Chapter 3

Wherein lies the peculiar value of religious ideas?

What gives religious ideas their special value?

We have spoken of the hostility to culture, produced by the pressure it exercises and the instinctual renunciations that it demands. If one imagined its prohibitions removed, then one could choose any woman who took one’s fancy as one’s sexual object, one could kill without hesitation one’s rival or whoever interfered with one in any other way, and one could seize what one wanted of another man’s goods without asking his leave: how splendid, what a succession of delights, life would be! True, one soon finds the first difficulty: everyone else has exactly the same wishes, and will treat one with no more consideration than one will treat him. And so in reality there is only one single person who can be made unrestrictedly happy by abolishing thus the restrictions imposed by culture, and that is a tyrant or dictator who has monopolized all the means of power; and even he has every reason to want the others to keep at least one cultural commandment: thou shalt not kill.

We have discussed the hostility toward culture caused by its pressures and its demands that people give up instinctual desires. Imagine that culture’s prohibitions were removed. You could choose any woman you fancied as a sexual partner. You could kill without hesitation any rival or anyone else who got in your way. And you could take whatever you wanted from another man’s possessions without asking his permission. How splendid life would be, one delight after another! Admittedly, a first difficulty soon appears: everyone else has exactly the same wishes. Others would treat you with no more consideration than you would show them. So in reality, only one person could enjoy unrestricted happiness if culture’s restrictions were abolished in this way. That person is a tyrant or dictator who has taken sole control of all the means of power. And even the tyrant has every reason to want others to follow at least one cultural commandment: do not kill.

But how ungrateful, how short-sighted after all, to strive for the abolition of culture! What would then remain would be the state of nature, and that is far harder to endure. It is true that nature does not ask us to restrain our instincts, she lets us do as we like; but she has her peculiarly effective mode of restricting us: she destroys us, coldly, cruelly, callously, as it seems to us, and possibly just through what has caused our satisfaction. It was because of these very dangers with which nature threatens us that we united together and created culture, which, amongst other things, is supposed to make our communal existence possible. Indeed, it is the principal task of culture, its real raison d’être, to defend us against nature.

But how ungrateful, how shortsighted it is, after all, to try to abolish culture! We would be left in a state of nature, which is far harder to endure. True, nature does not ask us to restrain our instincts. She lets us do as we like. But she has her own especially effective way of limiting us: she destroys us. To us, she seems cold, cruel, and unfeeling, and she may destroy us through the very things that satisfied us. We came together and created culture because of these very dangers that nature poses. Among other things, culture is supposed to make it possible for us to live together. Indeed, culture’s main task, its real reason for existing, is to defend us against nature.

One must confess that in many ways it already does this tolerably well, and clearly as time goes on it will be much more successful. But no one is under the illusion that nature has so far been vanquished; few dare to hope that she will ever be completely under man’s subjection. There are the elements, which seem to mock at all human control: the earth, which quakes, is rent asunder, and buries man and all his works; the water, which in tumult floods and submerges all things; the storm, which drives all before it; there are the diseases, which we have only lately recognized as the attacks of other living creatures; and finally there is the painful riddle of death, for which no remedy at all has yet been found, nor probably ever will be. With these forces nature rises up before us, sublime, pitiless, inexorable; thus she brings again to mind our weakness and helplessness, of which we thought the work of civilization had rid us. It is one of the few noble and gratifying spectacles that men can offer, when in the face of an elemental catastrophe they awake from their muddle and confusion, forget all their internal difficulties and animosities, and remember the great common task, the preservation of mankind against the supremacy of nature.

We must admit that in many ways it already does this reasonably well. Clearly, it will become much more successful over time. But no one believes that nature has been defeated so far. Few dare to hope that nature will ever be completely under human control. There are the elements, which seem to mock all human efforts to control them. The earth shakes, splits apart, and buries people and everything they have built. Water floods violently and submerges everything. Storms sweep everything before them. There are diseases, which we have only recently recognized as attacks by other living creatures. Finally, there is the painful mystery of death. No remedy for death has yet been found, and probably none ever will be. Through these forces, nature confronts us, awe-inspiring, merciless, and relentless. Nature thus reminds us of our weakness and helplessness, which we thought civilization had freed us from. Yet people offer one of their few noble and heartening sights when they face a natural catastrophe. They snap out of their confusion, forget all their internal troubles and hostilities, and remember their great shared task. That task is to preserve humanity against nature’s overwhelming power.

For the individual, as for mankind in general, life is hard to endure. The culture in which he shares imposes on him some measure of privation, and other men occasion him a certain degree of suffering, either in spite of the laws of this culture or because of its imperfections. Add to this the evils that unvanquished nature—he calls it Fate—inflicts on him. One would expect a permanent condition of anxious suspense and a severe injury to his innate narcissism to be the result of this state of affairs. We know already how the individual reacts to the injuries that culture and other men inflict on him: he develops a corresponding degree of resistance against the institutions of this culture, of hostility towards it. But how does he defend himself against the supremacy of nature, of fate, which threatens him, as it threatens all?

