YEARS, centuries, millennia passed, and falteringly man and his thinking advanced. The savage changed his mode of life from that of a wild hunter roaming the jungles alone to that of a shepherd belonging to a tribe. And his risks changed accordingly. He had to worry now not simply about himself: in addition he had to think of his fellow-tribesmen, and of the herds off which he and his fellow-tribesmen lived. That meant an increasing interest in wells where the herds could be [ p. 43 ] watered, and in the sun, moon, and sky which seemed to control the rain. Thus a process of selection and elimination set in among the spirits he worshipped. Some of them (for instance, the spirits of the sun and sky and desert springs) rose to a place of supreme importance, while others (such as the spirits of the arrow and the jungle tiger) fell into neglect and were in time even forgotten.
That process was of course greatly accelerated once man made his next great change — from shepherd to fanner. It rendered his dependence on the elements complete, and the spirits dwelling in the elements perforce became his supreme deities. As a shepherd he had still been a little independent, for he had been able to move his flocks about to catch the rain. He could hardly do that now, however, for he had fields and not flocks any more. So he had to sit by and patiently wait for the rain to catch him. Or else he had to try to force the rain to catch him.
In the beginning he did literally try to force the rain to come to him and his fields. With the aid of his shaman or his fetishes he resorted to all sorts of magic practices. But later, when he got it through his head that not even with his shaman or fetishes could he unfailingly coerce the rain, he tried instead to cajole it into falling. And only when that happened did religion really begin. So long as man was still naive enough to believe that by the possession of some fetish or the utterance of some spell he could force the spirits to do his will, man had not yet advanced beyond unqualified faith in magic. Not until the sharp bludgeonings of repeated failure rendered him a meeker and wiser man, did he [ p. 44 ] begin to put his faith in what may be strictly termed religion. Not until he had grown up sufficiently to suspect that some attempts at coercing the spirits were doomed inevitably to failure, did he begin to try to persuade them instead.
Of course, religion never displaced magic entirely. Man could never bring himself to surrender all his faith in the old technique, and to this day no historical religion on earth is without its adulterations of magic. In all of them there survive at least the relics of old coercive rites; and in all of them there exist originally persuasive prayers that have since taken on the character of coercive spells. The belief, for instance, that the whole substance of a bit of bread and a cup of wine must change into the body and blood of Christ — that belief is quite flagrantly the relic of an old magic rite. Or the belief that any prayer is only efficacious if uttered in a certain place at a certain time in a certain tongue by a certain person, or is. particularly efficacious if concluded with the words “We ask it in Jesus’ name” or some similar formula — such a belief reveals quite obviously the degeneration of a one-time religious petition into a mere magic spell.
But though the technique of religion never managed entirely to supersede the technique of magic, it did succeed in making it of secondary importance. As man’s wisdom increased, his over-assurance deserted him, and he resorted more and more to persuasion in his efforts to get the spirits to do as he desired. In time of drought he offered sacrifices of food and psalms of praise to the sun and moon and sky, or to whatever other spirits it seemed to him might exercise control over the water he needed. (In Egypt, for instance, the sacrifices were offered [ p. 45 ] to the spirit of the Nile, for it was altogether on the annual flooding of that river that the people depended for the watering of their lands.) But man offered them humbly. The naively imperative tone was gone now. Man had grown up and had learnt that he could not get far with magic. . . .
