They fly from the problems of real life into symbolical ceremonial; they neglect their duties towards themselves, their neighbours and their God in order to give idolatrous worship to some traditionally hallowed object, to play liturgical charades or go through some piece of ancient mummery. Let me cite a recent example of this. In the early autumn of 1936 the London Times recorded the fact that, in deference to religious sentiment, flying-boats were henceforward not to be allowed to come down on the Sea of Galilee. This is a characteristic instance of the way in which preoccupation with sacred objects acts as a fetter holding men back, not only from personal enlightenment, but even from a rational consideration of the facts of contemporary reality. Here is a ‘religious sentiment’ which feels itself deeply offended if flying machines settle on a certain hallowed sheet of water, but which (to judge by the published utterances of Anglican deans and bishops) does not find anything specially shocking in the thought that these same flying machines may be used to drop fire, poison and high-explosives upon the inhabitants of unfortified towns. If this is religion, then God deliver us from such criminal imbecility.
For the rational idealist, what is the moral of the preceding paragraphs, what the practical lesson to be drawn from a consideration of the nature of religious rites and ceremonies? He will conclude, first of all, that, ritualism being a fetter to which a great many human beings are firmly attached, it is useless to try to get rid of it. Next, observing that rites and ceremonies may be used, like any other instrument, for evil purposes no less effectively than for good, he will do all in his power to encourage their use for good purposes and, whether by argument, persuasion or satire, to prevent them from being used to further causes that are evil. Finally, taking warning from the failures of the past, he will not waste his time in fabricating new ceremonials for any movement in which its participants are not already emotionally concerned.
So much for the positively mischievous and the ethically neutral aspects of religion. Let us now consider those elements in religious practice and belief which have a positive value.
All systems of classification tend in some measure to distort reality; but it is impossible to think clearly about reality unless we make use of some classificatory system. At the risk, then, of over-simplifying the facts, I shall classify the varieties of religious practice and religious belief under a number of separate heads.
The present chapter treats solely of existing religious practices (not of beliefs), and treats them predominantly from a humanistic point of view. From the humanistic point of view, religious practices are valuable in so far as they provide methods of self-education, methods which men can use to transform their characters and enlarge their consciousness.
The methods of which we know the least in the contemporary West are those which I will call the physiological methods. These physiological methods may be classified under a few main headings, as follows.
Most savage peoples and even certain devotees of the higher religions make use of repeated rhythmical movement as a method of inducing unusual states of mind. This rhythmic movement may take almost any form, from the solitary back-and-forward pacing of the Catholic priest reading his breviary, to the elaborate ritual dances of primitives all over the world. The repetition of rhythmical movement seems to have much the same effects as the repetition of verbal formulas or phrases of music: It lulls to rest the superficial part of the consciousness and leaves the deeper mind free either to concentrate on ultimate reality (as in the case of the solitary priest, pacing up and down with his breviary), or to experience a profound sense of solidarity with other human beings and with the presiding divinity (as happens in the case of ritual dancers). Christianity, it would seem, made a great mistake when it allowed the dance to become completely secularized. For men and women of somatotonic type, ritual dances provide a religious experience that seems more satisfying and convincing than any other.
Another physiological method is that of asceticism. Fasting, sleeplessness, discomfort and self-inflicted pain have been used by devotees of every religion as methods, not only of atoning for sin, but also of schooling the will and modifying the ordinary, everyday consciousness.
This last is also the aim of those Indian ascetics who train their bodies systematically, until they are able to exercise conscious control over physiological processes that are normally carried out unconsciously. In many cases they go on to produce unusual mental states by the systematic and profound modification of certain bodily functions, such as respiration and the sexual act.
There is good evidence to show that such practices may produce very valuable results. It is possible for a man who employs the methods of mortification or of Yoga to achieve a high degree of non-attachment to ‘the things of this world’ and at the same time so to heighten his consciousness that he can attach himself more completely than the normal man to that which is greater than himself, to the integrating principle of all being. It is possible, I repeat; but it is not easy. All those who know anything about the methods of mortification and of Yoga, whether as observers or by personal experience, agree that they are dangerous methods. To begin with, they are physiologically dangerous; many bodies break down under the strain imposed upon them. But this is not all; there is also a moral danger. Of those who undertake such methods, only a few are ready to do so for the right reason.
Ascetics easily degenerate into record-breakers. There is little to choose between Simeon the Stylite and modern American pole-sitters, or between a fakir on his bed of nails and the self-tormenting competitors in a dancing Marathon. Vanity and the craving for pre-eminence, for distinction, for public recognition figure only too frequently among the motives of the ascetics. Moreover, in all but the most highly trained individuals, physical pain tends to heighten, rather than allay, the normal preoccupation with the body. A man in pain has the greatest difficulty in not identifying himself with the afflicted organ. (The same, of course, is equally true of a man experiencing intense pleasure.) A few ascetics may be able so to school their minds that they can ignore their pain and identify themselves with that which is more than the pain and more than the totality of their personal being. Many, on the contrary, will end up as diminished beings, identified with their pain and with their pride in being able to stand so much of it.
The danger inherent in the practice of methods of conscious physiological control is of a somewhat different kind. The methods of Hatha Yoga, as they are called in India, are said to result in heightened mental and physical powers. (Arthur Avalon gives much interesting information on this subject in his Kundalini.[18]) It is for the sake solely of enjoying these powers, and not in order to use them as a means to ‘enlightenment,’ that many adepts of Hatha Yoga undertake their training. Pride and sensuality are their motives, and the heightened ability to dominate and to enjoy are their rewards. Such people emerge from their training, possessed, indeed, of heightened powers, but of heightened powers that are the instruments of a character that has grown worse instead of better.
Acting, as he must, on the principle that the tree is known by its fruits, the rational idealist will avoid all methods of religious self-education involving extreme asceticism or the profound modification of physiological functions—will go on avoiding them until such time as increased scientific knowledge permits of their being used more safely than is possible at present. Meanwhile, of course, he will not neglect any system of training which promises to increase, without danger, the individual’s conscious control of his organism. (This matter has been discussed in some detail at the end of the chapter on Education.)
The second method of self-education taught by the various religions consists essentially in the cultivation of an intimate emotional relationship between the worshipper and a personal God or other divine being. This emotional method is the one of which the West knows most; for it is the method used by the majority of Christians. In India it is known as bhakti-marga, the path of devotional faith, as opposed to karma-marga, the path of duty or works, and jñana-marga, the path of knowledge. Bhakti-marga played a relatively small part in Indian religion—at any rate in the religion of the educated classes—until the coming of the Bhagavata reformation of the Middle Ages.
Revolting against the pantheism of the Vedanta and the atheism of the Sankhya philosophy and of Buddhism, the leaders of the Bhagavata reformation insisted on the personal nature of God and the eternally personal existence of individual souls. (There is reason to believe that Christian influences were at work on the reformers.) A kind of bhakti-marga crept into Buddhism with the rise of the Greater Vehicle. In this case, however, theologians were careful to insist that the objects of Bhakti, the Buddhas, were not eternal gods and that the ultimate reality, substantial to the world, was impersonal.
I have said that for people of
