfilled self. Only experience can teach us what it means to be rid of the fears, drives, and desires that once mastered our lives. Only freedom from their power can teach us the joy that comes when they no longer dominate our lives and spoil them.

We are similarly saved for a new society. A whole new range of experience begins to open up. Lonesome man finds the companionship for which he was made. Instead of fighting others or fearing them, he lives with them humbly, as friends. The experience of salvation enables us to care what others do or think, because we are concerned with them, while not dependent upon their judgment.

Salvation opens the door to the fellowship of the true church, the new society. Even in the home the church begins to become a reality in family life; we become joined in love and faith to those with whom we are bound by blood and birth. Once aware that life apart from the companionship of Christ can never be full and rich, we work to turn the church into a family fellowship of vital prayer and mutual concern. In short, as salvation becomes real we glimpse that community whose character reflects the meaning and nature of salvation.

Above all, the saved are saved for heaven. Already in this life they set foot on the threshold of a new home. In worship and prayer they begin to pull away from ordinary life and reach over into God’s side of reality. In companionship with God they see with new eyes and feel with new hearts.

As in prayer and experience they even now soar beyond this earth and life and they commence knowing life on a higher level. They start finding a new focus of fulfillment in God. They know heaven as more than a place of imagination. Indeed they often approach its gates. They even carry something of its far-off glory back home with them. Inevitably they spill some of it into the humdrum of ordinary life.

But heaven remains primarily a place awaiting the saved. They know where they are going at the end of this life. They are going where God is. They are going to be with Christ. They are going home to the larger family. They are going through resurrection to the place of many mansions.

He who has lost his heart to heaven knows in this life "the power of an endless life." Death is no longer merely an enemy to be feared. The days of unrelieved doubt are over. He in whom salvation is active knows his Father and his home and he waits, while working, to be called home.

Many who do not know salvation regard such talk as nonsense or, at best, questionable speculation; however, many a secular writer seems almost possessed with man’s longing for immortality as a basic drive. This deep-set want is due to a need rooted in reality. Thus though men may mock, they cry for what they mock.

For the saved, however, though life never loses either its challenge or its beauty, it always remains touched with homesickness. The saved are pilgrims who can never find full rest and peace on earth, for their hearts are in heaven. Although they may know ever so much heaven here and now, they never fail to remember that heaven, even more, is the home that awaits them.

III

We are saved from sin for God. We are saved from self for community. We are saved from the faults of earth for the fullness of heaven. But such salvation does not come all at once. The decision to let oneself be saved may come all at once. At some particular time each person must cross the line from death into life, from self as central to God as central -- at least in conscious intention -- but it takes time to make the full turn away from self to God. Indeed, God has given us eternity for this purpose. We still can and should, of course, make a significant start on earth.

As illustrated in the life of the Master, when God becomes central to human life how much of heaven’s goal can be realized on earth! The indwelling presence of God as holy Spirit at work in life is called sanctification. To sanctify means "to make holy." God saves us by making us holy.

"To be separate" is the biblical meaning of "holy." Normally, holiness in the Christian’s vocabulary has a more restricted connotation; "to be holy" means "to be separated from evil." So sanctification means separation from sin and from the ways of the world. One of the most crucial misunderstandings of the Christian faith frequently is rooted in the misinterpretation of sanctification for thought and life. For this reason we must look closely at the questions: What does it mean to be made holy? What does sanctification involve?

The very mention of sanctification repels many people. They take it to mean a kind of unctuous pietism. If pressed, they will even say they had rather remain unsanctified than to become unnatural.

Admittedly they have a point. Often, "holy" people do seem queer. And, worse still, some of the "sanctified" are hard to live with! Such people have turned sanctification into a bad word not only for the population in general but also for many Christians. Many devoted Christians still equate sanctification with a stuffy and inhibiting legalism -- a matter of avoiding this or eschewing that, whether drinking or card-playing, wearing make-up or going to the movies.

But true sanctification means something quite different. It denotes the process, sudden or gradual, whereby the person who has been saved in intention becomes saved in fact. It describes the action of God in which he fulfills this intention by education, by intensification of intention, and by teaching us how to enjoy the truly good life. Sanctification is the process of becoming genuine. It is an exchange of the false self for the true self, of the unreal personality for the real person. Sanctification indicates the process whereby we are made holy, within the purpose of God for our life.

A non-Christian or sub-Christian understanding of sanctification defines it as physical separation from people who do not live holy lives. Some even treat the absence of a certain "orthodox" profession as a lack of holiness and a ground for excommunication. This erroneous interpretation, though reflected in the New Testament in some instances, stems from the belief that God himself shuns evil people and expects the "saints" to follow his example.

But the life of Jesus causes embarrassment for this view. Indeed, this attitude bespeaks the kind of "Pharisaism" (as the word is ungraciously used by us Christians) Jesus came to destroy. When God walked in human flesh, he walked into unclean Samaria to talk with a "bad’’ woman, he associated with publicans and sinners and met the accusation of being a winebibber and a friend of the untouchables.

So does he even yet! God loves the sinner completely and comes to him freely -- even into him, to dwell with him, that God might cast out sin and cancel guilt from within. He still offends our natural goodness and self-righteousness.

Not only does he do it by calling "sinners" to repentance. He does it still more emphatically by identifying the worst sinners as those who trust in their own goodness and hold themselves aloof from the sinners and the despised. Then, as if to rub salt into sore wounds, he says these self-righteous "saints" are the very people the true "saints" should be helping with their company and encouragement.

Christian holiness has as its goals the elimination of sin and the transformation of the sinner into a saint. Particularly does it aim at the transformation of the most sinful -- the religiously self-righteous.

Christian holiness means to be like God. It means to partake of his nature and attitude. To be sure, the sanctified in his effort to be one with the sinner does not try to please him by sinning with him. To be holy means to be separate, in thought, imagination, word, and action, from sin and even from needless appearance of sin. The truly sanctified finds no pleasure in evil and no satisfaction in sinful company. He is with sinners because he loves them. He associates with them as a fellow human being touched with divine love for people as people, particularly for those in need, even more for those in moral and spiritual need, and most especially for the religiously self-righteous.

The sanctified separates himself from evil in his inner attitude. The really sinful things, as Jesus taught, are neither what goes into a man nor what he touches. Sinful things, rather, are what go out from his inner self, the lusts that conceive and occasion sinful acts.

Thus a saint seeks out sinners not to judge them but to enlighten and help them, and not too self-consciously, at that. He joins them as a human being who likes and accepts his fellow human beings. By his presence he offers them the only Presence that can truly change them, fulfill them, and thus set them free. Neither threats nor rewards can do that. Only love can rightly fill the self, free it from its false desires and give it peace.

Young women of a new religious order in France choose to live close to brothels and among atheistic labor groups, not to preach, but to be friends, to be of help in need, and to show the lone and lost the heart of God in the midst of human hell. Such living is an example of Christian sanctification.

To be sanctified means, then, to grow in grace. Grace can be had only by being shared. To be holy, we remember, is to be separate from sin. To separate from sin, however, is possible only as, with God’s aid, we live more and more for others. Sanctification is from sin but not for selfish reasons. To be made holy is to be removed from sin but not externally.

To be sanctified means being separate from because we are lovingly for. It is to be separate from sin because we are for God and for others. Just as God, who is ever and by nature sinless and cannot sin, comes to the sinful world because he loves it, so the saint goes into the world because the holiness of God has made him real and overflows his humanity into human fellowship.

Sanctification is, then, for the world. Jesus presents the best example of sanctification. He kept himself pure `’for their sake." His own conquest of temptation was intimately connected with and, indeed, the very expression of, his holy love, his living for others. Jesus learned obedience through his sufferings for others. He identified his life and passion with the welfare of his people. Thus he became in truth the Messiah.

The Son of God sanctified his ordinary manhood into the Son of Man. In just such a way must we become holy by letting the Son of God rule us until we attain "mature manhood" and come, as the Bible says, "to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ." Jesus was in his deepest intention the Universal Man. The Universal Man is whoever under God most fully identifies himself with all men.

Being bid to walk even as Jesus walked, we might start by trying to make all people happy, by so living as to let all men know what it means to be free souls. The more we try to make men happy, as Robert Louis Stevenson pointed out, the more we come to realize that no one can be happy by living for himself. Happiness presupposes goodness while guilt brings sorrow. Therefore we must aim at making men good as well as happy. Goodness presupposes good intentions, a possession always of happy people. But good intentions are not enough. People with the best intentions can be most destructive of other people’s happiness.

Goodness requires, besides, the knowledge and the observance of law. Law is a matter of right relations. Right relations are from God for human good. Therefore true happiness does not destroy the law, i.e., right relations. In order to be happy, consequently, we ourselves must fulfill God’s intention that we be our true and real selves. We must also help other people to be their best selves. That cannot be done by by-passing the law.

How does holiness work as law? Law is necessary to show right relations, to teach right relations, to correct wrong relations, and to keep guiding into ever more nearly right relations.

Law, however, is only a help; it is no substitute for love. It is only a crutch that does not take the place of walking. Only love can rightly make use of law in any full sense, for the purpose of all law is finally for love. Therefore love alone, as the Bible says, can fulfill the law.

There is no genuine conflict between law and love for those who see the true nature of love as holy and the law as an instrument for facilitating love. Holiness observes law. But the laws of right relations are the fruit of the long outworking of justice. They can be finally attained and fulfilled only by love. True love, therefore, is never slack or sentimental. It is, rather, holy, austere, concerned for others in their total relationship to one other, to themselves, to God, and to the natural order in which they live.

Whenever holiness becomes separated from goodness, or law from love, God is violated. All law is for love; all holiness, for happiness. Consequently both the safest and the most creative response toward sanctification is to live to make all people happy. We fulfill the law of love only as we become inclusively concerned for other people and work in concrete situations to make them happy as whole personalities and communities.

"Happiness" has become a threadbare and shopworn word, tinged with the superficialities of the ordinary and even with escapism. For this reason we must see happiness in the context of holiness and the law. But even when we have done so, no one has the right to happiness except within the trust of God whose suffering and sovereign Love will in the end gather up all human sorrow into a full and inclusive salvation. This godly happiness we may now embrace. Apart from it we shall have little positive satisfaction to offer a doubt-drenched and sorrow-laden world.

Working with a concerned happiness our minds begin to become free to pursue ways and means of helping people. Only thus do we increasingly realize that happiness comes most truly and most fully only within the inclusive, holy love of God. To be holy in relation to happiness is to live humbly and obediently the implications and involvements of a nonsentimental realistic love.

So fulfilling the law within the love that frees the self, we "grow in grace." The saints who have accepted salvation as the act and promise of God experience its fulfillment in themselves.

"Entire sanctification," a term much bandied about in evangelical circles and life’s hardest and rarest attainment, is the complete surrender to the will of God and the consistent living of it until, within the grace of God, saints find that temptations lose their power. Even though the "totally sanctified" can still feel temptation and their spirits can still be disturbed by evil imagination; even though they can still be troubled in disposition and less than perfect in decision and act; nevertheless their total self rests in God and finds no happiness apart from his presence.

Once for all God has secured the saints’ will against basic disobedience because he has won their hearts for himself by their actual experience of the kind of life he offers. Such steadfastness within the love of God and such experience of its fruit are what total sanctification means. It is far more a hope than an attainment; for most people it is unreal and frustrating; for all, its deepest experience lies beyond this earthly life.

"Eternal security," the claim "once saved, always saved," does not involve the loss of ability to sin. The insight that this claim sets forth is, rather, the towline to the shore of heaven that will not give way. But we, of course, can let go of the towline! Eternal security is the confidence that, no matter how much the waves of earthly temptation toss our bark, we shall reach the harbor.

The biblical and historical doctrines we have just discussed have meaning within genuineness of Christian experience. They should neither be denied nor claimed as attained by ourselves. Beyond whatever experience is granted us, they should be the goal of our lives and our far-flung hopes in God’s promises.

The Christian doctrine of man is a most serious topic. It precludes every effort to hide our illness or to claim what is unreal for the cure. Sin is real and long lasting. The power of sin, even in the life of the saints, is a terrifying force. Genuine faith never speaks of easy or fast victories over it.

Nevertheless, once the hearts of believers have been won by the love of God and their eyes opened by faith, they cannot deny in their own experience the reliability of the grace of God. To that grace they witness: to the greatness and goodness of God.

Chapter 3: To Mature Manhood

Our age is man-centered. We are sure of man, but we are not sure of God. Because doubt and despair come more easily than faith, we reinterpret the classical affirmations of faith in terms of man. That, indeed, is what "existentialism" is all about. To some this man-centeredness seems the nadir of faith. We have gone about as low as we can go. Tillich, however, in his Lowell Lectures, has pointed out that the kind of science and the kind of philosophy that made man an object, a thing, was even lower.

Existentialism, even nihilistic existentialism, is at least the affirmation that man is free to choose. All roads may equally lead to nothing, as Sartre claims, but at least man is free to throw himself into the pursuit of his choice. At least, as Hesse maintains, every man is a road unto himself. There is some hope at least in the Chinese poet who cried that out of nowhere nothing answered yes!

But the full standard for man is Christ. Christ is the fullness of God in the fullness of man in the fullness of time. He is God as universal, unconditional Love, the reality of eternity fulfilling created time. He is the Godman in whom are joined the nature of God as entire Love and the nature of man as made for that Love. He is God convincingly present in one of us, showing us his heart in the Cross and his arm in the Resurrection.

If we look at man in the light of Christ, how does he appear? If the God who came in Christ created the world, creation is good. To deny this is to deny Christ. On the other hand, when we look at the merciless ravages of nature or at the bestiality, even of religiously educated man -- especially as we have seen him in this century --it is impossible to maintain that creation is merely good. It is also somehow terrifyingly evil.

This fact gives ground for the historic doctrine of "the fall" of man. In the history of man as anthropology shows it, however, there is no such fall. But if God is the creator of man and nature, in some way man has "fallen" from his origin. The least that can be said is that evil nature and sinful man are not God’s intention in creation.

Therefore, no discussion of the Christian understanding of man can be right if it so glories in the goodness of creation as to obscure the reality of "the fall," or so grovels in the depravity of "the fall" as to deny the goodness of creation. This double fact concerning man sets the problem of our discussion on this topic.

I

First, we must ask if man is good or bad. This question can have no easy answer. The answer depends upon the meaning of the question. From the point of view of creation, man is good. God cannot make a bad world or a bad man. The Bible says that God saw everything that he had made and that it was good. The God who created man is the same God who came in Christ to save him. How can such a God be guilty of an evil creation? God has all possible power and wisdom. Creation suffers from no defect. Therefore, if we start with God the creator, man is essentially good.