Life is hard to endure for the individual, just as it is for humanity as a whole. The culture he belongs to forces him to go without some things. Other people cause him a certain amount of suffering, either despite the culture’s laws or because of its flaws. Add to these hardships the harm inflicted by nature, which remains unconquered. He calls this power Fate. One would expect these conditions to leave him in constant anxious uncertainty and seriously wound his innate narcissism. We already know how the individual responds to the harm that culture and other people cause him. He develops a corresponding degree of resistance to his culture’s institutions and hostility toward the culture itself. But how does he defend himself against the superior power of nature, of fate, which threatens him as it threatens everyone?

Culture relieves him of this task: it performs it in the same way for everyone. (It is also noteworthy that pretty well all cultures are the same in this respect.) It does not cry a halt, as it were, in its task of defending man against nature; it merely pursues it by other methods. This is a complex business; man’s seriously menaced self-esteem craves for consolation, life and the universe must be rid of their terrors, and incidentally man’s curiosity, reinforced, it is true, by the strongest practical motives, demands an answer.

Culture takes this task off his hands and carries it out in the same way for everyone. (It is also worth noting that nearly all cultures are alike in this respect.) Culture does not, so to speak, stop defending humanity against nature. It simply continues that work by other means. This is a complex task. Human self-esteem, under serious threat, craves comfort. Life and the universe must be stripped of their terrors. And human curiosity, admittedly strengthened by the most powerful practical motives, also demands an answer.

With the first step, which is the humanization of nature, much is already won. Nothing can be made of impersonal forces and fates; they remain eternally remote. But if the elements have passions that rage like those in our own souls, if death itself is not something spontaneous, but the violent act of an evil Will, if everywhere in nature we have about us beings who resemble those of our own environment, then indeed we can breathe freely, we can feel at home in face of the supernatural, and we can deal psychically with our frantic anxiety. We are perhaps still defenceless, but no longer helplessly paralysed; we can at least react; perhaps indeed we are not even defenceless, we can have recourse to the same methods against these violent supermen of the beyond that we make use of in our own community; we can try to exorcise them, to appease them, to bribe them, and so rob them of part of their power by thus influencing them. Such a substitution of psychology for natural science provides not merely immediate relief, it also points the way to a further mastery of the situation.

The first step, giving nature human qualities, already achieves a great deal. We can do nothing with impersonal forces and fates. They remain forever beyond our reach. But suppose the elements have passions that rage like those in our own souls. Suppose death itself is not a natural occurrence, but the violent act of an evil will. Suppose we are surrounded throughout nature by beings like those we know in our own world. Then we can indeed breathe freely. We can feel at home with the supernatural and find ways to cope mentally with our overwhelming anxiety. Perhaps we are still defenseless, but we are no longer helplessly paralyzed. We can at least react. Perhaps we are not even defenseless. We can use the same methods against these violent superhuman beings from beyond that we use within our own communities. We can try to drive them away, appease them, or bribe them. By influencing these beings, we can rob them of some of their power. Replacing natural science with psychology in this way offers more than immediate relief. It also points toward greater control over the situation.

For there is nothing new in this situation. It has an infantile prototype, and is really only the continuation of this. For once before one has been in such a state of helplessness: as a little child in one’s relationship to one’s parents. For one had reason to fear them, especially the father, though at the same time one was sure of his protection against the dangers then known to one. And so it was natural to assimilate and combine the two situations. Here, too, as in dream-life, the wish came into its own. The sleeper is seized by a presentiment of death, which seeks to carry him to the grave. But the dream-work knows how to select a condition that will turn even this dreaded event into a wish-fulfilment: the dreamer sees himself in an ancient Etruscan grave, into which he has descended, happy in the satisfaction it has given to his archæological interests. Similarly man makes the forces of nature not simply in the image of men with whom he can associate as his equals—that would not do justice to the overpowering impression they make on him—but he gives them the characteristics of the father, makes them into gods, thereby following not only an infantile, but also, as I have tried to show, a phylogenetic prototype.

