But now, if still retaining the same figure, or, rather, borrowing from it a contrast, we proceed to designate art in and by itself, we may justly compare it to the moon, which illumines with its vague but marvelous half-light the domain of night and the dark realms of creative fancy. Even here it is but a borrowed splendor from the true sun, a reflection from another and a higher luminary, that lights up the darkness. And while all the wonderful starry types of the spiritual world, which retire in the full day, come out in this magical twilight, so also deceptive phantoms, airy forms of gigantic magnitude, may mingle with the hovering and misty troop of shadows to which the earth-born vapors alone give birth and shape. And yet, notwithstanding this earthly intermixture, the art of the beautiful, whenever it retains its true nature, is in its essence directed to the divine. Consequently it not only lends an external charm to religion, but in its origin, in all times and peoples, it was intimately related to it, and bound to it by the strictest ties of affinity and association. And this is not the less true, even though to the eye of a severe criticism most of its productions, in the ages of its decline, may appear utterly remote from its first source and aim, and perfectly vain, worthless, and sensual.
The divine origin of art is easily proved by its history every where, and indeed is so manifest that it can not well be doubted. High art, indeed, can not and never will surrender its claim to a divine power and sanctity: it must insist upon the recognition of this its high sanction. If we could conceive an age or country where religion should entirely cease and be forgotten—where not only all positive faith and revelation, but even the universal belief in a Divinity above them, should die away and perish among men—the light of all higher and heaven-directed thoughts and aims should become extinct—that echo of eternity and of eternal love which the inmost feelings of the human soul spontaneously gives back, should be hushed forever—then and there at the self-same moment would all high art be withdrawn and disappear.
In our own age the state of things is the direct contrary to that which we have been supposing. While from the universal prevalence of freethinking in politics—a natural consequence of the reign of religious skepticism—the whole of life, and especially public life, has ceased to be regarded and understood in its symbolical character and dignity; while the little of religious sentiment that still survives is more or less distracted and secularized by sectarian controversy, and scarcely one inviolable sanctuary is left for a simple and undoubting faith to shelter in—art and the beautiful are for a certain portion of the educated classes the only fresh oasis of divinity amid the surrounding desert of worldliness. It is the last treasure left to them, and, indeed, prized by them as such, and regarded as the true palladium of a higher intrinsic life; but this, in its isolated state and by itself, it never can be.
In this respect the present age may be likened to a noble house, fallen from its primitive wealth and magnificence into decay and ruin. Its revenues dissipated by misfortunes, mismanagement and extravagance; its mansion and domains mortgaged or encumbered with debt, nothing remains to it but the family jewels. These time-honored heirlooms of better days are all that it still retains of its former opulence. And even in these many a false stone has been introduced among the old genuine diamonds; much spurious metal has been substituted for the sterling gold of antiquity. Apparently, however, the whole are still preserved as the last relic of a former splendor, and of a wealth which once seemed inexhaustible. In the same way the present generation supports its inner and higher life on the mere external treasures of art, while the great capital of ancient faith, to which among other excellent fruits that ornament of beauty owed its existence, has by the great majority been long squandered on the “spirit of the age.”
But the symbolical dress that religion every where assumes constitutes but one half of its external form. The other consists in the vital and intrinsic union of all the members and professors of the common faith. Religion can not by any means be isolated and solitary. It is impossible to think of it as existing only for the individual. In a word, there is no such thing as religion in a proper sense without a community. Two or three must at least be united in a common faith, that its power and efficacy may be visible among them. And this association is one vital throughout—an inmost bond binding souls together by a spiritual attraction, and, as it were, enchainment of the several members.
