Religion and Science

The difficulty in approaching the question of the relations between Religion and Science is, that its elucidation requires that we have in our minds some clear idea of what we mean by either of the terms, ‘religion’ and ‘science.’ Also I wish to speak in the most general way possible, and to keep in the background any comparison of particular creeds, scientific or religious. We have got to understand the type of connection which exists between the two spheres, and then to draw some definite conclusions respecting the existing situation which at present confronts the world.

The difficulty in discussing the relationship between Religion and Science is that we need a clear idea of what we mean by ‘religion’ and ‘science.’ I also want to speak as generally as possible, without focusing on comparisons between particular scientific or religious beliefs. We need to understand the kind of connection that exists between the two spheres. Then we can draw some definite conclusions about the situation now facing the world.

The conflict between religion and science is what naturally occurs to our minds when we think of this subject. It seems as though, during the last half-century, the results of science and the beliefs of religion had come into a position of frank disagreement, from which there can be no escape, except by abandoning either the clear teaching of science, or the clear teaching of religion. This conclusion has been urged by controversialists on either side. Not by all controversialists, of course, but by those trenchant intellects which every controversy calls out into the open.

The conflict between religion and science naturally comes to mind when we think about this subject. It seems that, over the last fifty years, the findings of science and the beliefs of religion have come into open disagreement. It seems there is no way out except to abandon either the clear teaching of science or the clear teaching of religion. People arguing on both sides have pressed this conclusion. Not all of them, of course, but those sharp minds that every controversy brings into the open.

The distress of sensitive minds, and the zeal for truth, and the sense of the importance of the issues, must command our sincerest sympathy. When we consider what religion is for mankind, and what science is, it is no exaggeration to say that the future course of history depends upon the decision of this generation as to the relations between them. We have here the two strongest general forces (apart from the mere impulse of the various senses) which influence men, and they seem to be set one against the other—the force of our religious intuitions, and the force of our impulse to accurate observation and logical deduction.

We must feel deep sympathy for the distress of sensitive minds, their passion for truth, and their sense of how much is at stake. Consider what religion and science mean to humanity. It is no exaggeration to say that the future course of history depends on how this generation decides they should relate to each other. Apart from the simple impulses of our senses, religion and science are the two strongest general forces that influence people. Yet they seem to oppose each other. One is the force of our religious intuitions. The other is the force of our drive for accurate observation and logical reasoning.

A great English statesman once advised his countrymen to use large-scale maps, as a preservative against alarms, panics, and general misunderstanding of the true relations between nations. In the same way in dealing with the clash between permanent elements of human nature, it is well to map our history on a large scale, and to disengage ourselves from our immediate absorption in the present conflicts. When we do this, we immediately discover two great facts. In the first place, there has always been a conflict between religion and science; and in the second place, both religion and science have always been in a state of continual development. In the early days of Christianity, there was a general belief among Christians that the world was coming to an end in the lifetime of people then living. We can make only indirect inferences as to how far this belief was authoritatively proclaimed; but it is certain that it was widely held, and that it formed an impressive part of the popular religious doctrine. The belief proved itself to be mistaken, and Christian doctrine adjusted itself to the change. Again in the early Church individual theologians very confidently deduced from the Bible opinions concerning the nature of the physical universe. In the year A. D. 535, a monk named Cosmas¹⁷ wrote a book which he entitled, Christian Topography. He was a travelled man who had visited India and Ethiopia; and finally he lived in a monastery at Alexandria, which was then a great centre of culture. In this book, basing himself upon the direct meaning of Biblical texts as construed by him in a literal fashion, he denied the existence of the antipodes, and asserted that the world is a flat parallelogram whose length is double its breadth.

A great English statesman once advised his fellow countrymen to use large-scale maps. He believed these maps would guard against alarm, panic, and widespread misunderstanding of the true relationships between nations. Similarly, when dealing with conflicts between lasting elements of human nature, we should look at history on a large scale. We should also step back from our immediate involvement in present conflicts. When we do this, we immediately discover two important facts. First, there has always been a conflict between religion and science. Second, both religion and science have always been developing. In the early days of Christianity, Christians generally believed the world would end within the lifetime of people then living. We can draw only indirect conclusions about how far this belief was officially proclaimed. But it was certainly widespread and was a striking part of popular religious teaching. The belief proved mistaken, and Christian doctrine adjusted to the change. Again, in the early Church, individual theologians confidently drew conclusions from the Bible about the nature of the physical universe. In A. D. 535, a monk named Cosmas¹⁷ wrote a book titled Christian Topography. He was a well-traveled man who had visited India and Ethiopia. He eventually lived in a monastery at Alexandria, then a great center of culture. In his book, Cosmas interpreted Biblical texts literally and based his conclusions on their direct meaning. He denied the existence of the antipodes and claimed that the world was a flat parallelogram, twice as long as it was wide.

