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love is far better than either common sensuality or cold self-centredness.
But, as I said before, "the most dangerous thing you can do is to take any
one impulse of our own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow
at all costs." Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing.
There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You
cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is
still a feeling. Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full
intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last,
habits can last; but feelings come and go. And in fact, whatever people say,
the state called "being in love" usually does not last. If the old fairytale
ending "They lived happily ever after" is taken to mean "They felt for the
next fifty years exactly as they felt the day before they were married,"
then it says what probably never was nor ever could be true, and would be
highly undesirable if it were. Who could bear to live in that excitement for
even five years? What would become of your work, your appetite, your sleep,
your friendships? But, of course, ceasing to be "in love" need not mean
ceasing to love. Love in this second sense-love as distinct from "being in
love" is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will
and deliberately strengthened by habit; reinforced by (in Christian
marriages) the grace which both parents ask, and receive, from God. They can
have this love for each other even at those moments when they do not like
each other; as you love yourself even when you do not like yourself. They
can retain this love even when each would easily, if they allowed
themselves, be "in love" with someone else. "Being in love" first moved them
to promise fidelity: this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It
is on this love that the engine of marriage is run: being in love was the
explosion that started it.
If you disagree with me, of course, you will say, "He knows nothing
about it, he is not married." You may quite possibly be right. But before
you say that, make quite sure that you are judging me by what you really
know from your own experience and from watching the lives of your friends,
and not by ideas you have derived from novels and films. This is not so easy
to do as people think. Our experience is coloured through and through by
books and plays and the cinema, and it takes patience and skill to
disentangle the things we have really learned from life for ourselves.
People get from books the idea that if you have married the right
person you may expect to go on "being in love" for ever. As a result, when
they find they are not, they think this proves they have made a mistake and
are entitled to a change-not realising that, when they have changed, the
glamour will presently go out of the new love just as it went out of the old
one. In this department of life, as in every other, thrills come at the
beginning and do not last. The sort of thrill a boy has at the first idea of
flying will not go on when he has joined the R.A.F. and is really learning
to fly. The thrill you feel on first seeing some delightful place dies away
when you really go to live there. Does this mean it would be better not to
learn to fly and not to live in the beautiful place? By no means. In both
cases, if you go through with it, the dying away of the first thrill will be
compensated for by a quieter and more lasting kind of interest. What is more
(and I can hardly find words to tell you how important I think this), it is
just the people who are ready to submit to the loss of the thrill and settle
down to the sober interest, who are then most likely to meet new thrills in
some quite different direction. The man who has learned to fly and becomes a
good pilot will suddenly discover music; the man who has settled down to
live in the beauty spot will discover gardening.
This is, I think, one little part of what Christ meant by saying that a
thing will not really live unless it first dies. It is simply no good trying
to keep any thrill: that is the very worst thing you can do. Let the thrill
go-let it die away-go on through that period of death into the quieter
interest and happiness that follow -and you will find you are living in a
world of new thrills all the time. But if you decide to make thrills your
regular diet and try to prolong them artificially, they will all get weaker
and weaker, and fewer and fewer, and you will be a bored, disillusioned old
man for the rest of your life. It is because so few people understand this
that you find many middle-aged men and women maundering about their lost
youth, at the very age when new horizons ought to be appearing and new doors
opening all round them. It is much better fun to learn to swim than to go on
endlessly (and hopelessly) trying to get back the feeling you had when you
first went paddling as a small boy.
Another notion we get from novels and plays is that "falling in love"
is something quite irresistible; something that just happens to one, like
measles. And because they believe this, some married people throw up the
sponge and give in when they find themselves attracted by a new
acquaintance. But I am inclined to think that these irresistible passions
are much rarer in real life than in books, at any rate when one is grown up.
When we meet someone beautiful and clever and sympathetic, of course we
ought, in one sense, to admire and love these good qualities. But is it not
very largely in our own choice whether this love shall, or shall not, turn
into what we call "being in love"? No doubt, if our minds are full of novels
and plays and sentimental songs, and our bodies full of alcohol, we shall
turn any love we feel into that kind of love: just as if you have a rut in
your path all the rainwater will run into that rut, and if you wear blue
spectacles everything you see will turn blue. But that will be our own
fault.
Before leaving the question of divorce, I should like to distinguish
two things which are very often confused. The Christian conception of
marriage is one: the other is the quite different question-now far
Christians, if they are voters or Members of Parliament, ought to try to
force their views of marriage on the rest of the community by embodying them
in the divorce laws. A great many people seem to think that if you are a
Christian yourself you should try to make divorce difficult for every one. I
do not think that. At least I know I should be very angry if the Mohammedans
tried to prevent the rest of us from drinking wine. My own view is that the
Churches should frankly recognise that the majority of the British people
are not Christians and, therefore, cannot be expected to live Christian
lives. There ought to be two distinct kinds of marriage: one governed by the
State with rules enforced on all citizens, the other governed by the Church
with rules enforced by her on her own members. The distinction ought to be
quite sharp, so that a man knows which couples are married in a Christian
sense and which are not
So much for the Christian doctrine about the permanence of marriage.
Something else, even more unpopular, remains to be dealt with. Christian
wives promise to obey their husbands. In Christian marriage the man is said
to be the "head." Two questions obviously arise here, (1) Why should there
be a head at all -why not equality? (2) Why should it be the man?
(1) The need for some head follows from the idea that marriage is
permanent Of course, as long as the husband and wife are agreed, no question
of a head need arise; and we may hope that this will be the normal state of
affairs in a Christian marriage. But when there is a real disagreement, what
is to happen? Talk it over, of course; but I am assuming they have done that
and still failed to reach agreement What do they do next? They cannot decide
by a majority vote, for in a council of two there can be no majority.
Surely, only one or other of two things can happen: either they must
separate and go their own ways or else one or other of them must have a
casting vote. If marriage is permanent, one or other party must, in the last
resort, have the power of deciding the family policy. You cannot have a
permanent association without a constitution.
(2) If there must be a head, why the man? Well, firstly, is there any
very serious wish that it should be the woman? As I have said, I am not
married myself, but as far as 1 can see, even a woman who wants to be the
head of her own house does not usually admire the same state of things when
she finds it going on next door. She is much more likely to say "Poor Mr. X!
Why he allows that appalling woman to boss him about the way she does is
more than I can imagine." I do not think she is even very nattered if anyone
mentions the fact of her own "headship." There must be something unnatural
about the rule of wives over husbands, because the wives themselves are half
ashamed of it and despise the husbands whom they rule. But there is also
another reason; and here I speak quite frankly as a bachelor, because it is
a reason you can see from outside even better than from inside. The
relations of the family to the outer world-what might be called its foreign
policy-must depend, in the last resort, upon the man, because he always
ought to be, and usually is, much more just to the outsiders. A woman is
primarily fighting for her own children and husband against the rest of the
world. Naturally, almost, in a sense, rightly, their claims override, for
her, all other claims. She is the special trustee of their interests. The
function of the husband is to see that this natural preference of hers is
not given its head. He has the last word in order to protect other people
from the intense family patriotism of the wife. If anyone doubts this, let
me ask a simple question. If your dog has bitten the child next door, or if
your child has hurt the dog next door, which would you sooner have to deal
with, the master of that house or the mistress? Or, if you are a married
woman, let me ask you this question. Much as you admire your husband, would
you not say that his chief failing is his tendency not to stick up for his
rights and yours against the neighbours as vigorously as you would like? A
bit of an Appeaser?
I said in a previous chapter that chastity was the most unpopular of
the Christian virtues. But I am not sure I was right I believe the one I
have to talk of today is even more unpopular: the Christian rule, "Thou
shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Because hi Christian morals "thy
neighbour" includes "thy enemy," and so we come up against this terrible
duty of forgiving our enemies. Every one says forgiveness is a lovely idea,
until they have something to forgive, as we had during the war. And then, to
mention the subject at all is to be greeted with howls of anger. It is not
that people think this too high and difficult a virtue: it is that they
think it hateful and contemptible. "That sort of talk makes them sick," they
say. And half of you already want to ask me, "I wonder how you'd feel about
forgiving the Gestapo if you were a Pole or a Jew?"