On the whole, man seemed to get along fairly well with the help supposed to come as a result of sacrifice. Of course, in unfavorable climates even sacrifices proved of no avail, and there man was of necessity compelled to remain a nomad. But wherever the climate was not too severe, and of fair regularity, sacrifices seemed to be admirably potent. Nowhere, however, was the climate so mild and the soil so generous that man felt able to dispense with sacrifices entirely. Droughts occurred occasionally and crops failed, even in the most favorable regions. As a result man never quite lost his dread of the tyrannical spirits, or his conviction that they had to be courted perennially. His confidence in their friendship was ever coupled with a lively fear of their fickleness. Indeed, his faith in them was no more secure than that of the pickpocket in the policeman he has just bribed. The primitive husbandman made no move without first casting a furtive glance to see if the “powers” were still well disposed toward him. He never quite’ got to feel that his hard toil alone was enough to make the earth yield its riches. No, he imagined the spirits unfailingly took a hand in the business, and he made no move to cultivate the soil without pausing first to cultivate them. Agriculture with him was more a matter of religion than of science. …
[ p. 46 ]
¶ 2
NOW, it was quite natural for man the farmer to be particularly concerned about the spirits at particular seasons in the year. Spring, when the seed was sown; summer, when the first fruits were gathered; and autumn, when the crops were harvested; these were periods of extraordinary religious importance. It was then that the primitive farmer felt he must make his mightiest efforts to persuade the “powers” to be goo<? to him. And thus arose the seasonal festivals. . . .
The ritual on these festivals was at first’ almost unprintably lewd. The savage imagined that the spirits brought forth the crops much as he himself brought forth children. And for fear the spirits might have forgotten the process of reproduction, or be too bashful to initiate it, he himself went out into the fields and showed the way. Sexual license was therefore religious virtue [ p. 47 ] at most of the seasonal festivals. Either all the men and women went out into the open and lay together under the heavens, or in more advanced communities the priest and one or more virgins went into the temple and lay together before the idols. . . .
But the ritual on these festivals did not consist solely of sex orgies. Usually it included also sacrificial offerings, either human, animal, or cereal. At first these offerings were quite crude and direct. Sacrifices to the water-god were simply thrown into the streams, those to the earth-god were buried in the soil, while those to the sky-god were burned on altars so that the smoke might rise and tickle the nostrils of the heavenly one. But in the course of time, such simple practices were discovered to fail occasionally, and to remedy this, complications were invented. This sinew, let us say, was removed from the sacrificial carcass, or that organ was exposed; the blood was drained off and sprinkled on this or that side of the altar; prayers were recited at this or that stage in the ceremony. … So intricate, indeed, grew the etiquette to be used in approaching the gods, that in time it became impossible for the ordinary man to master it. He had to call on a specialist in the ritual code, a professional sacrificer, to make his offerings for him. Just as men had earlier been forced to employ a shaman or a fetish-maker to perform their magic rites for them, so now they had to employ a priest to fulfill their religious duties. And thus priestcraft came into its fullest power. . . .
Much the same logic that led to seasonal festivals during the year led also to periodic ceremonies during the individual’s lifetime. It was felt that at birth something [ p. 48 ] one to win for the newcomer the favor of nd to that end a sacrifice of one sort or usually offered. (It is possible that circumion in Africa, Australia, Polynesia, as well ic lands, was originally such a sacrifice.) >erty, when sex proclivities first made themdly evident, it was felt that something more had to be done to ensure the favor of the spirits. Elaborate initiation ceremonies were held, and the youths were usually put through ghastly ordeals to prove them worthy both of membership in the tribe, and of protection from the tribal gods. (Confirmation among the Christians, and Bar Mitzvah among the Jews, are really survivals of those old initiations.) Then at marriage it was thought well to invoke the blessing of the spirits. After all, marriage had for its prime purpose the bringing forth of children, and it was believed that, unless the spirits were properly placated to begin with, that prime purpose might be defeated. (That is why some people still regard connubial life to be improper unless ritually [ p. 49 ] consecrated by a minister or priest.) . . . And finally at death it was believed dreadfully dangerous to give umbrage to the spirits. In many places burial rites became almost incredibly elaborate, giving rise — for instance, in Egypt and China — to whole religious systems. . . .
And thus originated the sacraments. . . .
