Religion in Three Views

"A thoughtful and elegant writer once observed that religion can be considered in three different ways.

As a system of opinions, its only goal is truth. Reason is the faculty involved here, exercised through the freest and most impartial inquiry.

As a principle regulating conduct, religion is a habit. Like all habits, it grows slowly and gains strength only through repeated practice.

But religion can also be seen as a taste—an affair of sentiment and feeling. In this sense, it is properly called devotion. It resides in the imagination and the passions. Its source is that natural relish for the sublime, the vast, and the beautiful—the same sensibility that lets us enjoy poetry and other works that speak to our finer emotions. This feeling is heightened by a sense of gratitude for personal blessings.

 Devotion is to a large degree constitutional; it is not found in exact proportion to a person’s moral virtue.

It is this third view of religion—the devotional, affectionate side—that the following observations address. 

While almost everyone acknowledges religion’s value as a rule of life and its teachings have been defended with plenty of zeal, its emotional side is languishing. The spirit of devotion is at a very low ebb among us. 

Surprisingly, it has fallen into a kind of contempt and is treated with indifference by many people who pride themselves on the purity of their beliefs and the sweetness of their morals.

Religious affections rise and fall with our moods and are strongly influenced by anything that affects the imagination. They can therefore run into strange excesses. When shaped by a melancholy or overly enthusiastic faith, they can overwhelm a weak mind or delicate constitution. For this reason, many genuinely pious people have almost banished strong emotion from religious worship. Our age tends to allow little room for sentiment. All warm and generous emotions are dismissed as romantic by the supercilious gaze of a cold-hearted philosophy. 

The man of science, with an air of superiority, leaves such matters to florid preachers who stir up the passions of the lower classes—where devotion is so mixed with noise and nonsense that it naturally disgusts more refined and better-informed minds.

Yet there exists a noble devotion—generous, liberal, and humane—that springs from higher feelings than narrow minds can grasp. It raises human beings toward higher natures and lifts them “above this visible diurnal sphere.” Its pleasures are of the highest kind. 

When cultivated early, they remain vivid even in later life, when some passions have cooled, imagination has faded, and the heart begins to contract. Those who lack this taste are missing a genuine sense—a part of their nature—and should not presume to judge feelings they can never experience. 

No one claims to be a judge of poetry or the fine arts without both a natural and a cultivated appreciation for them. Why, then, should the narrow-minded children of earth, absorbed in low pursuits, dare to dismiss as visionary those things they have never taken the trouble to understand? Silence on such subjects would suit them better.

The present purpose is not to defend the pleasures of devotion to those who have neither taste nor knowledge of them. Instead, it is worth asking: what causes have weakened religious impressions among people who hold steady principles and are well disposed toward virtue?

The Damage Done by Constant Disputation

Nothing is more harmful to the feelings of a devout heart than the habit of arguing about religious subjects. Free inquiry is certainly necessary to establish a rational belief. But a disputatious spirit and fondness for controversy give the mind a skeptical turn, making it quick to question even the most established truths. It is impossible to maintain the deep reverence we ought to feel toward the Deity when all His attributes—even His very existence—are tossed about in familiar debate. Candor requires that we grant an opponent complete freedom of speech, yet in the heat of discussion it is hard to avoid careless or irreverent expressions. As a result, people who think about religion less often, often treat it with more respect than those whose profession keeps it constantly before them. A plain, serious person would likely be shocked to hear religious questions handled with the casual ease common among practiced theologians or lively young academics fresh from logic and metaphysics classes.

Just as the ear loses its delicacy when constantly exposed only to coarse language, so our veneration for religion wears away when we hear it treated lightly—even when we ourselves are defending it. This explains why many who have strengthened their intellectual belief in religion have never recovered the strong, affectionate sense of it they once possessed. They are surprised to find their devotion weaker precisely when their faith is better grounded.

Strong reasoning powers and quick, deep feelings rarely coexist in the same person. Those of a scientific turn seldom open their hearts fully to impression. Preoccupied with their own systems, they may attend religious services, but they remain on guard, constantly checking whether every sentiment aligns with their particular tenets.

The spirit of inquiry is easily distinguished from the spirit of disputation. A state of doubt is painful, anxious, and distressing. It naturally produces humility and modesty. Anyone who has not yet settled their opinions on important matters, if they are seeking truth honestly, will proceed with deep humility, genuine earnestness, and serious attention to every argument. Such a person will prefer to ponder ideas privately rather than use them as ammunition for debate.

