The Reformation – and Martin Luther

October 28, 2001
Venice

Rewrite of
October 26, 1958, Akron
Also: Rochester 10/29/61, Revised 10/25/64

This is Reformation Sunday, marking the birthday of the Protestant Church and the revolt from Roman Catholicism. Next Wednesday marks the four hundred and eighty-fourth anniversary of the day Martin Luther tacked the 95 theses to the door of Wittenberg Cathedral. The religious, political, economic, and social changes effected by the Protestant Reformation represent [some] of the most important, if not the most important, changes in the history of the Western world. I would like to discuss the leading person of the Reformation, one of the most controversial persons in history, Martin Luther. He was a saint, sinner, vulgarian, or anti-Semitic bigot, depending on the point of view from which he is seen. His followers hailed him as a true prophet of the Lord. Roman Catholics called him a child of the devil and accused him of demolishing Christianity. The agrarian reformers of that turbulent sixteenth century said he was the toady, tool, and supporter of the feudal lords and princes. Religious radicals, Carlstadt and Muenster, for example, compared him to Moses, who led the way out of captivity in Egypt, but then deserted his followers, leaving them to perish in the wilderness. Those who have looked at this personal life with critical eye have thought him to be a coarse libertine who broke with his Roman Catholic tradition so that he might marry a nun and rear children in sin and vulgarity. The critics submit Luther’s own writings, TABLE TALK, as evidence of his degraded personality.

This we know, the history of the world was altered because Martin Luther lived. In abolishing the authority of the Pope, Martin Luther established the freedom of the Christian. When this principle became established, the administration of the religious institution became the responsibility of the parish, a congregation of lay people. Martin Luther did not anticipate, and actually opposed, some of the consequences of the Reformation he spearheaded. The principle of the authority of the lay congregation had extreme political as well as religious effects. The self-administration of religion pointed the way to worldly self-government as well. Therefore, it is of particular importance to the liberal groups whose guiding principle of freedom is the most uninhibited, to try to understand Martin Luther. This presentation divides into

1) the setting,
2) the Augustinian priest,
3) the reformer and supporter of princes, and
4) the man, Martin Luther.

Although Martin Luther is the most notable figure of the Reformation, he was not born when the Reformation began. To know the Reformation, we need to understand that the Renaissance, the revival of learning, the recovery of the ancient Greek belief in the worth of the humans, had been in progress for at least two centuries. Petrarch and Boccaccio had notably advanced Humanist studies. The Medici family, also of Florence, had been the greatest patrons of art, sculpture, literature, and philosophy that the European world had known. Under their patronage, Michelangelo, DaVinci, Mirandola, Raphael and others had created arts and letters that still summon our wonder at their genius. In 1453, the world’s greatest cultural center, Constantinople, had fallen to the Turks. The scholars there who had preserved the manuscripts and art objects of Hellenism fled to Italy and other parts of Europe. 12 Universities were founded in Germany between 1409 and 1506.

Not only did the Renaissance signal the revival of arts and learning, but a most important political movement was beginning to make its strong eddies felt in the ebb and flow of the Holy Roman Empire. Although Germany lagged somewhat, England, France and Spain had assumed form as nations. The mass of people had no share in the political rewards or freedoms, although they were the objects of the most severe hardships and sufferings. Their unquestioned place was serfdom.

The Roman Catholic was the authoritarian church. There was no toleration of heresy, but the seeds that were to bear fruit in Luther’s time had already been sown. John Wyclif of England, opposed to the wealth of the church and clerical interference in all walks of life, believed that the Bible should be the possession of the people and had translated the scriptures into English. Wyclif was executed for heresy, his ashes scattered on Thames, but neither his convictions nor his bravery were forgotten. 1373 marked the birth of John Hus, a Bohemian priest, who was influenced by Wyclif’s teachings and Hus preached an evangelical doctrine which was anathema to the Roman Catholic church. John Hus avowed publicly that the head of the Church was Christ, not the Pope. The unprincipled church gave him safe conduct to the Council of Constance, but broke faith and burned him at the stake, July 6, 1415, but neither was his memory forgotten nor his principles rejected by his followers. In 1498, the austere monk of Florence, Savonarola denounced the Pope. After a succession of temporary triumphs and then humiliating defeat, Savonarola was burned at the stake. But even as smoke and smell from the burning flesh and faggots were dispersed to the winds, so the knowledge of his revolt became widely perceived by later reformers, including Martin Luther, who was but a fifteen-year-old student when Savonarola was executed.

Something else had happened which was to make the world different than it had ever been before. Moveable type printing had been invented – the peoples of the world would not only become more literate, but the printed word was to bring them the wisdom of scripture in their own language, and they read the protesting pamphlets of the reformers.

In this seething caldron of social change, a baby boy was born to a peasant miner, Hans Luther and his wife, Marguerite, in 1483. November 10 was St. Martin’s day, and the infant was named Martin after the patron saint. Martin’s parents were peasants, but Hans Luther was not content to accept the poverty and misery of the miner’s lot. By individual effort he labored to make his lot better and his family more comfortable and privileged. In these beginning times of individualism, his efforts brought some rewards. Martin was able to go to school and University to be prepared for the practice of law, which was his father’s wish for his eldest son.

The schools at that time were organized, administered, and taught by the Church and its various orders. Martin’s early schooling was directed by the Brethren of the Common Life, an order dedicated to education. Then, in the University, he was influenced by the Augustinian order. Under the strong influence of the monks, together with his personality, which was unusually sensitive to supernaturalism and mystery, along with his fine mind, which was capable of wrestling with the intricate language of philosophy and theology, Martin Luther found his hopes turning toward the Church and away from the Law. Although Hans Luther was deeply religious, his wish that Martin be a Doctor of Law was so strong that when Martin announced that he was to become an Augustinian monk, his father was deeply hurt. Years were to pass before he really forgave the son who was frustrating the parent’s deepest wish.

After a farewell party, Martin’s friends escorted him to the Augustinian cloister at Erfurt on the 17th of July 1505. He entered its gates there to endure the privation of the order and to know the religious joy of humbling his passions, following the tedious routine of prayer and study, eventually, when ordained to know the mystery or celebrating the Mass, in which the wafer and wine became the body and blood of Christ.

As a monk, Martin Luther was conscientious to a degree we would believe to be unnatural. He fasted for days at a time, went night after night without sleep so that he might devote himself to prayer unceasingly (and in so doing permanently injured his health). He whipped himself to subdue the desires of the flesh. Although he was a model of holiness to his brother monks, his personal anxiety increased. He became increasingly morbid. Luther, a child of his times, feared the devil and believed the arts of witchcraft could have a dreadful effect on him. The iron discipline of the Augustine order had the natural effect of subduing his outward expressions of feeling and intensifying the inward fires of human passions.

Following his ordination as a priest, he turned to teaching at the University and soon became a most popular teacher. His large following of students was drawn for several reasons. His peasant inheritance gave him the common touch, plain talk, and natural illustration which reached the core of subjects. To a lesser degree than monks of more aristocratic background, was he bound to narrow conventions and traditional formulas. Following his master’s degree, he earned the degree of Doctor of Theology, a scholastic honor rare in those days.

His talents and drive soon won greater recognition. When only 31 years old, in 1515, he was appointed District-Vicar of the Augustinian order. Thus, in addition to his devotional duties as a monk, his university responsibilities as a teacher of philosophy, he had the additional duty of administrative responsibility, superintending the 10 Augustinian monasteries in his district.

This devout Augustinian monk was obsessed not only with neurotic fears for his salvation, but also he was upset by dishonesty and corruption readily discovered in the church of that day, which was dominated by the Renaissance Popes, who had a high degree of sensitivity to artistic beauty and an insensitive attitude toward personal and organizational corruption.

Martin Luther and another monk made a pilgrimage to Rome. He had hopes that this would be a high experience in his life, but [it] resulted in considerable disillusion. In Rome he could not help observing the corruption, hypocrisy, and political knavery of the hierarchy. The irreverence of the priesthood shocked this simple, devout German peasant priest. It is said that while climbing the sacred stairs on his knees, that Paul’s words to the Romans fixed themselves in Luther’s brain, “the just shall live by faith.” He realized that acts of piety like climbing stairs on his knees were of little effect. The extent to which the Rome visit influenced his revolt, we do not know. Perhaps it was a small but significant episode in his life.

The real spark of the Reformation was ignited when the Roman hierarchy decided that in order to build magnificent St. Peter’s Basilica, much money had to be raised. So the sale of indulgences was authorized. The doctrine was that by their purity the saints had built up a bank account (so to speak) of piety, on which the sinful could draw to lessen their years in Purgatory. So, Tetzel, a monk went through the countryside urging the peasants to buy indulgences so that their dead relatives might be released from Purgatory sooner. It is said that Pope Leo X, who was the son of Lorenzo de Medici, said cynically about the response of the believing peasants, “This story of Jesus has helped us a lot.”

On October 31, 1517, Martin Luther tacked a manuscript to the door of Wittenberg Cathedral. 95 propositions for debate were listed. Luther questioned the indulgences with a series of logical propositions, the most telling of which proposed that if the Pope had the power to release souls from Purgatory, then he should do so at once, not for money, but out of the spirit of love and charity.

Although years were to elapse between the nailing of the theses to the door of Wittenberg Cathedral and the actual formation of the Reformed Church, that date is historically looked upon as the birthday of Protestantism.

Luther’s theses were formal statements, but his vernacular comment was, “God will not tolerate this flea market.”

News of the opposition of this Augustinian monk to the plans of the hierarchy soon reached Rome, and action followed. There were years of ecclesiastical maneuvering. Luther refused to recant. He had a famous debate with John Eck and undoubtedly would have been executed except for a new historical tide. Nationalism was dawning; and the feudal lords and princes of Germany were very much opposed to the Roman Church drawing off large sums of money from the homeland for St. Peter’s or any other foreign enterprise.

Luther began to write and his statements pointed unquestionably to strong differences with the Church at Rome. He proposed the priesthood of all believers, and that there were only two sacraments authorized by scripture: baptism and the Lord’s Supper. These statements were heretical, unquestionably, and Luther was summoned to appear before the Diet of Worms (“Here I stand”). Luther was excommunicated, and would have been seized, except Frederick, elector of Saxony, had him spirited away to Wartburg Castle. But the printing press was pounding out Luther’s writings, [which] were distributed widely, and the people responded. When Luther emerged from Wartburg, he found himself organizing a Reformed Church.