So do I. I wonder very much. Just as when Christianity tells me that I
must not deny my religion even to save myself from death by torture, I
wonder very much what I should do when it came to the point. I am not trying
to tell you in this book what I could do-I can do precious little-I am
telling you what Christianity is. I did not invent it. And there, right in
the middle of it, I find "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those that sin
against us." There is no slightest suggestion that we are offered
forgiveness on any other terms. It is made perfectly dear that if we do not
forgive we shall not be forgiven. There are no two ways about it. What are
we to do?
It is going to be hard enough, anyway, but I think there are two things
we can do to make it easier. When you start mathematics you do not begin
with the calculus; you begin with simple addition. In the same way, if we
really want (but all depends on really wanting) to learn how to forgive,
perhaps we had better start with something easier than the Gestapo. One
might start with forgiving one's husband or wife, or parents or children, or
the nearest N.C.O., for something they have done or said in the last week.
That will probably keep us busy for the moment. And secondly, we might try
to understand exactly what loving your neighbour as yourself means. I have
to love him as I love myself. Well, how exactly do I love myself?
Now that I come to think of it, I have not exactly got a feeling of
fondness or affection for myself, and 1 do not even always enjoy my own
society. So apparently "Love your neighbour" does not mean "feel fond of
him" or "find him attractive." I ought to have seen that before, because, of
course, you cannot feel fond of a person by trying. Do 1 think well of
myself, think myself a nice chap? Well, I am afraid I sometimes do (and
those are, no doubt, my worst moments) but that is not why I love myself. In
fact it, is the other way round: my self-love makes me think myself nice,
but thinking myself nice is not why I love myself. So loving my enemies does
not apparently mean thinking them nice either. That is an enormous relief.
For a good many people imagine that forgiving your enemies means making out
that they are really not such bad fellows after all, when it is quite plain
that they are. Go a step further. In my most clear-sighted moments not only
do I not think myself a nice man, but I know that I am a very nasty one. I
can look at some of the things I have done with horror and loathing. So
apparently I am allowed to loathe and hate some of the things my enemies do.
Now that I come to think of it, I remember Christian teachers telling me
long ago that I must hate a bad man's actions, but not hate the bad man: or,
as they would say, hate the sin but not the sinner.
For a long time I used to think this a silly, straw-splitting
distinction: how could you hate what a man did and not hate the man? But
years later it occurred to me that there was one man to whom I had been
doing this all my life-namely myself. However much I might dislike my own
cowardice or conceit or greed, I went on loving myself. There had never been
the slightest difficulty about it. In fact the very reason why I hated the
things was that I loved the man. Just because I loved myself, I was sorry to
find that I was the sort of man who did those things. Consequently,
Christianity does not want us to reduce by one atom the hatred we feel for
cruelty and treachery. We ought to hate them. Not one word of what we have
said about them needs to be unsaid. But it does want us to hate them in the
same way in which we hate things in ourselves: being sorry that the man
should have done such things, and hoping, if it is anyway possible, that
somehow, sometime, somewhere, he can be cured and made human again.
The real test is this. Suppose one reads a story of filthy atrocities
in the paper. Then suppose that something turns up suggesting that the story
might not be quite true, or not quite so bad as it was made out. Is one's
first feeling, "Thank God, even they aren't quite so bad as that," or is it
a feeling of disappointment, and even a determination to cling to the first
story for the sheer pleasure of thinking your enemies as bad as possible? If
it is the second then it is, I am afraid, the first step in a process which,
if followed to the end, will make us into devils. You see, one is beginning
to wish that black was a little blacker. If we give that wish its head,
later on we shall wish to see grey as black, and then to see white itself as
black. Finally, we shall insist on seeing everything-God and our friends and
ourselves included-as bad, and not be able to stop doing it: we shall be
fixed for ever in a universe of pure hatred.
Now a step further. Does loving your enemy mean not punishing him? No,
for loving myself does not mean that I ought not to subject myself to
punishment-even to death. If one had committed a murder, the right Christian
thing to do would be to give yourself up to the police and be hanged. It is,
therefore, in my opinion, perfectly right for a Christian judge to sentence
a man to death or a Christian soldier to kill an enemy. I always have
thought so, ever since I became a Christian, and long before the war, and I
still think so now that we are at peace. It is no good quoting "Thou shalt
not kill." There are two Greek words: the ordinary word to kill and the word
to murder. And when Christ quotes that commandment He uses the murder one in
all three accounts, Matthew, Mark, and Luke. And I am told there is the same
distinction in Hebrew. All killing is not murder any more than all sexual
intercourse is adultery. When soldiers came to St. John the Baptist asking
what to do, he never remotely suggested that they ought to leave the army:
nor did Christ when He met a Roman sergeant-major-what they called a
centurion. The idea of the knight-the Christian in arms for the defence of a
good cause-is one of the great Christian ideas. War is a dreadful thing, and
I can respect an honest pacifist, though I think he is entirely mistaken.
What I cannot understand is this sort of semipacifism you get nowadays which
gives people the idea that though you have to fight, you ought to do it with
a long face and as if you were ashamed of it. It is that feeling that robs
lots of magnificent young Christians in the Services of something they have
a right to, something which is the natural accompaniment of courage- a kind
of gaity and wholeheartedness.
I have often thought to myself how it would have been if, when I served
in the first world war, I and some young German had killed each other
simultaneously and found ourselves together a moment after death. I cannot
imagine that either of us would have felt any resentment or even any
embarrassment. I think we might have laughed over it.
I imagine somebody will say, "Well, if one is allowed to condemn the
enemy's acts, and punish him, and kill him, what difference is left between
Christian morality and the ordinary view?" All the difference in the world.
Remember, we Christians think man lives for ever. Therefore, what really
matters is those little marks or twists on the central, inside part of the
soul which are going to turn it, in the long run, into a heavenly or a
hellish creature. We may kill if necessary, but we must not hate and enjoy
hating. We may punish if necessary, but we must not enjoy it. In other
words, something inside us, the feeling of resentment, the feeling that
wants to get one's own back, must be simply killed. I do not mean that
anyone can decide this moment that he will never feel it any more. That is
not how things happen. I mean that every time it bobs its head up, day after
day, year after year, all our lives long, we must hit it on the head. It is
hard work, but the attempt is not impossible. Even while we kill and punish
we must try to feel about the enemy as we feel about ourselves- to wish that
he were not bad. to hope that he may, in this world or another, be cured: in
fact, to wish his good. That is what is meant in the Bible by loving him:
wishing his good, jot feeling fond of him nor saving he is nice when he is
not.
I admit that this means loving people who have nothing lovable about
them. But then, has oneself anything lovable about it? You love it simply
because it is yourself, God intends us to love all selves in the same way
and for the same reason: but He has given us the sum ready worked out on our
own case to show us how it works. We have then to go on and apply the rule
to all the other selves. Perhaps it makes it easier if we remember that that
is how He loves us. Not for any nice, attractive qualities we think we have,
but just because we are the things called selves. For really there is
nothing else in us to love: creatures like us who actually find hatred such
a pleasure that to give it up is like giving up beer or tobacco. ...
Today I come to that part of Christian morals where they differ most
sharply from all other morals. There is one vice of which no man in the
world is free; which every one in the world loathes when he sees it in
someone else; and of which hardly any people, except Christians, ever
imagine that they are guilty themselves. I have heard people admit that they
are bad-tempered, or that they cannot keep their heads about girls or drink,
or even that they are cowards. I do not think I have ever heard anyone who
was not a Christian accuse himself of this vice. And at the same time I have
very seldom met anyone, who was not a Christian, who showed the slightest
mercy to it in others. There is no fault which makes a man more unpopular,
and no fault which We are more unconscious of in ourselves. And the more we
have it ourselves, the more we dislike it in others.
The vice I am talking of is Pride or Self-Conceit: and the virtue
opposite to it, in Christian morals, is called Humility. You may remember,
when I was talking about sexual morality, I warned you that the centre of
Christian morals did not lie there. Well, now, we have come to the centre.
According to Christian teachers, the essential vice, the utmost evil, is
Pride. Unchastity, anger, greed, drunkenness, and all that, are mere flea
bites in comparison: it was through Pride that the devil became the devil:
Pride leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind.