Even with these good dispositions, it is fortunate when a person does not need to make sweeping changes to the religious system they have embraced. A total revolution in belief usually shocks the religious feelings so severely that they seldom regain their original strength and tone."

Anna Letitia Barbaund.

 

This allegory, loosely taken from Greek mythology, 

explains the origin and purpose of pity.

"In humanity's innocent "Golden Age," 

Love and Joy were meant to be united forever.

 But after people fell into sin and corruption, 

heaven withdrew from the earth. 

Love remained, but instead of marrying Joy, 

he was commanded to marry Sorrow. 

Their daughter was Pity, 

who inherited her father's tenderness and her mother's sadness.

Pity is gentle, compassionate, and deeply moved by suffering. 

She teaches people to weep, not because sorrow is good in itself, 

but because tears soften the heart and awaken compassion. 

Her mission is to follow Sorrow wherever she goes, 

healing the wounds that suffering leaves behind 

and comforting the brokenhearted.

The story ends with the promise that Pity and Sorrow are only temporary. 

Because Sorrow is mortal, she and Pity will one day pass away, 

and Love will finally be reunited with Joy, as was always intended.

Central meaning: Human suffering has disrupted the original harmony of creation, 

but it has also given birth to pity—

the compassionate love that comforts those who suffer. 

Pity exists only because sorrow exists, and when sorrow finally ends, 

pity will no longer be needed. 

Love and Joy will once again reign together."

Anna Lititia Barbauld. 

 

"A king once offered a reward for anyone who could invent a new pleasure. The author suggests that the person who invented a truly new form of torture or horror would actually deserve more praise from writers of entertainment.

The goal of this essay is to explore why some kinds of suffering feel satisfying or moving when shown in stories, while others simply repel us. Plain, unfiltered misery is never enjoyable to watch. We do feel strong sympathy for suffering, but that sympathy is just raw pain—similar to what we’d feel ourselves, only milder. It doesn’t produce the warm, melting sorrow we call pity. These are two different emotions with very different physical signs: Raw sympathetic pain makes us tense up, shudder, and grimace.

True pity relaxes the face, softens the features, and brings tears.

When we step on a disgusting bug, we may flinch in shared discomfort, but it’s nothing like the tender sadness we feel for Odysseus’s old dog, who recognized his master after twenty years, wagged his tail, and died. 

Extreme physical agony, by itself, doesn’t make good tragedy. Watching someone scream from a toothache or undergo surgery would not be moving—it would just be horrible. 

For suffering to become pleasing or produce real pity, it needs something else mixed in: love, admiration, or beauty of character. We need to care about the person and respect them.        Their pain and danger then make their virtues more touching. Tears come more from tenderness than from sorrow alone. Tenderness can make us cry even in moments of joy.        In fact, any distress that brings tears almost always contains some hidden pleasure. 

Pure suffering without any redeeming quality simply hurts."

Anna Latitia Barbauld.

 Jail joys

One of life's greatest pleasures is sharing the joy of discovery. And when you have a group of men in front of you where the only shred of self-esteem left in them is if they are perceived as tough, macho and worldly wise. I've long since learned they don't need to be told they are sinners, the heart of every inmate is vividly aware of their sins.

 The guilt and toxic shame is hidden behind walls of pride and bravado and they need not be reminded. Oh! but what they haven't heard is that Christ seeks the boy in them, the child that desperately needs to be told they have value, they matter, they actually have a Father, unlike theirs that came home with whiskey breath, seeking to find fault, any fault. When the truck parks that brought Dad home from work, it was something that sent fear and alarm and they rushed to their room or out the back door. When you hear your mother futilely try to pacify his ill nature and hot temper before it breaks into violence, as the shrieks and sounds of things breaking resulting in your own mother huddled in a flood of tears. And you sit utterly helpless, feeling a weight of guilt no child should ever shoulder. 

Soothing a sin sick soul, offering hope to the hopeless, lifting up the downcast, these are the joys of sharing the gospels life affirming message that sends rays of light and hope into hardened and parched souls. To have the joy and privilege of waving the blood stained banner over the least, last and lost;  watching a beam of light come into their eyes, hope in hopelessness, man! give me Jesus! let me share the "old, old story how a Savior came from glory, how He gave His life on Calvary to save a wretch like me."

                          

The following quote by Jeremy Taylor

asks us to consider the folly of intemperance.

The meaning of intemperance is commonly used to describe

excessive indulgence of bodily appetites—

such as overeating, or more specifically,

the habitual or excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages.

The term can also apply to unrestrained behavior.

It only takes nature’s leftovers.

