Is the Moral Teaching of Jesus Sound?
A great deal depends upon the answer to the question, "Is the moral teaching of Jesus sound?" This question brings us to the inner and most closely guarded citadel of Christianity. If it can be captured, the rout of supernaturalism will be complete; but as long as it stands, Christianity can afford to lose every one of its outer fortifications, and still be the victor. Reason may drive supernaturalism out of the Catholic position into the Protestant, and out of that, into the Unitarian, and out of that again into Liberalism, but reason does not become master of the field until it has stormed and razed to the ground this last and greatest of all the strongholds—the morality of Christianity.
If Jesus was the author of perfect or even the highest ideals the world has ever cherished, he will, and must, remain the saviour, par excellence, of the world. Whether he was man or God, which question Unitarianism discusses, is a trifling matter. If his ethical teaching is practically without a flaw, I would gladly call him God, and more, if such a thing were possible. His walking on the water, or his raising the dead, or his flying through the air, would not in the least embarrass me. I could accept them all—if he rose morally head and shoulders above every other mortal or immortal, our world has ever produced. It is claimed that he did. What is the evidence?
To facilitate this discussion, and to concentrate all our attention on the subject of this discourse, we will waive the question of the historicity of Jesus. For the sake of argument, we will accept the gospels as history—accept the authenticity of the documents, the trustworthiness of the witnesses, and the inspiration of the texts which we are to quote. We will grant every point; concede every claim, allow every contention of the defendants. We will then say to them: Does the evidence which you have presented and we have accepted without raising any objections, prove that the moral teaching of Jesus is perfect, or even the highest the world has ever possessed?
A system of thought, or a code of morals, is much like a building. A serious crack in one of the walls, or a post that is not secure in its socket, is enough to make the whole building unsafe. When a building is condemned, it is not condemned for the parts that are sound, but for the part or parts that are unsound. To change my illustration, the strength of a chain is in its weakest link. So is the strength of a religion in its most vulnerable parts. By overlooking the weakness and dwelling solely upon the strong points, we could make any religion appear as the best in the world; as a similar bias would prove the most rickety building even perfectly safe. A lawyer, an advocate, or special pleader, may conceal, or cover up the cracks in the walls of a building, or the defects of an institution. But why should I? My object is not to save the building, but the people who are in it. I am not interested in saving the creed or the religion, but the people who stake their lives on it. I am not trying to earn my fee, I am trying to serve the people. Why should I, then, be expected to spread the mantle of charity over a building that deserves to be condemned, or plead for a religion that blocks the path of advancement? And why,—why should any religion beg for charity? To a cashier of a bank, to a treasurer of a corporation, to an official of the municipality or the state, who should beg the examining committee not to look into all his dealings, but only to report what good they can of him, we say: "You are guilty." Not only that, but he is also trying to make us his accomplices.
Lawyer-like, preachers often tell their hearers to see only the good in the bible, for instance. "When you are eating fish," they say, "you eat the meat and throw away the bones. Do the same with the bible." But why should anything in the bible be meant to be thrown away? Pardon me if I use a stronger expression—why should any part of the Word of God be destined for the garbage box?
It is a pleasure, and it confirms us in our optimism, to admit that in all the religions of the world, even in the crudest, there is much that is good, as in every structure or dwelling there are rooms and walls and posts that are perfectly sound. Religions live, as buildings endure,—by the soundness there is in them. It is not the cracked wall or damaged pillar which supports the building—it is the sound parts that keep it together. The same is true of religions. It is the truths they contain that preserve them. Mohammedanism, for instance, has survived for nearly fifteen centuries, and its survival is due to the virtues and not to the vices of the Mohammedan faith. This is equally true of Judaism and Christianity. If human Society has survived for these many centuries, it is because, imperfect as it is, there is enough of justice and honor among men to keep it from disintegration. But is that any reason why we should be content with what little justice or truth there is in the world, and not strive for more? And shall we hold our tongues on the terrible injustice and oppression all around us simply because there is also goodness and virtue among men? Simply because the human race keeps going as it is, shall we not endeavor to improve it? And because there is some good in all religions, shall we shut our eyes to the dangerous fallacies they contain? Is it not our duty as well as our privilege to labor for a more rational and a more ennobling faith?
In the teachings attributed to Jesus, whose nativity is celebrated to-day[1] in Europe and America, there is much that we are in cordial sympathy with. We can say the same of all the founders of religions. If any one were to point out to us passages of beauty in the four evangels, I for myself would gladly agree to all that may be said in their praise. But if I were asked to infer from these isolated passages that the ethical teaching of Jesus is not only the most perfect within human reach, but also sufficient to the needs of man for all time, I would deem it a stern duty to combat the proposition with all the earnestness at my command. It would then be the duty, indeed, of every one to denounce the attempt to arrest the progress of the world by holding it bound to the thought of one man. In the interest of morality itself, it must be shown that Jesus is not the highest product of the ages, nor is he the best that the future can promise. There is room beyond Jesus. But not only was Jesus not the perfect teacher his worshippers claim him to have been, but there are flaws in his system—cracks and rents in the walls of his temple—so serious and menacing, that not to call attention to them would be to shirk the most urgent service we owe to the cause of humanity.
[1] Christmas Sunday, Dec. 26, 1909.
My first general criticism of the morality of Jesus is, that it lacks universality. It is not meant for all peoples and all times. It is rather the morality of a sect, a coterie, or a secret society. I object to the provincialism of Jesus. Jesus was not a cosmopolite. He was a Hebrew before he was a man. If we find Jerusalem on the map of the world and draw a circle around it,—covering the rest of the map with our hands,—we will then have before us all the world that Jesus knew anything about,—or cared for. Little did he think of the rest of the world. The continents of Asia, Africa, Australia, Europe, and the, as yet, undiscovered America, had no place whatever either in his thought or affection. The yellow millions of China and Japan, the dusky millions of Hindustan, the blacks of Africa with their galling chains, the white races with the most pressing problems which ever taxed the brain of man—do not seem to have deserved even a passing notice from Jesus. It is quite evident that such a country as our America, for instance, with its nearly one hundred millions of people of all races and religions, dwelling under the same flag, and governing themselves without a King or a Caesar, never crossed the orbit even of his imagination. Is it reasonable to go to a provincial of this description for universal ideals?