Then occurred one of the more puzzling aspects of Luther’s strange character: The impetus to religious freedom had other consequences. The peasants revolted against the landlords and princes. It was somewhat natural, but unexpected that they should seek to throw off political and economic oppression when the way to religious freedom had been pointed out. From our perspective we know this is one of the glories of religious freedom – other benefits to humankind are natural consequences. But Luther proved to be the the toady, the tool, the supporter of the princes. Neither the implications of religious freedom nor love for the peasant people from which he sprang mitigated the severity of his condemnation of the Peasants’ Revolt. To the aristocratic Lords and Princes, Luther offered these words of encouragement, “Hearken dear Lords... Let him who can stab, strike, and strangle... These are such times that a prince can go to heaven more easily by spilling blood than others through prayer.”

The peasants were crushed, murdered, tortured, starved.

Luther was not a tolerant man. Even admitting that like all persons, he was a child of his own age, we find it difficult to reconcile this devout man who professed the Lordship of the gentle Christ with the Luther who was savage not only with the Peasants’ War, but also had a bigoted hatred of Jews, and was unremitting in his urgings to destroy and persecute them.

Luther could not get along with other reformers. He refused to shake hands with Zwingli, because the latter would not accept Luther’s interpretation of the Lord’s Supper.

But Martin Luther was not only an Augustinian priest, a reformer of strange and devious as well as noble ways, he was also a man. When the reformers were celebrating freedom from the Roman Catholic church, the monasteries and convents were opened, the monks and nuns sought marriage and Christian homes, sometimes marrying each other. Catherine von Bora was a nun jilted by a suitor shortly after her release from the convent. Martin Luther tried to be a marriage broker for her and find a suitable husband. However, when it was reported to him that Catherine von Bora would marry only Dr. Amsdorf or Dr. Luther, he investigated further, he checked it out, with the result shortly after, Martin Luther and ex-nun Catherine von Bora were married. They established their home in the Augustinian cloister where Luther formerly had led the monastic life.

Theirs was a busy home with much affection, the ex-nun soon became “my Katie” to Luther. Not only were children born to them, but also they were hospitable and generous to the homeless. At one time not less than eleven orphans shared their home and table. The reminiscences of this home life are found in Luther’s TABLE TALK, remarkable for the insight it gives into the personality of this father. He was gentle, but at times objectionably vulgar and rude.

When illness or the plague struck, as it did frequently in those days, the hand of death entered the home. Of the children, Elizabeth died in infancy. When little Hans was ill, Martin Luther composed and to comfort him sang the famous childrens’ Christmas carol, “Away in a Manger”. Hans and Paul lived to maturity. Marguerite lived to girlhood, but in a agonizing time of trial for the busy parents, she died of illness. In the grief of that occasion, Luther formed the tune and words of his greatest hymn, “A Mighty Fortress is our God.” [CJW note: based on Psalm 46]

This aging father had innumerable organization details of the reformed church. He was called to settle disputes between princes. His health, never good since his monastic days, grew worse. After a winter journey under difficult conditions, he died after attempting to resolve a conflict between two Lords.

What shall we say of this man? He was a leading reformer. He was a reactionary who was unbelievably harsh with his fellow peasants. He was intolerant. He was an anti-Semite. He was coarse and vulgar. But also, he was a great preacher and scholar. He translated the Bible into German, giving the people the Scripture. His courage sparked the Reformation, giving birth to the numerous free Christian groups, among which in later years our own was to be numbered. He was the Reformation’s greatest hymn writer. Albert Schweitzer, who had a doctorate in music as well as doctorates in medicine and theology, remarked that the only person who really understood Martin Luther was Johann Sebastian Bach. He was a kind and loving but financially embarrassed father. He was a teacher who won the respect of his students.

But the most affectionate and most human epitaph that the Reformer earned was written by the ex-nun who became his wife and the mother of their children. A month after his death, Catherine von Bora Luther, writing to her sister, Christina, said, “Who would not be sorrowful and mourn for so noble a man as my dear Lord, who served not only one city or land, but the whole world? Truly I am so distressed that I cannot tell my sorrow to anyone. If I had a principality or an empire, it would never have cost me so much pain to lose them as I have now that our Lord God has taken from me, and not from me only, but from the whole world, this dear and precious man.”

Religion must be not only in a person’s heart as an inward loyalty to that which he or she believes true and righteous, convictions must become known in the world. And no reformation is ever complete until justice is accomplished and the world of persons ruled by all persons, because equally they are entitled to the human dignity and worth which should be the birthright of all souls. Those who are devoted to such religious values will discover in their own experience that the cause of reform is never jaded, its goals ever re-defined.

Not because we would endorse the theology of Luther’s greatest hymn, but because a tribute to him is fitting on this 484th anniversary of Protestantism, may we join in singing #104, “A Mighty Fortress is our God.”

What Do Universalists Believe?

January 8, 1961
Rochester

What Do Universalists Believe?

In both routine and unusual situations the Universalist minister and Universalist layman can expect that when the subject of religion is raised, and our identity known, someone will ask, “What do Universalists believe?” Sometimes it is an inquirer who, dissatisfied with old ways, is seeking a new faith. On other occasions, perhaps a long time Universalist, disturbed by the convictions of other Universalists, will ask the question with some doubt of the qualifications of a Universalist who cherishes other beliefs than the old and beloved doctrine of the “final harmony of all souls with God.” Then, too, parents, seeking a free and reasonable religious education for their children, will make the inquiry.

The question recurs again and again, and when a person is angry with a minister, church school teacher or visiting preacher, most answers will fail to either satisfy or persuade.

Others will assert that if we could provide a plain and positive answer to the question “What do Universalists believe?” we would solve all our problems of small church schools and sparsely attended worship; we would ensure financial expansion; misunderstandings among the congregation would no longer ripple the placid surface of our fellowship; and, most of all, we would pacify the gnawing pain of our religious insecurity. While we Universalists are willing to concede the value of religious freedom, we are sometimes troubled by the consequences of liberty of thought and interpretation. We wonder, do we not, if assurance to soothe our doubts is not more vital than the uncertainties of freedom?

I would propose to you that “What do Universalists believe?” is the wrong question from which to expect a right answer. The clue to the significance of modern Universalism will be found when the question is asked, “How do Universalists arrive at their beliefs?”

Parenthetically, let me attempt to assert in a paragraph what I believe as a Universalist. From where I stand, one can assume rightfully that a Universalist accepts the body of tested truth accumulated and continuously refined by the geologist, biologist, astronomer, physicist, social scientist and by members of all other authentic learned professions. The Universalist follows reason as a guide and validates propositions by experience and experiment. The Universalist places freedom and the supreme worth of every human personality at the top of his scale of values and willingly serves causes in consistency with these principles which advance the human family. The Universalist looks hopefully on the nature and destiny of man. More than that, some of us are willing to abide in the conviction that beyond the limits of our power and comprehension there is an organizing principle, eternally creating, in whom we place our ultimate trust – a good God.

It is of the nature and application of these propositions that my preaching ministry will elaborate. But, many of you will say, “well, that’s not exactly what I believe,” and such disagreement is a right treasured in the Universalist Church.

We have an obligation to remember that creeds, doctrinal statements and avowals of faith are interpretations about which men have never agreed fully, or for long, not only in the general history of religion, but also among Universalists, both historically and currently. Thus we return to the proper question which provides an avenue of understanding, “How do people arrive at religious beliefs?”

Custom and tradition are of seminal importance in what people believe. The family heritage of faith will always play a strong directing role in belief. The person who never is stimulated to examine the claims and purpose of his family or national religion will continue to be a believer, sometimes passionate, sometimes nominal.

That tradition or custom is usually based on a central authority – a Bible, an hierarchy or a person.

We know how many Christians avow that the inspiration and revelation of Scripture is what they believe. One book suffices.

Jessica Mitford, whose story of her own eccentric English family, DAUGHTERS AND REBELS, is credited with an anecdote about her picturesque father. She said, “Father had an enormous library. It had come down through our family for generations. But he never read a book! I asked him about this one time, and he confessed that he had read WHITE FANG by Jack London.

“‘Good book,’ he said, ‘Enjoyed it. Don’t see any point in reading another.’”

Some people affirm religious beliefs similarly. Believing the Bible, a good many of them have not even read it once, but they see no point in reading anything else – at least for religious guidance.

Other persons believe that truth is revealed authoritatively by a holy church, which is the repository of true faith, supernaturally entrusted with the guidance of the faithful. A believer accepts what the Church asserts is religious truth. If the facts contradict the teachings of the church then so much the worse for the facts. For such believers faith is unqualified acceptance of the propositions an institution pronounces as correct belief.

Still others may deposit their religious trust in a special person who is believed to possess a unique channel of communication or power leading directly to God. Thus Joseph Smith acquired thousands of followers who believed his Book of Mormon to be God’s will and words.

But the revealed book, the authoritative hierarchy and the sacred person just do not fulfill our requirements for religious belief, for these authorities do not fit into the methods by which we arrive at our beliefs.

In committing ourselves to belief, we place our trust in experience. Do the notions match the facts? Does the religious faith square with our human experiences? Is the faith reasonable? Helpful? Supporting? Hopeful? Will it stand the rigors of hard times and never ending tests occasioned by new discoveries of truths?

In decisions involving belief, Universalists should not cut off the power of critical thinking. Consider the airplanes in the sky, the efficient inner loop with its geometric clover leafs and engineered grades, the magic of the chemist’s brew and the shining strength of metallurgist's products, the modern hospital where science and skill are invested with great humanitarian motives. These achievements are unthinkable without intelligence guided by critical thought.

Some years ago the late professor John Erskine, then famous as professor of literature, published an essay I have never entirely forgotten, entitled “The Obligation to be Intelligent.” With provocative wit, he wrote of the need to combine intelligence with other desirable qualities of life. Using as a text Kingsley’s lines, “Be good sweet maid and let who will be clever,” he criticized an all too common attitude that somehow there is a diversion between goodness and intelligence. In his words, “stupidity is regarded as first cousin to moral conduct and cleverness as the first step into mischief; that reason and God are not on good terms with each other; that the mind and heart are rival buckets in the well of truth, inexorably balanced: full time, starved heart – stout heart, weak head.”

The application of intelligence to religion is just as necessary. Can a religion fit our time be anything but a thoughtful religion? Should not religion make sense? Because Universalism values the thought processes, it merits consideration from thoughtful people.

When one begins with a foundation of freedom and uses critical thoughts as a power tool, to be sure there will be occasional discomfort, even shock. Whitehead once commented that adventure is the key to civilization and that the highest point of the adventure is that strong feeling is discontent with things as they [are], as man applies his mind to make things for the better.