Once the belly is full and the body wants no more,

any pleasure that follows turns quickly to disgust and loathing.

“Certain it is, intemperance feeds only on nature's leftovers.

When the belly is full, any pleasure that follows is close to disgust.

It is like the taste of rich food at the end of a third course,

or the sweetness of honey to one who has eaten until he can bear no more.

The difference between the intemperate man

and one who dies from another cause is like

the ancient story of the Phalangia:

some serpents were said to make men die laughing,

and others to die weeping.

So the intemperate man and the one wasting away from disease both die certainly;

but one dies laughing, the other weeping.

All his excessive pleasure is nothing but the sting of a serpent

honey mixed with poison.

It wounds the heart, and he dies like one bitten by a tarantula, dancing and singing until he bows his head and kisses his breast with the fatal nodding of death.”

[According to an old European belief, the bite of a tarantula caused people to dance frantically until they collapsed or died.]

 

 

I'm a Christian, and I'm reasonably content to define my faith as Protestant. That being said I'm always moved by the charitable spirit among the Catholics. 

I read this piece this morning by a Protestant paying due respect to the many virtues of the Catholic church. This was written in the 1800's. 

"The Daughters of Mercy, founded in 1660 for the relief of the sick poor, along with other orders for instructing their children, must have been peculiarly suited to the softness and compassion of the sex. To this it is no doubt owing that, still in Catholic countries, ladies of the highest rank often visit the hospitals and houses of the poor. They wait on them with the most tender assiduity, performing duties that our Protestant ladies would be shocked even to think of, such as direct physical care such as:

• Washing the bodies of the sick and dying

• Changing soiled bedding and clothes

• Dressing wounds and ulcers

• Assisting with bodily functions (cleaning patients who were incontinent, vomiting, etc.)

• Preparing bodies of the dead for burial

These were gritty, unpleasant nursing tasks that went far beyond simply donating money or organizing charity.

This reflects a common 18th-century Protestant view: admiration for Catholic charitable institutions mixed with mild criticism of what they saw as excessive or socially inappropriate involvement by upper-class women.

No question, the charitable work of the Catholics has been a huge influence on my faith. 

 

A word to the wise - 

"Just as faces differ in appearance, so people differ in character, and one person's strengths cannot be expected in another. A man who is calm, self-disciplined, and faithfully does his duty may not be deeply moved by sympathy or warm friendship. Don't expect him to greet you with great enthusiasm or display an affectionate, expressive heart. 

On the other hand, someone known for passionate zeal, unwavering integrity, and boldness in confronting evil may also be blunt, lacking social polish and tact, sometimes wounding others by speaking hard truths without gentleness.

One fault of modern society is that people of different classes and professions have become so alike that distinctive characters are less common. We have fewer eccentrics, but also fewer truly original people. Everyone is expected to know a little about everything and to conform to fashionable manners, leaving little room for deep expertise or strong individuality. The result is a society that is polished, but often dull and uniform.

Let us study human nature. The person who understands it knows what to expect from each individual—wise advice from one, heartfelt sympathy from another, and pleasant company from someone else. Such a person understands the motives and weaknesses of others and can make allowance for them as naturally as an engineer accounts for friction or a navigator for a compass's slight imperfections."

Anna Latitia Barbauld. 

 I've begun watching "A Woman of Substance," the story of Emma Harte, a young woman who begins life as an impoverished Yorkshire maid in the early 1900s. 

Within the first two episodes I was completely captivated by her. She is tender-hearted, sweet, innocent, and quietly determined to rise above grinding poverty.

There are scenes in which she is utterly humiliated by the wealthy, overbearing employers whose home she serves as a lowly maid. 

They are blind to her dignity, character, and worth. At times she is reduced to tears and helplessness, and I found myself overwhelmed with compassion, weeping with her and for her.  

My heart nearly burst with compassion for her, and I found myself thinking, It's just a movie. Yet everything within me longed to help her.

Then it dawned on me that, although I cannot help Emma Harte, I have the privilege each week of bringing words of faith, hope, and solace to the men and women in the jail. 

Though each person's story is different, many have endured circumstances just as brutal—and often far worse.

I may be qualified only to serve "the crumbs from the Master's table," but even those crumbs can bring life and healing.

We often want the rewards others enjoy

without paying the price they paid to obtain them.

This passage reminds us that every worthwhile pursuit has its own cost. Wealth, knowledge, purity, influence, integrity, and peace each require different sacrifices,

and no one can possess them all in equal measure.

The wise person chooses what is truly worth pursuing, gladly accepts its cost, and does not envy those who have chosen a different path.

