Religion and Science From Galileo to Bergson

Project Gutenberg's Religion and Science, by John Charlton Hardwick

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: Religion and Science

From Galileo to Bergson

Author: John Charlton Hardwick

Release Date: April 5, 2011 [EBook #35772]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGION AND SCIENCE ***

Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive)

RELIGION AND SCIENCE

RELIGION AND SCIENCE

FROM GALILEO TO BERGSON

BY

JOHN CHARLTON HARDWICK

Philosophy will always be hard, and what it promises even in the end is no clear theory nor any complete understanding or vision. But its certain reward is a continual evidence and a heightened apprehension of the ineffable mystery of life, of life in all its complexity and all its unity and worth.

F. H. Bradley, Essays in Truth and Reality, p. 106.

LONDON

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE

NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.

1920

TO

MY FATHER

PREFACE

The chapters which follow are not intended as even a slight sketch of the history of Thought since the Renaissance. Their object is more modest, i.e. to illustrate the thesis that mankind, being incurably religious, insists (however hopeless the enterprise may sometimes seem) upon interpreting the universe spiritually.

Thus it is quite natural that only a few typical names should find their places here: and often no sufficient reason may appear for one being included rather than another. For instance, in the tenth chapter, T. H. Green, F. H. Bradley, and A. J. Balfour are mentioned, while Martineau and the Cairds are passed over. Needless to say, there was no doctrinal prejudice here. Again, in the fourth chapter, Pascal is dealt with at some length, but Boehme, an equally important thinker, is ignored. And so on.

I should like to acknowledge here my obligation to Dr. Mercer, Canon of Chester, for his advice upon books, especially with regard to material for the final chapters. Also to the Rev. H. D. A. Major, Principal of Ripon Hall, for suggestions about the general plan of the book; and to the Rev. E. Harvey (a mathematical graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, at present studying medicine) for valuable information about the present position of psychic research.

J. C. H.

Altringham, March 23rd, 1920.

RELIGION AND SCIENCE

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY. RELIGION AND SCIENCE

Numerous attempts to define religion have made it evident that religion is indefinable. We may, however, say this much about it, that religion is an attitude towards life: a way of looking at existence. It is true that this definition is too wide, and includes things which are not religion—there are certain attitudes to life which are definitely anti-religious—that of the materialist, for instance. However, it will serve a purpose, and we can improve upon it as we proceed. It is a mistake to put too much faith in definitions: at any rate it is better to have our definitions (if have them we must) too wide than too narrow.

Science is, fortunately, much easier to define. Accurate and systematic knowledge is what we mean by science—knowledge about anything, provided that the facts are (so far as possible) accurately described and systematically classified. Professor Karl Pearson, the highest authority on the principles of scientific method and theory, writes:

The man who classifies facts of any kind whatever, who sees their mutual relation and describes their sequences, is applying the scientific method and is a man of science. The facts may belong to the past history of mankind, to the social statistics of our great cities, to the atmosphere of the most distant stars, to the digestive organs of a worm, or to the life of a scarcely visible bacillus. It is not facts themselves which make science, but the method by which they are dealt with. The material of science is co-extensive with the whole physical universe, not only that universe as it now exists, but with its past history and the past history of all life therein. When every fact, every present or past phenomenon of that universe, every phase of present or past life therein, has been classified, and co-ordinated with the rest, then the mission of science will be completed.[1]

Science, then, is systematic and accurate knowledge; and when we have systematic and accurate knowledge about everything there is to be known, the programme of science will be complete. This is only to say that the task it has set itself is one that will never end.

So much, then, for our definitions. Religion is an attitude to life: science is systematic and accurate knowledge. How does the one affect the other? What are the relations between the two? That is the topic which will occupy our attention during the chapters that follow. To answer the question properly will involve a certain amount of acquaintance with the history of ideas. We must first put the preliminary question: How, as a matter of fact, have men's scientific ideas affected their religious ideas (or vice versa) in times past? Having tried to answer this question, we shall be in a better position to approach the religious problem as it presents itself to-day.

Meanwhile a few remarks of a general character will not be out of place. It is evident that science can hardly fail to affect religion. Systematised knowledge necessarily affects an individual's (or a society's) attitude to life—either by broadening and elevating that attitude, or by debasing it. Our knowledge, or what we believe to be such, tends to create certain preconceptions which make our minds hostile to certain beliefs or ideas. A man reared from his cradle on mechanical science will tend to regard miracles with suspicion; if he be logical (as he generally is not) freedom of the will, even in the most limited sense, will appear chimerical. Nor will his general attitude to life remain unaffected by his views on these points.

Systematised knowledge may thus conceivably come into conflict with the presuppositions or the ideals of some particular religion. It is then that a religious problem arises. A religion indissolubly associated with a geocentric conception of the universe would tend to become discredited as soon as that conception had been disposed of by systematic knowledge. Science may even tend to produce an attitude to life hostile not only to a particular religion but to all religion. If materialism should ultimately be found to be consistent with systematic and accurate knowledge, it is difficult to see how any attitude to life which could be appropriately described as religion could survive. The religious problem would then, at any rate, cease to trouble us. The religious apologists would be free to turn their attention to matters of more moment. But it is not only with the cessation of religion that the religious problem slumbers. There are certain happy periods when religion flourishes undisturbed by obstinate questionings. These classical ages of religion exist when systematised knowledge seems to support the contemporary religious outlook—when science and religion speak with one voice. Such unanimity seems to us to-day too good to be possible, but that is only because our own age is exceptional—not because those happier ages were exceptional; they, in fact—if we trace history backwards—would seem rather to have been the rule.

Primitive man, it would seem, was troubled by no discords of the kind which disturb our peace. His systematic knowledge—such as it was—was entirely in accord with his religion, the two were, in fact, in his case practically one. His science was his religion. It may not have been very sound science, nor very elevated religion, but it served his purpose admirably. He was too busy with the struggle for survival to indulge in speculation. His religion was severely practical, and he was faithful to it because experience seemed to indicate that it paid.

But the Stone Age hardly deserves (in spite of its freedom from religious difficulties) to be described as one of the classical ages of religion; absence of struggle does not necessarily mean richness of life. There are ages which better deserve that appellation. There are times when all existing culture—even of a high level—is closely associated with the current religion, endorses its ideals, sanctions its hopes, puts the stamp of finality upon its faith. Such an age cannot perhaps hope to be permanent; for life means movement, and movement upsets equilibrium, and human knowledge tends to increase faster than the human mind can adapt itself to it or digest it. But such ages are looked back upon with regret when they are past, they shed a golden radiance over history, their tradition lingers, they even leave behind them monuments of art and literature which are the wonder,