Does this seem to you exaggerated? If so, think it over. I pointed out
a moment ago that the more pride one had, the more one disliked pride in
others. In fact, if you want to find out how proud you are the easiest way
is to ask yourself, "How much do I dislike it when other people snub me, or
refuse to take any notice of me, or shove their oar in, or patronise me, or
show off?" The point it that each person's pride is in competition with
every one else's pride. It is because I wanted to be the big noise at the
party that I am so annoyed at someone else being the big noise. Two of a
trade never agree. Now what you want to get clear is that Pride is
essentially competitive-is competitive by its very nature-while the other
vices are competitive only, so to speak, by accident Pride gets no pleasure
out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man. We
say that people are proud of being rich, or clever, or good-looking, but
they are not They are proud of being richer, or cleverer, or better-looking
than others. If every one else became equally rich, or clever, or
good-looking there would be nothing to be proud about. It is the comparison
that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest. Once the element
of competition has gone, pride has gone. That is why I say that Pride is
essentially competitive in a way the other vices are not. The sexual impulse
may drive two men into competition if they both want the same girl But that
is only by accident; they might just as likely have wanted two different
girls. But a proud man will take your girl from you, not because he wants
her, but just to prove to himself that he is a better man than you. Greed
may drive men into competition if there is not enough to go round; but the
proud man, even when he has got more than he can possibly want, will try to
get still more just to assert his power. Nearly all those evils in the world
which people put down to greed or selfishness are really far more the result
of Pride.
Take it with money. Greed will certainly make a man want money, for the
sake of a better house, better holidays, better things to eat and drink. But
only up to a point What is it dial makes a man with ё10,000 a year anxious
to get ё20,000 a year? It is not the greed for more pleasure. ё10,000 will
give all the luxuries that any man can really enjoy. It is Pride-the wish to
be richer than some other rich man, and (still more) the wish for power.
For, of course, power is what Pride really enjoys: there is nothing makes a
man feel so superior to others as being able to move them about like toy
soldiers. What makes a pretty girl spread misery wherever she goes by
collecting admirers? Certainly not her sexual instinct: that kind of girl is
quite often sexually frigid. It is Pride. What is it that makes a political
leader or a whole nation go on and on, demanding more and more? Pride again.
Pride is competitive by its very nature: that is why it goes on and on. If I
am a proud man, then, as long as there is one man in the whole world more
powerful, or richer, or cleverer than I, he is my rival and my enemy.
The Christians are right: it is Pride which has been the chief cause of
misery in every nation and every family since the world began. Other vices
may sometimes bring people together: you may find good fellowship and jokes
and friendliness among drunken people or unchaste people. But Pride always
means enmity-it is enmity. And not only enmity between man and man, but
enmity to God.
In God you come up against something which is in every respect
immeasurably superior to yourself. Unless you know God as that-and,
therefore, know yourself as nothing in comparison- you do not know God at
all. As long as you are proud you cannot know God. A proud man is always
looking down on things and people: and, of course, as long as you are
looking down, you cannot see something that is above you.
That raises a terrible question. How is it that people who are quite
obviously eaten up with Pride can say they believe in God and appear to
themselves very religious? I am afraid it means they are worshipping an
imaginary God. They theoretically admit themselves to be nothing in the
presence of this phantom God, but are really all the time imagining how He
approves of them and thinks them far better than ordinary people: that is,
they pay a pennyworth of imaginary humility to Him and get out of it a
pound's worth of Pride towards their fellow-men. I suppose it was of those
people Christ was thinking when He said that some would preach about Him and
cast out devils in His name, only to be told at the end of the world that He
had never known them. And any of us may at any moment be in this death-trap.
Luckily, we have a test Whenever we find that our religious life is making
us feel that we are good-above all, that we are better than someone else-I
think we may be sure that we are being acted on, not by God, but by the
devil The real test of being in the presence of God is that you either
forget about yourself altogether or see yourself as a small, dirty object.
It is better to forget about yourself altogether.
It is a terrible thing that the worst of all the vices can smuggle
itself into the very centre of our religious life. But you can see why. The
other, and less bad, vices come from the devil working on us through our
animal nature. But this does not come through our animal nature at all It
comes direct from Hell. It is purely spiritual: consequently it is far more
subtle and deadly. For the same reason, Pride can often be used to beat down
the simpler vices. Teachers, in fact, often appeal to a boy's Pride, or, as
they call it, his self-respect, to make him behave decently: many a man has
overcome cowardice, or lust, or ill-temper by learning to think that they
are beneath his dignity-that is, by Pride. The devil laughs. He is perfectly
content to see you becoming chaste and brave and self-con trolled provided,
all the time, he is setting up in you the Dictatorship of Pride-just as he
would be quite content to see your chilblains cured if he was allowed, in
return, to give you cancer. For Pride is spiritual cancer: it eats up the
very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense.
Before leaving this subject I must guard against some possible
misunderstandings:
(1) Pleasure in being praised is not Pride. The child who is patted on
the back for doing a lesson well, the woman whose beauty is praised by her
lover, the saved soul to whom Christ says "Well done," are pleased and ought
to be. For here the pleasure lies not in what you are but in the fact that
you have pleased someone you wanted (and rightly wanted) to please. The
trouble begins when you pass from thinking, "I have pleased him; all is
well," to thinking, "What a fine person I must be to have done it." The more
you delight in yourself and the less you delight in the praise, the worse
you are becoming. When you delight wholly in yourself and do not care about
the praise at all, you have reached the bottom. That is why vanity, though
it is the sort of Pride which shows most on the surface, is really the least
bad and most pardonable sort. The vain person wants praise, applause,
admiration, too much and is always angling for it. It is a fault, but a
childlike and even (in an odd way) a humble fault. It shows that you are not
yet completely contented with your own admiration. You value other people
enough to want them to look at you. You are, in fact, still human. The real
black, diabolical Pride comes when you look down on others so much that you
do not care what they think of you. Of course, it is very right, and often
our duty, not to care what people think of us, if we do so for the right
reason; namely, because we care so incomparably more what God thinks. But
the Proud man has a different reason for not caring. He says "Why should I
care for the applause of that rabble as if their opinion were worth
anything? And even if their opinions were of value, am I the sort of man to
blush with pleasure at a compliment like some chit of a girl at her first
dance? No, I am an integrated, adult personality. All I have done has been
done to satisfy my own ideals-or my artistic conscience-or the traditions of
my family- or, in a word, because I'm That Kind of Chap. If the mob like it,
let them. They're nothing to me." In this way real thoroughgoing Pride may
act as a check on vanity; for, as I said a moment ago, the devil loves
"curing" a small fault by giving you a great one. We must try not to be
vain, but we must never call in our Pride to cure our vanity; better the
frying-pan than the fire.
(2) We say in English that a man is "proud" of his son, or his father,
or his school, or regiment, and it may be asked whether "pride" in this
sense is a sin. I think it depends on what, exactly, we mean by "proud of."
Very often, in such sentences, the phrase "is proud of" means "has a
warm-hearted admiration for." Such an admiration is, of course, very far
from being a sin. But it might, perhaps, mean that the person in question
gives himself airs on the ground of his distinguished father, or because he
belongs to a famous regiment. This would, clearly, be a fault; but even
then, it would be better than being proud simply of himself. To love and
admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter
spiritual ruin; though we shall not be well so long as we love and admire
anything more than we love and admire God.
(3) We must not think Pride is something God forbids because He is
offended at it, or that Humility is something He demands as due to His own
dignity-as if God Himself was proud. He is not in the least worried about
His dignity. The point is, He wants you to know Him; wants to give you
Himself. And He and you are two things of such a kind that if you really get
into any kind of touch with Him you will, in fact, be humble-delightedly
humble, feeling the infinite relief of having for once got rid of all the
silly nonsense about your own dignity which has made you restless and
unhappy all your life. He is trying to make you humble in order to make this
moment possible: trying to take off a lot of silly, ugly, fancy-dress in
which we have all got ourselves up and are strutting about like the little
idiots we are. I wish I had got a bit further with humility myself: if I
had, I could probably tell you more about the relief, the comfort, of taking
the fancy-dress off-getting rid of the false self, with all its "Look at me"
and "Aren't I a good boy?" and all its posing and posturing. To get even
near it, even for a moment, is like a drink of cold water to a man in a
desert.