There is nothing new about this situation. It has a model in childhood and is really just a continuation of that earlier experience. We have been helpless like this before, as small children in our relationship with our parents. We had reason to fear our parents, especially our father. Yet we also felt sure our father would protect us against the dangers we knew then. So it was natural to see the two situations as alike and combine them. Here, too, as in dreams, wishes played their part. A sleeper is gripped by a sense of approaching death, threatening to carry him to the grave. But the dream-work finds a setting that turns even this dreaded event into the fulfillment of a wish. The dreamer sees himself in an ancient Etruscan grave. He has climbed down into the grave and is happy because the experience has satisfied his archaeological interests. Similarly, people do not simply imagine nature’s forces as human beings they can relate to as equals. That would not do justice to the overwhelming impression those forces make on them. Instead, people give nature’s forces the qualities of a father and turn them into gods. In doing so, they follow not only a childhood model but also, as I have tried to show, a phylogenetic model, inherited through the history of the species.

In the course of time the first observations of law and order in natural phenomena are made, and therewith the forces of nature lose their human traits. But men’s helplessness remains, and with it their father-longing and the gods. The gods retain their threefold task: they must exorcise the terrors of nature, they must reconcile one to the cruelty of fate, particularly as shown in death, and they must make amends for the sufferings and privations that the communal life of culture has imposed on man.

Over time, people begin to observe laws and patterns in nature, and nature’s forces lose their human traits. But people remain helpless, and so do their longing for a father and their gods. The gods still have three tasks. They must drive away the terrors of nature. They must help people accept the cruelty of fate, especially as seen in death. And they must make up for the suffering and deprivation that life together in civilization has imposed on people.

But within these there is a gradual shifting of the accent. It is observed that natural phenomena develop of themselves from inward necessity; without doubt the gods are the lords of nature: they have arranged it thus and now they can leave it to itself. Only occasionally, in the so-called miracles, do they intervene in its course, as if to protest that they have surrendered nothing of their original sphere of power. As far as the vicissitudes of fate are concerned, an unpleasant suspicion persists that the perplexity and helplessness of the human race cannot be remedied. This is where the gods are most apt to fail us; if they themselves make fate, then their ways must be deemed inscrutable. The most gifted people of the ancient world dimly surmised that above the gods stands Destiny and that the gods themselves have their destinies. And the more autonomous nature becomes and the more the gods withdraw from her, the more earnestly are all expectations concentrated on the third task assigned to them and the more does morality become their real domain. It now becomes the business of the gods to adjust the defects and evils of culture, to attend to the sufferings that men inflict on each other in their communal life, and to see that the laws of culture, which men obey so ill, are carried out. The laws of culture themselves are claimed to be of divine origin, they are elevated to a position above human society, and they are extended over nature and the universe.

But within these tasks, the emphasis gradually shifts. People observe that natural events unfold on their own, driven by an inner necessity. Without doubt, the gods rule nature. They have arranged nature this way and can now leave it alone. Only occasionally, in so-called miracles, do the gods intervene in nature’s course. They act as if to insist that they have given up none of their original power. As for the turns of fate, an unpleasant suspicion persists: humanity’s confusion and helplessness cannot be overcome. In matters of fate, the gods are most likely to fail us. If the gods themselves determine fate, then their ways must be considered beyond understanding. The most gifted people of the ancient world vaguely sensed that Destiny stands above the gods. They sensed that even the gods have their own destinies. And the more independent nature becomes, and the more the gods withdraw from nature, the more expectations shift. All expectations focus more intensely on the third task assigned to the gods, and morality increasingly becomes their true domain. The gods must now correct the flaws and evils of culture. They must attend to the suffering people inflict on one another in communal life. And they must ensure that the laws of culture are enforced, though people follow those laws so poorly. The laws of culture themselves are said to come from the gods. These laws are placed above human society and extended to cover nature and the universe.

And so a rich store of ideas is formed, born of the need to make tolerable the helplessness of man, and built out of the material offered by memories of the helplessness of his own childhood and the childhood of the human race. It is easy to see that these ideas protect man in two directions; against the dangers of nature and fate, and against the evils of human society itself. What it amounts to is this: life in this world serves a higher purpose; true, it is not easy to guess the nature of this purpose, but certainly a perfecting of human existence is implied. Probably the spiritual part of man, the soul, which in the course of time has so slowly and unwillingly detached itself from the body, is to be regarded as the object of this elevation and exaltation. Everything that takes place in this world expresses the intentions of an Intelligence, superior to us, which in the end, though its devious ways may be difficult to follow, orders everything for good, that is, to our advantage. Over each one of us watches a benevolent, and only apparently severe, Providence, which will not suffer us to become the plaything of the stark and pitiless forces of nature; death itself is not annihilation, not a return to inorganic lifelessness, but the beginning of a new kind of existence, which lies on the road of development to something higher. And to turn to the other side of the question, the moral laws that have formed our culture govern also the whole universe, only they are upheld with incomparably more force and consistency by a supreme judicial court. In the end all good is rewarded, all evil punished, if not actually in this life, then in the further existences that begin after death. And thus all the terrors, the sufferings, and the hardships of life are destined to be obliterated; the life after death, which continues our earthly existence as the invisible part of the spectrum adjoins the visible, brings all the perfection that perhaps we have missed here. And the superior wisdom that directs this issue, the supreme goodness that expresses itself thus, the justice that thus achieves its aim—these are the qualities of the divine beings who have fashioned us and the world in general; or rather of the one divine being into which in our culture all the gods of antiquity have been condensed. The race that first succeeded in thus concentrating the divine qualities was not a little proud of this advance. It had revealed the father nucleus which had always lain hidden behind every divine figure; fundamentally it was a return to the historical beginnings of the idea of God. Now that God was a single person, man’s relations to him could recover the intimacy and intensity of the child’s relation to the father. If one had done so much for the father, then surely one would be rewarded—at least the only beloved child, the chosen people, would be. More recently, pious America has laid claim to be ‘God’s own country’, and for one of the forms under which men worship the deity the claim certainly holds good.