In the seventeenth century the doctrine of the motion of the earth was condemned by a Catholic tribunal. A hundred years ago the extension of time demanded by geological science distressed religious people, Protestant and Catholic. And to-day the doctrine of evolution is an equal stumbling-block. These are only a few instances illustrating a general fact.

In the seventeenth century, a Catholic tribunal condemned the belief that the earth moves. A hundred years ago, the longer span of time required by geology distressed both Protestant and Catholic believers. Today, the theory of evolution is just as much a stumbling block. These are only a few examples of a general fact.

But all our ideas will be in a wrong perspective if we think that this recurring perplexity was confined to contradictions between religion and science; and that in these controversies religion was always wrong, and that science was always right. The true facts of the case are very much more complex, and refuse to be summarised in these simple terms.

But all our ideas will be out of perspective if we think this recurring difficulty was confined to conflicts between religion and science. We will also be mistaken if we think religion was always wrong and science always right in these conflicts. The facts are much more complex and cannot be summed up so simply.

Theology itself exhibits exactly the same character of gradual development, arising from an aspect of conflict between its own proper ideas. This fact is a commonplace to theologians, but is often obscured in the stress of controversy. I do not wish to overstate my case; so I will confine myself to Roman Catholic writers. In the seventeenth century a learned Jesuit, Father Petavius, showed that the theologians of the first three centuries of Christianity made use of phrases and statements which since the fifth century would be condemned as heretical. Also Cardinal Newman devoted a treatise to the discussion of the development of doctrine. He wrote it before he became a great Roman Catholic ecclesiastic; but throughout his life, it was never retracted and continually reissued.

Theology itself shows the same pattern of gradual development, arising from conflicts between its own ideas. This is a familiar fact to theologians, but it is often obscured in the heat of controversy. I do not want to overstate my case, so I will limit myself to Roman Catholic writers. In the seventeenth century, a learned Jesuit, Father Petavius, showed that theologians of Christianity’s first three centuries used phrases and made statements that would have been condemned as heretical from the fifth century onward. Cardinal Newman also wrote a treatise discussing the development of doctrine. He wrote it before he became a prominent Roman Catholic churchman. But throughout his life, he never retracted the treatise, and it was continually reissued.

Science is even more changeable than theology. No man of science could subscribe without qualification to Galileo’s beliefs, or to Newton’s beliefs, or to all his own scientific beliefs of ten years ago.

Science changes even more than theology. No scientist could agree entirely with Galileo’s beliefs or Newton’s beliefs. Nor could any scientist agree with all their own scientific beliefs from ten years ago.

In both regions of thought, additions, distinctions, and modifications have been introduced. So that now, even when the same assertion is made to-day as was made a thousand, or fifteen hundred years ago, it is made subject to limitations or expansions of meaning, which were not contemplated at the earlier epoch. We are told by logicians that a proposition must be either true or false, and that there is no middle term. But in practice, we may know that a proposition expresses an important truth, but that it is subject to limitations and qualifications which at present remain undiscovered. It is a general feature of our knowledge, that we are insistently aware of important truths; and yet that the only formulations of these truths which we are able to make presuppose a general standpoint of conceptions which may have to be modified. I will give you two illustrations, both from science: Galileo said that the earth moves and that the sun is fixed; the Inquisition said that the earth is fixed and the sun moves; and Newtonian astronomers, adopting an absolute theory of space, said that both the sun and the earth move. But now we say that any one of these three statements is equally true, provided that you have fixed your sense of ‘rest’ and ‘motion’ in the way required by the statement adopted. At the date of Galileo’s controversy with the Inquisition, Galileo’s way of stating the facts was, beyond question, the fruitful procedure for the sake of scientific research. But in itself it was not more true than the formulation of the Inquisition. But at that time the modern concepts of relative motion were in nobody’s mind; so that the statements were made in ignorance of the qualifications required for their more perfect truth. Yet this question of the motions of the earth and the sun expresses a real fact in the universe; and all sides had got hold of important truths concerning it. But with the knowledge of those times, the truths appeared to be inconsistent.

In both areas of thought, additions, distinctions, and changes have been introduced. So even when we make the same claim today that was made a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago, its meaning is qualified or expanded in ways people did not consider at the earlier time. Logicians tell us that a proposition must be either true or false, with no middle ground. But in practice, we may know that a proposition expresses an important truth, while also knowing that it has limits and qualifications we have not yet discovered. Our knowledge generally has this feature: we are keenly aware of important truths. Yet the only ways we can express these truths assume a general framework of ideas that may have to change. I will give you two examples, both from science. Galileo said that the earth moves and that the sun is fixed. The Inquisition said that the earth is fixed and the sun moves. Newtonian astronomers, adopting a theory of absolute space, said that both the sun and the earth move. But now we say that any one of these three statements is equally true. Each is true, provided that you define ‘rest’ and ‘motion’ in the way the statement requires. At the time of Galileo’s dispute with the Inquisition, Galileo’s way of stating the facts was unquestionably the fruitful approach for scientific research. But in itself, his statement was no more true than the Inquisition’s. At that time, however, nobody had the modern concepts of relative motion in mind. So people made these statements without knowing the qualifications needed to make them more fully true. Yet the question of the motions of the earth and the sun concerns a real fact in the universe. All sides had grasped important truths about that fact. But given the knowledge of the time, these truths appeared to be inconsistent.