He is essentially good because he is from God. The origin of man is perfect. The source out of which he was made is flawless. Besides, if God is the one to and through whom all things are ultimately related, man’s chief reference is good. Man’s present nature is primarily related to God. Therefore by main reference man is essentially good.

Besides, man’s destiny is to be made for God. God made him for himself. When he created, the perfect, allwise and all-loving God created man for a perfect destiny. Anything short of such an affirmation would be a denial of the reality and nature of God as seen in Christ. Man in the light of Christ is consequently essentially good. This way of looking at man is ultimate. There can therefore be no dispute about the fact that man is essentially good. Such is the view of man from the point of view of creation, reference, and destiny.

Nevertheless, looked at the opposite way, at his actual nature, while similarly in the light of Christ, man is undeniably bad. Man, we remember, is made to be all good, as God his Father is. Jesus bids us to be perfect even as our heavenly Father is perfect. The perfection Jesus enjoins is a maturity of love that is universal and indiscriminate. God lets his sun shine on the just and the unjust and we likewise are required to love all people alike. Man appears continually to be selling God short. He falls prey to fears and becomes guilty of accepting anxieties. But perfect love casts out fear, we know, and we are bid to be anxious in nothing, but in everything to be thankful. Being honest with ourselves and unsentimental about others, can we say that in these respects we are predominantly good?

With regard to others, we are told to prefer them in honor and never to measure ourselves by them. As a matter of fact, we are created to be continuously and unexceptionally outgoing in our acceptance of others and in every needful self-involvement in their lives. Who dares to say that, measured by this standard, he is more good than bad?

Who knows his deepest motives and hidden drives enough to say that he has been delivered from self-regard and knows his life to flow like a fountain, full and free, in mature good will to others? And knowing that nothing is impossible for God, if we trust him, who can look at his own life as not only free from distortions but also as a living miracle of world-shaking power for good? Who dares to take literally the biblical promise that greater works of faith than Christ’s shall be done because Christ has gone to his Father? When we measure the best of men by Christ’s standard, then, not even to mention the full, gross, common sinfulness of man generally, how can we claim even for a moment that man is basically good?

Thus we seem to be up against the fact that either our faith is wrong or our observation of man in the light of it is incorrect. We could conclude that the Christian faith taken at its own best is idealistic and unrealistic, that it is in fact, escapist. Or on the other hand we could conclude that man is not really bad, not really sinful in the Christian sense of being "curved in on himself." But neither choice will do.

We have, then, to find a possible solution of this seemingly impossible dilemma. The Christian faith has its own problems, but it is easier to accept these problems than to deny the central light Christ sheds on existence.

God made man good. This is his essential nature. Man’s fallen nature is not his real nature, but only the actual condition of his nature. He is in alien territory but he is still a citizen of heaven. What does this mean?

First of all, we must view all things, especially man, in the light of God. Seen thus, earthly existence is only a small segment of God’s preparatory work. If we make this time-space world central to our existence, there is no answer to our dilemma in terms of an adequate faith. The length of time God takes to prepare for free life staggers us. His molding man from "the dust of the ground" is a cosmic process of millions of years. Incomparably long is the time he took to prepare for the coming of life on this planet.

By contrast our little lives here on earth are but a brief bit in his rearing. Decision before God, not the false assumption that our time-space existence is all there is or the only place for choice, makes life important. Unimaginably beyond our lives on earth, God works his way of fostering his children.

God has given man a unique capacity to know and to respond to him. He created him in his own image for eternal life. God offered man the knowledge of good and evil. But such knowledge can be received only by the taking. It comes through the making of choices and the discovering of consequences. By the freedom to make real choices involving good and evil, God let man become real. He did not want puppets. God, being no paternalist, created a world of real risk. On the other hand, in order that man might not be self-sufficient, he left him hollow at the center.

Man, therefore, risks falling either in or out, so to speak, in an attempt either to become secure by filling in his own emptiness or to find safety by leaning on others. Not only is man made precarious within his own nature; he finds precariousness in nature. Hence his insecurity and anxiety.

Consequently, man works to make himself safe. He tries to remake himself by self-improvement. He struggles to conform to what others believe or want. He labors to lay aside means of security, whether in terms of working competence or in terms of cash savings. He invests in friendships, in "connections."

The fact that God also made this world dependable enough for man to plan and to achieve, to sow and to reap, to study and to grow, gives the false hope that he can escape from this hollowness at the center of his being. No planning, doing, or saving can make man secure. Threatened by this God-made insecurity, man sins in his attempt to be self-sufficient and self-important.

What is true for the individual is also true for the group. Groups, too, are threatened by collective insecurity and commit social sin by striving to become collectively self-sufficient and self-important. Although God created us insecure and thus gave the occasion for our sinning, God never causes sin; sin cannot be caused; but he knew at the creation of the world that man would become himself only through his finding in freedom the difference between good and evil.

The very hollowness of man’s center, however, God meant for himself. Only when God is truly the center of man’s life, can man escape the insecurity that tempts him to curve in on himself, or to lean on others as means to his own safety, and to be faithless toward God.

When God the eternal Spirit fills man’s central hollowness, on the contrary, man accepts himself, finds true community, and lives in peace and power with God. Thus man’s essential goodness is his potential goodness. His sin is holding God off. The more he knows God, the greater the sin.

If freedom is to be real and God’s good freely chosen, man needs this experience. He needs to be alienated from God. To say so is not to make light of sin, but to honor God’s way of working. The more and the sooner God is accepted as central, however, the better. It is God’s will and man’s destiny that God become thus central. Therefore, although man is under the dominion of sin, he is even more made for God. The way nature works is to show man that although he can plan and grow in personal responsibility and in community, there is no permanent or sufficient fulfillment except in relation to God, in whom is man’s true life.

Man is made for the Love God is. This Love is man’s essential nature. Therefore, although in his immaturity man finds sin easier than love, nevertheless, in the light of God’s long-distance plans for man, he is essentially good.

II

The nature of man is best lighted up by a discussion of what it means that man was created in the image of God. This subject has been the occasion for fierce dispute in modern theology. Such sharp disagreement is understandable, since the subject involves man’s central relation to God, and since, as we have seen, man’s very nature is determined by his relation to God. Emil Brunner has never tired of saying that man can know himself only when he knows God in his Word; and Peter Taylor Forsyth drives home the same fact when he makes the central perspective for the understanding of man not the world, but the Word.

One long and sturdy strand of historic thought has it that the image of God in man is reason. Man is a rational animal, a morally responsible creature, because he can think, reflect, evaluate, decide. Man alone, therefore, this position holds, can be like God. In this respect he is unique. As a rational creature, the great amphibian transcending time, man bears the stamp of God’s image. The Early Church Fathers usually supported this position. It has, so to speak, been the main line on the subject.

The question we must ask ourselves, however, is this: what view of God is implied if God’s image in man is reason? Is God centrally a thinker? Is God like Rodin’s famous statue, a static figure contemplating the world? Greek philosophy, in large part, would shout its muted amen (reflective thought shouts only silently and inwardly!). Plato’s perfect forms are statically immovable and Aristotle’s unmoved mover is unmoved. The passively perfect gives rise to the actively imperfect, seeking the beauty of abiding rest in the undifferentiated unity of the One. Pythagoras’ forms underlie even the music of the spheres. Christian thought has been Circe-ed by the endless ocean of unmoved rest beneath the troubled waves on the surface.

Or thought can have its impersonal logic and its history of development as the key to all reality, as in Hegel. Modern mathematicians like Sir James Jeans can find in God, the Thinker, the final explanation of the starry heavens and of man’s life; and a modern philosopher like Alfred North Whitehead can find God to be the vision of the whole and of what can be, and the mediating thought between them, as he contemplates or "envisages" the possible beauty of the harmonies among the worlds of flux.

But the Christian who starts with Christ, with the Cross, with God as Love, knows that whatever truth there may be in the image of God as reason, it cannot be the full and final truth. It cannot be the "extreme center" where all aspects of truth find their delimitation and fulfillment.

Others, like Professor Mowinckel of the University of Oslo, find the image of God to be the Old Testament version of it in the Eighth Psalm: "What is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him? Yet thou hast made him little less than God . . . thou hast put all things under his feet." In other words, the image is specifically developed by Professor Mowinckel in connection with the Eighth Psalm as man’s power over creation. In view of man’s nearly insatiable drive for power, or as Joseph Haroutunian puts it, man’s "Lust for Power," it is easy to believe that this is man’s central image.

But what does this do to our view of God? It is no longer Christian. It is pagan. It presents God as basically power in nature. A dictator! But, said Bernard of Clairvaux, "love has no lord!" Great Jewish scholars like President Louis Finkelstein of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City are fighting a valiant battle to show that such a view of God is not even the heart of the Old Testament. There is, of course, some truth in this position of the image of God as man’s power over creation, but certainly not the truth that fulfills.

Some theologians, notably Reinhold Niebuhr, interpret the image of God in man as man’s capacity for creative self-transcendence. This view is distinguished with great seriousness from rationalism. A good deal of the power of the main-line view was in reality reason as the capacity to transcend our actual situation. But Niebuhr puts more emphasis on decision. In his view man sees an ideal in the abstract. He can see this with "a perfection" that is lost as soon as he must make decisions among the ambiguities of existence, not least of which is the ambiguity of his own sinfulness.

In one period, Niebuhr stressed the morality of the individual as over against the immorality of society. He has outgrown this position, for the most part, but he still analyzes the operation of the image of God in man as the contrast between the original righteousness of man before he acts (the act of creative self-transcendence, what he calls "perfection before the act"), and the "fallen" state of man within the ambiguities of our sinful world.

There is, however, no such perfection. Actual man cannot even see perfection. Man’s vision is tainted by his sinfulness as a total being. Yet there undeniably is in this position, too, a truth in the fact of man’s creative self-transcendence.

Again we ask, what does this position do to our view of God? Is God then supremely Creator? Is God first of all Creativity? The Christian answer is positive: God creates because he loves; he does not love because he creates. Therefore, however important the truth involved in the defining of the image of God in man as creative self-transcendence, it cannot constitute the main make-up of the image.

Another important position in today’s thought is that of Emil Brunner, who defines the image of God in man as his answerability to God. While man, according to Brunner, no longer possesses original righteousness, he cannot escape the fact that he is responsible to God for his life. No matter where man may be or what he may do, he is in fact so related to God that he cannot escape feeling guilty before God, either in his conscious mind or in the torments and imaginations of the unconscious.

We ask a similar question of this position: What conception of God does this point of view entail? Is God mainly Judge? The Christian knows better. God judges, but he is far more Savior and Father. He judges in order to save. The Bible even says that God sent his Son not to judge but to save.

In fairness to Brunner it must be said that the original image that man possessed before the "fall" was not answerability; only the form of the original image now remains as man’s answerability to God. We know of no such historic "fall," however, and with this admission Brunner and the others agree. Therefore it is better to make the image central to man’s essential relation to God. Its working can be obscured, thwarted by sin, but its nature is part of God’s goodness in creation that must not be denied by "the fall."

The truth of Brunner’s position is powerful. It is connected with God’s whole use of law, of guilt, and of grace, but Brunner’s interpretation does not arrive at the determinative nature of the image of God in man.

Others like Karl Barth and Anders Nygren have maintained that the image has been totally destroyed. There is no part of it left in man. The fall was entire, involving the whole man. There is nothing of God in man. Such denial is the most radical in Christian history.

With Karl Barth the emphasis is on the complete sovereignty of God. Man is, even by nature, in no position to help the least bit toward his own salvation. All is by grace and faith. In Nygren there is extreme sensitivity to what he takes to be the disastrous heresy of mysticism, namely that there is a bit of God in every man that makes him restless apart from his right relation to God.

Both Barth and Nygren are afraid of mixing the categories of God and man. Both are also afraid of thinking of God in terms of substance, as some "stuff" that can be in man, or some structure that can organize man. Barth now is willing to speak of the image of God in man as God’s call to man. I think Nygren would not object to such a statement of the case. As a matter of fact, Barth and Brunner likewise have come closer to each other, as David Cairns points out in The Image of God in Modern Theology.

An outright repudiation of the image of God in man would really amount to a denial that there is a natural relation between God and man. Indeed, both Barth and Nygren are woefully weak on the point of God’s presence in creation; they even stammer on his positive use of creation. Their denial that God is "stuff" is, of course, sound, as is their insistence on the sovereignty of God’s grace. If only they could see more fully how this grace works in creation and in man: offering man free acceptance on God’s part and letting him use his freedom to find God!

On this important question of the image of God in man, is there a clear word from God? One fact is obvious and beyond all dispute: the God of the Christian revelation is centrally Love, the God of the Cross and the Resurrection. Simply put, the fact is, God is faithful.

God being Love, his image must be man’s capacity for love. Man is centrally made for love, for God’s love and for man’s. The true image includes the truth of all partial images. Love, for instance, has within it the reality of reason, fulfilling the insight of the first position we considered. How can love be high and free without the power to know, to reflect, to evaluate, and in the light of this process to choose? Man is not essentially an animal. Even in the respect that he has reason he is unique in every developed sense of the meaning of terms.

Man also has been given power over nature, our second position. His is the world to use. God has put all things under his feet. He enjoys creative transcendence over time, a fearful position to be in. This is a sacred place in which to be put. God also holds man accountable. He is not only under law, but under the Lordship of the inescapable God. And man’s chief relation to God is not in terms of some bit of God in man, but in terms of God’s coming to man, his calling man.

There is truth in all these positions, but they never fall into essential relationship until man is understood as created for love by the God who is Love. The image of God in man is man’s need for love. The image of God in man as centrally man’s being made for God’s love gives context and total meaning to all other aspects of the image. Hunger is not food, but it does characterize man’s relation to nature. Hunger for God is no bit of God in man, but it determines his very being. Man’s emptiness is for God’s filling.

No individual and no community can be right until they are rightly related to God. No individual and no community can be real until they are made real in relation to God. The reflection of God’s love in man’s need for love indicates the reality of God as Love. Christ as the revelation of God’s love fulfillingly present in man is God’s right relation to man and man’s right relation to God.

Therefore we can include still one more view as to the image of God in man. Gustaf Wingren in Skapelsen och Lagen (Creation and Law) says that the New Testament calls Christ himself the image of God. The Letter to the Colossians does that exactly. Christ as the realization of God’s presence in man as fulfilling love, giving man "mature manhood," is in fact the revelation of the true image, the filling of the image in a concrete man. The image of God’s love is fulfilled only by the actual presence of God’s love.