(4) Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what
most people call "humble" nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy
person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody. Probably
all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap
who took a real interest in what you said to him. If you do dislike him it
will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life
so easily. He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking
about himself at all.
If anyone would like to acquire humility, I can, I think, tell him the
first step. The first step is to realise that one is proud. And a biggish
step, too. At least, nothing whatever can be done before it. If you think
you are not conceited, it means you are very conceited indeed.
I said in an earlier chapter that there were four "Cardinal" virtues
and three "Theological" virtues. The three Theological ones are Faith, Hope,
and Charity. Faith is going to be dealt with in the last two chapters.
Charity was partly dealt with in Chapter 7, but there I concentrated on that
part of Charity which is called Forgiveness. I now want to add a little
more.
First, as to the meaning of the word. "Charity" now means simply what
used to be called "alms"-that is, giving to the poor. Originally it had a
much wider meaning. (You can see how it got the modern sense. If a man has
"charity," giving to the poor is one of the most obvious things he does, and
so people came to talk as if that were the whole of charity. In the same
way, "rhyme" is the most obvious thing about poetry, and so people come to
mean by "poetry" simply rhyme and nothing more.) Charity means "Love, in the
Christian sense." But love, in the Christian sense, does not mean an
emotion. It is a state not of the feelings but of the will; that state of
the will which we have naturally about ourselves, and must learn to have
about other people.
I pointed out in the chapter on Forgiveness that our love for ourselves
does not mean that we like ourselves. It means that we wish our own good. In
the same way Christian Love (or Charity) for our neighbours is quite a
different thing from liking or affection. We "like" or are "fond of" some
people, and not of others. It is important to understand that this natural
"liking" is neither a sin nor a virtue, any more than your likes and
dislikes in food are a sin or a virtue. It is just a fact But, of course,
what we do about it is either sinful or virtuous.
Natural liking or affection for people makes it easier to be
"charitable" towards them. It is, therefore, normally a duty to encourage
our affections-to "like" people as much as we can (just as it is often our
duty to encourage our liking for exercise or wholesome food)-not because
this liking is itself the virtue of charity, but because it is a help to it
On the other hand, it is also necessary to keep a very sharp look-out for
fear our liking for some one person makes us uncharitable, or even unfair,
to someone else. There are even cases where our liking conflicts with our
charity towards the person we like. For example, a doting mother may be
tempted by natural affection to "spoil" her child; that is, to gratify her
own affectionate impulses at the expense of the child's real happiness later
on.
But though natural likings should normally be encouraged, it would be
quite wrong to think that the way to become charitable is to sit trying to
manufacture affectionate feelings. Some people are "cold" by temperament;
that may be a misfortune for them, but it is no more a sin than having a bad
digestion is a sin; and it does not cut them out from the chance, or excuse
them from the duty, of learning charity. The rule for all of us is perfectly
simple. Do not waste time bothering whether you "love" your neighbour; act
as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When
you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love
him. If you injure someone you dislike, you will find yourself disliking him
more. If you do him a good turn, you will find yourself disliking him less.
There is, indeed, one exception. If you do him a good turn, not to please
God and obey the law of charity, but to show him what a fine forgiving chap
you are, and to put him in your debt, and then sit down to wait for his
"gratitude," you will probably be disappointed. (People are not fools: they
have a very quick eye for anything like showing off, or patronage.) But
whenever we do good to another self, just because it is a self, made (like
us) by God, and desiring its own happiness as we desire ours, we shall have
learned to love it a little more or, at least, to dislike it less.
Consequently, though Christian charity sounds a very cold thing to
people whose heads are full of sentimentality, and though it is quite
distinct from affection, yet it leads to affection. The difference between a
Christian and a worldly man is not that the worldly man has only affections
or "likings" and the Christian has only "charity." The worldly man treats
certain people kindly because he "likes" them: the Christian, trying to
treat every one kindly, finds himself liking more and more people as he goes
on-including people he could not even have imagined himself liking at the
beginning.
This same spiritual law works terribly in the opposite direction. The
Germans, perhaps, at first ill-treated the Jews because they hated them:
afterwards they hated them much more because they had ill-treated them. The
more cruel you are, the more you will hate; and the more you hate, the more
cruel you will become-and so on in a vicious circle for ever.
Good and evil both increase at compound interest. That is why the
little decisions you and I make every day are of such infinite importance.
The smallest good act today is the capture of a strategic point from which,
a few months later, you may be able to go on to victories you never dreamed
of. An apparently trivial indulgence in lust or anger today is the loss of a
ridge or railway line or bridgehead from which the enemy may launch an
attack otherwise impossible.
Some writers use the word charity to describe not only Christian love
between human beings, but also God's love for man and man's love for God.
About the second of these two, people are often worried. They are told they
ought to love God. They cannot find any such feeling in themselves. What are
they to do? The answer is the same as before. Act as if you did. Do not sit
trying to manufacture feelings. Ask yourself, "If I were sure that I loved
God, what would I do?" When you have found the answer, go and do it.
On the whole, God's love for us is a much safer subject to think about
than our love for Him. Nobody can always have devout feelings: and even if
we could, feelings are not what God principally cares about. Christian Love,
either towards God or towards man, is an affair of the will. If we are
trying to do His will we are obeying the commandment, "Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God." He will give us feelings of love if He pleases. We cannot
create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the
great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love
for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and,
therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be
cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.
Hope is one of the Theological virtues. This means that a continual
looking forward to the eternal world is not (as some modern people think) a
form of escapism or wishful thinking, but one of the things a Christian is
meant to do. It does not mean that we are to leave the present world as it
is. If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for
the present world were just those who thought most of the next The Apostles
themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great
men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the
Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds
were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to
think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim
at Heaven and you will get earth "thrown in": aim at earth and you will get
neither. It seems a strange rule, but something like it can be seen at work
in other matters. Health is a great blessing, but the moment you make health
one of your main, direct objects you start becoming a crank and imagining
there is something wrong with you. You are only likely to get health
provided you want other things more -food, games, work, fun, open air. In
the same way, we shall never save civilisation as long as civilisation is
our main object. We must learn to want something else even more.
Most of us find it very difficult to want "Heaven" at all-except in so
far as "Heaven" means meeting again our friends who have died. One reason
for this difficulty is that we have not been trained: our whole education
tends to fix our minds on this world. Another reason is that when the real
want for Heaven is present in us, we do not recognise it Most people, if
they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would know that they
do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world. There
are all sorts of things in this world that offer to give it to you, but they
never quite keep their promise. The longings which arise in us when we first
fall in love, or first think of some foreign country, or first take up some
subject that excites us, are longings which no marriage, no travel, no
learning, can really satisfy. I am not now speaking of what would be
ordinarily called unsuccessful marriages, or holidays, or learned careers. I
am speaking of the best possible ones. There was something we grasped at, in
that first moment of longing, which just fades away in the reality. I think
everyone knows what I mean. The wife may be a good wife, and the hotels and
scenery may have been excellent, and chemistry may be a very interesting
job: but something has evaded us. Now there are two wrong ways of dealing
with this fact, and one right one.
(1) The Fool's Way.-He puts the blame on the things themselves. He goes
on all his life thinking that if only he tried another woman, or went for a
more expensive holiday, or whatever it is, then, this time, he really would
catch the mysterious something we are all after. Most of the bored,
discontented, rich people in the world are of this type. They spend their
whole lives trotting from woman to woman (through the divorce courts), from
continent to continent, from hobby to hobby, always thinking that the latest
is "the Real Thing" at last, and always disappointed.
(2) The Way of the Disillusioned "Sensible Man."-He soon decides that
the whole thing was moonshine. "Of course," he says, "one feels like that
when one's young. But by the time you get to my age you've given up chasing
the rainbow's end." And so he settles down and learns not to expect too much
and represses the part of himself which used, as he would say, "to cry for
the moon." This is, of course, a much better way than the first, and makes a
man much happier, and less of a nuisance to society. It tends to make him a
prig (he is apt to be rather superior towards what he calls "adolescents"),
but, on the whole, he rubs along fairly comfortably. It would be the best
line we could take if man did not live for ever. But supposing infinite
happiness really is there, waiting for us? Supposing one really can reach
the rainbow's end? In that case it would be a pity to find out too late (a
moment after death) that by our supposed "common sense" we had stifled in
ourselves the faculty of enjoying it.