When Universalists arrive at belief through freedom, disciplined by critical thinking there are consequences of revolutionary force. These consequences are just beginning to be made known to us, but their development will become more and more apparent as we persist on the difficult, but provocative assignment of building on freedom with reason.

First, the way in which we arrive out our beliefs indicates an end to exclusion. Henceforth we will find it difficult to put up barriers which would make our church an exclusive elite. When we gladly concede the worth of all persons, which is both implicit in the principle of freedom and explicit in our charter of faith which imposes no creedal tests, we are also saying that the genius of our Universalism is its inclusiveness. We include all; shut no one out for any cause, color or condition. Now, universal salvation means that we seek the truest and best life, for each and everyone and recognize all forms of discrimination as ills to be overcome, not distinctions to be cherished.

Our forebears in the faith withstood calumny and scandal to proclaim their grand faith in the salvation of all souls in eternity. In our time the natural restatement of that grand faith is our proclamation of the inclusion of all persons in the area of the good life here and now.

The second consequence of our method of achieving belief is that the unity we seek must be acquired amid diversity of opinion. In his Meditations, Marcus Aurelius once said, “from Apollonius I learned that a man can be both resolute and yielding.” This paradoxical statement is a wise hint to Universalists who may sometimes be aggravated by the contrary beliefs of a fellow Universalist.

“A man can be most resolute and yielding.” We can be resolute in our assurance of the convictions we have hammered out on the anvils of our experience. We need neither hide nor distort our individual interpretation of the facts of religion to accommodate the sensitivity of a fellow Universalist. Similarly, he may be equally honest and forthright in his expressions. We are resolute in asserting our conviction. We yield to each other in granting, in all good will, the same privilege. Not only can this provide unity amid diversity, but also in all exchanges in good will, our individual differences will be refined. Inevitably, we will all be drawn closer together in the bonds of human fellowship.

The third consequence of our method of arriving at belief is that we assert willingness to abide in the principle of growth. Because freedom, reason and fellowship are basic we have the motivation to find better ways of religious expression and more useful opportunities for service when we find that the old-time religion isn’t good enough for us.

One of the legends surrounding the history of Daniel Boone is that once when the nearest new neighbor had built a cabin nine miles away, Boone marched deeper into the wilderness. He said he couldn’t stand crowds and had to have elbow room. So, at the age of 65, he traveled toward the setting sun and marked a new edge on the western frontier. Commenting on this, someone said once that for many Universalists the sermons of John Murray and William Ellery Channing marked the extreme frontier of liberal thought. In the Deuteronomic account of the exodus from Egypt (2/3), when the tribes of Israel were making their long trek from bondage to freedom, they stopped many days at the mountain. Then the voice of Jehovah came to them saying, “Ye have compassed this mountain long enough. Turn northward.”

Our universe is changing, dynamic and if thee is any obvious characteristic it is that both change and growth are ineradicable rhythms. A religion willing to change and grow is but getting in tune with universal experience, cosmic as well as human.

In James Michener’s massive novel, HAWAII, one of the more prominent of an exhausting parade of characters is Hoxworth Hale. As a young college student, Hoxworth Hale is labeled a radical, primarily because he challenged the mistaken lectures of a professor. In his self-analysis amid his troubles, Hoxworth Hale applies all the powers of his mind to defining the right and wrong among his positions. Then the novelist comments, “thus he started his education, that marvelous, growing, aching process whereby a mind develops into a usable instrument with a collection of proved experience from which to function.”

Universalism must function as a usable instrument bound by proved experience.

Thus the manner in which we arrive at our beliefs charts the unity we seek by principle, not by prescription, no matter how pious or soothing any ancient formula may be. We hold the foundation of freedom and the unifying power of service to be the great values. In them there is constructed the inclusiveness of all persons, the worth of each individual and the determination that the abundant life shall be the privilege of an ever-increasing number of persons. These values we celebrate in worship and discussion in song and seminar, in communion and conversation.

Years ago, John Murray Atwood said something like this, as he defended the freedom basis for Universalism: “Not that a man may do as he pleases, but that he may able to be true to the vision he has gained on the Sinai he has been able to climb.”

Belief is many things, but [for our religion to be real, it is, of necessity, difficult], for in asserting freedom, one assumes the heavy labor of fashioning and strengthening one’s own faith based on inward convictions. In no lesser degree one assumes the obligation. So respecting the full measure of human dignity is the right of every other person, that one not only accepts with grace differing convictions but defends as primary principles of faith the right to differ and the responsibility to nurture a growing faith.

The Reformer: Martin Luther

October 26, 1958
Akron
Also: Rochester 10/29/61, Revised 10/25/64

The Reformer: Martin Luther – Saint, Sinner, Savage

This is Reformation Sunday, marking the birthday of the Protestant Church. Next Friday marks the four hundredth and thirty first anniversary of the day Martin Luther tacked the 95 theses to the door of Wittenburg Cathedral. The political, economic, social and religious effects of the Protestant Reformation is one of the important changes in the history of the Western World. Marking the historic significance of this day, I would like to discuss the leading person of the Reformation, Martin Luther, and contrast him with Thomas .... Luther is one of the most controversial persons in history. He was a saint, a sinner and savage (or vulgarian or bigot), depending upon the point of view from which he is seen. His followers hailed him as a true prophet of the Lord. Roman Catholics called him a child of the devil and accused him of demolishing Christianity. The agrarian reformers of that turbulent sixteenth century said he was the toady and supporter of the feudal lords and princes. Religious radicals, Carlstadt and Muenster, for example, compared him to Moses who led the way out of Egypt, but then deserted his followers, leaving them to perish in the wilderness. Those who have looked at his personal life with critical eye have sometimes thought him to be a corrupt, coarse, vulgar libertine who broke with Roman Catholic tradition so that he might marry a nun and rear children in sin and vulgarity The critics submit Luther’s own TABLE TALK as evidence of his degraded personality.

This we know, the history of the world was altered because Martin Luther lived. In abolishing the authority of the Pope, Martin Luther established the freedom of the Christian. When this principle became established, the administration of the life of the religious institution became the responsibility of the parish – a congregation of laypeople. Martin Luther did not anticipate, and actually opposed many of the consequences of the Reformation he spearheaded. The principle of the authority of the lay congregation had extreme political revolutionary effects. The self-administration of religion pointed the way to and established a principle for worldly self-government as well. Therefore, it is of particular importance to the liberal groups, whose guiding principle of freedom is most uninhibited, to understand Martin Luther. ... this sermon divides into 1) The Setting, 2) The Augustinian Priest, 3) The Reformer and Supporter of Princes, and 4) The Man, Martin Luther.

Although Martin Luther was not born when the Reformation began, he is the great reformer. To know the Reformation we must understand that the Renaissance, the revival of Learning, had been in progress for at least two centuries. In the 13th century, Petrarch and Boccaccio had notable advanced the humanist studies. The Medici family, also of Florence, had been the greatest patrons of art, sculpture, literature and philosophy that the world had ever known, and under their sponsorship, Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Mirandola, Raphael and others had created wonders of art and letters that still summon our wonder at their imaginative, skillful genius. In 1453 the world’s greatest cultural center, Constantinople, had fallen to the Turks and the scholars of Greek learning who had preserved the manuscripts and art objects of Hellenism fled to Italy and other parts of Europe. [note in margin: “12 universities, Germany, 1409 – 1506]

Not only did the Renaissance signal the revival of arts and learning, but a most significant political movement was beginning to make its strong eddies felt in the ebb and flow of the Holy Roman Empire. Although Germany had lagged somewhat, England, France and Spain had assumed form as independent nations. The masses had no share in political rewards or freedoms, although they were the objects of the most severe hardships and cruel sufferings. Their ... order was serfdom.

The Roman Catholic was the authoritarian church. There was no toleration of revolt, but the seeds that were to bear fruit in Luther’s time had been sown. John Wyclif of England, opposed to the wealth of the church and clerical interference in all areas of life, believed that the Bible should be the possession of the people and had translated the scriptures into English. Wyclif was executed, his ashes scattered on Thames, but neither his convictions nor his bravery were forgotten. In 1373 [was the birth of] John Hus, a Bohemian priest who became influenced by Wyclif’s teaching, and preached an evangelical doctrine which was anathema to the Roman Catholic Church. John Hus avowed that the true head of the church was Christ, not the Pope. The unprincipled Church gave him safe conduct to the Council of Constance, but broke faith and burned him at the stake July 6, 1415, but neither was his memory forgotten, nor his principles rejected, by his followers. In 1498 the austere monk of Florence, Savonarola denounced the Pope, and after a succession of first temporary triumph and then humiliating defeat was burned at the stake. But even as the smoke and smell from the burning flesh and faggots were dispersed to the winds, so the knowledge of his revolt against Rome became widely perceived to other reformers, including Martin Luther, who was but a fifteen year old student when Savonarola was executed.

Something else had happened which was to make the world different than it had ever been before. Printing had been invented, the peoples of the world would not only become more literate, but the printed word was to bring them the wisdom of scripture in their own language, and the protesting pamphlets of the reformers.

In this seething cauldron of social change, a baby boy was born to a peasant miner, Hans Luther and his wife Marguerite, in 1483. November 10 was St. Martin’s Day, and the little child was named Martin after the patron saint. Although like so many of the world’s great, Martin’s parents were peasant stock, Hans Luther not content to accept poverty and misery of the miner’s lot, and by individual effort sought to make his lot better and his family more comfortable and privileged. In these beginning times of individualism, his efforts brought some reward, as Martin was enabled to go to school and university, to be prepared for the practice of law, which was his father’s wish for his eldest son.

The schools of that day were organized, administered and taught by the Church and its various orders. Thus, Martin’s early schooling was directed by the Brethren of the Common Life, an order dedicated to education. Then, in the university he was influenced by the Augustinian order. Under the strong influences of the monks, together with his personality which was unusually sensitive to supernaturalism and, along with his fine mind which was capable of wrestling with intricacies of language, philosophy and theology, Martin Luther found his hopes turning toward the Church and away from the law. Although Hans Luther was deeply religious, his wish that Martin be a doctor of the law was so strong that when Martin announced that he was to be an Augustinian monk, his father was deeply hurt and years were to pass before he really forgave the son who was frustrating the parent’s deepest wish. This revolt against his father’s authority, acceptance of church authority, ....