¶ 3
FINALLY we come to the creation of the great gods. Just as the tribal chieftain in time became a king, so the tribal fetish in time became a god. It was a natural evolution. The wild spirit once thought to dwell in a tree or hill was first conjured into a portable fetish, so that the wandering tribesmen might enjoy its protection wherever they moved. (Readers of the Bible will remember how the spirit of Jehovah — or more properly, Yahveh — dwelling in Mt. Sinai, was transferred to a portable “ark” which the primitive Hebrews carried with them on their wanderings.) Later on, when such shepherd wanderers settled down and became farmers, their nomad spirit sometimes settled down with them. (The old “ark” of the bedouin Hebrews was given a resting-place at last in the temple at Jerusalem.) This did not always occur, however, for the mortality rate among deities was exceedingly high during the transition period from pastoral to agricultural life. And even the spirits that did manage to survive, came through completely altered in character. Their functions thenceforth were new ones, and often their names were new, too. Only telltale little atavisms in the ritual remained to betray their nomadic origin.
[ p. 50 ]
But even the lives of the deities surviving that great transition still remained precarious. Indeed, if anything, the mortality rate among them then increased. For now came greater changes than ever before occurred among men, and consequently greater changes had to occur among the gods. Tribes fused. The task of resisting invasion, or of building irrigation dams, compelled many clans to merge, and their customs, myths, and gods had to merge, too. Gods appeared on the scene who were obviously composites, with composite names and composite rituals. And as the population increased, and certain villages grew to be towns, city-states, nations, and finally empires, the jurisdiction of these composite gods grew also. They began to gobble up the little gods of the tributary lands, and thus in time became the almost undisputed lords of millions of worshippers.
Many centuries still had to run their course before anyone could imagine a deity who was the One God of the Universe. Men still continued to be polytheists, believing in many gods. They might pay homage only to one, the god of their own particular tribe. They might consider him the mightiest god of all and picture him as did the Hindus in their grotesque idols, as having arms that reached everywhere and eyes that saw all. But they never denied the existence of other gods sustaining similar relations to other tribes.
Significantly, however, even the mightiest god could not strike so much terror in the heart of civilized man as the rudest idol did in the heart of the savage. Time had dealt hard with fear. Man was still far from able to control his universe, but at least he showed signs of beginning to cope with it. And as a result the “powers” [ p. 51 ] of the universe became less terrifying. Man began to say they were his allies and partners, and if he exalted them extravagantly he did so largely in order to exalt himself. The gods of the nations became simply the divine leaders of the nations, the heavenly kings. . . .
¶ 4
THE idea that the gods were heavenly kings had at least one implication of tremendous importance. Earthly kings were naturally expected to see to the enforcement of the laws of the nation. It was their task to see to it that crime was detected and that criminals were punished. But always certain crimes occurred that could not be detected, just as ever and again some criminals escaped without punishment. Particularly was this so in the newly swollen cities, where policing in the form of neighborly prying was no longer possible. In those new capitals, with their milling, thronging, turbulent populations, morality seemed to have no chance. The taboos which had been strictly kept in the compact little clan came to be transgressed in the cities almost with impunity. For a while the breakdown of society seemed inevitable.
[ p. 52 ]
But the idea that the gods were heavenly kings saved the day. By the logic of analogy it was reasoned that as earthly kings punished crime that was detectable, so heavenly kings punished that which was undetectable. So there really was no chance of avoiding justice ultimately. Neither might nor cunning was of any avail, for even though one escaped the judgment of the earthly king, there was another, the inevitable and inexorable judgment of the god, still to face. The god in the sky [ p. 53 ] saw all and knew all. Not a taboo or a law existed but he was concerned with its enforcement. (Indeed, he was the actual author of all taboos and laws — at least, so it was soon said.) So there was no chance for the transgressor — he could never escape.
And thus was born the idea of sin. Crime, which was really an offense against society, came to be thought of principally as a sin against the god. And because often no one could put his finger on the punishment visited upon the offender by the god, the idea of the conscience arose. The god, it came to be believed, punished the wicked in secret ways, sending evil spirits into them to gnaw at their souls and give them no rest. And when it was seen that many of the wicked seemed quite untroubled by evil consciences, quite unperturbed by secret punishments, then the idea of future suffering was advanced. It was claimed that, even though some of the wicked went scot free in this world, in the next they would not be nearly so fortunate. No, indeed! After death they would get even more than their just due, roasting in flames — -according to the dwellers in torrid lands — or freezing in ice-floes — according to the inhabitants of arctic regions.