But, as I said before, "the most dangerous thing you can do is to take any
one impulse of our own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow
at all costs." Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing.
There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You
cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is
still a feeling. Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full
intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last,
habits can last; but feelings come and go. And in fact, whatever people say,
the state called "being in love" usually does not last. If the old fairytale
ending "They lived happily ever after" is taken to mean "They felt for the
next fifty years exactly as they felt the day before they were married,"
then it says what probably never was nor ever could be true, and would be
highly undesirable if it were. Who could bear to live in that excitement for
even five years? What would become of your work, your appetite, your sleep,
your friendships? But, of course, ceasing to be "in love" need not mean
ceasing to love. Love in this second sense-love as distinct from "being in
love" is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will
and deliberately strengthened by habit; reinforced by (in Christian
marriages) the grace which both parents ask, and receive, from God. They can
have this love for each other even at those moments when they do not like
each other; as you love yourself even when you do not like yourself. They
can retain this love even when each would easily, if they allowed
themselves, be "in love" with someone else. "Being in love" first moved them
to promise fidelity: this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It
is on this love that the engine of marriage is run: being in love was the
explosion that started it.
If you disagree with me, of course, you will say, "He knows nothing
about it, he is not married." You may quite possibly be right. But before
you say that, make quite sure that you are judging me by what you really
know from your own experience and from watching the lives of your friends,
and not by ideas you have derived from novels and films. This is not so easy
to do as people think. Our experience is coloured through and through by
books and plays and the cinema, and it takes patience and skill to
disentangle the things we have really learned from life for ourselves.
People get from books the idea that if you have married the right
person you may expect to go on "being in love" for ever. As a result, when
they find they are not, they think this proves they have made a mistake and
are entitled to a change-not realising that, when they have changed, the
glamour will presently go out of the new love just as it went out of the old
one. In this department of life, as in every other, thrills come at the
beginning and do not last. The sort of thrill a boy has at the first idea of
flying will not go on when he has joined the R.A.F. and is really learning
to fly. The thrill you feel on first seeing some delightful place dies away
when you really go to live there. Does this mean it would be better not to
learn to fly and not to live in the beautiful place? By no means. In both
cases, if you go through with it, the dying away of the first thrill will be
compensated for by a quieter and more lasting kind of interest. What is more
(and I can hardly find words to tell you how important I think this), it is
just the people who are ready to submit to the loss of the thrill and settle
down to the sober interest, who are then most likely to meet new thrills in
some quite different direction. The man who has learned to fly and becomes a
good pilot will suddenly discover music; the man who has settled down to
live in the beauty spot will discover gardening.
This is, I think, one little part of what Christ meant by saying that a
thing will not really live unless it first dies. It is simply no good trying
to keep any thrill: that is the very worst thing you can do. Let the thrill
go-let it die away-go on through that period of death into the quieter
interest and happiness that follow -and you will find you are living in a
world of new thrills all the time. But if you decide to make thrills your
regular diet and try to prolong them artificially, they will all get weaker
and weaker, and fewer and fewer, and you will be a bored, disillusioned old
man for the rest of your life. It is because so few people understand this
that you find many middle-aged men and women maundering about their lost
youth, at the very age when new horizons ought to be appearing and new doors
opening all round them. It is much better fun to learn to swim than to go on
endlessly (and hopelessly) trying to get back the feeling you had when you
first went paddling as a small boy.
Another notion we get from novels and plays is that "falling in love"
is something quite irresistible; something that just happens to one, like
measles. And because they believe this, some married people throw up the
sponge and give in when they find themselves attracted by a new
acquaintance. But I am inclined to think that these irresistible passions
are much rarer in real life than in books, at any rate when one is grown up.
When we meet someone beautiful and clever and sympathetic, of course we
ought, in one sense, to admire and love these good qualities. But is it not
very largely in our own choice whether this love shall, or shall not, turn
into what we call "being in love"? No doubt, if our minds are full of novels
and plays and sentimental songs, and our bodies full of alcohol, we shall
turn any love we feel into that kind of love: just as if you have a rut in
your path all the rainwater will run into that rut, and if you wear blue
spectacles everything you see will turn blue. But that will be our own
fault.
Before leaving the question of divorce, I should like to distinguish
two things which are very often confused. The Christian conception of
marriage is one: the other is the quite different question-now far
Christians, if they are voters or Members of Parliament, ought to try to
force their views of marriage on the rest of the community by embodying them
in the divorce laws. A great many people seem to think that if you are a
Christian yourself you should try to make divorce difficult for every one. I
do not think that. At least I know I should be very angry if the Mohammedans
tried to prevent the rest of us from drinking wine. My own view is that the
Churches should frankly recognise that the majority of the British people
are not Christians and, therefore, cannot be expected to live Christian
lives. There ought to be two distinct kinds of marriage: one governed by the
State with rules enforced on all citizens, the other governed by the Church
with rules enforced by her on her own members. The distinction ought to be
quite sharp, so that a man knows which couples are married in a Christian
sense and which are not
So much for the Christian doctrine about the permanence of marriage.
Something else, even more unpopular, remains to be dealt with. Christian
wives promise to obey their husbands. In Christian marriage the man is said
to be the "head." Two questions obviously arise here, (1) Why should there
be a head at all -why not equality? (2) Why should it be the man?
(1) The need for some head follows from the idea that marriage is
permanent Of course, as long as the husband and wife are agreed, no question
of a head need arise; and we may hope that this will be the normal state of
affairs in a Christian marriage. But when there is a real disagreement, what
is to happen? Talk it over, of course; but I am assuming they have done that
and still failed to reach agreement What do they do next? They cannot decide
by a majority vote, for in a council of two there can be no majority.
Surely, only one or other of two things can happen: either they must
separate and go their own ways or else one or other of them must have a
casting vote. If marriage is permanent, one or other party must, in the last
resort, have the power of deciding the family policy. You cannot have a
permanent association without a constitution.
(2) If there must be a head, why the man? Well, firstly, is there any
very serious wish that it should be the woman? As I have said, I am not
married myself, but as far as 1 can see, even a woman who wants to be the
head of her own house does not usually admire the same state of things when
she finds it going on next door. She is much more likely to say "Poor Mr. X!
Why he allows that appalling woman to boss him about the way she does is
more than I can imagine." I do not think she is even very nattered if anyone
mentions the fact of her own "headship." There must be something unnatural
about the rule of wives over husbands, because the wives themselves are half
ashamed of it and despise the husbands whom they rule. But there is also
another reason; and here I speak quite frankly as a bachelor, because it is
a reason you can see from outside even better than from inside. The
relations of the family to the outer world-what might be called its foreign
policy-must depend, in the last resort, upon the man, because he always
ought to be, and usually is, much more just to the outsiders. A woman is
primarily fighting for her own children and husband against the rest of the
world. Naturally, almost, in a sense, rightly, their claims override, for
her, all other claims. She is the special trustee of their interests. The
function of the husband is to see that this natural preference of hers is
not given its head. He has the last word in order to protect other people
from the intense family patriotism of the wife. If anyone doubts this, let
me ask a simple question. If your dog has bitten the child next door, or if
your child has hurt the dog next door, which would you sooner have to deal
with, the master of that house or the mistress? Or, if you are a married
woman, let me ask you this question. Much as you admire your husband, would
you not say that his chief failing is his tendency not to stick up for his
rights and yours against the neighbours as vigorously as you would like? A
bit of an Appeaser?
I said in a previous chapter that chastity was the most unpopular of
the Christian virtues. But I am not sure I was right I believe the one I
have to talk of today is even more unpopular: the Christian rule, "Thou
shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Because hi Christian morals "thy
neighbour" includes "thy enemy," and so we come up against this terrible
duty of forgiving our enemies. Every one says forgiveness is a lovely idea,
until they have something to forgive, as we had during the war. And then, to
mention the subject at all is to be greeted with howls of anger. It is not
that people think this too high and difficult a virtue: it is that they
think it hateful and contemptible. "That sort of talk makes them sick," they
say. And half of you already want to ask me, "I wonder how you'd feel about
forgiving the Gestapo if you were a Pole or a Jew?"