Christ as the image, therefore, is the reconciliation of the image of God with conscience. To this crucial topic for understanding man, namely the infilling of the image of God in conscience, we now turn.

III

The image of God is the means whereby we adjust to God; the conscience, "what we know together," is the way we adjust to men. God is infinite and perfect Love. Man is finite, made for love. The image is absolute; the conscience is relative. Man himself lives in the conflict of the perfect and the sinful, the unconditional and the conditional.

The only right way we can adjust to God is his way! With respect to God, there is no compromising one whit. God’s love is totalitarian in its demand on us. It means full acceptance of him and his way, and complete openness to all men and concern for them. It involves self-acceptance as part of the community of God. We accept ourselves, but only as members of the fellowship, totally to be used for God and for the needs of the community.

God and the mature Christian community, on their part, are totally concerned with each self for his maximum good and development in the good. God asks totally of us what is good within his will for all. The image reflects this reality of our basic relation to God and the demands this relation puts on us.

Conscience is a means for our adjustment to man. It is the concrete rightness we feel in the light of our background, total schooling, and experience. We learn that certain things are right from our parents, mostly informally by the way they live and by the way they share their experience in the ordinary course of life. We learn in school that certain things are right. Many other ideas of right and wrong we pick up or have ingrained in us from life’s experience in general and from the way our communities think and act.

The conscience, therefore, varies markedly from person to person and from culture to culture. What some do to God’s glory would for others be a mockery of him. Conscience is mostly set by the prevailing religion; not by the religion professed, but by the religion lived. Conscience reflects largely the status quo.

Between the perfect image and its demand on man’s conscience there is thus not only a wide gap, but a hurtful conflict. Sinning against their conscience, men are hurt. Such sinning against the conscience is what is generally meant by sin.

But by sinning more deeply and constantly against the image, men are even more deeply hurt. As long as they do not know what the image involves, men are no more than uneasy and vaguely anxious because of this inner conflict. While they then have specific guilt feelings with respect to their conscience, they have only unspecific anxiety with regard to their image of God.

Before they know the better law of God’s will, men have a far less keen understanding of what is wrong with them and consequently are far less hurt. When they encounter the better law that interprets the image, the nature of sin bursts upon them and their conflict multiplies. Sin now becomes far more terrifying.

With Christ’s coming, the image of God in man became filled by being fulfilled. Conscience received its intended content. With Christ’s coming, conscience obtained its perfect standard. Christ showed man the perfect will of God by demonstrating the perfect nature of God and the mature nature of man. Christ showed man his right relation to God.

God reduced in Christ the laws of the Old Testament decalogue to two: love to God and love to man, universal and entire. This concentration of the ten into two commands had already been accomplished by Judaism; Jesus himself had been brought up reciting them daily.

But in Jesus these two laws became demonstrated in life as well as explicated in meaning. In Jesus, too, the law of perfect love became, beyond every command, the Gospel of God’s grace. The law of love became fulfilled in the life of Love.

From now on, men must not strive to fulfill this law as law, but, rather, to accept God’s life freely as a gift. This new gift of life turns the conscience from an enemy, representing a law impossible to keep, to the correcting friend who enables man to become fulfilled within a new relation to God that itself is the very power for the life of love.

Thus in Christ the full nature of the image is made clear, conscience is fulfilled, and man is given the power to live the law, no longer as law, but as the life of love. Thus right is real and uncompromisingly maintained even while it is left behind as no longer an enemy or a primary relation to God and man. The amazing freedom of life fulfilled by love takes its place.

But actual man lives in conflict between law and love, between conscience and image. Few find the reality and the power of the Gospel of Christ in this life. Most people get clogged in the attempt to satisfy their conscience by right conduct, and find no rest. Acquiescence in the status quo is almost always the essence of sin. It is choosing conscience rather than image.

Conformity to sinful society is nonconformity to God. And in the light of the full standard of Christ our communities are deeply sinful. Original sin consists in the partaking of this societal heritage that shields our misgivings almost as they arise. We protect ourselves by devious and ingenious rationalizations in the guise of the wisdom of the ages. We try to quiet the protest of the arguments of our socially oriented conscience.

For this reason Kierkegaard is right in saying that man’s characteristic relation to God is sin. We repress in our subconscious our unwon battles on the conscious side. But such repression does not deliver us from conflict, for God never loses and never lets go. Therefore, our unwon battles continue at a level below our consciousness. Deep down we hate God who threatens our compromises.

Thus we live by fear of God on the conscious level and in anxiety toward God on the subconscious level. Our relation to God becomes characterized by guilt. Such guilt results in physical illness and mental malady. One woman who could not be cured by doctors was cured quickly after she came to know that her suffering was caused by basic dishonesty in regard to her income tax!

But above all we feel wrong toward God. Because this is the case, either we try to throw ourselves into some religious faith and activity that will persuade us that we are pleasing God, or we grow to resent what we call religion, even to hate the highest form of it. Or else the depth spirit in us, the demonic self we are, robs us of our convictions or produces in us spiritual restlessness or its opposite, spiritlessness. We forfeit the free and fulfilled life for which we are made.

We are made for God, for his love and for man’s. When Love’s community is real, life becomes satisfying in new dimensions. We become free to live. We become free for creative community. We become free to be ourselves, as persons and as community.

But nothing can bring about this freedom in the full sense, except our becoming right with God. Our fears and anxieties must lose their importance by being focused in our main relation: our fear and anxiety before God.

Only forgiveness by God can make man free. Only forgiveness can fulfill man. Only forgiveness can put man in the relation to God and man where he can find increasingly his true nature and grow in it. Therefore, no study of man can be more than a description of man’s plight and possibility until it include the prescription by God for man. We now turn to this prescription under the heading of sin and salvation.

Chapter 2: The Son of His Love

One day a Jewish rabbi telephoned me, challenging me to come to hear his sermon: "Why Judaism Does Not Need Christ." The claim of the sermon was that Judaism was more universal in its understanding of the love of God than was Christianity. Instead of Judaism’s being an "arrested form" of Christianity, as Toynbee holds, he contended that Christianity was a sect of Judaism that walled people off by its worship of Jesus. Then with great generosity he invited me to take his pulpit some future Sabbath night, at the main service of the week, to answer him. I chose as my sermon topic "Why Judaism Needs Christ." Does it? We have lived with Judaism a long time. In the future we shall have to be in ever closer contact with other living religions. Is Jesus a help or a hindrance to the universal faith the world now needs?

A Muslim girl studying at Southern Methodist University came up after a lecture to ask me about Christ.

"I believe," she said, "that God is universal love. I believe no one will ever know him who does not accept the community of his love. I believe that the world could come together on this basis. But why do you Christians insist on Jesus’ being the Son of God? What do you mean by the Son of God? Is the Father older?"

"No," I answered, taken aback.

"Then is he more dignified?"

"Of course not!" I retorted.

"Do you, then, believe in the Father’s actual physical generation of the son?"

"Certainly not!" I replied in horror.

"Can you give any dictionary definition of the father-son relation that applies directly to your Christian doctrine?"

"I guess I can’t," I admitted.

"Well, then why do you use such language? It only confuses people," was her quick and telling return.

Why do we?

Another Muslim, a professor of philosophy from the Middle East, came to Nashville, Tennessee, to speak. He opened his address as follows:

"The Koran begins ‘God is love.’ If only we could get the Christians to believe this, we could have a new world!"

My copy of the Koran opens "In the name of the most merciful God," but certainly the meaning that God is love is there. Are we, by a narrow and dogmatic interpretation of Jesus, blocking effective communication and spiritual communion in a day when the world’s destiny may hang on our finding the world-wide faith?

At Vanderbilt University, in one year, two outstanding students became converts to Baha’í, one a student in the Divinity School and the other an honor student in mathematics. They both told me, when I reasoned with them, that they had found that the Christian churches suffocated every chance at effective understanding and practice of the universal love of God. They both believed in Jesus devoutly and continued to believe that Christ as God’s universal love is the ultimate truth, but they felt that now his truth had to be cut loose from those who smother it, and to be announced through a new Manifestation, the more universally and effectively to serve our age.

The world is waiting for a universal faith that can be believed. God’s eternal presence and power, the God who is universal Love, is the truth we need as individuals, as people, and as the world. Exactly -- this is Christ. If any religion is in fact more universal than Christ’s in love, truth, and law, I will join it. Christ is sinned against, I believe, when anything less than this universal, complete love is made central, either to God’s nature and purpose, or to man’s nature and destiny.

I

Let us consider Christ under three titles: Son of God, Son of Man, Savior.

What does it mean to call Jesus Son of God? The New Testament has three basic definitions of God. The first calls God "our Father"; the second states that "God is Spirit"; the third says that "God is Love." These three New Testament characterizations of God are central to our discussion of Christ as Son of God. If God is best understood under these three ascriptions, his Son obviously must be interpreted in terms of them. Two other definitions of God in the New Testament, "God is light" and "our God is a consuming fire," indicate not so much who God is as the integrity of his character (light) and his complete opposition to evil (a consuming fire). Biblically, then, God is Father, Spirit, Love.

When we call Christ Son of "our Father" we indicate that personal relations are ultimate. God is personal. We meet God, the eternal Father, in the human, historic Son. God is not to be known basically in terms of ideas, systems, or speculation. The Father God is the eternal Compassion who has created us, controls his creation, and will fulfill what he has started.

While Jesus lived, and when the disciples began to believe that they had met God in him, as the earliest writer, Paul, and the earliest Gospel, Mark, indicate, there was no question in their minds that God was also in heaven. Not all of God came! Jesus prayed to him and worked and spoke for him. Thus God was somehow in Jesus, but he was also beyond Jesus. Consequently the language of Father and Son was born.

There is nothing sacred about the biblical language as such in relation to God. What the language is trying to convey is that God is personal. He is conscious. He wills, he knows, and he cares. He answers the prayers of individuals, but he also controls the nations. This personal God came into human history fulfillingly in Jesus. God’s presence and power came in Jesus in such a way that we beheld "the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ."

Since God took the initiative in this coming to us, we speak of God sending his Son. Since God is personal, we say that God sent his Son. The important thing is that we know who God is, that he is personal, and that we can only be in line with reality and fulfilled as persons and as people when we understand and accept the true God, and ourselves and others in him. When we decide to trust this God for what he is, for what he has done for us, and wants to do for us, we "accept Christ." Such is the heart of the meaning of Christ as the "Son of God" with reference to God’s being "our Father."

That God is Spirit means that God is not a limited or a localized personality. He is not a glorified man sitting enthroned somewhere. He is everywhere. He is beyond all spatial ideas. The statement that the Lord is Spirit and can be known only in the Spirit, emphasizes the truth that, although God came into human history, he can be confined and contained by none of its forms.

It is the invisible realities that are eternal. Things are what they are. Facts can be handled and controlled. The Spirit, however, is creative. We call the Spirit "he" because we speak of the Spirit who is the personal God. He is free. He goes where he wants.

Things have spatial relations. They have to stand side by side or under and over. Even when material is crushed there are small particles that are next to each other. Even personalities are discrete individuals. They learn from others and live with others. But they are themselves.

Spirit, however, can be invisibly present everywhere and can even penetrate personality into its deepest selfhood. Spirits can interpenetrate, be "one"! Thus even though the personal God is always himself and remains his own inviolate identity, God as Spirit came into Jesus and molded triumphantly the life of Jesus. Therefore, Jesus could pray to the God in heaven, the Father beyond him, even while he knew that the true God who is not only personal but also Spirit was present in him as his deepest personal reality. The Spirit came from the Father, but was truly present in Jesus as the Son of God.

Above all, God is Love. The Bible says that love is of God, and that whoever loves knows God, for God is Love. Jesus is called "the Son of God’s love." That God is Love means that he can be perfectly trusted. God is ever faithful, never fickle; God is continuously working in our behalf, never only at times and in part. God loves all, is always doing what is best for each and for all.

Love, says the New Testament, keeps everything going in perfect harmony. Paul’s hymn to love in his I Corinthians 13 is indirectly the height of man’s description of God. Faith and hope will remain because the greatest of all realities, Love, remains forever without disappearing or failing.

The great parables of Jesus yield their meaning to the key of love. The Sermon on the Mount sings the song of love. The deeds of Jesus express his love. The death of Jesus is the supreme example of love. The Cross of Christ shows us the very heart of God. And Jesus’ rising from death is the declaration forever of God’s faithfulness toward man.

Mysterious is the full meaning of the Personal. Mystery, too, lies in the unfathomable depths of Spirit. Beyond our fullest imagination lie the endless resources of the love of God. That Jesus is the Son of God means that this personal Love, this eternal Spirit who God is, became present, known, and powerful in human history in Jesus Christ. Anything less than, or contrary to, such assertions is the denial of the Christian faith itself that Jesus is the Son of God.

II

Jesus was not only Son of God; he was also Son of Man. The latter was his favorite expression for himself. Those who try to find the meaning of this term in the Old Testament or in noncanonical uses of the word usually go back to Enoch’s apocalyptic Son of Man. He was to come on the clouds to deliver his people. The Son of Man is used this way in Mark, for instance, when Jesus warns the Sanhedrin not only that he is Son of Man, but that they will see him sitting at the right hand of Power and coming with the clouds.

Others use the term as in Ezekiel. According to this usage Jesus was man in a corporate sense. He was not a man, but Man, in the sight of both God and men. He was, then, the messianic Man, the deliverer, or Paul’s new Adam.

But the simplest way to use the term, if we are to follow Old Testament precedent, is as did Jeremiah, who stressed the individual as representative of man. Jesus himself was using the term in this way when he said that the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath; therefore the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath. This seems very likely the original use of the term, since later worshipers would hardly use such a designation for Jesus and the term is quite in line with what is unique and powerful in his spirit.

Scholars have written many learned theses and tomes on the subject, but possibly the most fruitful investigation is that of Dr. Henry Cadman of Mansfield College, Oxford University, who after a learned doctoral dissertation on the subject and a lifetime of devotion to it comes to the conclusion that from mere textual criticism we cannot finally decide among the three. In the light of the whole Gospel, however, we may feel free to use the term in its most natural sense.

What troubles many people about Jesus is that they can believe in God, but not in Christ. Christ for them is a problem and an emotional burden. Somehow they think that they know God enough apart from Jesus and that all this business about Jesus being Christ is something they should force themselves to believe in order to be Christian. The New Testament says that no one comes to the Father except through the Son, that there is no other name by which we must be saved. Therefore many, at least figuratively, hold their noses and gulp down the unpleasant medicine of faith in Christ. When they have managed to keep it down, they become proud of their achievement and call this the narrow way of confession that alone leads to life. They derive a kind of selfish joy out of seeing others choking and retching. The whole Christian doctrine of Jesus as the Christ has putrefied within the consciousness of mankind because of this basic misconception of the meaning of Jesus as the Son of Man as well as the Son of God.