The actual course of development out of which were evolved these ideas of sin, conscience, and post-mortem retribution, vras, to be sure, not nearly so simple as is made out here. For centuries man fumbled about to lay hold of these ideas, blundering off into the most pathetic errors, and beating his way back only with the horridest pain. But finally the great task was accomplished, and morality, at the cost of being religionized, was preserved.
[ p. 54 ]
It was no small price to pay. Religion proved in time rather too effective a preservative. It sheltered too extensively and indiscriminately, beeping alive not merely the morals necessary to the life of society, but also every scrap of ancient ritual and savage taboo. Religion developed a tendency to hold on to everything with equal tenacity, allowing for no difference between the slightest rite and the gravest law. Or if it did admit any difference, its verdict was usually in favor of the rite. Priestly teachers were inclined to tell the people that ritual, the proper treatment to be accorded the gods, was decidedly more important than ethics, the proper treatment to be accorded to mere men. What was more injurious, they often taught that all offenses, both against rite and right, could be atoned for in but one way: by sacrifice. Justice, they declared, could always be tempered, and the guilty might perhaps even go scot-free, if only enough rams and fatlings were offered the heavenly judge. . . .
That teaching, naturally enough, proved in time a gigantic obstacle in the path of civilization. Indeed, the whole career of religion among civilized folk is in a measure the story of the struggle to remove that obstacle. In essence it is the story of prophet warring on priest; of him who would moralize religion wrestling with him who had ritualized morals. . . .
¶ 5
BUT though religion may have exacted a high price for its saving of morality, still — it did save it. That is something many people are inclined to forget. They are accustomed to dwell only on the evils, on the [ p. 55 ] thwartings and frustrations, which certain forms of religion in later days brought upon civilization. But it is well to remember that, had it not been for religion and its underlying faith that the universe and its fell “powers” could be controlled, there would not have been any civilization to frustrate. Civilization is but another name for man’s increasing victory over fear — and the first phases of that victory were attained almost solely through religion. Religion was the boot-strap by which man raised himself out of savagery. Or, to return to a metaphor we have already used, it was the bank of reeds to which man clung as often as the dark waters of fear threatened to flood over him. In a very real sense it was his salvation… . .
It was the salvation of society, too. Not merely did religion make it possible for one man to live by himself, but even more did it make it possible for two men to live together. Even the beginnings of society would have been rendered impossible by man’s innate fear simply of the dead — let alone of the living — had religion not come into high standing in the world. At the sight of death, the natural reaction of the savage was flight. Instinctively he wanted to burn the whole village in which the corpse lay, and run! And at first probably he did follow that instinct, and for centuries no camp ever lasted more than a few weeks or months. . . . But then was born the idea of burial rites to placate the spirits of the dead, religious rites that firmly rooted the survivors to the place where the dead were buried. Religion found a way to rob death of a little of its ghastly frightfulness. Villages were now actually created around graves, instead of being burnt down over [ p. 56 ] them. Man, once so terrified by the ghosts that he fled at the least suspicion of their presence, now dared to go right up to them and implore their aid. Ancestorworship arose. Tribes often depended for their solidarity upon the sole bond of supposed descent from a common ancestor. Failing that, the tie that served to hold them together was a common ritual. Ceremonies at birth, puberty, marriage, and death were the things that bound those clansmen into a compact group. The same was true of the annual festivals. And thus, by and with religion, the living together of men was made possible. . . .
More than that: by and with religion the living together of men was made not merely possible, but also desirable. Religion clothed and adorned the cold nakedness of primitive existence with shreds and patches of beauty. All that grace and color which transmutes mere existence into Life — in a word, all Art — may truly be said to have arisen out of religion. Sculpture had its origin in idol-making, architecture in temple-building, poetry in prayer-writing, music in psalm-singing, drama in legend-telling, and dancing in the seasonal worship of the gods. . . .
It may seem to us incredibly rude, this conglomeration of terrors and hopes, of clutchings and gropings, of stupidities and yearnings, which for want of a better name we call Primitive Religion. But for all that it was holy — for it saved mankind. . . .