So do I. I wonder very much. Just as when Christianity tells me that I
must not deny my religion even to save myself from death by torture, I
wonder very much what I should do when it came to the point. I am not trying
to tell you in this book what I could do-I can do precious little-I am
telling you what Christianity is. I did not invent it. And there, right in
the middle of it, I find "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those that sin
against us." There is no slightest suggestion that we are offered
forgiveness on any other terms. It is made perfectly dear that if we do not
forgive we shall not be forgiven. There are no two ways about it. What are
we to do?
It is going to be hard enough, anyway, but I think there are two things
we can do to make it easier. When you start mathematics you do not begin
with the calculus; you begin with simple addition. In the same way, if we
really want (but all depends on really wanting) to learn how to forgive,
perhaps we had better start with something easier than the Gestapo. One
might start with forgiving one's husband or wife, or parents or children, or
the nearest N.C.O., for something they have done or said in the last week.
That will probably keep us busy for the moment. And secondly, we might try
to understand exactly what loving your neighbour as yourself means. I have
to love him as I love myself. Well, how exactly do I love myself?
Now that I come to think of it, I have not exactly got a feeling of
fondness or affection for myself, and 1 do not even always enjoy my own
society. So apparently "Love your neighbour" does not mean "feel fond of
him" or "find him attractive." I ought to have seen that before, because, of
course, you cannot feel fond of a person by trying. Do 1 think well of
myself, think myself a nice chap? Well, I am afraid I sometimes do (and
those are, no doubt, my worst moments) but that is not why I love myself. In
fact it, is the other way round: my self-love makes me think myself nice,
but thinking myself nice is not why I love myself. So loving my enemies does
not apparently mean thinking them nice either. That is an enormous relief.
For a good many people imagine that forgiving your enemies means making out
that they are really not such bad fellows after all, when it is quite plain
that they are. Go a step further. In my most clear-sighted moments not only
do I not think myself a nice man, but I know that I am a very nasty one. I
can look at some of the things I have done with horror and loathing. So
apparently I am allowed to loathe and hate some of the things my enemies do.
Now that I come to think of it, I remember Christian teachers telling me
long ago that I must hate a bad man's actions, but not hate the bad man: or,
as they would say, hate the sin but not the sinner.
For a long time I used to think this a silly, straw-splitting
distinction: how could you hate what a man did and not hate the man? But
years later it occurred to me that there was one man to whom I had been
doing this all my life-namely myself. However much I might dislike my own
cowardice or conceit or greed, I went on loving myself. There had never been
the slightest difficulty about it. In fact the very reason why I hated the
things was that I loved the man. Just because I loved myself, I was sorry to
find that I was the sort of man who did those things. Consequently,
Christianity does not want us to reduce by one atom the hatred we feel for
cruelty and treachery. We ought to hate them. Not one word of what we have
said about them needs to be unsaid. But it does want us to hate them in the
same way in which we hate things in ourselves: being sorry that the man
should have done such things, and hoping, if it is anyway possible, that
somehow, sometime, somewhere, he can be cured and made human again.
The real test is this. Suppose one reads a story of filthy atrocities
in the paper. Then suppose that something turns up suggesting that the story
might not be quite true, or not quite so bad as it was made out. Is one's
first feeling, "Thank God, even they aren't quite so bad as that," or is it
a feeling of disappointment, and even a determination to cling to the first
story for the sheer pleasure of thinking your enemies as bad as possible? If
it is the second then it is, I am afraid, the first step in a process which,
if followed to the end, will make us into devils. You see, one is beginning
to wish that black was a little blacker. If we give that wish its head,
later on we shall wish to see grey as black, and then to see white itself as
black. Finally, we shall insist on seeing everything-God and our friends and
ourselves included-as bad, and not be able to stop doing it: we shall be
fixed for ever in a universe of pure hatred.
Now a step further. Does loving your enemy mean not punishing him? No,
for loving myself does not mean that I ought not to subject myself to
punishment-even to death. If one had committed a murder, the right Christian
thing to do would be to give yourself up to the police and be hanged. It is,
therefore, in my opinion, perfectly right for a Christian judge to sentence
a man to death or a Christian soldier to kill an enemy. I always have
thought so, ever since I became a Christian, and long before the war, and I
still think so now that we are at peace. It is no good quoting "Thou shalt
not kill." There are two Greek words: the ordinary word to kill and the word
to murder. And when Christ quotes that commandment He uses the murder one in
all three accounts, Matthew, Mark, and Luke. And I am told there is the same
distinction in Hebrew. All killing is not murder any more than all sexual
intercourse is adultery. When soldiers came to St. John the Baptist asking
what to do, he never remotely suggested that they ought to leave the army:
nor did Christ when He met a Roman sergeant-major-what they called a
centurion. The idea of the knight-the Christian in arms for the defence of a
good cause-is one of the great Christian ideas. War is a dreadful thing, and
I can respect an honest pacifist, though I think he is entirely mistaken.
What I cannot understand is this sort of semipacifism you get nowadays which
gives people the idea that though you have to fight, you ought to do it with
a long face and as if you were ashamed of it. It is that feeling that robs
lots of magnificent young Christians in the Services of something they have
a right to, something which is the natural accompaniment of courage- a kind
of gaity and wholeheartedness.
I have often thought to myself how it would have been if, when I served
in the first world war, I and some young German had killed each other
simultaneously and found ourselves together a moment after death. I cannot
imagine that either of us would have felt any resentment or even any
embarrassment. I think we might have laughed over it.
I imagine somebody will say, "Well, if one is allowed to condemn the
enemy's acts, and punish him, and kill him, what difference is left between
Christian morality and the ordinary view?" All the difference in the world.
Remember, we Christians think man lives for ever. Therefore, what really
matters is those little marks or twists on the central, inside part of the
soul which are going to turn it, in the long run, into a heavenly or a
hellish creature. We may kill if necessary, but we must not hate and enjoy
hating. We may punish if necessary, but we must not enjoy it. In other
words, something inside us, the feeling of resentment, the feeling that
wants to get one's own back, must be simply killed. I do not mean that
anyone can decide this moment that he will never feel it any more. That is
not how things happen. I mean that every time it bobs its head up, day after
day, year after year, all our lives long, we must hit it on the head. It is
hard work, but the attempt is not impossible. Even while we kill and punish
we must try to feel about the enemy as we feel about ourselves- to wish that
he were not bad. to hope that he may, in this world or another, be cured: in
fact, to wish his good. That is what is meant in the Bible by loving him:
wishing his good, jot feeling fond of him nor saving he is nice when he is
not.
I admit that this means loving people who have nothing lovable about
them. But then, has oneself anything lovable about it? You love it simply
because it is yourself, God intends us to love all selves in the same way
and for the same reason: but He has given us the sum ready worked out on our
own case to show us how it works. We have then to go on and apply the rule
to all the other selves. Perhaps it makes it easier if we remember that that
is how He loves us. Not for any nice, attractive qualities we think we have,
but just because we are the things called selves. For really there is
nothing else in us to love: creatures like us who actually find hatred such
a pleasure that to give it up is like giving up beer or tobacco. ...
Today I come to that part of Christian morals where they differ most
sharply from all other morals. There is one vice of which no man in the
world is free; which every one in the world loathes when he sees it in
someone else; and of which hardly any people, except Christians, ever
imagine that they are guilty themselves. I have heard people admit that they
are bad-tempered, or that they cannot keep their heads about girls or drink,
or even that they are cowards. I do not think I have ever heard anyone who
was not a Christian accuse himself of this vice. And at the same time I have
very seldom met anyone, who was not a Christian, who showed the slightest
mercy to it in others. There is no fault which makes a man more unpopular,
and no fault which We are more unconscious of in ourselves. And the more we
have it ourselves, the more we dislike it in others.
The vice I am talking of is Pride or Self-Conceit: and the virtue
opposite to it, in Christian morals, is called Humility. You may remember,
when I was talking about sexual morality, I warned you that the centre of
Christian morals did not lie there. Well, now, we have come to the centre.
According to Christian teachers, the essential vice, the utmost evil, is
Pride. Unchastity, anger, greed, drunkenness, and all that, are mere flea
bites in comparison: it was through Pride that the devil became the devil:
Pride leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind.