After a farewell party, Martin’s friends escorted him to the Augustinian cloister at Erfurt on the 17th of July 1505 and he entered its gates there to endure the privation of the order and to know the religious joy of humbling his passions, following the tedious routine of prayers and study, eventually when ordained to know the joy of celebrating the mass in which the wafer and wine became the body and blood of Christ.

As a monk, Martin Luther was conscientious to a degree we would think to be unnatural. He fasted for days at a time, went night after night without sleep so that he might devote himself to prayer unceasingly (and in so doing permanently injured his health). He whipped himself to subdue the desires of the flesh. Although he was a model of holiness to his brother monks, his personal anxiety increased. He became increasingly morbid. Luther, a child of his times, feared the devil and believed the arts of witchcraft could have a dreadful effect on him. The iron discipline of the Augustinian cloister had the natural effect of subduing his outward expressions of feeling and intensifying the inward fires of human passions.

Following his ordination as a priest, he turned to teaching at the University and soon became a most popular teacher, His large following of students was drawn for several reasons. His peasant inheritance gave him the common touch, and his plain talk and natural illustration reached the core of matters. [He was less bound to narrow conventions and traditional formulas monks of more aristocratic stock.] Following his master’s degree he earned a doctor of theology, a rare scholastic honor in those days.

His talents and drive soon won greater recognition. When only 31 years old in 1515, he was appointed District-vicar of the Augustinian order. Thus in addition to his devotional duties as a monk, his university responsibilities as a teacher of philosophy, he had additional responsibility of [acting as superintendent] to the ten Augustinian monasteries in his district.

This devout Augustinian monk was obsessed not only with neurotic fears for his salvation, but also he was upset by dishonesty and corruption readily discovered in the Church of that day which was dominated by the Renaissance Popes, who had a high degree of sensitivity to artistic beauty and an insensitive attitude toward personal and organizational corruption.

Thus what Martin Luther had hopes would be a high experience of his life resulted in considerable disillusion. He and another Augustinian made a pilgrimage to Rome. There he could not escape noticing the corruption, hypocrisy and political knavery of the hierarchy. Rome, like all great capitals of that day, was dirt-infested, priest-ridden, and morally soft. The irreverence of the priesthood shocked this simple, devout German peasant priest. It is said that while climbing the sacred stairs, that Paul’s words to the Romans fixed themselves in his brain, “the just shall live by faith,” and he realized that acts of piety, like climbing stairs on his knees, were of little effect. But it is part of that growing spirit of rebellion which some have named the Reformation.

How much the extent of his Roman visit influenced his revolt, we do not know. Perhaps it was but a small but significant episode in his long life.

The real spark of the Reformation was ignited when the Roman hierarchy decided that in order to build magnificent St. Peter’s Cathedral, much money had to be raised. So the sale of indulgences was authorized. The doctrine was that by their purity the saints had built up a bank account (so to speak) of piety, on which the sinful could draw to lessen their years in purgatory. So Tetzel, a monk went through the countryside urging peasants to buy indulgences so that their dead relatives might be released from purgatory sooner. It is said that Pope Leo X, who was the son of Lorenzo Medici, said cynically about the response of the pious peasants, “This story of Jesus has helped us a lot.”

On Oct. 31, 1517, Martin Luther tacked a manuscript to the door of Wittenburg Cathedral. 95 propositions for debate were listed. Luther questioned the indulgences with a series of logical propositions, the most telling of which proposed that if the Pope had the power to release soul from purgatory, then he should do so at once, not for money, but out of the spirit of love and charity. Although years were to elapse between the nailing of the theses to the door of Wittenburg Cathedral and the actual formation of the Reformed Church, that date is historically looked upon as the birthday of Protestantism. Luther’s theses were formal but his vernacular comment was “God will not tolerate this flea market!”

News of the opposition of this Augustinian monk to the plans of the hierarchy soon reached Rome and action followed. Luther refused to recant, he had a notable debate with John Eck and undoubtedly would have been executed as a heretic except for one historical tide. Nationalism was dawning, and the feudal lords and princes of Germany were very much opposed to the Roman Church drawing off large sums of money from the homeland for St. Peter’s, or any other foreign enterprise.

Luther began to write, and his pamphlets pointed unquestionable to a strong difference with the principles of the hierarchical church. He proposed the priesthood of all believers and that there were only two sacraments authorized by scripture, baptism and the Lord’s Supper. These were heretical opinions, unquestionably. Luther was excommunicated, and would have been seized, except Frederick, elector of Saxony had him spirited away to Wartburg Castle. But the printing press was pounding out Luther’s writings and they were widely distributed, and the people responded. When Luther emerged from Wartburg, he found himself organizing a Reformed Church.

Then occupied one of the most puzzling aspects of Luther’s strange character. The impetus to religious freedom had other consequences. The peasants revolted against their landlords and princes. It was natural but unexpected that they should seek to throw off political and economic oppression when the way to religious freedom had been pointed out. Historically we know that this is one of the glories of religious freedom – other benefits to mankind are the natural consequence. But Luther proved to be the toady and supporter of the princes. Neither the implications of religious freedom, nor love for the peasant people from which he sprang mitigated the severity of his condemnation of the Peasant’s Revolt. To the aristocratic Lords and Princes, Luther offered these words of encouragement, “Hearken Dear Lords .... Let him who can stab, strike and strangle .... These are such strange times that a prince can go to heaven more easily by spilling blood than other through prayer.”

The peasants were crushed, murdered, tortured, starved.

Luther was not a tolerant man. Even admitting that like all persons, he was a child of his own age, we find it difficult to reconcile this devout man who professed the Lordship of the gentle Christ with the Luther who was savage in his bigoted hatred of the Jews, and unremitting in his urgings to destroy and persecute them.

Luther could not get along with other reformers. He refused to shake hands with Zwingli because the latter would not accept Luther’s interpretation of the Lord’s Supper.

But this person, Martin Luther, was not only an Augustinian priest, a reformer of strange and devious as well as noble ways, he also was a man.

When the Reformers were celebrating freedom from the Roman Catholic Church, the monasteries and convents were opened, the monks and nuns sought marriage and Christian homes, sometimes marrying each other. Catherine Von Bora was a nun who was jilted by a suitor shortly after her release from the convent. Martin Luther sought to be a marriage broker to her and find a suitable husband. However, when it was reported to him that Catherine Von Bora would marry only Dr. Amadorf or Dr. Luther, he investigated further, with the result that shortly after, the ex-priest Martin Luther and the ex-nun Catherine Von Bora were married and established their home in the Augustinian cloister in Wittenburg where formerly Luther had lived the monastic life. [note in margin: A news release Oct ’64 – their wedding ring had been found in an E. Berlin home]

Theirs was a busy home. Not only were six children born to them, but also they were hospitable and generous to the homeless; at one time, not less than eleven orphans shared their home and table. The reminisces of this home life are found in Martin Luther’s TABLE TALK, remarkable for the insight it gives into the personality of this father. he was gentle, but at times objectionably vulgar and rude.

When the plague struck, as it did frequently in those days, sometimes death came close. One of the children, Elizabeth, died in infancy. Hans and Paul lived to maturity and their descendants still are living in Germany. Marguerite lived to girlhood, but in a terrible time of trial for the busy parents, she died of illness. In the grief of that occasion, Luther formed the tune and words of his greatest hymn, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.”

This aging father had innumerable organizational details of the reformed church. He was called to settle disputes between princes. His health, never good since his monastic days, grew worse. After a winter journey under difficult conditions, he died after attempting to resolve a conflict between two lords.

What shall we say of this man? He was a reformer. He was a reactionary who was unbelievably harsh with his fellow Peasants. He was intolerant. He was an anti-Semite. He was coarse and vulgar. But also, he was a great preacher and scholar. He translated the Bible into German, giving the people the scripture. His courage sparked the Reformation, giving birth to the numerous free Christian groups among which in later years our own was to be numbered. He was the Reformation’s greatest hymn-writer. Schweitzer remarked that the only person who ever really understood Martin Luther was Bach. He was a kind and loving, but financially embarrassed father. He was a teacher who won the respect of his students.

But the most loving and most human epitaph that the reformer earned, was written by the ex-nun that became his wife and the mother of their children. A month after his death, Catherine Von Bora Luther writing to her sister remarked how much she missed him:

Christina,

Who would not be sorrowful and mourn for so noble a man as my dear Lord, who served not only one city or land, but the whole world? Truly I am distressed that I cannot tell my sorrow to anyone. If I had a principality or empire it would never have cost me so much pain to lose them as I have now that our Lord God has taken from me, and not from me only but from the whole world, this dear and precious man.

(304 A MIGHTY FORTRESS, pp. 18-19)

The Invitation of Christmas

December 24, 1961
Rochester

Christmas is both substantial and elusive. Unabashed materialism and uninhibited merry making is mixed with a sensitive spirituality and a restrained surge of feeling. This Christmas blend does not easily conform to description or exposition for Christmas emotion is strange and wondrous.

Consider the legendary, probably unhistorical wise men who followed a star and brought gifts to the baby of Mary and Joseph. The adoration of the Magi has inspired some of the greatest artists – Botticelli, Veroni, Da Vinci, Rubens ..., to name but a few.

Starting with that story, the flights of symbolic fancy are without end. The creative art and literature inspired by the star-led pilgrimage will never be stifled. Similarly moved, I have pondered the invitation of Christmas in the light of the star they beheld. Their star is a grand alliance of the necessities of human survival and the ideals of human aspiration.

The old legends tell us that the wise men were kings, or Magi, from the ancient East. Ancient followers of astrology, they believed they had charted the nativity of a king in the starry heavens. The desert is wide, barren and dangerous. But they followed the star that beckoned to them. That magnificent vision didn’t promise them wealth or offer ease. Rather, they gave wealth and embraced hardships.

That’s one of the difficulties of following stars, isn’t it? You have to give more than you get. At journey’s end on the star track you do not find a pot of gold; you give a pot of gold. Perhaps that’s why these men were wise. Their expectations were realized because they cherished no daydreams that wealth or power would come to them as a result of traveling the hard road of high ideals. But one never-ending reality of the invitation of Christmas is that the journey which ends in giving brings the experience of the highest. “And lo, the star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came to rest over the place where the child was. ... and going into the house with Mary his mother ... they fell down and worshiped him.” Their reward at the end of the long road was not an acquisition, but an experience. It makes one think, does it not?

Caspar brought gold. Gold is solid, material and valuable. For millenia its enduring value has been a world-wide medium of exchange and a universal standard of wealth.

Gold is material, not spiritual. Why offer it to a spiritual leader? Another ancient legend of a powerful king tells us that hunger for gold so corrupted King Midas that he lusted that everything he touched he turned to gold. But the ecstasy turned to agony when the warm ... flesh of his beloved daughter had become hard, cold gold.