Again I will give you another example taken from the state of modern physical science. Since the time of Newton and Huyghens in the seventeenth century there have been two theories as to the physical nature of light. Newton’s theory was that a beam of light consists of a stream of very minute particles, or corpuscles, and that we have the sensation of light when these corpuscles strike the retinas of our eyes. Huyghens’ theory was that light consists of very minute waves of trembling in an all-pervading ether, and that these waves are travelling along a beam of light. The two theories are contradictory. In the eighteenth century Newton’s theory was believed, in the nineteenth century Huyghens’ theory was believed. To-day there is one large group of phenomena which can be explained only on the wave theory, and another large group which can be explained only on the corpuscular theory. Scientists have to leave it at that, and wait for the future, in the hope of attaining some wider vision which reconciles both.

Again, I will give you another example from modern physical science. Since the time of Newton and Huyghens in the seventeenth century, there have been two theories about the physical nature of light. Newton’s theory was that a beam of light consists of a stream of very tiny particles, or corpuscles. He believed we experience light when these corpuscles strike the retinas of our eyes. Huyghens’ theory was that light consists of tiny waves of vibration in an ether that fills all space. He believed these waves travel along a beam of light. The two theories contradict each other. In the eighteenth century, people believed Newton’s theory. In the nineteenth century, they believed Huyghens’ theory. Today, one large group of phenomena can be explained only by the wave theory. Another large group can be explained only by the corpuscular theory. Scientists must leave the matter there and wait for the future. They hope to arrive at a broader view that reconciles both theories.

We should apply these same principles to the questions in which there is a variance between science and religion. We would believe nothing in either sphere of thought which does not appear to us to be certified by solid reasons based upon the critical research either of ourselves or of competent authorities. But granting that we have honestly taken this precaution, a clash between the two on points of detail where they overlap should not lead us hastily to abandon doctrines for which we have solid evidence. It may be that we are more interested in one set of doctrines than in the other. But, if we have any sense of perspective and of the history of thought, we shall wait and refrain from mutual anathemas.

We should apply these same principles to questions on which science and religion disagree. We should believe nothing in either field unless it seems supported by solid reasons. Those reasons should be based on critical research, either our own or that of qualified experts. But suppose we have honestly taken this precaution. Then a conflict over details where science and religion overlap should not make us rush to abandon beliefs supported by solid evidence. We may be more interested in one set of beliefs than in the other. But if we have any sense of perspective and of the history of thought, we will wait and refrain from condemning one another.

We should wait: but we should not wait passively, or in despair. The clash is a sign that there are wider truths and finer perspectives within which a reconciliation of a deeper religion and a more subtle science will be found.

We should wait, but not passively or in despair. The clash is a sign that broader truths and clearer perspectives exist. Within them, a deeper religion and a more subtle science will be reconciled.

In one sense, therefore, the conflict between science and religion is a slight matter which has been unduly emphasised. A mere logical contradiction cannot in itself point to more than the necessity of some readjustments, possibly of a very minor character on both sides. Remember the widely different aspects of events which are dealt with in science and in religion respectively. Science is concerned with the general conditions which are observed to regulate physical phenomena; whereas religion is wholly wrapped up in the contemplation of moral and aesthetic values. On the one side there is the law of gravitation, and on the other the contemplation of the beauty of holiness. What one side sees, the other misses; and vice versa.

In one sense, then, the conflict between science and religion is a minor matter that has received too much attention. A logical contradiction alone can only show that some adjustments are needed. These may be very minor adjustments on both sides. Remember that science and religion deal with very different aspects of events. Science is concerned with the general conditions observed to govern physical phenomena. Religion, by contrast, is entirely concerned with contemplating moral and aesthetic values. On one side is the law of gravity. On the other is the contemplation of the beauty of holiness. What one side sees, the other misses, and vice versa.

Consider, for example, the lives of John Wesley and of Saint Francis of Assisi. For physical science you have in these lives merely ordinary examples of the operation of the principles of physiological chemistry, and of the dynamics of nervous reactions: for religion you have lives of the most profound significance in the history of the world. Can you be surprised that, in the absence of a perfect and complete phrasing of the principles of science and of the principles of religion which apply to these specific cases, the accounts of these lives from these divergent standpoints should involve discrepancies? It would be a miracle if it were not so.

Consider, for example, the lives of John Wesley and Saint Francis of Assisi. For physical science, these lives are simply ordinary examples of how physiological chemistry and nervous reactions work. For religion, they are lives of the deepest significance in world history. We do not have a perfect and complete statement of the scientific and religious principles that apply to these particular lives. Given that, is it surprising that accounts of these lives from these different viewpoints should disagree? It would be a miracle if they did not.