Does this seem to you exaggerated? If so, think it over. I pointed out
a moment ago that the more pride one had, the more one disliked pride in
others. In fact, if you want to find out how proud you are the easiest way
is to ask yourself, "How much do I dislike it when other people snub me, or
refuse to take any notice of me, or shove their oar in, or patronise me, or
show off?" The point it that each person's pride is in competition with
every one else's pride. It is because I wanted to be the big noise at the
party that I am so annoyed at someone else being the big noise. Two of a
trade never agree. Now what you want to get clear is that Pride is
essentially competitive-is competitive by its very nature-while the other
vices are competitive only, so to speak, by accident Pride gets no pleasure
out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man. We
say that people are proud of being rich, or clever, or good-looking, but
they are not They are proud of being richer, or cleverer, or better-looking
than others. If every one else became equally rich, or clever, or
good-looking there would be nothing to be proud about. It is the comparison
that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest. Once the element
of competition has gone, pride has gone. That is why I say that Pride is
essentially competitive in a way the other vices are not. The sexual impulse
may drive two men into competition if they both want the same girl But that
is only by accident; they might just as likely have wanted two different
girls. But a proud man will take your girl from you, not because he wants
her, but just to prove to himself that he is a better man than you. Greed
may drive men into competition if there is not enough to go round; but the
proud man, even when he has got more than he can possibly want, will try to
get still more just to assert his power. Nearly all those evils in the world
which people put down to greed or selfishness are really far more the result
of Pride.
Take it with money. Greed will certainly make a man want money, for the
sake of a better house, better holidays, better things to eat and drink. But
only up to a point What is it dial makes a man with ё10,000 a year anxious
to get ё20,000 a year? It is not the greed for more pleasure. ё10,000 will
give all the luxuries that any man can really enjoy. It is Pride-the wish to
be richer than some other rich man, and (still more) the wish for power.
For, of course, power is what Pride really enjoys: there is nothing makes a
man feel so superior to others as being able to move them about like toy
soldiers. What makes a pretty girl spread misery wherever she goes by
collecting admirers? Certainly not her sexual instinct: that kind of girl is
quite often sexually frigid. It is Pride. What is it that makes a political
leader or a whole nation go on and on, demanding more and more? Pride again.
Pride is competitive by its very nature: that is why it goes on and on. If I
am a proud man, then, as long as there is one man in the whole world more
powerful, or richer, or cleverer than I, he is my rival and my enemy.
The Christians are right: it is Pride which has been the chief cause of
misery in every nation and every family since the world began. Other vices
may sometimes bring people together: you may find good fellowship and jokes
and friendliness among drunken people or unchaste people. But Pride always
means enmity-it is enmity. And not only enmity between man and man, but
enmity to God.
In God you come up against something which is in every respect
immeasurably superior to yourself. Unless you know God as that-and,
therefore, know yourself as nothing in comparison- you do not know God at
all. As long as you are proud you cannot know God. A proud man is always
looking down on things and people: and, of course, as long as you are
looking down, you cannot see something that is above you.
That raises a terrible question. How is it that people who are quite
obviously eaten up with Pride can say they believe in God and appear to
themselves very religious? I am afraid it means they are worshipping an
imaginary God. They theoretically admit themselves to be nothing in the
presence of this phantom God, but are really all the time imagining how He
approves of them and thinks them far better than ordinary people: that is,
they pay a pennyworth of imaginary humility to Him and get out of it a
pound's worth of Pride towards their fellow-men. I suppose it was of those
people Christ was thinking when He said that some would preach about Him and
cast out devils in His name, only to be told at the end of the world that He
had never known them. And any of us may at any moment be in this death-trap.
Luckily, we have a test Whenever we find that our religious life is making
us feel that we are good-above all, that we are better than someone else-I
think we may be sure that we are being acted on, not by God, but by the
devil The real test of being in the presence of God is that you either
forget about yourself altogether or see yourself as a small, dirty object.
It is better to forget about yourself altogether.
It is a terrible thing that the worst of all the vices can smuggle
itself into the very centre of our religious life. But you can see why. The
other, and less bad, vices come from the devil working on us through our
animal nature. But this does not come through our animal nature at all It
comes direct from Hell. It is purely spiritual: consequently it is far more
subtle and deadly. For the same reason, Pride can often be used to beat down
the simpler vices. Teachers, in fact, often appeal to a boy's Pride, or, as
they call it, his self-respect, to make him behave decently: many a man has
overcome cowardice, or lust, or ill-temper by learning to think that they
are beneath his dignity-that is, by Pride. The devil laughs. He is perfectly
content to see you becoming chaste and brave and self-con trolled provided,
all the time, he is setting up in you the Dictatorship of Pride-just as he
would be quite content to see your chilblains cured if he was allowed, in
return, to give you cancer. For Pride is spiritual cancer: it eats up the
very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense.
Before leaving this subject I must guard against some possible
misunderstandings:
(1) Pleasure in being praised is not Pride. The child who is patted on
the back for doing a lesson well, the woman whose beauty is praised by her
lover, the saved soul to whom Christ says "Well done," are pleased and ought
to be. For here the pleasure lies not in what you are but in the fact that
you have pleased someone you wanted (and rightly wanted) to please. The
trouble begins when you pass from thinking, "I have pleased him; all is
well," to thinking, "What a fine person I must be to have done it." The more
you delight in yourself and the less you delight in the praise, the worse
you are becoming. When you delight wholly in yourself and do not care about
the praise at all, you have reached the bottom. That is why vanity, though
it is the sort of Pride which shows most on the surface, is really the least
bad and most pardonable sort. The vain person wants praise, applause,
admiration, too much and is always angling for it. It is a fault, but a
childlike and even (in an odd way) a humble fault. It shows that you are not
yet completely contented with your own admiration. You value other people
enough to want them to look at you. You are, in fact, still human. The real
black, diabolical Pride comes when you look down on others so much that you
do not care what they think of you. Of course, it is very right, and often
our duty, not to care what people think of us, if we do so for the right
reason; namely, because we care so incomparably more what God thinks. But
the Proud man has a different reason for not caring. He says "Why should I
care for the applause of that rabble as if their opinion were worth
anything? And even if their opinions were of value, am I the sort of man to
blush with pleasure at a compliment like some chit of a girl at her first
dance? No, I am an integrated, adult personality. All I have done has been
done to satisfy my own ideals-or my artistic conscience-or the traditions of
my family- or, in a word, because I'm That Kind of Chap. If the mob like it,
let them. They're nothing to me." In this way real thoroughgoing Pride may
act as a check on vanity; for, as I said a moment ago, the devil loves
"curing" a small fault by giving you a great one. We must try not to be
vain, but we must never call in our Pride to cure our vanity; better the
frying-pan than the fire.
(2) We say in English that a man is "proud" of his son, or his father,
or his school, or regiment, and it may be asked whether "pride" in this
sense is a sin. I think it depends on what, exactly, we mean by "proud of."
Very often, in such sentences, the phrase "is proud of" means "has a
warm-hearted admiration for." Such an admiration is, of course, very far
from being a sin. But it might, perhaps, mean that the person in question
gives himself airs on the ground of his distinguished father, or because he
belongs to a famous regiment. This would, clearly, be a fault; but even
then, it would be better than being proud simply of himself. To love and
admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter
spiritual ruin; though we shall not be well so long as we love and admire
anything more than we love and admire God.
(3) We must not think Pride is something God forbids because He is
offended at it, or that Humility is something He demands as due to His own
dignity-as if God Himself was proud. He is not in the least worried about
His dignity. The point is, He wants you to know Him; wants to give you
Himself. And He and you are two things of such a kind that if you really get
into any kind of touch with Him you will, in fact, be humble-delightedly
humble, feeling the infinite relief of having for once got rid of all the
silly nonsense about your own dignity which has made you restless and
unhappy all your life. He is trying to make you humble in order to make this
moment possible: trying to take off a lot of silly, ugly, fancy-dress in
which we have all got ourselves up and are strutting about like the little
idiots we are. I wish I had got a bit further with humility myself: if I
had, I could probably tell you more about the relief, the comfort, of taking
the fancy-dress off-getting rid of the false self, with all its "Look at me"
and "Aren't I a good boy?" and all its posing and posturing. To get even
near it, even for a moment, is like a drink of cold water to a man in a
desert.