Jesus was just as human as anyone else. If anything, Jesus was not less man but more. He was human the way God means us all to become human. We may even say that in a real sense he was the first fully human being.

Man is human in two senses: as a creature rightly related to God and fulfilled by him; and as a creature made to find God in freedom through his own experience. Human nature can be thought of either as "mature manhood" or as a process of maturation. Jesus was human in both senses, but the former understanding of man swallowed up the second effectively. We tend to think of Jesus more as the perfected man than as a man in the process of perfecting.

If we look at Jesus’life as a whole, we get the impression that here was a life that overcame man’s problems to the point where the whole world has come to know the power of his life. If we look at his life as a whole, we get the feel of it as that of a person who was tempted most severely, but who won out over man’s sins so basically that he can now be called man’s Savior. If we consider his Cross and his Resurrection, and what they have come to mean as a message for mankind, we find that in Jesus we meet the God who is Love, who came to save and who won the victory over man’s enemies. We see both God and what God can be and do in a human life. We see the meaning of man’s life in the purpose of God’s love.

Well-meaning but foolish faith longs to accept Jesus as Son of God, but it dreads Jesus’ being fully human. If his humanity has to be admitted, these misguided devotees want him to be Son of Man in no real sense, or else Son of Man only in the sense of a perfect human being.

Ardent but misguided devotion wants to worship the deity at the expense of the humanity. Man’s longing is for God, and misled piety therefore wants to subtract, at least from conscious recall, the completely human nature of Jesus.

Misspent adoration wants Jesus to be entirely unique. Otherwise, it is feared, he is not authentically Son of God. This craving is due, not only to the desire to have him really be God, but also to the fear that, if he was like us, God demands that we become like him. And that is intolerable! Thus foolish faith and faithless fear combine to reject his full humanity.

In the same way and for the same reasons many insist that Jesus was completely sinless from the beginning of his life. The ground for their insistence is partly that man wants to be sure that God’s saving presence was full in Jesus Christ and that God’s work of salvation was effectively completed. But this clamor for complete sinlessness in the human Jesus can also be the result of a Jewish and Neo-Platonic idea that God, the perfect, is too holy to behold sin and certainly too holy actually to identify himself with the sinner. God’s identification with the sinner is, however, the very heart of the Christian Gospel.

This longing for complete sinlessness in the human Jesus can also be due to a moralism which feels that God can be pleased with and dwell only with those who are good. Thus in man’s relation with God, man’s goodness is made determinative, rather than God’s forgiving Love and empowering presence.

We know, however, that Jesus was human in all respects, even though the sinless God was victoriously present in his life. In any case, the whole history of the Christian church has witnessed a continuous battle to keep full and real the whole humanity of Jesus. The deeper Christian instincts have always come forward to insist that Jesus was not only Son of God but also Son of Man.

Jesus as Son of Man was not only the conclusive presence of God’s perfection in his life as a whole, but through the history of his life he became a perfected man. We recall the New Testament phrase "having been made perfect."

Let us examine other biblical expressions. If Jesus grew in strength, weakness is presupposed. If Jesus asked questions from the rabbis in the temple and learned from them, or did not know when the world’s end would come, ignorance is presupposed. If Jesus grew angry, lack of self-control is presupposed. If Jesus groaned in his spirit, lack of peace is presupposed. If Jesus complained of his tensions, lack of freedom from anxiety is presupposed. If Jesus learned obedience through what he suffered and was made perfect so as to become the pioneer or perfecter of our faith, lack of submissiveness is presupposed.

Thus in Jesus as the Son of Man we have not a prefabricated human nature, some ready-to-wear suit, but the Son of Man who was truly a human being both in his being perfected and in his being the mediator of the perfect Love. We know that Jesus was a real, historic figure, a human being such as we are, who by God’s presence in him, and by his human acceptance and transformation by that presence, showed us who God is and what God can and will do to save us. Jesus was both Son of Man and Son of God because the life of Jesus became fulfilled by the love of God.

The sinlessness of Jesus is a complex question. In one sense, God, the sinless, had to remain sinless in Jesus or else he would not be God. God cannot sin and God was truly in Jesus. In another sense, if Jesus had been sinful the way we are, there would have been no real victory in his life. Then the power of the Cross over history and the reality of the Resurrection are basically called in question. In such a case, it is useless to speak of Jesus as in any effective sense the world’s Savior. Therefore the insistence on the sinlessness of Jesus is not without critical importance.

On the other hand, if Jesus never knew man’s sin and never had to struggle with its power, Jesus was never a human being in the full sense of the term. He was then perfect humanity, but never perfected. God then never identified himself with our deepest plight. The sinless was then never "made sin," to use the biblical expression, in order to give us the new righteousness of God. The job then was at best merely external and mechanical, never the work of a participant, of one who shared our lot, who understood our sinful state, and who demonstrated the power of God to overcome it in actual human life.

But God came to us not merely to overcome our weakness and our ignorance, but precisely to enter into our rebellious and faithless state and to set us free. According to the record, as far as we have it, Jesus never committed any deliberate sins of rebellion against God. He was certainly not sinful, because then he could not have become victor over sin. Dominant love excludes sin. Victorious love conquers it. Perfect love throws it out. Jesus was rather the participant in our common human nature and sinful situation.

The Bible says he feared. He knew our human anxiety. This is the root situation that occasions open sinning. Whatever be the sum and substance of ordinary responses (and it is wrong also to separate Jesus here from humanity), Jesus at least knew our deepest ailment of sin: the effective experience of accepted anxiety was his. For this reason he could even at the end realistically differentiate between his own and the Father’s will, crying "not my will but Thine," and feel himself desperately forsaken by the presence of God even on the Cross.

God entered sinlessly and victoriously our full human situation in the life of Jesus in such a way that he can also enter into and become victorious in any human life, if he is understood and accepted. For God was in and with Jesus in life and death and finally raised him up, "declaring him Son of God with power." Such is Paul’s basic theology; and it is still the best for the church.

In Jesus, God showed himself to be Love. He did so by being himself present in him. God was truly in Christ reconciling the world unto himself. He did not come first of all to give us knowledge or to show his wisdom and power. He came to set us free from sin; to heal us; to save us; to overcome our alienation from himself; to establish fellowship with us and among men within the presence and the power of Love.

God showed himself to be Love in a real human being. That he could do this without violating, but rather fulfilling, human nature means that when God created man he made him in such a way that man could be right and real only within his true relation to God.

Man is empty at the center of his being. That is why he can grow. But man will never grow to full maturity until he becomes "filled with all the fullness of God." That man can have right relation to God in Christ and with Christ, to use the biblical expressions that abound, is due to the fact that Christ combines in himself the Son of God and the Son of Man, not artificially, but as the very fullness of time when the purpose of God in creating man is made effective by his coming to be in man. Because such a purposed fulfillment came true in Jesus and can come true in us "until we all come to mature manhood, the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ," we now turn to the meaning of Jesus as the world’s Savior.

III

Jesus is not only Son of God and Son of Man; he is also and particularly Savior. Our interest in Jesus is not mostly intellectual, but springs from the crying need of the human heart. Abstract theories or learned theologies can hide from us him whom God sent for our salvation. For this reason Jesus is particularly Savior.

If analysis of the life of Jesus prevents our seeing his life as a whole, God’s mighty Christ-deed for our salvation, we have indeed exchanged our birthright for a mess of pottage. Analysis should rather show us how God’s coming in Christ should be followed by his coming in us; how Christ should dwell in our hearts by faith. We should be perfected by grace until we can become presented, to use the Bible again, "mature in Christ." Only by such "mature manhood" as God achieved in Christ can anyone ever become fulfilled or fully real.

As Savior, Jesus shows us our sin both of self and of society. The light shows up the dark. Unless we can see what is wrong with us, we are unwilling to be made right. How dark sin is, was not seen until Jesus lived.

Sin is not largely wrongdoing. It is not basically a matter of breaking the law. It is not first of all shortcoming or missing the mark. Sin is a kind of life, a quality and direction of living. Before sin becomes sins or acts, it is a state of the self. Sin is a matter of being before it becomes a matter of doing.

Jesus by becoming a true self shows up the false self. Jesus lived the Love that is the light of the world and the law of life. Therefore he lays bare the dark drives of human nature and uncovers the lack of love that causes lawlessness. Before Jesus’ time men never had to face the merciless floodlight of God’s holy, universal, unfailing love. They did not know how God demanded that they be and act. Therefore Jesus’ life took away the excuse for their sin.

The sin of self is, deepest down, the lack of love. In one sense sin, as Richard McCann points out in Delinquency: Sickness or Sin? is a deficiency disease as well as a state or act of will. Lack of love engenders fear. Fear occasions hatred of those who threaten the self. Hatred fashions cruelty, deceit, and blindness to others’ needs or good points. Thus hatred breeds contempt and strife. Or it smolders until it bursts into tensions that make us ill. Lack of love carries through a program of evil all the way from carelessness to murder. The self that is starved for love fights the world. It alternates between defensiveness and aggressiveness.

Lack of love, surprisingly, is a chosen state. The self isolates itself from love because of a false love for itself. Such rejection of love, as the eminent psychiatrist Clemens Benda reveals in Der Mensch im Zeitalter der Leiblosigkeit (Man in the Age of Lovelessness), is due, however, to the experience of false love or the lack of experience of real love. A loveless person needs love, but he fears love.

Love hurts the self not primarily, however, by exposing the self to rejection or to hurt by others. Love hurts the self mainly because love is death to the loveless. The self that is turned in on self dreads being turned out. Love does just that. Therefore the loveless person hates those who love. Their love threatens him.

The lovers of mankind are often its martyrs; because, as Oscar Wilde said, Jesus was a lover for whom the world was too small, he had to die.

The loveless, nevertheless, need love and crave it. They know that they are hurting themselves in shutting love from their lives. Therefore they hate themselves in their sin as well as those who love them. They have a false love of self that must die at the hand of true love. Only so can the loveless find reality and release.

Lack of love is sin, for it is lack of faith in God. Sin, in biblical thought at its highest, is lack of faith, and faith is the affirmation of love. "Whatsoever is not of faith is sin," says the Letter to the Romans, and "perfect love," adds the First Letter of John, "casts out fear." Therefore, the lack of faith that is the heart of sin is due to a lack of love.

When love comes, faith grows, and fear goes. When Jesus came as the Love of God in human form, he exposed man’s sin as never before. From then on, there is New Testament depth in the understanding of sin. The New Testament is merciless in exposing the depth of sin. No one can be Savior of men who does not first show what is wrong with them. Jesus threw the full light of reality on man’s sinful existence.

The sin of self is also lack of action. The Letter of James affirms that sin is knowing what is good and not doing it. This understanding of sin does not go so deep as does the interpretation of sin as lack of faith through a refusal to accept the Love that is offered. Nevertheless, when man refuses to affirm Love because of his faithlessness, he also translates this attitude of rejection into inaction. He does not feel like doing good because his heart has become hardened. Soon he may not even see need or genuine sympathy. He will turn increasingly, perhaps, toward himself and toward what he considers to be his own true good.

Oppositely, the loveless and the faithless may compensate in overactivity. Feeling guilty within and coveting being right with God, the sinner may do good things or give to good causes in order to make himself feel that he is really good and truly right with God. The sinner may thus both do and give in order not to have to accept God’s love. God’s free love costs far too much.

Yet Love is free unconditionally. Jesus demonstrated that God loves us completely just because he is God. When we show our lack of trust in him by trying to win his approval by what we do or give, we reveal, however good our intention may be in our own eyes, that we are guilty of sin at its deepest base. We disclose that we dread Love, the Love freely bestowed on us.

By living Love, Jesus showed us by the full floodlight of his personal attitudes and choices that we are sinners precisely in our lack of love. Sin becomes our deepest death when we refuse God and human fellowship in the spirit of Jesus. Overactivity, a guilty restlessness, may be a sign of the refusal of the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Whether sin manifests itself overtly as lack of action or as compensatory action, however, is a matter of secondary consequence. Jesus is the world’s Savior in that he reveals the full nature and depth of man’s sin.

Jesus Christ as the coming of God’s holy, universal, ever-faithful love into a genuine human being also shows us our social sins. God’s all-inclusive love condemns as sinful all separation due to pride and faithlessness. Most of such separation is personal or private in nature; then it is personal sin.

But sin is also social. The pitting of nation as ultimate against nation is presently our most terrifying sin. Shutting out persons or peoples in any place where public communication should be unrestricted is another form of social sin. Segregation based on race, for instance, is sin. Segregation based on religion is also sin. Indiscrimination based on social standing or property, again, is sin.

Love, of course, makes for creative difference and not for flat sameness. Certainly there is place for voluntary groups inviting whom they would. There can be no compulsion of friendship, or prohibition, or even prejudice, against congregating according to interest or kind. But such freedom for variation and intensive community is one thing; compulsory segregation in public places for civil, educational, or religious activity, again, is quite another matter. It is definitely social sin in the light of Christ the Savior.

Christ condemns as sin lack of public concern, lack of responsible political participation, lack of commitment to ways of peace in public life and concord among the nations. Christ shows up the sin of our indifference when we live in abundance, without basic sharing, while the world, in large part, starves. Christ condemns as sin our walking in the secular ways of the world in our education. We should rather be alert to interpret all things in the light of Christ wherever we have educational opportunity. Often to accept secular knowledge as final fact is to crucify Christ afresh on the tree of knowledge.

To retain sectarian worship, moreover, and consider it Christian is to deny that Christian co-operation is stamped with a cross and that denominational loyalties are fulfilled only in the great glory of a common Christian faith. Local loyalty apart from, and over against, the whole body of Christ, Christ himself condemns as social sin.

For sins of both self and society, however, Christ is the Savior. Christ as God’s universal love, if truly accepted, gives us a heart that cares, a mind that considers and cooperates, and a hand that is willing to work in places of need.

The Savior of men must show us in the full light of God’s living truth the fact and seriousness of our sin. He does so, however, entirely in order to save us. God sent not his Son to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved! Christ as the Godman not only shows us our salvation, but effects it.

Salvation depends on light. Sin must be seen in order to be recognized; unless we really face sin, head on, we cannot be convicted of it and repent of it. Christ enables us to see sin and to acknowledge it to ourselves, to others, and to God. God in our hearts, Son and Spirit, or the Personal and Communal aspects of Love, alone can give us the strength to be sorry for our sin and the genuine desire to be rid of it. It takes great grace to repent, to be turned and to turn.