And so a rich collection of ideas develops from the need to make human helplessness bearable. These ideas draw on memories of helplessness in our own childhood and in the childhood of the human race. Clearly, these ideas protect us in two ways: against the dangers of nature and fate, and against society’s own evils. The ideas amount to this: life in this world serves a higher purpose. Admittedly, the nature of this purpose is hard to guess, but it certainly involves perfecting human existence. Probably the spiritual part of us, the soul, is what is meant to be raised and perfected. Over time, the soul has separated itself from the body only slowly and reluctantly. Everything that happens in this world expresses the intentions of an Intelligence greater than ours. Although its winding paths may be difficult to follow, this Intelligence ultimately arranges everything for good, meaning to our advantage. A benevolent Providence watches over each of us and is severe only in appearance. This Providence will not let us become playthings of nature’s harsh and pitiless forces. Death itself is not annihilation or a return to lifeless matter. Instead, death begins a new kind of existence, a stage in our development toward something higher. Turning to the other side of the question, the moral laws that shaped our culture also govern the whole universe. But a supreme court of justice enforces these laws with incomparably greater strength and consistency. In the end, all good is rewarded and all evil punished. If not in this life, reward and punishment come in the further lives that begin after death. And so all life’s terrors, sufferings, and hardships are destined to be wiped away. Life after death continues our earthly existence, just as the invisible part of the spectrum lies next to the visible. The afterlife brings all the perfection that perhaps we have missed here. A higher wisdom directs this outcome, supreme goodness expresses itself through it, and justice achieves its aim through it. These are the qualities of the divine beings who created us and the world as a whole. Or rather, they belong to the one divine being who, in our culture, combines all the gods of antiquity. The people who first succeeded in bringing these divine qualities together were very proud of this advance. They had revealed the father at the core, who had always been hidden behind every divine figure. This was, fundamentally, a return to the historical beginnings of the idea of God. Now that God was a single person, our relationship with him could regain the intimacy and intensity of a child’s relationship with the father. If we had done so much for the father, then surely we would be rewarded. At least his only beloved child, the chosen people, would be. More recently, pious America has claimed to be ‘God’s own country’. And for one of the forms in which people worship the deity, that claim certainly holds true.

The religious ideas that have just been summarized have of course gone through a long process of development, and have been held in various phases by various cultures. I have singled out one such phase of development, which more or less corresponds to the final form of our contemporary Christian culture in the west. It is easy to see that not all the parts of this whole tally equally well with each other, that not all the questions that press for an answer receive one, and that the contradiction of daily experience can only with difficulty be dismissed. But such as they are, these ideas—religious, in the broadest sense of the word—are prized as the most precious possession of culture, as the most valuable thing it has to offer its members; far more highly prized than all our devices for winning the treasures of the earth, for providing men with sustenance, or for preventing their diseases, and so forth; men suppose that life would be intolerable if they did not accord these ideas the value that is claimed for them. And now the question arises: what are these ideas in the light of psychology; whence do they derive the esteem in which they are held; and further, in all diffidence, what is their real worth?

The religious ideas just summarized have, of course, developed over a long time. Different cultures have held these ideas at different stages of their development. I have singled out one such stage. It roughly corresponds to the final form these ideas have taken in our contemporary Christian culture in the west. Clearly, not all parts of this set of ideas fit equally well together. Not all the questions that demand answers receive them. And it is difficult to dismiss the ways everyday experience contradicts these ideas. But such as they are, these ideas are valued as culture’s most precious possession. They are religious ideas in the broadest sense of the word. They are considered the most valuable thing culture offers its members. People value them far more than all our methods for extracting the earth’s riches, providing food, preventing disease, and so on. People suppose life would be unbearable if they did not give these ideas the value claimed for them. Now the questions arise: What are these ideas from a psychological perspective? Where does the high regard for them come from? And, to ask with all due hesitation, what are they really worth?