(4) Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what
most people call "humble" nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy
person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody. Probably
all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap
who took a real interest in what you said to him. If you do dislike him it
will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life
so easily. He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking
about himself at all.
If anyone would like to acquire humility, I can, I think, tell him the
first step. The first step is to realise that one is proud. And a biggish
step, too. At least, nothing whatever can be done before it. If you think
you are not conceited, it means you are very conceited indeed.
I said in an earlier chapter that there were four "Cardinal" virtues
and three "Theological" virtues. The three Theological ones are Faith, Hope,
and Charity. Faith is going to be dealt with in the last two chapters.
Charity was partly dealt with in Chapter 7, but there I concentrated on that
part of Charity which is called Forgiveness. I now want to add a little
more.
First, as to the meaning of the word. "Charity" now means simply what
used to be called "alms"-that is, giving to the poor. Originally it had a
much wider meaning. (You can see how it got the modern sense. If a man has
"charity," giving to the poor is one of the most obvious things he does, and
so people came to talk as if that were the whole of charity. In the same
way, "rhyme" is the most obvious thing about poetry, and so people come to
mean by "poetry" simply rhyme and nothing more.) Charity means "Love, in the
Christian sense." But love, in the Christian sense, does not mean an
emotion. It is a state not of the feelings but of the will; that state of
the will which we have naturally about ourselves, and must learn to have
about other people.
I pointed out in the chapter on Forgiveness that our love for ourselves
does not mean that we like ourselves. It means that we wish our own good. In
the same way Christian Love (or Charity) for our neighbours is quite a
different thing from liking or affection. We "like" or are "fond of" some
people, and not of others. It is important to understand that this natural
"liking" is neither a sin nor a virtue, any more than your likes and
dislikes in food are a sin or a virtue. It is just a fact But, of course,
what we do about it is either sinful or virtuous.
Natural liking or affection for people makes it easier to be
"charitable" towards them. It is, therefore, normally a duty to encourage
our affections-to "like" people as much as we can (just as it is often our
duty to encourage our liking for exercise or wholesome food)-not because
this liking is itself the virtue of charity, but because it is a help to it
On the other hand, it is also necessary to keep a very sharp look-out for
fear our liking for some one person makes us uncharitable, or even unfair,
to someone else. There are even cases where our liking conflicts with our
charity towards the person we like. For example, a doting mother may be
tempted by natural affection to "spoil" her child; that is, to gratify her
own affectionate impulses at the expense of the child's real happiness later
on.
But though natural likings should normally be encouraged, it would be
quite wrong to think that the way to become charitable is to sit trying to
manufacture affectionate feelings. Some people are "cold" by temperament;
that may be a misfortune for them, but it is no more a sin than having a bad
digestion is a sin; and it does not cut them out from the chance, or excuse
them from the duty, of learning charity. The rule for all of us is perfectly
simple. Do not waste time bothering whether you "love" your neighbour; act
as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When
you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love
him. If you injure someone you dislike, you will find yourself disliking him
more. If you do him a good turn, you will find yourself disliking him less.
There is, indeed, one exception. If you do him a good turn, not to please
God and obey the law of charity, but to show him what a fine forgiving chap
you are, and to put him in your debt, and then sit down to wait for his
"gratitude," you will probably be disappointed. (People are not fools: they
have a very quick eye for anything like showing off, or patronage.) But
whenever we do good to another self, just because it is a self, made (like
us) by God, and desiring its own happiness as we desire ours, we shall have
learned to love it a little more or, at least, to dislike it less.
Consequently, though Christian charity sounds a very cold thing to
people whose heads are full of sentimentality, and though it is quite
distinct from affection, yet it leads to affection. The difference between a
Christian and a worldly man is not that the worldly man has only affections
or "likings" and the Christian has only "charity." The worldly man treats
certain people kindly because he "likes" them: the Christian, trying to
treat every one kindly, finds himself liking more and more people as he goes
on-including people he could not even have imagined himself liking at the
beginning.
This same spiritual law works terribly in the opposite direction. The
Germans, perhaps, at first ill-treated the Jews because they hated them:
afterwards they hated them much more because they had ill-treated them. The
more cruel you are, the more you will hate; and the more you hate, the more
cruel you will become-and so on in a vicious circle for ever.
Good and evil both increase at compound interest. That is why the
little decisions you and I make every day are of such infinite importance.
The smallest good act today is the capture of a strategic point from which,
a few months later, you may be able to go on to victories you never dreamed
of. An apparently trivial indulgence in lust or anger today is the loss of a
ridge or railway line or bridgehead from which the enemy may launch an
attack otherwise impossible.
Some writers use the word charity to describe not only Christian love
between human beings, but also God's love for man and man's love for God.
About the second of these two, people are often worried. They are told they
ought to love God. They cannot find any such feeling in themselves. What are
they to do? The answer is the same as before. Act as if you did. Do not sit
trying to manufacture feelings. Ask yourself, "If I were sure that I loved
God, what would I do?" When you have found the answer, go and do it.
On the whole, God's love for us is a much safer subject to think about
than our love for Him. Nobody can always have devout feelings: and even if
we could, feelings are not what God principally cares about. Christian Love,
either towards God or towards man, is an affair of the will. If we are
trying to do His will we are obeying the commandment, "Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God." He will give us feelings of love if He pleases. We cannot
create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the
great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love
for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and,
therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be
cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.
Hope is one of the Theological virtues. This means that a continual
looking forward to the eternal world is not (as some modern people think) a
form of escapism or wishful thinking, but one of the things a Christian is
meant to do. It does not mean that we are to leave the present world as it
is. If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for
the present world were just those who thought most of the next The Apostles
themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great
men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the
Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds
were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to
think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim
at Heaven and you will get earth "thrown in": aim at earth and you will get
neither. It seems a strange rule, but something like it can be seen at work
in other matters. Health is a great blessing, but the moment you make health
one of your main, direct objects you start becoming a crank and imagining
there is something wrong with you. You are only likely to get health
provided you want other things more -food, games, work, fun, open air. In
the same way, we shall never save civilisation as long as civilisation is
our main object. We must learn to want something else even more.
Most of us find it very difficult to want "Heaven" at all-except in so
far as "Heaven" means meeting again our friends who have died. One reason
for this difficulty is that we have not been trained: our whole education
tends to fix our minds on this world. Another reason is that when the real
want for Heaven is present in us, we do not recognise it Most people, if
they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would know that they
do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world. There
are all sorts of things in this world that offer to give it to you, but they
never quite keep their promise. The longings which arise in us when we first
fall in love, or first think of some foreign country, or first take up some
subject that excites us, are longings which no marriage, no travel, no
learning, can really satisfy. I am not now speaking of what would be
ordinarily called unsuccessful marriages, or holidays, or learned careers. I
am speaking of the best possible ones. There was something we grasped at, in
that first moment of longing, which just fades away in the reality. I think
everyone knows what I mean. The wife may be a good wife, and the hotels and
scenery may have been excellent, and chemistry may be a very interesting
job: but something has evaded us. Now there are two wrong ways of dealing
with this fact, and one right one.
(1) The Fool's Way.-He puts the blame on the things themselves. He goes
on all his life thinking that if only he tried another woman, or went for a
more expensive holiday, or whatever it is, then, this time, he really would
catch the mysterious something we are all after. Most of the bored,
discontented, rich people in the world are of this type. They spend their
whole lives trotting from woman to woman (through the divorce courts), from
continent to continent, from hobby to hobby, always thinking that the latest
is "the Real Thing" at last, and always disappointed.
(2) The Way of the Disillusioned "Sensible Man."-He soon decides that
the whole thing was moonshine. "Of course," he says, "one feels like that
when one's young. But by the time you get to my age you've given up chasing
the rainbow's end." And so he settles down and learns not to expect too much
and represses the part of himself which used, as he would say, "to cry for
the moon." This is, of course, a much better way than the first, and makes a
man much happier, and less of a nuisance to society. It tends to make him a
prig (he is apt to be rather superior towards what he calls "adolescents"),
but, on the whole, he rubs along fairly comfortably. It would be the best
line we could take if man did not live for ever. But supposing infinite
happiness really is there, waiting for us? Supposing one really can reach
the rainbow's end? In that case it would be a pity to find out too late (a
moment after death) that by our supposed "common sense" we had stifled in
ourselves the faculty of enjoying it.