Christ also enables us to receive God’s forgiveness. He has himself tasted the power of sin and borne its cost in his own body. He has wrestled with it and won. The Son of God as Son of Man has met sin, law, and death head on and conquered them all. God has assumed our plight, the whole plight, in Jesus Christ, and come off victorious within genuine humanity.

For us, God has done this self-emptying and self-expressing; therefore we can look to him and be saved. We can look to him and accept as penitent sinners his going to death for us. He who forgave those who crucified him, waits to forgive all who keep crucifying him.

The Cross is God’s seal and sign that he loves us and craves to forgive us in order to have us enter into the fellowship for which he created us. The Cross is God’s work in history whereby he has poked a hole in heaven’s floor to let the divine light shine upon earth. The Cross is the outlet from eternity into time of the power of God for salvation that comes with forgiveness. Here God drilled through the partition between eternity and earthly time to admit the highest voltage wire of his love.

God as Man assumed the burden of our sins that we might know who he is, who we are, and for what he has made us. God as Love walked our weary ways. Fully identified with a human being, he felt hunger and thirst, loneliness and rejection. He suffered the pangs of death within our experience. But he did so to conquer and to give us authentic life. The victim became the victor.

God in his boundless love could go with man to death and share man’s agony of dying; yet the Deathless could not die and he who in the Son of Man was also the Son of God, broke the power of death in man. By so doing he bestowed upon us the power of the resurrection even before and while we share the fellowship of his sufferings.

Jesus Christ enables us to become fully and effectively saved because as God and Man he has gone with man to man’s furthest extremity. By God’s conquest in man of man’s furthest extremity, man became Man; potential man became true Man. Consequently the Mediator is not God or the Son of God as such, but -- as the Bible says -- "the Man Christ Jesus." God as Son became man that the Son of Man might forever minister to all men. He shared our whole human experience, becoming the summary and summit of man’s history, in order that we, seeing him, the Man Christ Jesus, might trust the Son of God not only to convict us of God’s truth, of sin in us, but also to convince us of God’s fuller truth, the power of salvation for us.

Thus by accepting "Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior" the official formula of the World Council of Churches for world-wide Christendom, we receive the presence of God as universal Love whereby alone we can attain mature manhood. The Godman thus helps us to become Godmen. Paul prays not in vain that we all be filled with the fullness of God!

Christ shows us what we can become and empowers us to attain our vision. When God fills the empty centers of our lives we can be made whole. High and holy is the Christian call to newness of life. We are bid to take Jesus Christ as our actual example, "to walk even as he walked," to be perfect even as God is perfect, yes, even to imitate God himself. We are enjoined not only to live in the Spirit but also to walk in the Spirit. To grace we are told to add virtue. Jesus himself bids his disciples take up their cross and follow him.

Not humility, but self-pride causes us to reject our instructions. God came in the flesh in the fullness of time to empower us "to live godly lives." God assumed generic humanity to cure the ills of man’s heart. The Son of God, through his generic humanity, comes to us as individuals that we might become new creatures in him and walk in newness of life.

To become Christians, therefore, is to become in some real sense different in our motivation. We do not, of course, escape human moods; most certainly we do not become God; but every genuine Christian life contains a quality of effective Christian witness. In spite of our all too obvious failures and sins, we have so identified our lives with God’s will for the common good that we no longer can recognize such failures and sins as willed by our most authentic self. Now we can understand what Paul meant when he wrote, "It is no longer I but sin that works in me."

Something real must also happen in the church. In Christ a new community was started. The community of the universal love of God began a new age in human history. The only full witness to Christ is the power of God’s love in his people. Christ is best announced by the effective living of the Christian community and by the leaven of this community’s concern for the concrete needs of men.

Christ rightly interpreted is the Word of God’s eternal love become historic, of God’s universal love become personal. Can anything be more universal; can anything be more needed? Here we have the answer to Judaism, to Islam, to Baha’i. Christ can be and has been falsely interpreted so as to block communication, but he can and should be understood in such a way that an open, concerned community is created.

Chapter 1: By What Authority?

Some moments of life are peculiarly luminous. Suddenly some truth strikes us with irresistible vividness and compelling conviction. What was vague becomes focused. What is secondary falls into place. Life itself takes on new meaning and our work, a more urgent purpose.

The New England Inter-Seminary Conference, dealing with "Authority in the Christian Faith," was such a luminous occasion for me.

The situation itself was simple. Several speakers had been asked to develop different views on the subject. It fell to my lot to summarize the results, to suggest a final focus, and generally to draw together the truths in the various views into "the extreme center," into "the harmony in contrariety," which is no compromise, but consummation.

Because this Conference helped me in trying to help the students, I am going to use it as a framework in the discussion of this topic. A concrete occasion often best illumines a general truth.

What does constitute authority in the Christian faith?

Our age in particular needs a straight answer to the problem of authority. If we meet this demand we shall also have done something essential to provide an answer to that other basic need of our age: motivation. We say that we know what is right, but do not do it. However, this is not the whole story. If there were more certainty as to what has the final authority to command our lives, would there not be a far smaller gap between knowledge of the right and the incentive to do it? Uncertainty and confusion drain the emotional springs for action. Clarity of faith increases the command of faith.

For decades the World Council of Churches, especially the Faith and Order Commission, has been studying the nature of authority in the Christian faith. Since its beginning, it has asked the various denominations to examine their own history to find at what point their particular strands of confession became unraveled from the total rope of Christian faith. Whenever a denomination made such examination, the general result of its findings was the insistence that its confession was the original rope!

Recognizing scant hope in this approach, the Faith and Order Commission meeting in Lund, in 1952, decided to appoint a new commission, "Christ and His Church in the Light of the Holy Spirit." Its task would be, not first of all to look back to find the original rope, but, rather, in the light and power of the Holy Spirit to gather both past and present into a creative Christian future in order to twist together again the various strands into a firmly spliced rope. Those of us who have worked on this Commission have come to see, beyond every denial, how central the problem of authority is for Christian people today. It was obvious, therefore, that the New England Inter-Seminary Movement had undertaken no small task in discussing this topic in one conference.

What the program committee decided to do was to have one speaker be the advocate for Christian experience as determinative for faith; another as advocate for the Bible; two more to discuss the Church as final authority. My own task, after these presentations, was to discuss all these standards and to evaluate them. All the candidates for authority were represented by distinguished scholars and church leaders who believed their respective approaches to be basic. In following the sequence of the Conference as a framework for our chapter, let us footlight the stage with a few observations.

In the final analysis, of course, God alone is authority. God is the final source of creation, the final power in control of all happenings, the final agent of man’s redemption, and the final determiner of destinies. The Koran (Ch. IV) states that "God is a sufficient witness unto himself." Barth thunders that nothing in history can take the place of God, that ultimately God is his own message and method. Tillich insists that since God cannot be known directly, all symbols that point to God must be "broken." This means that no creature can ever know as God knows; therefore, all knowledge of God is mixed with human imperfection.

Although God is infinite, the historic channels for his self-revelation and the human interpretation of this self-disclosure are both finite. For this reason, it is not enough for us to say: "God is his own authority. Let God be God." It is not enough for us to say: "The Christian faith is its own authority." The question is, rather, how can we recognize the human and historical channels of God’s authority? Granted that God alone is the authority of the Christian faith, how can we choose among conflicting claims to historic authority?

Before we proceed to discuss candidates for authority in the Christian faith, it is well to keep two facts in mind. The first is that Christian authority is not domineering. Jesus himself said that the kind of authority the Gentiles sought after, the disciples should shun. God never violates our freedom. He never makes us do his will. Bernard of Clairvaux, in writing to the Pope, stressed that "love has no lord." If God is Love, his representative on earth can never "lord it over" anyone. Therefore Eric Fromm’s accusation that Christianity represents an authoritarian character structure is false. The Christian faith is authoritative, but never authoritarian. Jesus calls his disciples not servants, but friends. Christian authority frees the person for fulfillment in fellowship. St. Augustine long ago defined the nature of Christian authority in saying that the service of God is perfect freedom.

The second fact to keep in mind about Christian authority is that it can never become so much a matter of sight that it no longer remains the occasion for faith. We are bid to live not by sight, but by faith. If the authority which commands us can become so clear and definite that faith is no longer required, that authority is no longer Christian. Authority in the Christian faith must speak to the inner man in such a way that the more solution is offered the more faith is demanded. Only he who is justified by faith shall live, writes St. Paul in Romans, but we often forget that justification is not only of life but of knowledge as well. In discussing experience, the Bible, and the church as candidates for authority in the Christian faith we know at the outset that Christian experience cannot be communicated except by being shared, that the law of the Bible is not of the letter but of the Spirit, and that the church cannot be an institution that compels, but a community that frees.

I

The first candidate is experience. Let it present its credentials! The immediate claim of this aspirant is that no one can get outside or beyond his own experience. What is not real for us in experience is accordingly not real. The final judge, therefore, is experience. Besides, every clinching of conviction is within ourselves. The click of conviction is unexceptionally a matter of personal experience. How else can the Christian faith be real to us except as we know it, feel it, or do it? But knowing, feeling, and doing are all matters of experience. Even faith is a response, a commitment, or a trusting, all of which are kinds of experience. Thus we can never get outside our experience, in the first place; and, in the second, whatever convinces us must gain the assent of our experience.

If, moreover, we try to go beyond our own experience, we ascertain what others believe the authority of the Christian faith to be. As John Dewey used to say, we affirm what we believe can be confirmed. But such appeal beyond our own experience is recourse to the experience of others. What they have experienced as real they communicate to us, and thereby is opened to us a larger experience. As far as we can, of course, we ought to seek authority as widely as possible. In theory, at least, or in intention, we ought to collect man’s total experience both in the past and in the present. The systematic interpretation of this total experience -- what the speaker on this subject called "comprehensive coherence"-- should then become the best standard for the authority of the Christian faith. One of the other speakers at the New England Inter-Seminary Conference appealed also to Jesus’ frequent employment of experience as witness to his message. Faith for Jesus, for that matter, seemed to be a matter of trusting the power of God in one’s own experience.

Experience as a candidate for authority in the Christian faith makes a strong case for itself. No interpretation that leaves out experience can be wholly valid. All the reasons introduced for the importance of experience are authentic and inescapable. Nevertheless, experience is not the main or primary channel in human history for authority in the Christian faith. The main grounds for rejecting it as the chief channel are two:

First, experience cannot be the criterion for authority in the Christian faith since experience is itself under judgment. It is our experience that needs authority. It is our experience that needs judgment. It is our experience that needs to be changed. We who have the experience are in need of salvation. How then can the experience we have be the authority for our faith?

But suppose that we do not speak of experience in general, but of Christian experience. What then?

Secondly, then, it is no longer our experience as such, but our Christian experience which becomes our authority. Our Christian experience is of Christ. Therefore, it is not our experience of Christ, but our experience of Christ that counts. Authority then does not lie in experience, but comes through experience. Experience is the channel, of course, no matter what the content. Religion has to become personal in order to be real. There has to be experience of Christ for genuine convictions to conquer our lives. But Christian authority is not in experience but for experience; it is not of experience but through experience.

II

The Bible as a candidate for authority in the Christian faith is also strong and should be listened to with respect. In the first place, Christianity is a historic religion, and the Bible is the only record it has of its historic foundation. What other authority can there be for a historic religion than its original title deed? In the second place, the Bible is the most open, public, and objective standard possible. It is written once for all. Besides, the Bible does not vary from age to age as do the nature of personal experience and the interpretations of the Church. In the third place, the Bible is the authority that all Protestant denominations accept. Why not utilize the fact of this practical source of unity? In the fourth place, the Bible has proved itself capable of inspiring endless creative variety. To accept the Bible as the authority of the Christian faith, therefore, is not to accept merely some static dogma that lays the dead hand of the past on the fresh life of the present.

Nevertheless, in spite of the place and power of the Bible in Christian authority, we must reject this candidate, too, as the main channel of authority of the Christian faith. We do so for the following reasons:

The Bible is not meant to be a textbook for Christian theology, but a source book for living faith. Barth is right in teaching that the Bible becomes the Word of God only for faith. The Bible itself maintains that the letter kills while the spirit gives life. If the Bible were a textbook we could now live by sight; since it is a source book we must keep living by faith.

Even before we started examining our candidates we pointed out that any authority that makes for sight instead of faith is wrong by the very nature of the Christian kind of authority. The Bible plays a leading role necessarily in the authority of the Christian faith. When it is used as a source book, it becomes the means of the Spirit that gives life, but when it is used as a textbook, it can become the letter that kills.

Jesus asked: How can you understand my words when you do not hear my Word? Only when Christ as the living Word of God’s love is accepted, can the words of the Bible find their proper context.

Furthermore, there is, in fact, no developed doctrinal unity in the Bible. The Bible is the record of God’s great deeds in raising up a people unto himself. It is the story of a people who were called by God and the response they made to God -- good, bad, and indifferent. It is the recitation of the lives and teachings of great prophets; and, in the fullness of time, of the Son of Man. But there is no one doctrinally developed system in the Bible. If we ask about man, even a specific question concerning man, such as what precisely is the image of God in man, the Bible has many answers. If we ask about the very heart of orthodoxy, the doctrine of the Trinity, there is no doctrine of it in the Bible. If we seek to find one interpretation of Christ, doctrinally developed and clear, we shall be profoundly disappointed. Theologians read back their own versions and distort or disregard the other material, but honest competence will know that while the Bible is universally accepted within the Christian churches, the churches do not in fact interpret the Bible in the same way.

Therefore, whenever the Bible has been made the final authority in the literal sense, or in the sense of the open, public appeal to it as objective authority, there has arisen in the church division upon division. Human nature is such that when a strong leader becomes convinced of the supreme importance of one teaching or of one strand, he makes that one the most important; and since such definiteness and such focus as act to differentiate certain believers from others are very dear to human nature, one new sect after another is founded. Thus the Bible in becoming the basis for endless creative variety also becomes the occasion for endless conflicting difference. The Bible therefore needs within it a pattern and a spirit of unity that goes beyond its objective use in merely being available to be read and interpreted.