"Are godliness and knowledge the pearl of great price?

This too may be purchased—

by steady application and long, solitary hours of study and reflection.

Give these, and you shall become godly and wise.

"But," says the scholar,

"what a hardship it is that many a sinful and uneducated man, who cannot even read the motto on his own coach, should make a fortune and gain distinction, while I have little more than life's ordinary comforts."

And yet, was it to make a fortune that you spent the bright hours of youth in study and retirement?

Was it to become rich that you wore yourself out over the midnight lamp, drawing sweetness from the Bible and literatures classics?

If so, you have mistaken your path and misdirected your efforts.

"What reward, then, have I for all my labor?"

What reward?

A holy life and a broad and cultivated mind, freed from vulgar fears, restless passions, and prejudice; able to understand and interpret the works of God and of man.

A rich and flourishing intellect, filled with inexhaustible stores of reflection and delight.

A perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the quiet dignity of superior understanding.

Good heaven! What greater reward could you ask?

"But is it not a reproach to Providence that such a mean and dirty fellow should amass wealth enough to buy half a nation?"

Not at all.

He made himself a mean and dirty fellow for that very purpose.

He paid for it with his health, his conscience, and his freedom.

Will you envy such a bargain?

Will you hang your head because he surpasses you in wealth and display?

Lift it with quiet confidence and say to yourself:

I do not possess these things because I have neither sought nor desired them.

I possess something better. I have chosen my portion, and I am content.

You are a modest person. You love quiet and independence, and possess a reserve that makes it impossible for you to elbow and push your way through the world or proclaim your own merits.

Be content, then,

with sweet communion with Christ,

with a modest life,

the esteem of close friends,

the approval of a blameless heart,

and the peace of an honest and generous spirit.

Leave the world's glittering honors to those more willing to scratch and scramble for them."

I'm aware this isn't doctrinal perfection, but the overall message is echoed through the entire Bible.

 

"The writer of stories has one advantage over those who entertain with clever wit or vivid poetry. 

Wit depends on surprising combinations of ideas, 

and poetry requires an imagination that can appreciate its brilliance. 

But stories drawn from ordinary life speak to everyone, 

because everyone recognizes the people and experiences they portray. 

We may not all share a poet's imagination, but we all understand the realities of everyday life.

The same principle applies to preaching. 

A sermon may display deep theology, elegant language, or remarkable insight, 

but if it never connects with the ordinary experiences of life, 

it will remain beyond the reach of many listeners. 

Jesus, the Master Preacher, did not merely explain heavenly truths—

He clothed them in the familiar scenes of everyday life: 

seeds and soils, shepherds and sheep, fathers and sons, vineyards and fishing nets. 

He brought eternal realities into the common experiences of ordinary people.

The preacher's task is not to dilute truth but to embody it in everyday life. 

Doctrine must descend from the mind to the heart. 

People understand grace when they see forgiveness, 

faith when they witness trust in suffering, 

and repentance when they recognize the story of their own wandering. 

The greatest sermons are not those that merely impress the intellect, 

but those that help people recognize themselves and, through that recognition, 

see Christ more clearly."

“Few can reason, but all can feel.” 

The idle and the gay relieve the restlessness of leisure, and diversify the round of life, 

by a rapid series of events pregnant with rapture and astonishment.

 

It is no surprise that the mind is charmed by imagination and drawn to pleasure. 

But that we willingly listen to the groans of misery, 

delight in scenes of profound anguish, 

chill our hearts with imagined fears, 

and fill our eyes with fictional sorrow 

seems a paradox of the human heart—

believable only because it is universally experienced. 

Many explanations have been offered for why the mind to riot and delight in this kind of intellectual luxury. 

Some believe we bear our own troubles more patiently 

after seeing lives marked by even greater suffering, 

just as the faintest twilight seems bright after emerging from deep darkness. 

Others, with greater subtlety, suggest we willingly take on imagined sorrows 

in order to savor the awareness of our own...

It would exceed the limits of this paper to examine these views in detail. 

Let it be remembered, however, that we are often more drawn to scenes 

that stir our passions and curiosity 

than those that merely delight the imagination. 

So far from being indifferent to the sufferings of others, we become, for a time, 

forgetful of our own. 

Nor should those who pride themselves on wisdom 

be too quick to condemn works 

that engage both the imagination and the heart. 

They teach us to think by teaching us to feel; 

they stir the mind through powerful emotions 

and keep thought from growing stagnant 

by introducing fresh ideas and perspectives.

 Anna Laetitia Barbauld.