During the last four hundred years the peoples of the Western world have been busily engaged in converting their governments—often forcibly—to practical Christianity, in regard to their domestic affairs.
The new era, upon which we now enter after the Great War, opens with a crusade for the application of Christianity to international relationships.
If the modern student sets up before his mental vision a moving panorama of the history of Europe through the Middle Ages, the most striking general feature is undoubtedly the irresistible course of the growing stream of Freedom, touching and fructifying every section and institution of human life—the inevitable outcome of the evolution of Christianity made manifest in things temporal, and breaking through the ecclesiastical bounds so long set for it, as exclusively pertaining to things spiritual.
The gospel of Jesus Christ had hitherto been regarded as a religious stream pure and simple, from which might be drawn, by priestly hands alone, refreshment for the spiritual life of man, offered to him in the sacerdotal cup, in such quantity and with such admixture of doctrine as seemed fitted to his spiritual needs, by those ordained to take charge of that department of his existence—the servants of the Mediæval Church.
Little by little Christianity discovers itself as no single stream of sacred water, limited by the shores of a prescribed religious territory. Here and there in the wider landscape it is gradually pushing a way out into the unconsecrated ground of the temporal domain, welling up through the ancient crust of Feudalism—bursting through it, submerging it, carrying it away, now gently and almost imperceptibly piecemeal, now in sweeping and irresistible torrents, passionate against its long subjection and suppression. This activity recognizes no national or geographical limits—it reveals itself now here, now there, fertilizing far distant spots of varying soil—some instantly generous to its live-giving influence, some slow to respond.
Now watch its effect upon the inhabitants of the territories through which it newly flows. Some, watching its uprising through the barren soil, stand amazed—doubtful. See them slowly approach it, and gaze upon it, awe-struck; they stoop, timorously—and drink; they pause—and stoop to drink again. Presently their singing eyes declare the secret they have won from it; a moment or two of forgetful, selfish joy—and they turn away and hurry to impart the wonderful discovery to their comrades. So by degrees they come, a straggling, jostling, motley crowd—some doubting, some fearing, some realizing.
Now see their priests hurrying, perturbed, to behold the rumoured wonder. What! The sacred river has burst its banks! Hasten to guard it from the profane thirst of the multitude, and confine it to its sacred keeping!
Impossible! Its upwelling pools and flowing tributaries are already too many—the priestly keepers now too few to preserve the discovered waters. For, as they stand watching, troubled and amazed, behold the streamlets spreading themselves ever further, breaking forth unbidden, in every direction.
They consult together. What shall be done? Counsel must be taken of their superiors, for this is too much for the lesser orders to cope with.