Thus the function of the Bible is to be a mirror both for the individual Christian and for the people of God. In it we see our ordinary world in the light of a new world. We see our common words and deeds in the light of the living Word. We see ourselves, at the same time, both as we are and as we ought to be. The reason for this double vision is the presence of God in Christ showing up life in general. Christ is the love of God come to full fruition in man. He is, as the New Testament calls him, "mature manhood." Therefore it is not any specific documentation in the Bible that is authoritative, nor even the Bible in general, but rather human experience and human history interpreted in the light of Christ. Therefore, it is still Christ who constitutes the authority of the Bible. Is it anything less than the full picture of the universal love of God the Father in the face of Jesus Christ that is the authority of the Bible? The Bible is itself under the authority of the pattern of God who is the personal Spirit who is holy Love. The Scriptures tell of him as they point forward and backward to their own fulfillment in the Incarnate Word.

Even so, it is not the biblical Christ of the past that is the standard, but the living Christ who bids us look less back to Jesus than up to God. Christ is the pattern and the power of God’s love drawing all men unto himself only when he is lifted up. The historic figure of Christ "after the flesh" is fulfilled by the "Lord who is the Spirit." The Christ of love who once came in the fullness of time is now the Living Lord who comes fulfillingly to each and all as we press forward into the endless future.

We never catch up with the Christ. While he walks with us as God’s presence in our lives, he also walks before us as the eternal resource of God for our lives. The authority of the Christian faith is Christ before and beyond our experience through the Book that testifies to him. The Book is a powerful means giving us the picture of the Christ. The Bible provides the pattern of God’s love. The picture, however, needs the power of Christ’s presence. The pattern needs the reality of the Person.

Thus again we have as authority not the Christ of the Bible nor in the Bible, but the Christ who has come to us through the Bible and still can come to us through the Bible. Christ is God’s love enmanned. He is God as Love become flesh. He is a human being fulfilled by the presence and power of God.

III

The third candidate for authority in the Christian faith is the church. At our Inter-Seminary Conference two outstanding churchmen, Roman Catholic and Episcopal respectively, espoused the cause of the Church as the main channel of authority of the Christian faith. The Catholic position is that an authoritative revelation of Christ requires an authoritative organ of interpretation and application. The final heresy then becomes the refusal to submit to the official voice of the church in matters of faith and morals. The Catholic representative, in his great outgoing spirit, spent most of his time showing that the Roman church does respect and guard the individual conscience. Protestants should therefore be careful not to caricature the official position of the church with regard to authority.

The Anglican scholar gave large credit both to experience and to the Bible, but stressed that in actual churchmanship, decisions become, in the last analysis, either a matter of thin individualism or of listening to the long wisdom of the mature church and of co-operating with the total community in its faithfulness to the inner heart of the Gospel. The church therefore represents the corporate judgment of the believers, not infallibly, but authoritatively.

For the church as authority it should be said that the church at the heart of its being is the embodiment of the eternal purpose of God in human history. God created the world so that we might learn to become mature members of the kind of community that Christ offers us, the open, creative, inclusive community of love.

The church is the building for which the Bible offers the blueprint. The Bible exists for the sake of the building -- which is Christian community. Therefore, although in one sense the blueprint is the authority for the kind of building to be constructed, in another sense, the actual needs of the building in its concrete situation must govern the decisions in the erection of it. The Bible gives general directions; the church needs specific instructions as to the application of these directions. Authority is needed for the specific decisions.

Perhaps the best way of stating this truth of need for concrete authority is that the church is the actual locus of corporate decisions. The church faces necessarily inescapable choices as to faith, morals, and strategy. Can the Bible make the choice? Who then has the right to make the decisions: the individuals as such; local groups; or the church, which represents the corporate experience both of interpreting and of applying the biblical directions?

The church is also the agent of the Holy Spirit. The church was born when the Spirit came on Pentecost. In a peculiar way the Holy Spirit is the Spirit of the church. The Holy Spirit is that reality in God that is the eternal prototype of perfect community. Therefore the church by its very nature and total function is best able to heed and to carry into effect the biddings of the Holy Spirit.

On the other hand, the reasons that we cannot make the church the main authority of the Christian faith in spite of its obvious, irreducible importance are as follows:

The actual church as corporate judgment has made mistakes. The mistakes of the Greek and the Roman churches resulted in their splitting apart. The mistakes of the Roman church resulted in the birth of the Reformation. The mistakes of the Anglican church gave rise to the Methodist denomination.

The ground for these mistakes has been lack of flexibility. The church should have a balance between the corporate and the personal relation to Christ. Schleiermacher taught that the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant is that the Catholic comes to Christ through the church whereas the Protestant comes to the church through Christ. The fact is, however, that both the church and the Christian ought to come to Christ. The corporate cannot be reduced to the personal nor the personal to the corporate. The figure of the church as the body of Christ, in which the individual cells have no direct relation to the head, needs to be complemented by the figure of the people of God, in which the individual persons can have direct access to their Lord.

God wants no freezing of history in any ultimate sense of authority. Such authority can and does become legalism. It becomes a matter of telling people what to believe and what to do. Therefore, it becomes a living by sight and not by faith. The church as final authority in history takes the place of personal faith and personal decisions. Either the church exercises such authority concretely or it does not. If it does, it precludes the fullest opportunity for personal faith. If it does not, it recognizes in fact an authority beyond its own decisions. The Roman Catholic church is more consistent at this point than is the Anglican.

The fact has been demonstrated that the natural conservatism of human authority in religion tends to domesticate the Holy Spirit. When authority is finally vested in any institution, the wielders of power in that institution become institutionalists, generally more concerned with the promotion and defense of the institution than with God’s creative will and with men’s changing needs. Human history itself shows the need for people who conform not first of all to institutions, but to truth and human needs. Christian history proves abundantly the need for people who relate themselves primarily to the living Christ and to their fellow men.

The church is subject to Christ. It is his body. He as its head is its only authority. It is not the corporate nature of the decisions that count, but their Christian nature. Sometimes a prophet of the living Christ will have to stand over against the corporate judgment to recall the church to its primary allegiance and to reclaim it to its only Lord. The corporate judgment may very likely be the truer wisdom. It may serve to caution individual enthusiasm. But it may also need the challenge of charismatic personalities, those who have the gift of the Spirit.

The authority needs to be channeled through the church for decency and order within the community. But the authority of the Christian faith is never of the church nor in the church; it is for the church and through the church.

IV

The upshot of the evaluation of the three contending positions -- experience, the Bible, and the church -- is as follows:

Christ alone is the authority of the Christian faith. Nor is Christ merely a mystery. He is God’s revelation in a person, in a mighty deed of salvation, and in the teachings of the Kingdom of God. To be sure, as a person and as God’s mighty deed he can never be reduced to any meaning nor confined within any idea. The great Creator is no system of thought nor any impersonal force. He is the living Lord of love.

On the other hand, all meanings meet in him who himself is God’s Word. Christ is God’s communication to the world. He is the living Word: God is faithful! He is God’s Truth from whom all truths flow and on whom all truths depend. To say that the living Lord is "our Father" who is Spirit is to afErm at once the biblical bedrock of the authority of the Christian faith: God is Love; we have seen his presence in the person of Jesus as the Christ.

Granted that this is so, have we not avoided the question of authority in human history? Of course, God’s Christ is the authority, for he is God’s presence and power in human history. But how do we know and receive him authoritatively if not through experience, through the Bible, and through the church? Certainly we need all these channels. They are expressions of the revelation. But they are not the authority. Notice that it is through them that the authority comes. They are not the authority, any one of them or all of them together. They constitute, rather, a needed configuration with Christ as their main pattern. Christ as God’s love for the world -- the Cross and the Resurrection -- is the pattern of Christian authority for and in experience, for and in the Bible, for and in the church. Christ as the pattern of God’s love, then, is our historic authority.

This pattern is never reducible to the configuration. The pattern is not of the configuration, but shapes the configuration. Christ is always more than experience, the Bible, and the church. The configuration changes necessarily with history. Our ways of entertaining the experience, of interpreting the Bible, of living in the community change, but the pattern itself is exhaustlessly both beyond change and yet present for change. Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever, for he is the enmanned image of God’s changeless love. Yet, as real and relevant for every change in time, Christ is also the most changeable, who is always more than all change and ever ready for it. Although changeless as Love, as Love he is sensitive to every change and relates himself appropriately to it.

Professor Gustaf Wingren of Lund University in Sweden has written in his profound book Skapelsen och Lagen (Creation and Law) that the constant task of the church is to interpret the world in terms of the Bible, and the Bible in relation to the world. The same truth holds for experience and for the church as well. Thus Christ as God goes beyond human history; Christ as man is in human history; Christ as the Godman is ever both beyond and in human history, the challenge to faith and work.

Experience, the Bible, and the church are all in the world. The Holy Spirit is beyond it. Christ as the Godman is both in and beyond the world. Only when the Holy Spirit can draw from "the things of Christ," using the channels of experience, the Bible, and the church, can we find that authority of the Christian faith which is truly of God, ever beyond the world, and yet also truly in the world for man. We turn therefore to a fuller consideration of the Christ who alone is the authority of the Christian faith.

Preface

Popular books on religion keep pouring from our presses. Professional tomes on theology crowd one another. But the former usually are not solid, while the latter are seldom intelligible to the general public. The Marcia E. Wertsch Lectureship, of which this volume was the opening series, was dedicated to fill the gap between popular and professional theology. Its purpose is to make solid theology generally available. I have made a prayerful attempt to do so, especially in view of the fact that the money for the lectureship was given by a laywoman who cared for the intellectual welfare of the Church.

I feel deep gratitude to President Lewis B. Carpenter, and to the faculty and students of the National College for Christian Workers in Kansas City, Missouri, where the lectures were given. I am indebted, too, to my wife, who has listened to the reading of the manuscript and who has made innumerable suggestions as to its improvement. Few occasions have offered more delight than this working together on the final draft of a book. Dr. Everett Tilson of Vanderbilt University Divinity School has made constructive suggestions on the second draft of Chapter Four. The successive drafts have been typed by Mrs. Harold Kieler of Vanderbilt University, and Mrs. Richard Olson and Mrs. Wayne Johnson of Andover Newton Theological School. To them, thanks!

No book has caused me more pain of authorship than this one. Those who heard the lectures perhaps will not recognize them! But the substance of thought is the same, only radically rewritten to make the thought more readily available to the larger circle of readers. If harder writing makes for easier reading, without forfeit of content, the pain is worth while. As with all my books, I now leave this one in the hands of the final Judge to be used as is needed.

N. F. S. F.

Newton Centre, Massachusetts

January, 1959

 

 

 

 

On Understanding

Albert Schweitzer is a master of understanding. Without a great natural talent -- or shall we say genius -- no amount of acquired skill and knowledge would have enabled him to interpret so profoundly and comprehensively as he has done personalities of the past, distant periods and peoples, great religious documents and works of art, the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of human beings from the standpoint of a theologian, an artist and a physician. Interpres nonfit sed nascitur. [An interpreter is not made but born.] Yet, like all masters of a craft, he never relied on the inspiration of his genius but perfected his talents consistently and methodically by experience and study over a long period of years. His understanding, moreover, has proved to be deep and fruitful, because it is the result not only of a great and inclusive mind, but of an equally great and cultivated heart. A brief analysis of the nature of understanding, which he possesses to such an eminent degree, shall be our contribution in his honor.

All theories of understanding which try to analyze its nature and the stages of its development will have to begin with a concept of existence, and this means, implicitly if not explicitly, with a metaphysical decision. As I see it, there exist three possibilities which I should like to call the materialistic, the psychophysical and the spiritual interpretations of existence.

The materialistic conception explains the development and differentiation of the spiritual and psychic processes by evolution of matter. Its specific crucial problem is the immediate understanding of the minds of others.

The psychophysical conception admits that there is a mental existence apart from matter, so that it is possible for a man to share in the mental life of his fellows.

The spiritual interpretation, like the materialistic, assumes the unity of all existence, but in a different sense. Here the basis of understanding lies in the continuity of mental life. Three theories of understanding are based on this idea:

1. The religious concept of spiritual communion, that is, communion in the Holy Spirit;

2. Hegel’s secularized theory of the unity of spirit; and

3. Nietzsche’s modern biologistic philosophy of life, with its idea of the unity of all life. Because we share the same spirit, mind or life, we may be able to understand what is related to us in substance "Wie kann ein Mensch Sinn für etwas haben, wenn er nicht den Keim davon in sich trägt?" (Novalis) ("How can a man understand anything, if he does not carry the germ of it within himself?")

I think there must be some truth in the idea expressed by Plato and accepted by Goethe in its Neo-Platonic form: "Wär’ nicht das Auge sonnenhaft, die Sonne könnt es nie erblicken." ("Were not the eye akin to the sun, it could never perceive the sun.") The religious flavor of this philosophy may be recognized in Malebranche’s version: "Nous voyons toutes choses en Dieu," which Ernst Troeltsch has recently taken over into his epistemology. To the extent that we are part of the divine creation do we see it in its true nature. Thus we obtain the hermeneutic principle that we cannot understand what is wholly different from ourselves. If we were also to say that we cannot understand what is wholly like ourselves, we would have to assume that understanding can apply only to an intermediate field, lying between what is wholly similar and what is wholly dissimilar to our nature. The wholly similar cannot be understood, because all understanding requires a certain detachment of the subject from the object.

We must now discuss whether we can understand equally well everything in which we participate. It is obviously impossible to understand life as a whole, either in its infinitely varied productivity, or in its totality, which makes it more than the sum of all individuals, their experience and their creations.

The same is the case with history in its most general aspect. We may attribute meaning to history, but such an interpretation can be nothing but a subjective evaluation, an eisegesis, not an exegesis.

It is quite a different matter when we turn to particular phases of life, to specific experiences, to individual emotions and thoughts, to the history of particular cultures, periods, events and phenomena. They have a definite meaning, which we can understand and interpret objectively, provided the necessary subjective presuppositions are fulfilled.

Facts, and groups of facts, may be of two kinds: they may either arise in subjective experience only or manifest themselves objectively in expressions of that experience. There are many different stages and types of expression; beginning with the transitory expression of psychic life in facial expression, they lead up to gestures and eventually to signs. In the third stage we find a certain independence of expression from the subjective psychic experience. A signal has a special meaning, which can be understood, but which can also be misinterpreted, because it is relatively independent of the intention of the person who makes it. If someone is waving to me with his hand, I -- and perhaps other persons -- may interpret that sign to mean that I should go away, whereas he might want me to come toward him. His expression, the signal, is ambiguous. We see that a signal may have a meaning which may be interpreted independent of or even contrary to the subjective intention; therefore, we have to reckon with two possibilities: a subjective and an objective interpretation of expression.