Midas’ desire had been to get, not give. Caspar gave gold. One of the winsome invitations of Christmas is to give our substance in the service of our ideals.

Frequently alleged “materialism” is painted as one of the great evils of our time. We are overly concerned with having things and getting more gadgets, from mink shoe brushes to swimming pools. One has but to tour anywhere in our country to know first-hand the mammoth production of things: grain, corn, pork, beef; office machines, camera, paper and parks; clothing, coffee and the kaleidoscope of things in our shopping plazas and innumerable shops; bell candle, crass and book manger, ... clothes and milk, these are things, material things. To say that materialism is evil is to say that life is evil, for life in our human experience depends on material!

We give material gifts that we should, according to our ability and taste. Everyone must live on the material things of the earth.

On the David Brinkley program the other night, the story of the Peruvian mountain village of Leticia provided a deeply moving instance. The opening scenes of this true story of 1961 show a little boy searching in vain for anything to eat in the rude shelter that was his .... But there is nothing. Neither he nor any other of the 300 children will have any breakfast. Listlessly they sat through school. But when the noon bell sounded, they moved eagerly. For at noon there is a meal provided by the Food for Peace program from the U.N.

Christmas proclaims that life in the world is divine. To ... that life to provide the conditions for growth, material goods must be available. Bread is material; milk is visible; clothing can be touched; shelter is substantial. Christmas invites us to ponder seriously how more steps can be taken in concert – as with the Food for Peace effort – to be quite materialistic in finding more ways to distribute the abundant goodness of earth’s production of food and fiber to the millions who are cold, hungry and sick.

Melchior, the second king, brought frankincense. This was an insubstantial gift – a fragrance permeating the air, a smoke that eludes the grasp, cannot be eaten nor worn as a coat.

The use of incense in worship has ancient roots. Long before Christmas, this was part of the Israelite ritual of sacrifice and the sacrificial ceremonies of many ancient cults as well.

As the cloud of incense swirled and lifted, the prayers of the faithful ascended to God. Another symbolic meaning was that the incense transferred to the divine sphere the most costly gifts that men could offer.

The use of incense did not come into general use in the Christian Church for several hundred years. From the 4th century on incense became part of the ritual of the mass. The mass is a sacrifice service. In the evolution of symbolism in the Roman Catholic Mass, incense has several symbolic meanings: (1) “the sweet savor of the knowledge of the Christ,” (2) “the prayers of the saints,” (3) “the majesty of God is veiled by clouds.”

Now, most of us would experience difficulty in accepting any of these meanings, literal or symbolic. But it may well be that for us, new meanings can permeate the fragrance of frankincense.

Not only must we put up our substance in the service of our ideals, but we must keep the ideals. By its mature an ideal is something one can’t touch. It is like vapor from frankincense, [it] slips from our grasp. But then as the Israelites followed a cloud of smoke by day , so the vision of great goals not yet won is the way men keep the sense of purpose.

Think again of those poor Peruvian mountain people who are being given grain for a noon meal for their hungry children. Far from corrupting them into parasitic dependence, the big gift from Food for Peace has given a new vigor to their ideals. The men of the village are constructing a community building to provide a kitchen and dining room for the children. So strong is their grateful motivation that they declined the offers of power equipment, and are building with their own tools and labor. This they can do for themselves and are proud to do it.

This is the basic interplay of substance and ideal. Each strengthens the other. We can understand both gifts – the gold of Caspar and the frankincense of Melchior.

Balthasar brought myrrh. Amid the prevailing joy of carol and hallelujah, the verse is sombre, ominous.

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.”

Myrrh, a precious gum resin, ... used in ancient embalming processes, symbol of the inevitability of death. Does it strike a wrong note? Is this the Christmas theme? Christian theology would assert that is part of the great scheme of salvation. The incarnate God must suffer and die for the sins of men. But even for those of us who have gone forward from ancient theology, there is a distinctive invitation symbolically carried by the bitter perfume of myrrh.

Yes, death comes to us all. Even the ... babe who may live to the oldest age is no less exempt than any of the innumerable sages who have entered this life, rejoiced and mourned, labored and rested and then passed from the scene. But, why, you may ask, bring this into Christmas joy? Simply this, our human life here is limited by time. Some of us are given a more bountiful grant of years and health than others. ... Nevertheless we may rejoice and participate in the happy helpful ways of human living; sing the carols; share the warmth if Christmas joy, for life is worth the living and we believe that death is worth dying.

Sunlight and shadow, joy and grief, life and death .... This is the great antiphony of experience and our happiness is deepened by sensitive awareness to it.

The Christmas invitation is made up of many sounds, sights, smells and activities. Underneath it all is the great release of more light, the great joy that new human life ... and the strange and wonderful compulsion to blend service, song, sympathy, wonder, revelry, in a totality of experience which provokes the ancient prophecy and promise, “peace on earth, good will to men.”

Editor’s note: this sermon was handwritten and in several places (indicated by ellipsis) the handwriting is illegible.

Universalism and the Incarnation

December 17, 1961
Rochester

Christmas is an adventure of faith as well as a many-splendored emotional experience. There is a cultural universality surrounding the mid-Winter festival. The human family has always known a sense of joyful release at the reprieve from lengthening dark as the world turns in its annual pattern [illegible] more light. People rejoiced in this experience ages before the Christians sought to sanctify the Winter Saturnalia by transforming the festival to the holy day of Jesus’ birth.

This reformation has never been wholly completed. The lusty ways of pagan joy still run their feverish course. The great feast, the flowing wine, the bacchanalian party are no less a part of the celebration than Christmas worship and the midnight mass. Too frequently however, the anxious details of package, party, card and hectic re-union get in the way of sufficient consideration of the theology of Christmas. The Christian Church has gathered the abundant mythologies of mid-Winter celebration and re-shaped them to a particular, unique, scheme of salvation: “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself,” said Paul.

I would have you think with me about this theological doctrine of the Incarnation. There is little need to remind you that most Universalists believe that Jesus was human, not a deity. If Jesus embodied the divine spirit, the we too may share that spirit. Like you, like I, like all human beings, Jesus shared the experience of creatureliness. Or so most of us would believe.

This positive believe in the wholeness of the human Jesus should not deter us from a searching look at the idea or Incarnation. What was it? In what sense might it have confronted men and women with a spiritual experience that, paradoxically blended mystery and meaning?

The Christian faith conquered the ancient world because of the Incarnation, some historians believe. As has been cited recently, the belief that the supreme God could incarnate himself in human form was widespread in the early centuries following the time of Jesus. There were “Lords many and Gods many.” Caesar himself was deified, as well as the long procession of Egyptian, Asian and Greek dying-rising saviors. Tales of wonder and magic surround their birth, usually.

Because Christianity won over the others and persisted amid the swinging forces of changing times, it is more ingrained in our deep conditionings.

The idea of Incarnation in Christianity is inseparable from the idea of Redemption. Because man was unable to save himself, God assumed human form, came to Earth as a babe to begin three decades of life, uniquely human and divine, redeeming man from sin and death by Christ’s death on the cross and resurrection from the tomb.

This salvation scheme sometimes referred to as Christology, had the beginnings in the theology of Paul. With more mystical emphasis, it is the central theme of the gospel of John and the letters of John. The impact of this theology is indicated by the transforming of the seasonal celebrations of winter, Spring, Summer to the particular and unique Christian year, Christmas, Easter and Pentecost.

To the convinced Christian, the Incarnation of God in Christ was not to be compared to the Lords many and the Gods many of ancient times. The Incarnation of God in Christ was unique, datable. The Incarnation was so radical historically, that all time was to be separated henceforth forever in the great historical divide, the time B.C. and A.D. after the year of our Lord.

More than four hundred years were to elapse before the Christian Church would settle the theological difficulties of the man who was God and the God who was man. Christian orthodoxy demanded that the Incarnation should be real, not mythical or ghostly. The X [Christ] was human flesh, born of human mother. God had become man. Yet as one theologian pointed out, there was a difficult paradox for the “only thing God cannot do is cease to become God.”

Theologically, this was not fixed by official dogma until the council of Chalcedon, a.d. 451, when the Christian bishops gathered from the far-flung parts of the Empire. These men were no longer refugees from the catacombs, but leaders of an established, powerful institution which had experienced centuries of accretion of myth and ritual, centuries of power struggle and the sorting out of hierarchical positions, centuries of debate and accommodation with the other religions of antiquity, and centuries of conflict and amalgamation with the entrenched state religion of the Roman Empire.

The Council of Chalcedon pronounced that Jesus was wholly God and wholly man, two natures, “unconfused and undivided.”

Out of the vessels of ancient myth, vast as the seas, there was distilled this particular Christian idea of Incarnation: To a virgin there was born in Bethlehem the baby Jesus on a natal night which was the veritable hinge of history. The babe in the manger was very God and very man incarnated to save this sin-choked world.

I doubt if many people think seriously of the Incarnation theology at Christmas-time. The practices seem as much in accord with the seasonal origins of light, fire, evergreen, gift, party feast, as with the awful solemnity with which the incarnate God came into this world. Certainly in our land, the 65 million people or so, who have no formal or serious church attachment must place very light theological meaning to the event.

We in the liberal faiths to not accept the Incarnation in any literal or orthodox sense. An unbiased look at the world discloses that the Incarnation is not only not unique, it is not even a biblical idea in its theological complexity. In our world of 1961, there lives a person millions believe to be the Incarnation. The devout Tibetans believe that the young man, the Dalai Lama, now living in exile in India as the incarnation of their God. In Indian religion, Vishnu, in his role as Supreme God, is both Creator and moral guardian of the world. When foes threaten the values Vishnu loves, he incarnates himself so that he may defend the moral order. (See Hastings Enc. R.&E.).

If the Incarnation just does not capture our allegiance in its orthodox Christian theological claim, do we have any intellectual justification for the idea of the Incarnation? I choose the words “intellectual justification” for the reason that whatever our theological convictions, or lack of them, we are going on anyway with the festival ceremonies of Christmas, whether or not they have validity for the mind, because age-old emotions are in command at the season of returning light.

And there is reason for celebrating the idea of incarnation, even when the unique supernaturalism of Christian Incarnation has to be left behind.

We celebrate the wonder of life in its loveliest realization – the new babe in the manger of the poor. The story of the baby Jesus shakes us deeply because his is the universal story of parents who experience the shattering and mysterious compound love, fear, wonder, hope, blended with the fact of pain, the astonishment of human sacrifice and the miracle of human growth. We celebrate the creation of new life. Do you remember Stephen Vincent Benet's poem, “Nightmare for future reference”:

"That was the Second Year of the Third World war
The one between Us and Them....”