As the electrical shock traverses instantaneously the entire chain of the connected links, and the spark which enters at one extremity flashes the next moment at the other—as a single loadstone will by contact convert any number of needles into magnets, and elevate them into a new and higher relation to the whole globe—so is it also in religion. A living communication from the first origin runs through the whole community. As in the voltaic pile, composed of alternate layers of two different metals, one chemical element of the telluric energy or of the vital principle of the air or atmosphere is emitted or set free on one side and the other on the opposite; so is it here also in the spiritual chain of faith and in its living reciprocal action of the different members of this soul-chain—between those who are active ministers and conductors, or instruments by which it works, and the others, who in a somewhat passive relation only imbibe the invisible life. By the one the divine blessing of sanctification and holiness is set in action and brought to light—developed and confirmed; while by the others grace is received as the effectual power and gift of salvation.
One remark, however, seems particularly called for in this place. It appears, from what has been already said, that even revelation and the true religion itself invariably puts on and is invested with that symbolical garb which is so consonant and agreeable to the state and nature of humanity. This being the case, it becomes extremely difficult to form a general standard by which we may unfalteringly determine what symbols are not essential, as only serving for the external garb of religion and an intelligible vehicle of its communications. For this, it is evident, must be governed by the diversity of individual wants and peculiarities, and must consequently assume a variable and personal character. If, however, a symbol proceeds immediately from God, then it must necessarily be essential. It is not only a type, but an actual substance. To suppose otherwise would be even almost parallel to presuming to regard the eternal Logos, who is the source of light and life, of all knowledge and of all being, as a word merely, without innate energy and substance.
Most natural, therefore, is it (that is to say, most consistent with the nature of the thing, which however in itself is supernatural, incomprehensible, and surpasses all conception), that the highest symbol of the faith, that which forms the principle of communion and the living center of unity of all Christendom, should have such a character as to be at once a symbol and also the veritable reality of the thing itself. For inasmuch as on the altar of this religion of divine love, since the one oblation has long ago been perfected, no other fire shall again be kindled but the flame of prayer and of a will directed to and in unison with God; therefore, the act by means of which that communion of souls which constitutes the essence of all religion, is maintained and carried on, consists simply in this, that the essential substance of the divine power and of God’s love to man is given and received as the wonderful seal of union with Him.[52]
As to the altar itself, how rich or how simple its ornaments ought to be, is a question which I have already remarked, does not easily admit of any general solution. If, however, we should attempt to think of Christianity without an altar, or desire and attempt to establish such a scheme—what indeed among the vast variety of human conceits and religious theories has only occurred to a very limited number, and never has and never will exercise any lasting and decided influence—a Christianity thus divested of symbols and mysteries would be degraded into a mere philosophical view and opinion—or at the very best, a school of the kind—any thing, in short, rather than religion. Even the study of the Bible, if in spite of so sad a state of things it should still survive, would sink into a mere matter of erudition, on a level with any other favorite pursuit of antiquarian lore and research. And if, on the other hand, rising perhaps somewhat higher than a mere philosophical opinion or the favorite pursuits of erudition, a religious community, having no altar at all, should pretend to rest entirely on prayer and spiritual teaching or preaching, such a scheme must presuppose an immediate inspiration, communicable to all and continuous throughout time. But such an hypothesis invariably proves the easy and natural transition to the most frightful fanaticism, of whose pernicious and evil effects those only who are acquainted with the domestic history of Mohammedism, among whose modern and ancient sects this idea is rampant, can form a clear and adequate conception.
In religion, therefore, and that entire union of the inner man and soul with God which it demands, or at least hopes and desires to bring about as essential and necessary, and which the higher philosophy of antiquity, no less than revealed religion, strove and longed to attain, there lies a something inconceivably sublime and beautiful. Nay, we might almost call it an impossible result, similar in some degree to that which is involved in the higher and more intricate of algebraic equations for which there is no solution, or which, at least, appear to have none till it is actually discovered. Now this finite, changeable, and in all respects incomplete and in no one point satisfactorily, or at least not perfectly defined (a) of our own individual self, with which we are wont to commence the whole of our thought and life, is to be brought into communion with, or, in other words, to be equaled to the wholly incomprehensible (x) of the incommunicable Godhead. How is this possible? By what means is it to be accomplished?