The next stage of objectification is realized when the meaning is inherent in an expression, communicated to us through a medium: sounds, words, and phrases, for instance, may be understood in a subjective and in an objective sense; each might have a distinct meaning. The analysis of the understanding of the composition of words and phrases, which had been first outlined most brilliantly by Wilhelm von Humboldt, is the task of philology, one of the fields in which a theory of interpretation has developed. The others are theology, with its theory of the interpretation of sacred writings, and jurisprudence with its theory of the interpretation of laws.

The third stage of objectification is represented by personal documents, which might be of monumental or literary character. Letters are an interesting example; they contain subjective expression with an objective meaning. Now I can interpret the meaning of a letter without regard to the subjective life of the writer. I may do it rightly or wrongly. To be sure that I have the right interpretation of it, that I have really understood it as it wanted to be understood, I must see it in its subjective context. In this respect, Feuerbach once said that letters are aphorisms cut from their context in life. So we see that we are led from the interpretation of a special configuration to more and more extended subjective and objective contexts from which the original object takes its color: the whole correspondence, the character and life of its author.

So far we have dealt with types of expression of psychic experience which are rather closely related to the subjective experience from which they originate. The maximum of objectification, independent of subjective life, is reached in works to which we can do justice without reference to their originator, such as historical documents, normative (legal or religious) writings, and works of art.

Within the realm of artistic creation we see differences of degree in this respect. The development from spontaneous gestures to the artistic dance and to the drama shows that expression is more or less bound to the personality of the actor or actress, while painting and architecture represent expression of a less personal character, their mediums being tangible and material. Music again is peculiar in this respect: the meaning of a musical composition is conveyed through sound, the subtlest vibrations of matter, and is relatively independent of the personality of its author. How complicated the problems of musical hermeneutics are, we may see from the following example, taken from my book, Das Verstehen. In the opera Orpheus and Euridice Gluck composed a special melodic line for the words: "Oh, I have lost her, and it is my greatest sorrow," and afterwards replaced these words with: "Oh, I have gained her, and it is my greatest joy," without changing the music. This illustrates the flexibility of music as a medium of conveying meaning.

So, in all understanding of more or less objectified expression which is to succeed in its intention, two factors combine: the subjective interpretation, which intends to make sure the psychological meaning of an expression by relating it to its author, and the objective interpretation, which takes it as an entity in itself and tries to unfold its meaning. The objective exegesis consists of three different procedures: the technical interpretation, analysis of the material or elements of expression (sounds, letters, colors); the generic interpretation, asking for the genre or genos, type or form of work; the historical and sociological interpretation, which attempts to elucidate the socio-historical background and the development of the phenomenon. None of these viewpoints should be unduly stressed at the expense of others if the aim is an integral understanding.

Michelangelo’s famous paintings, "The Creation of Man," may serve as an example of highly objectified artistic expression. Understanding means, in this case, to be able to answer the questions: 1) What is to be seen? The answer is: a young man, lying on the ground, and an old man, gliding, as it were, from the air toward him; and 2) What does it signify? This question is not identical with the psychological inquiry, "What did the artist intend to express?" Rather, it refers to the objective meaning of this painting, which we may identify as the same or another than the artist intended to express. The answer is: the Lord, creating Adam, the first man.

In trying to illuminate the background, we must relate the painting to three different contexts. The first, the historical and sociological, interpretation, gives it a place in the history of art, of artists, of culture and of society. The second, or generic interpretation, analyses it according to its species and its technical character. The third, the documentary interpretation, places the work in a larger context of meaning, which might possibly be beyond the horizon of its creator; it illustrates the philosopher’s shrewd remark, "The artist is ever wiser than he is." Here the success of hermeneutics lies in understanding the work of the author better than he himself did.

With this last type of interpretation we have already passed not only to inference, but also to appreciation and application of the meaning of the objectification of experience, and it is a problem whether this appreciation or application is a part of the process of understanding proper.

For instance, in the interpretation of art, interpretation, and appreciation or evaluation are closely connected, more so than in the interpretation of laws. And in the interpretation of religion, it is doubtful whether the meaning of a religious message can be understood without any reference to its hortatory character. That is how the early Protestant theologians conceive of understanding: Primum perceptio, deinde cogitatio de illa percepta notitia in praxim, tertio velle, quarto perficere. [First one perceives; then one reflects on what has been perceived with a view to action; then one wills; and finally one acts to carry out one’s volition.]

Presuppositions, Conditions, and Limitations of Understanding

We have now to consider which subjective and objective presuppositions are necessary for adequate understanding and what the limitations of understanding itself are. We have already found that understanding aims at bringing into focus the unknown as an intermediate field between the entirely foreign and the perfectly familiar. Though we cannot say we understand the lower organisms, we succeed in interpreting the meaning of the gestures and sounds made by animals. Scheler has defined the dividing line between man and animals by attributing to man Geist, the ability to reflect on his own nature and to become a moral being, capable of renunciation and self-sacrifice. I would prefer to draw the line between those beings which are and those which are not able to create permanent expressions for their internal experience, which may be understood independently of subjective life. Therefore, we may say that understanding in a technical sense is limited to the realm of human life and human creations.

Why is it difficult for us at times to understand our fellow men and the expression of their experience? First, because we are -- each of us -- the complicated and highly individual result of slow development from an original germ. The second thing to remember is that the understanding subject does not live m a vacuum; he is conditioned in many ways by his environment. Our understanding, therefore, is necessarily limited, first, by what we are personally, and secondly, by the conditions under which we exist. Thus we can say that the chances for understanding persons and things are in some respects worse and in others better than some epistomologists think.

Two extreme attitudes, however, must be avoided: a naïve realism, which hopes to grasp the object "as it is," and a subjectivistic skepticism, which dissolves the object into relations. Not relativism, but relationism, should be the motto of all sound hermeneutics.

The understanding of individuality is the basic problem of hermeneutics. "In der Individualität liegt das Geheimnis alles Daseins" [Individuality contains the secret of all existence], said Humboldt, and Dilthey agrees with him: "Individuum est ineffabile." That means that individuality is not only inexpressible but also incomprehensible. In the different methods of investigation of personality, however, some methods have been developed to solve this mystery. Without doubt the theory of types is suitable in serving the understanding of personality, although exaggeration may be dangerous and lead to fantastic conclusions. If we want to understand the actions and reactions of a person, we use categories like "the hero," "the coward," "the miser," "the lover," to make his motivation and scale of values plausible to us. Dilthey has demonstrated the importance of types of human character for the understanding of personalities in literature in his thesis on Shakespeare. History and poetry present additional difficulties for an understanding. The personalities in dramatic poetry, for instance, are seen through the medium of the poet. Thus we must differentiate between the "objective" meaning and the highly personalized interpretation which the actor may give to a particular role and to individual lines in attempting to convey the specific intentions of the dramatist.

What we do in daily life, the historian practices in his study in viewing historic personalities in the light of characterological types. Furthermore, history is always related through some sources. Sometimes an actual witness describes the events and the personalities figuring in them; sometimes again we have more than one source through which we must understand historical events and personalities. Sometimes the understanding of a character presents special difficulties, particularly if we have very few objective expressions as material. If we face a person, we may interpret his speech by examining the caliber of his voice, the expression of his eyes, and his gestures, so that we are able to discern clearly whether his words are straightforward, or ironical, or ambiguous. Since all literal and historical analysis misses this advantage, the student must combine very carefully as much material as he can collect on his subject.

After these remarks on the objective difficulties of understanding, we may consider briefly its subjective conditions, which are the presuppositions for the understanding of the not entirely foreign and the not perfectly familiar. He who wants to understand appears to be confined within the magic circle of his personality, yet it is not entirely so. I would like again to quote an example from the history of religion. The historian of religion deals with exotic, ecstatic and primitive cults, all of them more or less foreign to his mind and his soul, still more to his personal experience. He has never participated in complicated rites; he has never taken part in ecstatic sessions or performances. He knows animals -- totems in the primitive language -- only as they occur around the house or at the zoo. Nevertheless, there exists some means of breaking the magic circle of these limitations. All of us are able to enlarge the limits of our empiric personality: the first means is by availing ourselves of the immeasurable treasure of research and the arts, which enables us, through knowledge and comparison, to gain analogies for the phenomena which we wish to understand. A great modern philosopher defines art as an organ for the understanding of life. All natural sciences and the humanities make their contributions to the enlargement of the empiric self.

The second way is indicated by the words of Goethe: "In jedem Menschen liegen alle Formen des Menschlichen." ("In every man all forms of human character are potentially present.") Goethe felt, when told about a crime, that he would have been capable of committing it himself. Modern students have emphasized the fact that our conscious life does not complete the entire circle of our personality. I refer to a very interesting report of Eduard Spranger in the transactions of the "Berliner Akademie der Wissenschaften" (1930): "Ûber die Schichten des Wirklichkeitsbewusstseins," and to Jung’s investigations inspired by Freud on the atavistic structure of the mind, as it appears in the analysis of the archaic patterns in schizophrenia. In this way the student of primitive religion will remember the experiences of his youth -- the well-known Indian games of American boys and girls -- and thus expand his understanding of the primitive mind.

The person who understands is distinguished by the ability to renew and revivify continuously his own experience as well as that of the race. The great psychologists and philosophers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in France and England combined the interpretation of historical events with participation in the political, military, cultural and social life of their times. We see the result in the testimonies of the understanding of the human soul given by such French and English moralists as Montaigne, La Rochefoucauld, Chesterfield, Chamfort, Hume and Vauvenargues.

All great scientists and artists need this capacity for transcending the limits of their personal experience. The great instrument for doing this is the imagination. In his book Königliche Hoheit, Thomas Mann has a prince ask a poet if, in order to be able to write his novel, he had had to travel around the world. The poet immediately replies, "Quite the contrary, Your Highness!" Marcel Proust calls the artist the man of Noah’s Ark, who sees and understands the world from inside his ark.

The Act of Understanding

There has been much discussion in hermeneutics on the relation of the synthetic and the intuitive methods. The first operates by combining several small details to a composite picture, and the second by the immediate act of comprehension. Some have thought that the intuitive method is arbitrary, and others that without it synthetic methods can gain only partial results. We do not arrive at a complete understanding by induction, and by combination of its results, unless this procedure is accompanied by a specific act which can better be delimited than defined. We may illustrate it by comparing this specific act with the jumping of a spark between two electric poles, or with the sudden closing of a door, or with the psychological experience behind the phrase "I get it!"

Psychologists and sociologists have discussed the possibility of the direct and immediate grasp of the personality of another. Max Scheler, for one, denied all empathy and possibility of transposition. The experience of another personality is not gained by the transposition of one’s own personality, for then the other personality would be obscured. Yet we anticipate and understand by wholes. That does not mean that by an act of divination we can understand another personality completely and correctly; the important thing is to seize the dominant traits of its nature. That is done by an act of comprehension in which both methods of procedure are combined. I should like to illustrate this with another phrase of Goethe’s, who said that he could successfully imitate a man for an hour whom he had heard speak for fifteen minutes. The same sentiment is expressed in the sentence: "Ex ungue leonem" ("By the paw we know the lion.")

Once we have acquired the idea of the dominant characteristics, we may be able to understand and fit into the main context the secondary characteristics of a personality and its means of expression. Since we cannot build up the whole structure of a personality simply by understanding, we have to pick out representative features. Thus we see that to "understand" a person and his expression, means to grasp intuitively as well as to piece together many isolated observations, the salient characteristics affording clues to his personality.

We have already seen that understanding is not photographic. There is a subjective factor in it, which neither can nor should be removed. It could be asked whether a feeling of accord with a person or a phenomenon is a requisite of its understanding. Medieval thinkers dealt much with the relation between emotion and knowledge. Some of them maintained that emotion (love) is the basis of knowledge. Even such recent writers as Pascal and Scheler postulated an "ordre du coeur" to supplement the order of thought. Those opposed to this theory will quote the proverb which says that love is blind, a contention which is only correct if it is true that hatred sees clearly. Whole biographies have been written, prompted by the author’s hatred of his subject. However, they are as unsatisfactory as those dictated by an uncritical admiration for the hero.

All this tends to prove that certain emotional factors are inclined to influence the understanding. Nevertheless, it is not so much the coloring as the presence of emotion which established the contact necessary for an understanding and for the mood in which it can be developed. There is a type of indifference which makes understanding difficult if not impossible. "Graue, kalte Augen wissen nicht was die Dinge wert sind," said Nietzsche. ("Gray, cold eyes do not know what things are worth.") Yet the existence and the nature of the "affectus" have to be realized and, what is even more important, to be controlled if genuine and true understanding is sought.

We must therefore now turn to the problem of the possibility of limiting and controlling the subjective factor which we have found to be unavoidable. As a final motto for this section we may quote a word of Jean Paul -- that there are three difficult things: to possess character, to draw character, and to recognize character.

The Objectivity of Understanding

The two extremes we have found to be erroneous are the notion of photographic reproduction and a radically skeptical attitude. History is not only a "fable convenue," as the skeptic would say, although occasionally we find in the historiography of our days a tendency to turn history into myth.

We can understand historical events and personalities and can check our results.

Some theories, for instance the radical theories of race, will not admit that there can be any objectivity in the understanding of another person, or of history, and if there were, it would not be desirable. It is true that not everyone can understand everything, but as we have already seen, there is the possibility of verification and control of the presuppositions on which understanding can be based. Students of hermeneutics have been much concerned with establishing objective criteria and thus defending the evidence of understanding. This procedure includes two factors, first an internal consistency in the process of understanding facts, and secondly the check which is exerted by weighing individual facts and instances against each other. Philosophical and psychological, historical and philological research and methodology have developed a great critical apparatus in order to guarantee the certainty of the evidence of the results of their interpretation. The aim of understanding must be defined as integral comprehension, even if only an approximation to an absolutely objective understanding is attainable.

I wish to repeat that such comprehension cannot be a simple copy of its object in the mind, but that it is rather a reproduction in perspective and an all-inclusive interpretation of its significance.

The Purpose of Understanding

The question of why understanding is essential has been frequently answered from a purely pragmatic point of view. I wish to call attention to another aspect of the aim of understanding, advanced by the hermeneutics of the historische Schule. We seem to feel within ourselves an overwhelming impulse to understand, even when no "practical" issue is involved.

"Alles Gewesene ist wissenswürdig." ("All that ever existed is worth knowing"). We may add: Everything that does exist is worth knowing, though to a different degree. There are priorities in this respect which vary with the understanding individual, the period and the context in which he lives.

I cannot discuss here the interesting problem of the limits of understanding which is indicated by Nietzsche’s conception of creative ability, "plastische Kraft." He himself was of the opinion that nobody should be allowed to learn and understand more than he can well absorb into his personality without weakening his creative impulses. If I am right, that is the problem of our civilization and age. Should there not be a way between an indiscriminate incorporation of all and everything that our understanding can reach, and the dangerous simplification extolled by some false prophets as a return to the status "before the fall?"