It would, however, be missing the point to think that we need not trouble ourselves about the conflict between science and religion. In an intellectual age there can be no active interest which puts aside all hope of a vision of the harmony of truth. To acquiesce in discrepancy is destructive of candour, and of moral cleanliness. It belongs to the self-respect of intellect to pursue every tangle of thought to its final unravelment. If you check that impulse, you will get no religion and no science from an awakened thoughtfulness. The important question is, In what spirit are we going to face the issue? There we come to something absolutely vital.

However, it would be missing the point to think we need not concern ourselves with the conflict between science and religion. In an intellectual age, no active interest can set aside all hope of seeing truth as a harmonious whole. Accepting contradictions undermines honesty and moral integrity. Intellectual self-respect requires us to follow every tangled thought until it is fully untangled. If you suppress that impulse, awakened thoughtfulness will produce neither religion nor science. The important question is: In what spirit will we face the issue? That is absolutely vital.

A clash of doctrines is not a disaster—it is an opportunity. I will explain my meaning by some illustrations from science. The weight of an atom of nitrogen was well known. Also it was an established scientific doctrine that the average weight of such atoms in any considerable mass will be always the same. Two experimenters, the late Lord Rayleigh and the late Sir William Ramsay, found that if they obtained nitrogen by two different methods, each equally effective for that purpose, they always observed a persistent slight difference between the average weights of the atoms in the two cases. Now I ask you, would it have been rational of these men to have despaired because of this conflict between chemical theory and scientific observation? Suppose that for some reason the chemical doctrine had been highly prized throughout some district as the foundation of its social order:—would it have been wise, would it have been candid, would it have been moral, to forbid the disclosure of the fact that the experiments produced discordant results? Or, on the other hand, should Sir William Ramsay and Lord Rayleigh have proclaimed that chemical theory was now a detected delusion? We see at once that either of these ways would have been a method of facing the issue in an entirely wrong spirit. What Rayleigh and Ramsay did do was this: They at once perceived that they had hit upon a line of investigation which would disclose some subtlety of chemical theory that had hitherto eluded observation. The discrepancy was not a disaster: it was an opportunity to increase the sweep of chemical knowledge. You all know the end of the story: finally argon was discovered, a new chemical element which had lurked undetected, mixed with the nitrogen. But the story has a sequel which forms my second illustration. This discovery drew attention to the importance of observing accurately minute differences in chemical substances as obtained by different methods. Further researches of the most careful accuracy were undertaken. Finally another physicist, F. W. Aston, working in the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge in England, discovered that even the same element might assume two or more distinct forms, termed isotopes, and that the law of the constancy of average atomic weight holds for each of these forms, but as between the different isotopes differs slightly. The research has effected a great stride in the power of chemical theory, far transcending in importance the discovery of argon from which it originated. The moral of these stories lies on the surface, and I will leave to you their application to the case of religion and science.

A clash of doctrines is not a disaster. It is an opportunity. I will explain what I mean with some examples from science. The weight of a nitrogen atom was well known. It was also an established scientific doctrine that the average weight of these atoms in any substantial mass is always the same. Two experimenters, the late Lord Rayleigh and the late Sir William Ramsay, obtained nitrogen using two different methods. Both methods were equally effective. Yet they always observed a small, persistent difference between the average weights of the atoms obtained by each method. Now I ask you, would it have been reasonable for these men to despair over this conflict between chemical theory and scientific observation? Suppose that, for some reason, a district had prized the chemical doctrine as the foundation of its social order. Would it have been wise, honest, or moral to forbid people from revealing that the experiments produced conflicting results? Or, on the other hand, should Sir William Ramsay and Lord Rayleigh have declared that chemical theory had been exposed as a delusion? We can see at once that either response would have been an entirely wrong way to face the issue. What Rayleigh and Ramsay did was quite different. They immediately saw that they had found a line of investigation that would reveal some subtle feature of chemical theory that had previously escaped observation. The discrepancy was not a disaster. It was an opportunity to expand chemical knowledge. You all know how the story ends. Argon, a new chemical element, was finally discovered. It had been lurking undetected, mixed with the nitrogen. But the story has a sequel, which provides my second example. The discovery drew attention to the importance of accurately observing minute differences in chemical substances obtained by different methods. Further research was carried out with the greatest care and accuracy. Finally, another physicist, F. W. Aston, made a discovery while working at the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge in England. He found that even the same element could take two or more distinct forms, called isotopes. He also found that the law of constant average atomic weight holds for each form, but that the average weight differs slightly among the isotopes. This research greatly increased the power of chemical theory. Its importance far exceeded that of the discovery of argon, from which it originated. The lesson of these stories is plain, and I will leave you to apply it to religion and science.