The poet goes on with laconic but terrifying (in the framework of a father speaking to his son) forebodings to tell of the hints of disaster:

The lab chief who was no longer permitted
guinea pigs for experiments and the steep slide
of the statistical curve of the birth rate:
“I didn’t ask them,
Not even your mother – she was strange those days --
But, two weeks later, I was back in the lines
And somebody sent me a paper --
Encouragement for the troops and all of that --
All about the fall of Their birth rate on their side.

I guess you know, now. There was still a day when we fought
And the next day, the women knew. I don’t know how they knew,
But they smashed every government in the world
Like a heap of broken china within two days
And we’d stopped firing by then. And we looked at each other.

......

Well, I’ve told you know. They tell you know at
eighteen.
There’s no use to tell before.
Do you understand?
That’s why we have the Ritual of the Earth.
The Day of Sorrow, the other ceremonies.
Oh yes, at first people hated the animals
Because they still bred, but we’ve gotten over that.
Perhaps they can work it better, when it’s their turn.
If it’s their turn – I don’t know. I don’t know at all.
You can call it a virus, of course, if you like that word,
But we haven’t been able to find it. Not yet. No
It isn’t as if it had happened all at once.
There were a few children born in the last six months
Before the end of the war, so there's still some hope.
But they’re almost grown. That’s the trouble... they’re almost grown.
Well, we had a long run. That’s something. At first they thought
There might be a nation somewhere – a savage tribe.
But we were all in it, even the Eskimos.
And we keep the toys in the stores, and the colored books
And people marry and plan and the rest of it.
But you see, there aren’t any children. They aren’t born.”

We know that to define human beginnings as the fertilization of ovum by sperm is to define only, not explain. The emergence of form, breath, blood, the wonder of new birth, the growth of limb, mind, emotion – all these are too wonderful for diagnostic words. At Christmas the carol, candle, crèche and evergreen speak to our hearts and with gladness we know that still children are being born and marvelous is the privilege of protecting that creative loveful gift of new life. The incarnation is still an occasion for renewal of both the ecstatic mystery and sense of gratitude that creative life forces are with us still, “the light that lighteth every man coming into the world.” No particularized theology may restrain that gladness.

Then, consider the incarnation in the aspect discussed by the great church historian Hans Leitzmann (A HISTORY OF THE EARLY CHURCH, vol I, pp. 166-8)

The Roman poet, Virgil had predicted a time when a savior, coming into the world as a divine child, would erase sin and usher in a golden age. The Romans thought Caesar Augustus was that divine incarnation. (Indeed for centuries to follow all Caesars were deified,) The age of Augustus was extolled as one which brought better fortune and lessening misery as Pax Romana brought universal peace. Temples of Peace, dedicated to Rome and Augustus were built in city after city. Says Lietzmann: “A community of feeling passed over the boundaries of the provinces and the differences of race, and created the vitally necessary ideology of the Roman Empire.” So it is today, too, whatever view one may hold of the incarnation theologically. At Christmas, the celebration of the birth of the divine child creates a community of feeling which is all too brief. There are legends of soldiers climbing from trenches and meeting friends in a Christmas battlefield truce. Most personnel men tell me how hard it is to discharge persons at Christmas. We are generous not only with family, but with good causes and needy people. Christmas is an incarnation, briefly, of the dreams of all mankind of a world as it should be, when there will be peace on earth, good-will to all men. On the babe in the manger we have projected the deepest yearnings of love and hope. Who would have it otherwise?

One thing more, asserted as a testimony of faith, not demonstrable or provable. If this proposition could be demonstrated in formidable logic or verifiable experiment, it would not require faith. The Incarnation has this symbolic meaning also – the Creator of the Universe is not alone in the impersonal energy of the atomic structure, not alone in the giant strength that moves the tides and charts the planets’ endless rounds. A God worthy of our worship is found not only in these exhibitions of astounding, mysterious force, but also the Creator is found in the high values and lovely experiences of human relationships. Significantly, there is only [the] NT definition of God, “God is love.” Paul Tillich, “God is not merely a word to represent the infinite power of the world, but the good that is there too.” The divine is identified with the human. William Blake, mystic poet put it this way,

“for mercy has a human heart
And pity a human face
And love the human form divine
And peace the human dress.
For mercy, pity, love and peace
Are man his child and care.”

The ever-new, universal incarnation cherishes a dream: there comes a time when the long night ebbs and more light shines on the babes of the world. When that glow moves silently, transforming shadow to light, then something in our blood, in our bones, cries out that no matter how dismal the prospect for human redemption, now alarming the portents of disaster, how grievous the blows with which we have been struck, there is a spirit of creation abroad in the world which call us to protect the innocent, to warm our homes with light and love, and to look high, reverently, to the eternal heavens, whose mysterious vastness of jeweled order suggests that the power behind all things moves in our hearts also.

--
Euripides

Editor’s note:

The following is attached. The page numbering is contiguous with the prior pages, but the prose appears to be a fragment. In addition, portions of the pages are torn away – indicated by an ellipsis. So it is a fragment of a fragment.

Dec. 12 in our calendar. We say “the days get longer then.” the men who worshiped the sun as his chief deity could say “My God is with me for a longer time each day.” Mere Light: Do not overlook for one moment that the urge to inhabit the beaches, to winter in Florida, to become tanned, to be in the sun and air in summer, is stirred not only consciously but unconsciously from other levels of our being by that age-old response of worship and love for the sun.

Even though our culture is quite sophisticated now, or so we think, how much our thinking is still bound up with “more light.” We speak of the need to bring enlightenment morally; we think in terms of bringing mankind from the darkness of war, disease and poverty in to the light of reason, charity and love.

Do you know the old Arabian legend of two devout followers of the Prophet who made a pilgrimage to Mecca? Abouk journeyed on foot; Selim was mounted on a camel. At nightfall both the pilgrims had reached a spring of water in the desert, where grew a few palm trees. They prepared to spend the ... hter. “It is a long and tedious journey,” ... contrary it is a short and pleasant trip,” countered Selim, “I was cheered by a mirage on the horizon wherein I saw the Holy City and the spires of its mosques.” “There was no mirage to be seen,” angrily declared Abouk, “there were instead legions of venomous ants in the sane that bit and poisoned my flesh.”

“Not a single ant was on the desert,” rejoined Selim.

The two pilgrims quarreled fiercely when a Holy Man, also journeying toward Mecca, came up. He listened to them patiently. “Peace, my brethren,” he said at last, “Let us leave alone those questions until tomorrow night to decide. In the meantime let Selim go on foot and Abouk ride the camel.”

The consented to this change of plans. On the next night it was Abouk who had seen the glorious visions and Selim who had been bitten by the ants.

“My brothers,” said the Holy Man, “We are all going to Mecca whether we walk or ride, but Selim cannot see what Abouk sees unless he stands where Abouk stands.” Abouk’s point of vision was ... gher. He had been lifted above the stings and ... weariness of the desert. He beheld ... and glorious, and did not mind the ants, dust, and heat. Perhaps the mirage was an aid all along the difficult road of swirling sands. But only when they were lifted up could Selim or About see this vision.

The days after Christmas are sure to come. There will be some bitter conflicts to resolve, tragic burdens to bear; news may come in the world that may make the Christmas message of “peace on earth, good-will to men,” seem a mockery. Yet it will have been better that we have seen the vision, it will have been better to hear the carols and bells, smell the evergreen, taste the wassail, known the joy of giving and sharing. “There are single moments in life that are worth the weariness of a score of years.”

Jesus and His Prayers

September 24, 1961
Rochester

There are at least two thought provoking aspects to the prayer life of Jesus: First, that he would be totally out of sympathy with people repeating traditional prayers in his name and assuming that these prayers were authentic religious experiences. Second, there is no doubt that prayer was the vital act of worship that Jesus cultivated and from which there came the marvelous moral courage and abundant spiritual reserves which Jesus possessed.

At first glance, these two propositions may seem contradictory, but I would offer the proposition that not only was the heart of Jesus’ religion a deep prayer experience, but also that he was plainly critical of most of the prayers which were repeated by the group at worship. If this is as I believe then there exists a religious obligation to face up to what prayer should be.

First of all, there are many difficulties in the way of discovering the authentic words and acts of Jesus. The only existing records are the gospels of the New Testament. The gospels were not written before the last three decades of the first century. Not one author had been a personal witness to anything Jesus did or heard one syllable from his lips. The gospels were compiled by men who believed Jesus to have been the Messiah who was momentarily to return in the glory of his second coming. Consequently the gospel writers were not biographers intent on writing an authentic portrait of a person and his times, but rather they were witnesses to a fervid belief that Jesus was the Christ. Therefore, the gospels were not so much historical or biographical, but rather theological. It was important to the early Christians to be able to convince prospective converts that the supernatural Christ could not have been shamefully executed as though he had been a criminal and that his second coming could be immediately expected to redeem all evil times.

Then, too these theological explanations were filtered for centuries through many editors. The oldest copy does not date before 375 a.d. Not only late first century beliefs and expectations are present in the New Testament, but also far later beliefs and explanations have found their imprint or made their revision.

Thus, most scholars will readily admit that there can be no successful effort to capture completely the historical Jesus – Jesus as he really was and the words he really said. But this loss does not mean that it is impossible to know anything about the real Jesus. We can have some confidence that there are nuggets in the gospels, particularly if the captivating reason might seem out of character for a developing church with an increasing body of liturgy and ritual. As Morton Enslin and other scholars have pointed out, if the saying of Jesus is hostile to the accepted practice of a young, growing, organizational church, we can feel some assurance that the real Jesus is speaking. Such an attitude would not be a likely fabrication, but rather might be the original Jesus.

The consideration of Jesus and his prayers present some vivid illustrations of what obviously are additions to the original core and also some fleeing impression of the difficult, but glorious way of Jesus’ personal religious life. Let’s look at some of the contrasts.

Consider that portion of the gospel of Mark which tells of the cursing and withering of the fig tree followed by a brief homily on prayer.

On the way from Bethany, Jesus is hungry. Although it is not the season for fig trees to bear fruit, Jesus curses the fig tree for not providing him with food, “may no one ever eat fruit from you again.” The gospel says that the next morning when the disciples passed by again and the tree was found to be withering away, Jesus said, “Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you receive it and you will.” Then a sentence which is incorporated in the Lord’s Prayer is added.