Should we not try to be broad -- by wide and sympathetic understanding -- broad, but not shallow? We, as individuals, and as collective entities, can afford to be so, provided we have principles to guide us, when we choose and assimilate, strong but not narrow principles that will be strengthened rather than weakened by practicing understanding.

In summary we may say that the function of understanding is threefold. The first is preservation. He who understands what is and what has been, revives and preserves in the memory of men the sum of their experience. The second function is the guidance and direction of our thoughts and actions, education of ourselves and others according to the formula, "So sollst Du sein, denn so verstehe ich Dich." (Droysen) ("Thus shalt thou be, for thus do I know thee or thy true nature.") The third aim is to realize the scope and variety of human nature and personality, as well as its expression in all fields of cultural activity.

On Teaching History of Religions

The 60th birthday of the great Dutch historian of religion whom this volume is to honor seems a suitable occasion to reflect upon the most adequate and effective way to teach the subject to which he has made such outstanding contributions. There is, of course, not one way or one method which, once developed, could be handed down from one generation of teachers to the other. The approach will have to be adapted to the special needs and demands of each successive generation. The motivation which led the students of, say, 1880 to take up the study of the history of religions was not the same as that causing novices to investigate it around 1900 or 1920. That is to say that not only the incentives to the study of the history of religions have varied in the last century -- the first of its existence as "Wissenschaft" -- but that ideas as to the aim and scope, the nature and the method of this discipline also have been changing. The history of studies in our fields has been competently traced by E. Lehmann, E. Hardy, Jordan, H. Pinard de la Boullaye and G. Mensching, but these efforts cover only the first three periods since Max Mueller established. the comparative study of religion as an academic discipline, his own endeavors marking the past epoch, those of his immediate successors (C. P. Tiele) the second, the "religionsgeschichtliche Schule" the third. I think it is possible to discern the beginnings of a fourth period in some works published since the first world war. Though R. Reitzenstein and R. Otto, W. Bousset and N. Soderblom were contemporaries, it seems to this writer that with Soderblom and especially with R. Otto a new phase in the development of our studies began. One of the exponents and leaders of this new "school" has been G. van der Leeuw.

During the first period which was marked by the somewhat sensational rise of "comparative" studies, the interest which prompted people to enter this field was, besides philological inclinations, the fascination of the exotic -- a heritage from the romantics -- to which were added during the second epoch folkloristic, archaeological and philosophical interests. While Max Muller’s and Tiele’s views of religion were determined by the teachings of German idealistic philosophy and its speculative interpretation of Christian theology, these influences had greatly diminished with the advent of the third generation. The latter concentrated upon historical and philological tasks and showed, generally speaking, not much interest in normative and systematic questions. The relativistic temper dominated. Theology was to be replaced by history of religions. Laymen and scholars were intrigued by the search for "parallels" and environmental factors by which the rise and development of Christianity could be "explained." A great change came with the first post-war period. The generation which filled the auditoria in the early twenties of this century was not satisfied to hear what had been and what could be believed, but asked what it ought to believe. Systematic ("dogmatic") theology attracted many. Philosophy, hitherto preoccupied with epistemological and historical research seemed to promise new answers to "weltanschauliche" questions. The transition may be indicated by the names of Rickert and Husserl for the older, Scheler and Heidegger for the younger generation, with Dilthey and Troeltsch reflecting the change within the development of their own thought. Even while the tremendous harvest which a century of historically oriented scholarship had made possible was being gathered, the crisis of historicism, which Troeltsch was the first to analyze on a monumental scale, became manifest.

Soon voices were heard which advocated the elimination of the superfluous "ballast" which the painstaking work of philologists, archaeologists, anthropologists, orientalists, and historians had accumulated, in favour of a simplified "credo," spontaneously formulated or derived from tradition to the exclusion of everything else. What is the use of history of religions? they ask. Attacks such as these often serve good purposes. They force a reconsideration and reconception of the nature, function and method of the discipline thus challenged. The fourth period witnesses numerous attempts to answer these questions though it cannot be denied that in some quarters little has changed in the pursuit of studies in our field since the turn of the century. This is not the place to examine critically the programs which have been suggested or the nature of the relationship of our own work to that in other fields. (Cf. my article on The Place of the History of Religions in the Study of Theology in the Journal of Religion, 1948.)

However, some basic points which are playing a part in this discussion need mentioning. It has been said that relativism is the inevitable consequence of a study of non-Christian religions. This impression was caused by the exaggerated enthusiasm of some representatives of the "religionsgeschichtliche Schule," voiced in a period in which the ultraliberal orientation of many Protestant theologians had weakened the religious conviction of many Christians. To-day we see that, far from endangering a well-grounded faith, Christian or otherwise, an acquaintance with other religions has a beneficial influence. First, it helps to overcome the fanaticism, narrowness and provincialism for which there is no room in the One World in which we have to live with others. Furthermore, a deepened understanding of certain elements in our own faith is frequently the result of studies in myths and forms of worship, and certain neglected emphases in our own teachings and practices can be corrected. It is significant that interpreters, both of the Old and the New Testaments, have been able to determine much more clearly and precisely the "Eigenart" of these documents and their views of God, world, and men on the basis of studies in the religions of the ancient Near East than could be done before the discoveries of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. (Cf. the recent Symposium on the Intellectual Adventure of Man, Chicago, 1946 and R. Bultmann, Das Urchristentum im Rahmen der antiken Religionen, Basel, 1949.)

But there are other objections to the work of the historian of religions. He chases a chimera, so it is said, because even if it should be deemed desirable, it is not possible to penetrate beyond the amassing of facts and data, into the "secrets" of primitive or oriental religions. Thinking and feeling of the peoples of so distant times and places are too different from our own, it is argued, to allow a real understanding. One has to be a member of a Buddhist samgha to understand Buddhism. A real hermeneutical problem is raised with this objection, but one to which there is a solution. First of all it has to be said that, even if a real understanding should be impossible, a good acquaintance with the teachings and practices of a religious group already marks a great step beyond the prejudices born of ignorance which have so frequently tended to poison the relations between members of different religious communities. It is, moreover, the presupposition for successful missionary work. But actually the situation is not as hopeless as sceptics are wont to believe. There are degrees of understanding. (cf. J. Wach, Das Verstehen, Tübingen, 1926-32). What is meant by "membership" in the samgha? Religious groups are not -- or certainly not in all cases are they -- "clubs" in which membership depends on the regular payment of dues and similar external marks. The more it is the spirit which forms the "marks" of "belonging," the less important becomes the sociological factor. It could be asked if Snouck Hurgronje or Louis Massignon have understood Islam less than an ignorant villager of the Dutch East Indies or of Northern Africa. "Knowledge" in the sense of acquaintance with data, of course, is not enough. An "affinity" which is difficult to analyze is necessary to enter into and comprehend the relationship between the data which represent the structure of a cult. Moreover, the "ethos" which prevails in a religious community has to be sensed, a process in which careful induction and sympathetic intuition have to be combined. The enormous progress which has been made in the understanding of foreign religions in the past century and a half proves that even if a total comprehension should be unobtainable a great deal of insight into their nature can be won.

There is, at least, one more doubt in the minds of those who are disinclined or reluctant to admit that some good can come out of the study of the history of religions. Some would question the identity and unity of the far-flung studies which together make up the work in our field. This unity is, indeed, difficult to conceive as long as only single data are seen -- be they philological, archaeological, anthropological, historical or sociological. In order to relate these data and to interpret them as expressions of religious experiences, some notions of the nature of this experience are necessary. In other words the narrowly historical quest has to be supplemented by a systematic (phenomenological) one.

It is not possible in this context to develop a theory of religious experience and of its theoretical, practical and sociological expressions. Suffice it to say with regard to the special topic of this paper that certain requirements for teaching the history of religions to-day follow from the brief analysis of the situation which we have essayed here.

1. Instruction in our field must be integral. The student is entitled to expect some orientation as to the purpose which the accumulation of facts throughout his apprenticeship is meant to serve. If he does not ask fundamental questions as to the meaning of his pursuits by himself, he must be made to see the larger contexts in which each detail, small or important, can and must be placed to become meaningful. The interrelationship of all forms of knowledge must become just as visible as the functional unity of life and of civilization.

2. Instruction in our field must be competent. No enthusiasm or loyalty can be allowed to replace thorough training and discipline, especially in the methods of philological and historical research. The student must be led to the sources. However, this is only one part of the equipment. The other consists in an acquaintance with the nature of religious experience, an acquaintance which, after all, is the indispensable prerequisite for the work of the historian of religion.

3. Instruction in our field can be fruitful only if it is dictated by an existential concern. The study of religion presupposes congeniality. The general hermeneutical rule that some likeness is necessary for all understanding has to be applied to the special case. There is nothing more painful than the helpless attempt at the interpretation of religious documents or monuments by one who does not know what "awe" is or to whom these testimonies to man’s search for communion with ultimate reality are just the dead records of the experience of "sick-minded" or backward people.

4. Instruction in our field must be selective. The enormous amount of material accumulated during the last century and a half of careful research can not and should not be "covered" in our teaching. Choices have to be made. The typological method will prove very useful in the attempt to include a variety of representative forms of expressions of religious experience to the student. Though a very intimate knowledge of one or the other religion based on thorough knowledge of the sources is the "admission-ticket" to the workroom of the historian of religions, provincialism and the false perspective resulting from it are dangers which he can only avoid by reference to and comparison with typologically different expressions of religious experience.

5. Instruction in our field must be balanced. The history of our discipline is replete with examples of leading scholars and schools preoccupied with one or the other form of expression of religious experience: theoretical or practical, myth or cultus, rational or mystical piety, individual or collective religion. It is easily understandable that, because one or the other form of expression will show a greater development within one historical religion, the "expert" in these religions will tend to absolutize the structure of this form of devotion. Here the historian must look to the phenomenologist (in van der Leeuw’s sense) or to the student of systematic Religionswissenschaft for help.

6. Instruction in our field must be imaginative. This is not to say that we are advocating a flight away from the facts into the realm of the fantastic but rather a reminder to the teacher to be aware of the gap that has to be constantly bridged between the ways of thinking and feeling of our own age and climate and those of peoples removed from us in space and time. Psychology, anthropology and sociology will be of great assistance here, the more so because recent developments in these fields, tending toward integration of these intimately related pursuits, promise the creation of a study of man to which the investigation of his religious life has to add an important, nay a decisive dimension.

Finally, a practical problem to which attention has to be given is that of levels of instruction. Different conditions prevailing in different countries make different solutions necessary. Nearly all European teaching is graduate instruction while in the United States the division between undergraduate and graduate work is marked. In Europe the academic teacher is expected to do both research and teaching, and there can be no doubt that this combination is very healthy and has good effects on the quality of both research and instruction. The same demand is made in the United States for the teacher on the graduate level but not necessarily for those entrusted with the teaching of undergraduates. Whereas previously the existing law prevented any instruction in religion at least in State colleges, recently more and more institutions of higher learning have begun to introduce such courses. In most cases some teaching in the Bible, in Christian ethics and (or) in comparative religion has been instituted. Because in different States of the Union and in different institutions different courses have been adapted and the whole development is of rather recent origin, it is, as yet, not possible to get a clear over-all picture of the situation. Some of the programs provide courses dealing with the religious "Umwelt" of the Bible; general surveys of primitive, higher and highest religions; typological treatment of varieties of religious experience; presentation of the major living world religions, of the life and teaching of outstanding religious leaders, etcetera. An added difficulty is the difference in the denominational background of the students in many institutions of higher learning in the United States. The less the teacher in the field can be expected to do research himself, the more important becomes the question of adequate text-books. It is characteristic of the difficulties prevailing that though the number of manuals of the history of religions is legion, the main American standardwork, G. F. Moore’s treatise, is over 25 years old and has been reprinted only recently. French, German, Dutch, Scandinavian, and Swiss handbooks are much more up to date. Yet, in most of these manuals little more than a juxtaposition of treatments of different non-Christian religions is to be found. The task of tracing "developments," of discerning types of structure and attitudes, of raising the problem of value and truth is left to the philosopher. Here some integration is necessary; fundamental epistemological and even metaphysical problems will have to be introduced to overcome the atomization of knowledge, the heritage of the positivistic age.

Even the most cursory introductory course must reflect some of the theological, philosophical, anthropological and sociological discussions which are carried on to-day. It is well-known that introductory courses are especially difficult to teach, and those in our field are no exception to this rule. They are best entrusted to the most experienced, not to the least experienced of the faculty. The ideal procedure would be to continue the introductory course by a three-term sequence, the first of which would be given over to a presentation of so-called primitive religions, the second and third dedicated to the religions of the West and of the East, or of the higher and highest (world) religions respectively. But if enough time is not available, a basic course could be worked out on a typological basis in which one primitive cult, one of the ancient religions of the Near East and the two great competitors of Christianity -- Islam and Buddhism -- could be dealt with. Added courses or alternatives would treat great religious leaders or some basic idea, institution or phenomenon on a comparative basis. All these topics would be of interest to the student who desires a general education, whatever his subject of concentration. (This includes students in the sciences, too.)

For those specializing in our field and working toward a degree, especially a higher degree, the situation is, of course, different. Here alternative programs will have to be provided which must do justice to the special schooling and interests of candidates, e.g. philological, theological or philosophical training. There will have to be a common core of work, of course, but opportunities must be provided and requirements formulated so as to allow and to foster necessary and fruitful specialization. Whereas no special linguistic preparation will be expected of the undergraduate desiring some orientation in the field, the graduate student or anyone desirous to specialize in the study of the history of religions, even if he does not intend to do research himself, but wants to devote himself to teaching on a middle or higher level, must prove competence in dealing with the material. It will depend again upon the nature of his work, whether this competence should be merely passive (that is, consisting in the ability to check a translation etc.) or active (that is, enabling him to do creative researchwork himself). Again it ought to be said that linguistic preparation is just one presupposition. For a competent handling of subjects which pertain to the domain of psychology, sociology of religion etc., a solid grounding in methodology and, generally, an acquaintance with the results of scholarship in the respective field has to be expected. It is, after all, a significant fact that some of the major contributions to the study of the history of religions has been made and still is being made by scholars who cannot be called "specialists" in our field. To sum up: it is not just a question of extending the limits of what is to be known and assimilated, but of realizing that, in order to focus the subject matter of our studies correctly, we have to reconceive its nature in the light of the best of all available thought and information.

In this respect G. van der Leeuw has set an example for which his contemporaries owe him much gratitude.