In formal logic, a contradiction is the signal of a defeat: but in the evolution of real knowledge it marks the first step in progress towards a victory. This is one great reason for the utmost toleration of variety of opinion. Once and forever, this duty of toleration has been summed up in the words, ‘Let both grow together until the harvest.’ The failure of Christians to act up to this precept, of the highest authority, is one of the curiosities of religious history. But we have not yet exhausted the discussion of the moral temper required for the pursuit of truth. There are short cuts leading merely to an illusory success. It is easy enough to find a theory, logically harmonious and with important applications in the region of fact, provided that you are content to disregard half your evidence. Every age produces people with clear logical intellects, and with the most praiseworthy grasp of the importance of some sphere of human experience, who have elaborated, or inherited, a scheme of thought which exactly fits those experiences which claim their interest. Such people are apt resolutely to ignore, or to explain away, all evidence which confuses their scheme with contradictory instances. What they cannot fit in is for them nonsense. An unflinching determination to take the whole evidence into account is the only method of preservation against the fluctuating extremes of fashionable opinion. This advice seems so easy, and is in fact so difficult to follow.

In formal logic, a contradiction signals defeat. But in the growth of real knowledge, it marks the first step toward victory. This is one important reason to be as tolerant as possible of different opinions. The duty of tolerance has been summed up once and for all in the words, ‘Let both grow together until the harvest.’ One curiosity of religious history is the failure of Christians to follow this teaching of the highest authority. But there is more to say about the moral attitude needed to pursue truth. Some shortcuts lead only to an illusion of success. It is easy enough to find a logically consistent theory with important applications to facts, if you are willing to ignore half the evidence. Every age produces people with clear, logical minds and a highly commendable grasp of some area of human experience. Such people develop or inherit a system of thought that exactly fits the experiences that interest them. They tend to ignore or explain away all evidence that contradicts their system and complicates it. Whatever they cannot fit into it is nonsense to them. Only a firm determination to consider all the evidence can protect us against the changing extremes of fashionable opinion. This advice seems so easy, but it is in fact so difficult to follow.

One reason for this difficulty is that we cannot think first and act afterwards. From the moment of birth we are immersed in action, and can only fitfully guide it by taking thought. We have, therefore, in various spheres of experience to adopt those ideas which seem to work within those spheres. It is absolutely necessary to trust to ideas which are generally adequate, even though we know that there are subtleties and distinctions beyond our ken. Also apart from the necessities of action, we cannot even keep before our minds the whole evidence except under the guise of doctrines which are incompletely harmonised. We cannot think in terms of an indefinite multiplicity of detail; our evidence can acquire its proper importance only if it comes before us marshalled by general ideas. These ideas we inherit—they form the tradition of our civilisation. Such traditional ideas are never static. They are either fading into meaningless formulae, or are gaining power by the new lights thrown by a more delicate apprehension. They are transformed by the urge of critical reason, by the vivid evidence of emotional experience, and by the cold certainties of scientific perception. One fact is certain, you cannot keep them still. No generation can merely reproduce its ancestors. You may preserve the life in a flux of form, or preserve the form amid an ebb of life. But you cannot permanently enclose the same life in the same mould.

One reason for this difficulty is that we cannot think first and act afterward. From birth, we are immersed in action. We can guide our actions by thought only now and then. So, in different areas of experience, we have to adopt ideas that seem to work in those areas. We must trust ideas that are generally adequate, even though we know there are subtleties and distinctions beyond our understanding. Even apart from the demands of action, we cannot hold all the evidence in mind at once. We can do so only by framing the evidence in doctrines that do not fully agree. We cannot think in terms of countless separate details. The evidence can take on its proper importance only when general ideas help us organize it. We inherit these ideas. They form the tradition of our civilization. Such traditional ideas never stand still. They are either fading into meaningless formulas or gaining power as more sensitive understanding sheds new light on them. They are transformed by the force of critical reason, the vivid evidence of emotional experience, and the cold certainties of scientific observation. One fact is certain: you cannot keep these ideas still. No generation can merely reproduce its ancestors. You may preserve life while its forms change, or preserve the forms while life ebbs away. But you cannot permanently contain the same life in the same mold.

The present state of religion among the European races illustrates the statements which I have been making. The phenomena are mixed. There have been reactions and revivals. But on the whole, during many generations, there has been a gradual decay of religious influence in European civilisation. Each revival touches a lower peak than its predecessor, and each period of slackness a lower depth. The average curve marks a steady fall in religious tone. In some countries the interest in religion is higher than in others. But in those countries where the interest is relatively high, it still falls as the generations pass. Religion is tending to degenerate into a decent formula wherewith to embellish a comfortable life. A great historical movement on this scale results from the convergence of many causes. I wish to suggest two of them which lie within the scope of this chapter for consideration.