Why question this strange anecdote as being an authentic happening? First of all, it is not true in Jesus’ experience, or yours or mine that if one believes that one receives a favorable answer to prayer, he will. It’s just not so. Then too, the destruction of a fig tree because it did not bear fruit out of season is hardly the act of a good, reasonable person, let alone a redeemer. But, if one was attempting to convince a disbeliever of the magical powers of a supernatural savior, such a legend might be impressive if received thoughtlessly. However, theological bragging is not the equivalent of historical validity.

The more one reads the gospels thoroughly, the more strengthened is the conviction that prayer for Jesus was the height of spiritual experience is not what has generally been taught in the Christian Church.

Perhaps you have noted how many times that for Jesus, prayer was a solitary experience, not a group ceremony. We all have been taught that at Gethsemane, Jesus prayed apart from his sleepy companions. Luke’s gospel (29) tells the story of the Mount of Transfiguration. Again Jesus prays alone while his disciples doze. The references to prayer are surprisingly few and the most intriguing conclusion is that Jesus consistently withdraws to a private place for prayers (Matt. 14/23; Luke 5/16; 9:18)

This is an insight we too frequently neglect. We live group lives, do things as groups – everything from government parleys to business conferences, to labor-management panels, to church buzz-sessions to psychiatric therapeutic groups. With no intention of denigrating the values of group interchange and the achieving of group consensus, attention can be called to Jesus; attitude as one we should not ignore. we are so swallowed up by the busyness of our lives, battered by immediate externals, that we need the experience of solitary reflection. We will benefit by the occasional healthy practice of facing up alone to the larger problems of life.

Call it prayer or what you will, to be alone and honest with ourselves and our God is one of the great disciplines and inspirations of living.

In the account of his solitary prayers, we are catching a glimpse of the real Jesus. This aspect of the prayer life of Jesus should not be forgotten when we consider the most widely used and most misunderstood of all the prayers of the Christian Church – the “Lord’s Prayer.”

Parenthetically, this is always an item for discussion in a Universalist Church. If the prayer is used regularly in the worship service, the question will surely be raised, “Why do we say the Lord’s Prayer?” Those taking this position will make the following case: Although freedom from creed is well-established in our church, most Universalists believe Jesus [was] human. Therefore he is not Lord and God. If, as some of our churches practice, the prayer is named “the prayer of Jesus,” the difficulties remain, because as we shall see, this is not a prayer of Jesus.

When this “Lord’s Prayer” is not used regularly in Universalist worship, then the parallel question is raised, “Why don’t we say it?” The case is made that for years it has been used and nobody has been hurt. Furthermore, that many public schools begin the school day with it, and that it is one of the liturgical and spiritual treasures of any group which had its origin in the historic Christian Church.

Whether or not regular congregational use of the Lord’s Prayer is both consistent with our tradition and desirable for our religious growth should be considered in the context of its origin and development.

The Lord’s Prayer as a part of group worship is not a prayer of Jesus, but a prayer which developed in the Christian Church and had not reached its present form when the gospels were completed. But we need to see what the gospels assert.

Most scholars agree that the basic core of this prayer is found in the first three verses of the 11th chapter of the gospel of Luke, “Jesus was praying in a certain place, and when he ceased, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.’ And he said to them, ‘When you pray, say: Father, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread, and forgive our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us; and lead us not into temptation.”

You will note the brief, prose style. It would seem to indicate that John had taught his disciples a certain specific prayer and that Jesus’ disciples, observing him praying apart, asked him for a form prayer that they might use.

But when we move to Matthew’s gospel, an entirely different situation confronts us. The prayer is poetic and is part of the Sermon on the Mount, which scholars agree is a compilation of sayings attributed to Jesus. It was not a sermon delivered at one time. The context is entirely different from that of Luke. Instead of being a prayer taught for group use, it is precisely and specifically the opposite. Jesus is sternly candid in warning his listeners that this is not a public prayer (Matthew 6:5 ff.)

“Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them; for then you will have no reward when you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites in the synagogues and in the streets that they may be praised by men. Truly, I say to you they have their reward....

“And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward. But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And in praying do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Pray then like this:
Our Father who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread;
and forgive us our debts
As we have also forgiven our debtors,
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.”

If we would follow Matthew, we would not say this prayer publicly at all. If we followed Luke, very little of what is thought of as the Lord’s Prayer would be used. In neither case would we ever use the doxology ending, “for thine is the power and the glory for ever and ever,” for this is in neither version. Almost surely it was a late liturgical doxology added by the Christian Church.

Then, too, many would call attention to Matthew’s version which is unlike Luke’s. Matthew’s gospel says “Pray then like this,” or “after this manner pray,” which would indicate that Jesus was not giving a set of words but a manner of approach. In other words, Jesus might have said, “use my method, but fashion your own prayers.”

People will continue to respond favorably, unfavorably, or neutrally to the group use of the “Lord’s Prayer.” This much seems assured, Jesus would mightily oppose the vain repetition of words. He had nothing but scorn for those who said prayers publicly because it was the thing to do or the acceptable practice to follow.

Furthermore, it should not be forgotten that Jesus was beloved by the poor people and rejects of society. He was hated by those who were rich and powerful and who defended the status quo or Roman occupation. Jesus was crucified, as Morton Enslin says well in his new book, not because he was misunderstood, but because he was understood. Society’s rulers could not abide what he was teaching and could not abide him. Aldous Huxley commended (Devils of Loudun, 767), “the corollary of ‘thy kingdom come’ is ‘our kingdom go.’” So don’t pray “Our Father thy kingdom come,” unless you are conscious that you are praying that our kingdom of war, waste, pride, selfishness, inertia and greed must go. You are praying for drastic, revolutionary change.

Above all, this prayer should not be a badge of conformity for public schools or religious institutions. Jesus was a prophet of God in his own time, believed as did his own age and spoke to his own age. There is much to be learned from Jesus and his prayers, not so much the words for there is no assurance that they were his. But shining throughout the layers of doctrine and liturgy is the purpose of Jesus’ prayers. Jesus prayed for communion with his Father God, to apprehend the conjunction with the great universal source of life and love. In Gethsemane, his agony was great – at first perhaps, he prayed that torture and execution would not strike, “let this cup pass from me, yet not as I will but as Thou will.”

When he had prayed, he received his reward. This was not a reversal of his doom, but a strengthening of his will to continue on the course he believed right.

It has been reported that he said to his sleeping disciples who would not stay awake to watch with him, “watch and pray that you may not be exposed to trial, one’s spirit is eager, but flesh and blood are weak.”

Prayer for Jesus was not only for communion with Father God, or with the reality which is at the heart of everything, but his prayers – note again the solitary nature of the agonizing prayers of hard decision – his prayers were also for the purpose of giving the human spirit command over the fears of the flesh, giving the best part of our nature the upper hand over the temptation to yield to the forces which destroy high values.

The famous preacher, Washington Gladden, once commented, “he who prays only for himself and his immediate family and friends must make his own prayer; the Lord’s prayer will not serve his purpose ... He who thoughtfully takes these words upon his lips takes it at the same time all human wants ....” (told by Robert Luccock, “Daily Meditations,” Christian Herald.)

If we would understand Jesus in his prayers, we must remember that he spoke to his own times and the needs of his times and we cannot be certain of his specific words. But if we would consider this prayer more than a trite convention, we must think of our times, not his, and reach out for that which we hold precious and renew our faithfulness to a world not yet realized, but for which we must acquire the courage and strength so that we may help to make it come true.

Running Into Trouble With God

March 19, 1961
Rochester

God is my subject today. But my object is to trouble you by proposing that uncritical beliefs about God may be shallow enough to wreck the vessel of faith. Furthermore, if your mind moves with your heart, you may discover a new horizon of meaning, for when the little gods are cast away, then, one day, the vision of the one god who is overall and through all and in you all may come to you.

A teacher of religion who is also a psychiatrist, Dr. Earl A. Loomis put it this way (p. 14), “There are three categories of God we must deal with. The first is God as he really is – and this we can’t ever know. The second is the idea of God as he is taught in our churches, the true, pure, gentle, lovely, benevolent, loving God. But there is a third category of God and here’s where we run into trouble. At some point in his life an individual begins to develop a private notion of God.

Consider God as a “private notion” and why it gets us in trouble.

Some years ago in a place far from here, a woman was quite indignant with me when I said that it was difficult for me to imagine God as a person – that while “heavenly father” could convey the image of creator, it was unsatisfactory for me to describe God. This good woman informed me vehemently, “If I didn’t have absolute faith that God was exactly like my dear dead father, why, life would not be worth living.”

This is the private notion of God and it can run into trouble. Human authority, particularly when speaking with too much authority, so that fears envelop the child or wild wishes glorify the parent or restrained hostilities create guilt feelings – all these emotional difficulties can place one’s parent on the throne of God.

There are other kinds of difficulties which run into trouble on this score. Sometimes the person who has a strong, but expressed wish for power over other people, will create for himself a vision of an all-powerful God whose power over people cannot be denied. Thus the god who is worshiped is not the eternal presence of love and creation but the distorted image of one’s power-hungry self.

Even though the maturing effects of a reasonable religion may dilute the self-image which is worshiped as God, these will continue to be the vibration of our self-image distorting the vision of God we seek to worship.

The great mystics of all religions have always claimed that the vision of ultimate reality comes only when our self has been forgotten and thus unencumbered by our [illegible] wishes and secret fears, we are able to contemplate the purity, [illegible], beauty and goodness of all that is.

But the mystic is rare among people and most of us have to contend with the difficulty that the one creating God of absolute goodness may be obscured by a number of lesser trivial gods of our anxieties and greeds. We run into trouble with God because we hold two faiths. One of them official, when we assent to official statements about the historic god of faith. The other faith, privately held, may be polytheistic, worshiping many gods.

A sociologist from another land though that the real god of the American people was the automobile; another distinguished scholar disagreed, saying that the god of middle-class America was the baby; other articles have been written to demonstrate the various gods we tend to worship – the glamorous movie star who is the sex-goddess; the almighty dollar; the god of material success; the god of social standing. Who can look long at the political hurley-burley and not be persuaded that there are many who have deposited all effort and hope on the altar of the god of political power. We have many depositories for our faith and worship.

In the current issue of the Universalist Leader there is a paragraph by Maude Royden about Shinto worship. “In the temples of Shintoism there are no images of gods. High up on the wall, but tilted so the worshiper sees himself reflected in it, there is a looking glass. A Shinto priest explained this by saying that no believer can see more of the godhead than is already in his heart; the mirror in which he sees only himself reminds him of this.”

This Shinto symbol emphasizes the difficulty we have with our personal version of God. True it is, that the believer can really experience God only in himself. But the experience is laborious to one who seeks God, for always our own self is reflected in the mirror of inwardness. We run into trouble unless we remain aware of this inescapable confusion between the self we admire and the true God we seek.

The poet, Edwin Arlington Robinson, once said, “the world is not a prison house but a kind of spiritual kindergarten where millions of bewildered infants are trying to spell ’God’ with the wrong blocks.”

Because the self does get in the way when we try to see God, many persons ignore God except as he may be taught by a religious faith.

The limits of personal freedom are defined by a church which pronounces on matters of faith and morals, or on a church which requires creedal subscription or particular testimony of faith.

Dr. Loomis (THE SELF IN PILGRIMAGE, p. 44) tells the story of the little girl observed by a neighbor. Pushing her doll carriage, she said “hello” as she walked by. Not long afterward she walked by again. Curiosity aroused, the neighbor asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m running away,” the little girl said.

“But,” the man said, “you just seem to be going around the block, around and around and around.”

“Yes, I know,” the little girl answered, “I’m not allowed to cross the street.”

Not only does one not get far when severely limited by the church in what he believes God to be, but also one must recognize how much ideas of God have changed in the history of religious faiths.

Our own Judeo-Christian tradition is replete with these confusing changes. In the law codes of Deuteronomy we read (24/16) that God commanded Moses, “The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers....” In II Samuel (21), however, we read that God had caused the crops to fail and that he was appeased and restored the land only when the descendants of Saul were hanged for his sins.

This is not a contradiction in a divine, unerring book, for we know that this is one instance among many where recognition of historical realities explains the difference. The story in II Samuel is a much older historical strain than the Deuteronomic law code of the 6th century B.C. A more primitive custom of revenge prevailed. The Deuteronomic code reflects a later time and more enlightened ways.

The point is that we run into trouble with God if we believe that he changed his mid about punishing children for the sins of their fathers. The idea of God had become transformed and people attached different moral qualities to him. As the moral standards of the people change, the character of their god alters and reflects the development of their social laws.

Take another instance: (Genesis 32/30) After Jacob’s famous wrestling match by the stream of Jabbok, that patriarch says, “I have seen God face to face and my life is preserved.” But when you turn to the 18th verse of the first chapter of the gospel of John you read “No man hath seen God at any time.” There is no need for laborious and awkward theological devices to reconcile the contradiction. An ancient, [illegible] story is not likely to agree with the elaborate theology of the Hellenized gospel of John, particularly when they are separated in time by considerably more than a thousand years. A different viewpoint about the nature of god should not surprise anyone. It would be ridiculous to argue that God had changed his mind as to whether he had been seen face to face at the river ford of Peniel.

In his book GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING THE BIBLE, Harry Emerson Fosdick has a particularly fine chapter on the “Idea of God and how people’s beliefs about God changed. “

“Beginning with a story god or on a desert mountain, it ends with men saying ’God is spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and truth...

“Beginning with a god whose highest social vision was a tribal victory, it ends with the God whose worshipers pray for a world-wide kingdom of righteousness and peace....”

We run into trouble if we fail to acknowledge that the idea of God changes with people’s beliefs about the ways they want to live. When monarchs ruled their kingdoms, God was regarded a mighty king. As monarchs disappeared when their day had past, so the idea of God changed and people eagerly used Jesus’ concept of Heavenly Father.... As the masculine-dominated family beings to evaporate under the influence of society’s changing place for the status and authority of women, so God is referred to as less and less as the universal male parent. This is more obvious in the growing exaltation given to Mary by the Catholic Church, but there are many other indications as well.

Looked at from the standpoint of the multitude of ideas of God’s nature and power, held in different places in times, we cannot escape the judgment that God is a word-symbol which articulates the hopes and aspirations and prohibitions of a social group.

There is another sobering aspect to the idea of God illustrated by a story told of the famous surgeon, Sir William Asler. He was the honored guest at a London hospital and during the tour of inspection noted the abbreviation system on the patients’ charts. “SF for scarlet fever, TB for tuberculosis, D for diphtheria, and so on. All the illnesses seemed pretty well under control except one indicated by the symbol GOK.

“’I observe,’ said the famous doctor, ’that you have a sweeping epidemic of GOK on your hands. This is a symbol not in common use in American medical circles, just what is GOK?’

“’Oh,’ said one of the doctors, ’when WE can’t diagnose, God Only Knows.’”

As man’s diagnoses have become more informed and accurate, GOK appears less and less – once God was thought to be the thunderstorm and the lightning bolt, his hand touched the avalanche and stirred for the mighty water. Now men know more about these natural forces and do not see God directly in their force.

Does this mean that God is a symbol of our ignorance? That as knowledge grows his kingdom diminishes. Particularly, if we dispel all our scientific ignorance, will we then have no place or need for God?

To think of God as a symbol or a myth is not to denigrate the idea. God, as a symbol, is the way man ventures a grand comprehension of his hope for a high destiny and his commitment to more noble ways of living.

Myths have been defined as “the instruments by which we continually struggle to make our experience intelligible to ourselves. A myth is a large controlling image that gives “philosophic meaning to the facts of ordinary life. Without such images, experience is chaotic, fragmentary.... Myths perform the historical function of religion – they unify experience in a way that is satisfactory to the whole culture and the whole personality.” (MYTHS AND MYTHMAKING, Henry Murray, p. 355).

I was tempted to end the sermon at this point. I said I wanted to trouble you by pointing out the self-images that are reflected in personal ideas of God; attention has been called to a few of the attendant varieties of ways that God is a symbolic myth of central ideas and social controls of cultures.

Of course it is beyond the capacity of human experience, to know God as he really is. Some of you may think me either naïve or sentimental to affirm that one should not halt the search for God because people individually create God in their image or nationally use God as a symbolic premise to secure obedience to society. Our age has become analytical, skeptical of all we cannot see, critical of everything we cannot shape into a material artifact or a balanced equation.

Although we cannot know God as he really is, there are yearnings which may grasp realities not easily subjugated to logical propositions or verifiable experiment. The priestly writer of 1st Chronicles (16/26) might have been thinking along these lines when he notes, “for all the gods of the people are idols, but the Lord made the heavens.”

There is an anecdote printed in the SRL (12/10/60) which is helpful. The reporter’s little nephew said he was going outside to play with God.

“How do you play ball with God?”

“Oh, it’s easy,” the boy replied, “I just throw the ball up and God throws it down to me.”

The little boy knew that there is order and law in the universe. No matter what word symbol we use for ball or God, toss it up, it will come down. There is organized principle in this universe and the marvelous discoveries we make seem to confirm rather than deny that though we ever see through a glass darkly, that shadowed image stirs our hearts to deep ponderings about eternity and our place in a vast scheme of things.

Of course many profound scientists and philosophers see no reason for supposing that a creator god with purpose started it all. Many believe life an accidental alignment of the completely random behavior of atomic particles or amino acids or something. There is no proof to refute that belief.

Some of us, however, obey our hearts and take the leap of faith that behind all the confused experiences of our brief living, there is organized purpose for which our word “intelligent” would be completely inadequate. Or as the persuasive philosopher who wrote the letter to the Hebrews said, (11/3) “Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God.”

This conscious faith does not com to most of us by another’s arguments. I do not believe that a faith in God deep enough to engulf in sensitivity all the vast troubles and fine hopes of this world comes easily with an unquestioned acceptance of routine beliefs. A faith for troubled time sand hopeful hearts comes with the experience of examining our self-images and saying”God is not that”; of looking critically at our national idols and saying, “God is none of these.” Our troubled lines sometimes achieve the blessing of deep faith by the authentic experiences of some aspects of the Creator. In the breathtaking experiences of the beauties of a mountain lake; or the shaking moments when thunderous surf crashes on ancient rock; in the times of higher human communication when persons demonstrate sacrificial [illegible] by their gifts of themselves to great cause; in the sense of presence that exists when one sits with a person whose life is ebbing fast and with eyes dim, but not fearful, looks on the past, present and future; when life begins – on these experiences one is beyond the expression of words but not thereby short off from the search for the presence of God.

Do you know the story of the rich man who wanted to collect jade (Earl Loomis – THE SELF IN PILGRIMAGE, p. 59)? Although rich the man did not relish being cheated, “so he determined to seek instruction in jade grading from the most famous jade connoisseur in the world. Through a friend he was introduced to an expert on jade, and learned that the course consisted of twelve lessons and would cost a thousand dollars.

“That’s all right,” he said, “How do the lessons go?”

“You come here every week.” (p. 58 ff.)

Life is something like that. In our search for the deep things of most meaning, we grow in wisdom and understanding by distinguishing the false by the true and the true by the false. The lessons may be costly and indirect, too. But like Wordsworth in those “Lines Composed Above Tinturn Abbey,” we can persist in

“that serene and blessed mood,
In which the health of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood,
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of Joy,
We see into the life of things.”

APPENDED

Running Into Trouble With God

GOD AND FREUD, Leonard Gross, David McKay Company, Inc. NY, 1959
p. 38-39

“It was his study of psychiatry that finally brought Dr. Earl A. Loomis, M.D., to an understanding of the extreme variations in his religious life. He found out that, like many other people, he had not been taught an adequate conception of God.

“there are three categories of God we must deal with,” he explains now. “The first is God as he really is – and this we can’t ever know. The second is the ideal of God as taught in our churches, the true, pure, gentle, benevolent, loving God. The purest rendering of the religious message gives you this God.

“But there is a third category of God, and here’s where we run into trouble. At some point in his life an individual begins to develop a private notion of God. God is supreme; his father is supreme; therefore God must be like his father, only more so. If the father is rough, unkind, unpleasant, prohibitory then what is God if not all these things?

“God thus becomes an authority; eat this, do that, don’t don’t don’t. God is like the ancient Hebrew God. Yahveh is a jealous God to be feared, a God to whom we must make sacrifice.

"If love of God means destruction of life, then we’re in love with a Moloch."

His reference was to the Canaanite idol to whom children were sacrificed as burnt offerings in biblical times. While such sacrifices are unknown today, Dr. Loomis contends there are uses to which god is put by unenlightened individuals that are virtually as dangerous.
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Edwin Arlington Robinson quoted by Charles Milligan in the Xn Register, “The world is not a prison house but a kind of spiritual kindergarten where millions of bewildered infants are trying to spell ’God’ with the wrong blocks.”