The current state of religion among European peoples illustrates the points I have been making. The evidence is mixed. There have been reactions and revivals. But overall, religious influence in European civilization has gradually declined over many generations. Each revival reaches a lower peak than the one before it. Each period of decline reaches a lower depth. The overall trend shows a steady fall in religious feeling. Interest in religion is higher in some countries than in others. But even in countries where interest is relatively high, it still falls as generations pass. Religion is tending to become a respectable formula for decorating a comfortable life. A great historical movement on this scale results from many causes coming together. I want to suggest two of these causes that fall within the scope of this chapter.

In the first place for over two centuries religion has been on the defensive, and on a weak defensive. The period has been one of unprecedented intellectual progress. In this way a series of novel situations have been produced for thought. Each such occasion has found the religious thinkers unprepared. Something, which has been proclaimed to be vital, has finally, after struggle, distress, and anathema, been modified and otherwise interpreted. The next generation of religious apologists then congratulates the religious world on the deeper insight which has been gained. The result of the continued repetition of this undignified retreat, during many generations, has at last almost entirely destroyed the intellectual authority of religious thinkers. Consider this contrast: when Darwin or Einstein proclaim theories which modify our ideas, it is a triumph for science. We do not go about saying that there is another defeat for science, because its old ideas have been abandoned. We know that another step of scientific insight has been gained.

First, for over two centuries, religion has been on the defensive, and its defense has been weak. During that time, intellectual progress has been unprecedented. This progress has raised a series of new questions for thought. Each time, religious thinkers have been unprepared. Something declared vital has finally been changed and reinterpreted, after struggle, distress, and condemnation. The next generation of religious defenders then congratulates the religious world on its deeper understanding. This undignified retreat has been repeated for many generations. As a result, it has almost entirely destroyed the intellectual authority of religious thinkers. Consider the contrast: when Darwin or Einstein announce theories that change our ideas, it is a triumph for science. We do not say that science has suffered another defeat because its old ideas have been abandoned. We know that science has gained another insight.

Religion will not regain its old power until it can face change in the same spirit as does science. Its principles may be eternal, but the expression of those principles requires continual development. This evolution of religion is in the main a disengagement of its own proper ideas from the adventitious notions which have crept into it by reason of the expression of its own ideas in terms of the imaginative picture of the world entertained in previous ages. Such a release of religion from the bonds of imperfect science is all to the good. It stresses its own genuine message. The great point to be kept in mind is that normally an advance in science will show that statements of various religious beliefs require some sort of modification. It may be that they have to be expanded or explained, or indeed entirely restated. If the religion is a sound expression of truth, this modification will only exhibit more adequately the exact point which is of importance. This process is a gain. In so far, therefore, as any religion has any contact with physical facts, it is to be expected that the point of view of those facts must be continually modified as scientific knowledge advances. In this way, the exact relevance of these facts for religious thought will grow more and more clear. The progress of science must result in the unceasing modification of religious thought, to the great advantage of religion.

Religion will not regain its old power until it can face change in the same spirit as science. Its principles may be eternal, but the way they are expressed must continually develop. For the most part, religion evolves by separating its own true ideas from incidental notions that have crept into it. These notions arose because religion expressed its ideas in terms of how people in earlier ages imagined the world. Freeing religion from the constraints of imperfect science is entirely beneficial. It brings religion’s own genuine message into sharper focus. The key point to remember is that advances in science will normally show that statements of religious beliefs need some modification. They may need to be expanded, explained, or even completely restated. If the religion is a sound expression of truth, these changes will only show more clearly exactly what matters. This process is a gain. So, wherever a religion has any connection with physical facts, we should expect its view of those facts to change continually as scientific knowledge advances. In this way, exactly how those facts matter to religious thought will become clearer and clearer. The progress of science must lead to constant changes in religious thought, greatly benefiting religion.

The religious controversies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries put theologians into a most unfortunate state of mind. They were always attacking and defending. They pictured themselves as the garrison of a fort surrounded by hostile forces. All such pictures express half-truths. That is why they are so popular. But they are dangerous. This particular picture fostered a pugnacious party spirit which really expresses an ultimate lack of faith. They dared not modify, because they shirked the task of disengaging their spiritual message from the associations of a particular imagery.

The religious controversies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries left theologians in a very unfortunate frame of mind. They were always attacking and defending. They imagined themselves as the defenders of a fort surrounded by hostile forces. All such images express half-truths. That is why they are so popular. But they are dangerous. This particular image encouraged a combative loyalty to their own side that really expressed a fundamental lack of faith. They did not dare to change because they avoided the task of separating their spiritual message from the associations of a particular image.

Let me explain myself by an example. In the early medieval times, Heaven was in the sky, and Hell was underground; volcanoes were the jaws of Hell. I do not assert that these beliefs entered into the official formulations: but they did enter into the popular understanding of the general doctrines of Heaven and Hell. These notions were what everyone thought to be implied by the doctrine of the future state. They entered into the explanations of the most influential exponents of Christian belief. For example, they occur in the Dialogues of Pope Gregory,¹⁸ the Great, a man whose high official position is surpassed only by the magnitude of his services to humanity. I am not saying what we ought to believe about the future state. But whatever be the right doctrine, in this instance the clash between religion and science, which has relegated the earth to the position of a second-rate planet attached to a second-rate sun, has been greatly to the benefit of the spirituality of religion by dispersing these medieval fancies.

Let me explain with an example. In the early Middle Ages, Heaven was in the sky and Hell was underground. Volcanoes were the jaws of Hell. I do not claim that these beliefs were part of official teachings. But they did shape how people understood the general doctrines of Heaven and Hell. Everyone thought these ideas were implied by the doctrine of life after death. They appeared in the explanations given by the most influential interpreters of Christian belief. For example, they appear in the Dialogues of Pope Gregory,¹⁸ the Great. His high official position was surpassed only by the greatness of his services to humanity. I am not saying what we ought to believe about life after death. But whatever the right doctrine may be, the clash between religion and science has dispelled these medieval fantasies. Science has reduced the earth to a second-rate planet orbiting a second-rate sun. By doing so, it has greatly benefited the spirituality of religion.

Another way of looking at this question of the evolution of religious thought is to note that any verbal form of statement which has been before the world for some time discloses ambiguities; and that often such ambiguities strike at the very heart of the meaning. The effective sense in which a doctrine has been held in the past cannot be determined by the mere logical analysis of verbal statements, made in ignorance of the logical trap. You have to take into account the whole reaction of human nature to the scheme of thought. This reaction is of a mixed character, including elements of emotion derived from our lower natures. It is here that the impersonal criticism of science and of philosophy comes to the aid of religious evolution. Example after example can be given of this motive force in development. For example, the logical difficulties inherent in the doctrine of the moral cleansing of human nature by the power of religion rent Christianity in the days of Pelagius and Augustine—that is to say, at the beginning of the fifth century. Echoes of that controversy still linger in theology.

Another way to consider the evolution of religious thought is to look at how statements develop ambiguities over time. Often, these ambiguities go to the heart of their meaning. We cannot determine what a doctrine meant in practice to people in the past simply by analyzing its wording logically. Such statements were made without awareness of the logical trap. We must consider how human nature as a whole responds to the system of thought. This response is mixed, and it includes emotions drawn from our lower natures. This is where the impersonal criticism of science and philosophy helps religious thought evolve. Many examples show how this criticism drives development. For example, Christianity was torn apart by the logical difficulties inherent in the doctrine that religion can morally cleanse human nature. This happened in the days of Pelagius and Augustine, at the beginning of the fifth century. Echoes of that controversy still linger in theology.

So far, my point has been this: that religion is the expression of one type of fundamental experiences of mankind: that religious thought develops into an increasing accuracy of expression, disengaged from adventitious imagery: that the interaction between religion and science is one great factor in promoting this development.

So far, my point has been this: religion expresses one kind of fundamental human experience. Religious thought develops ways to express this experience more accurately, free from incidental imagery. The interaction between religion and science is a major factor in this development.

I now come to my second reason for the modern fading of interest in religion. This involves the ultimate question which I stated in my opening sentences. We have to know what we mean by religion. The churches, in their presentation of their answers to this query, have put forward aspects of religion which are expressed in terms either suited to the emotional reactions of bygone times or directed to excite modern emotional interests of a nonreligious character. What I mean under the first heading is that religious appeal is directed partly to excite that instinctive fear of the wrath of a tyrant which was inbred in the unhappy populations of the arbitrary empires of the ancient world, and in particular to excite that fear of an all-powerful arbitrary tyrant behind the unknown forces of nature. This appeal to the ready instinct of brute fear is losing its force. It lacks any directness of response, because modern science and modern conditions of life have taught us to meet occasions of apprehension by a critical analysis of their causes and conditions. Religion is the reaction of human nature to its search for God. The presentation of God under the aspect of power awakens every modern instinct of critical reaction. This is fatal; for religion collapses unless its main positions command immediacy of assent. In this respect the old phraseology is at variance with the psychology of modern civilisations. This change in psychology is largely due to science, and is one of the chief ways in which the advance of science has weakened the hold of the old religious forms of expression. The nonreligious motive which has entered into modern religious thought is the desire for a comfortable organisation of modern society. Religion has been presented as valuable for the ordering of life. Its claims have been rested upon its function as a sanction to right conduct. Also the purpose of right conduct quickly degenerates into the formation of pleasing social relations. We have here a subtle degradation of religious ideas, following upon their gradual purification under the influence of keener ethical intuitions. Conduct is a by-product of religion—an inevitable by-product, but not the main point. Every great religious teacher has revolted against the presentation of religion as a mere sanction of rules of conduct. Saint Paul denounced the Law, and Puritan divines spoke of the filthy rags of righteousness. The insistence upon rules of conduct marks the ebb of religious fervour. Above and beyond all things, the religious life is not a research after comfort. I must now state, in all diffidence, what I conceive to be the essential character of the religious spirit.

I now turn to my second reason for the modern decline of interest in religion. It involves the fundamental question I raised in my opening sentences. We need to know what we mean by religion. In answering this question, churches have presented aspects of religion in terms suited to the emotions of earlier times. Or they have aimed to stir modern emotional interests that are not religious. By the first, I mean that religion appeals partly to an instinctive fear of a tyrant’s anger. This fear was bred into the unhappy peoples of the arbitrary empires of the ancient world. In particular, religion appeals to the fear of an all-powerful, arbitrary tyrant behind the unknown forces of nature. This appeal to the instinct of brute fear is losing its force. It no longer produces an immediate response. Modern science and modern living conditions have taught us to meet frightening situations by critically examining their causes and circumstances. Religion is human nature’s response to its search for God. Presenting God in terms of power awakens every modern instinct to respond critically. This is fatal, because religion collapses unless its central beliefs command immediate acceptance. In this respect, the old language clashes with the psychology of modern civilizations. Science is largely responsible for this change in psychology. This is one of the chief ways in which scientific progress has weakened the hold of old religious expressions. The nonreligious motive that has entered modern religious thought is the desire for a comfortable organization of modern society. Religion has been presented as valuable because it brings order to life. Its claims have rested on its role in giving moral authority to right conduct. Also, the aim of right conduct quickly degenerates into creating pleasant social relations. This is a subtle degradation of religious ideas. It follows their gradual purification under the influence of sharper ethical insights. Conduct is a by-product of religion, an inevitable by-product, but not the main point. Every great religious teacher has rebelled against presenting religion as merely a source of authority for rules of conduct. Saint Paul denounced the Law, and Puritan divines spoke of the filthy rags of righteousness. Insistence on rules of conduct marks the decline of religious fervor. Above and beyond all else, the religious life is not a search for comfort. I must now state, with all due modesty, what I believe to be the essential character of the religious spirit.

Religion is the vision of something which stands beyond, behind, and within, the passing flux of immediate things; something which is real, and yet waiting to be realised; something which is a remote possibility, and yet the greatest of present facts; something that gives meaning to all that passes, and yet eludes apprehension; something whose possession is the final good, and yet is beyond all reach; something which is the ultimate ideal, and the hopeless quest.

Religion is the vision of something beyond, behind, and within the constant flow of immediate things. This something is real, yet it still waits to be realized. It is a remote possibility, yet it is the greatest of present facts. It gives meaning to all that passes, yet it escapes our understanding. To possess it is the ultimate good, yet it is beyond all reach. It is the ultimate ideal and the hopeless quest.

The immediate reaction of human nature to the religious vision is worship. Religion has emerged into human experience mixed with the crudest fancies of barbaric imagination. Gradually, slowly, steadily the vision recurs in history under nobler form and with clearer expression. It is the one element in human experience which persistently shows an upward trend. It fades and then recurs. But when it renews its force, it recurs with an added richness and purity of content. The fact of the religious vision, and its history of persistent expansion, is our one ground for optimism. Apart from it, human life is a flash of occasional enjoyments lighting up a mass of pain and misery, a bagatelle of transient experience.

The immediate human response to a religious vision is worship. Religion entered human experience mixed with the crudest fantasies of barbaric imagination. Gradually, the vision returns throughout history in nobler forms and finds clearer expression. It is the one element of human experience that consistently shows progress. The vision fades and then returns. But when it gains strength again, it returns richer and purer. The fact of religious vision, and its history of persistent growth, is our only reason for optimism. Without it, human life is a few flashes of pleasure lighting up a mass of pain and misery, a trifle of passing experience.

The vision claims nothing but worship; and worship is a surrender to the claim for assimilation, urged with the motive force of mutual love. The vision never overrules. It is always there, and it has the power of love presenting the one purpose whose fulfilment is eternal harmony. Such order as we find in nature is never force—it presents itself as the one harmonious adjustment of complex detail. Evil is the brute motive force of fragmentary purpose, disregarding the eternal vision. Evil is overruling, retarding, hurting. The power of God is the worship He inspires. That religion is strong which in its ritual and its modes of thought evokes an apprehension of the commanding vision. The worship of God is not a rule of safety—it is an adventure of the spirit, a flight after the unattainable. The death of religion comes with the repression of the high hope of adventure.

The vision asks for nothing but worship. Worship is a surrender to the call to become one with the vision, driven by mutual love. The vision never overrides anything. It is always there, with the power of love, presenting the one purpose whose fulfillment is eternal harmony. The order we find in nature is never force. It appears as the one harmonious arrangement of complex details. Evil is the brute force of a limited purpose that disregards the eternal vision. Evil overrides, holds back, and hurts. God’s power is the worship he inspires. A religion is strong when its rituals and ways of thinking awaken an awareness of the commanding vision. Worshiping God is not a way to stay safe. It is an adventure of the spirit, a flight in pursuit of the unattainable. Religion dies when the high hope of adventure is suppressed.