Problems of Metaphysics

Cosmological-Theological Problem

The Relationship Between Knowledge and Faith

In this concluding discourse, I wish to articulate, in broad terms, my perspective on the relationship—previously touched upon—between philosophy and religion, between knowledge and faith. Philosophy is not religion, nor can it replace it. Its aim is not to be a belief, but rather knowledge. Nevertheless, every philosophy, as long as it seeks to be philosophy in the ancient sense, a contemplation of the world and life, inevitably contains an element of faith that science, as such, does not possess. Ultimately, every philosophy reduces itself to the task of imparting meaning to things, or rather revealing the meaning that exists within them. This meaning, at its most fundamental basis, is always a matter of will and faith rather than knowledge. What appears to the philosopher as the highest good and ultimate goal is brought into the world as a good and goal for that world, and subsequently, in further contemplation, he believes he discovers them therein as such. In this sense, Augustine's words "fides praecedit rationem" embody a universal human truth, indeed serving as a genuine key to the understanding of any philosophy.

This becomes immediately evident in any idealistic philosophy. The end to which reality aspires—this is the fundamental conviction of any objective idealism—is the return of reality to itself: being, in itself, thought, it seeks to comprehend itself as it truly is, to know itself as thought or reason. Hegelian formulas denote the foundational view of this mode of thinking throughout the ages. The eternal self-manifestation of ideas, the thought of the absolute content of thought, is, as Aristotle expresses it, the foundation and aim of reality, and even— it is reality itself.

The ultimate basis of this conviction evidently lies in one's own life experience. For Aristotle, as for Plato, philosophy constituted the highest enterprise of their own lives. Therefore, it is—as they frame this thought in ethics—the highest content and highest good of human life; hence, the metaphysics further concludes—it is the ultimate aim of every life and all being in general. The omnipotent, the Divine, is constructed according to the scheme of the small thinker of thoughts, as the great thinker of thoughts. Likewise, for Fichte and Hegel, philosophy is the most important and significant of all facts presented by the world; consequently, thought is the foundation and purpose, even the very being of the world. If Fichte were asked what event he considers the most important in the eighteenth century, or indeed in modern times, he would unhesitatingly reply: the emergence of the doctrine of science, beginning with Kant. In his discourses on the essential features of the present age, he constructs a whole history; the latter revolves around the new philosophy as around its axis: the great turning of times, the transition from descending movement to ascending, is marked by the advent of transcendental philosophy; therein, reason, which had previously lost itself in nature, begins to find itself once again. Similarly, in Hegel, the world process pours forth directly into his philosophy; reality achieves within it the goal of its self-movement, absolute self-consciousness. Thus, the philosopher interprets the universe from himself and his highest aspirations. The world process invariably charts its course through the mind of the philosopher.

The situation is no different for Schopenhauer, the antithesis of Hegel. He too interprets the world from his own essence; within his own life goal, he discovers the goal of the world. "The World as Will and Representation" is the title of his principal work; he himself is a model of the world; both sides of the latter—mind and will—are facets of his own essence. The relationship between these two aspects, as experienced by him within himself, he projects onto the world at large: the mind is the clear and joyful essence, while the will is dark, blind, desiring, fearful, envious, hateful, pitiful, and wretched essence. The mind afforded him the great and pure joys of his life, while the will imposed the mundane small and great sufferings. Therefore, to detach oneself from the will and become pure mind is the goal that he may sincerely desire. He now brings this aim into the world. If the world, in its inception, is a blind, frantic, tumultuous, wretched will, then the latter produces the mind from itself, and within it—the redemptive principle: by knowing its own essence, the will comes to deny itself, and with that, to the world. History demonstrates this; in the great religions of redemption—Christianity and Buddhism—humanity achieves its goal, redemption from will. Thus, the meaning of the world unfolds for the philosopher from his own life experience.

This relationship is similarly mirrored in both positivist and materialist philosophies. Positivism, as developed by Comte, primarily aspires to be knowledge, a simple synthesis of all scientific understanding. Yet it too intermingles elements of faith; this occurs chiefly in the philosophy of history, where, as elsewhere, it takes the form of presenting history as a path toward a certain goal. The philosopher knows this goal, and in this lies, in essence, his primary knowledge; herein resides the key to the mystery of the world. This is also what attracts students to him; just as previously, the believing multitude crowded around oracles and prophets, now they flock around philosophers to learn from them where the path leads and what lies ahead. Comte’s philosophy is entirely directed toward the philosophy of history; it represents an attempt to encompass in a single glance the entire path traversed by humanity and to thereby determine the direction in which further history will unfold. The place and task of the present time are delineated by the law of three stages. The task proves to be precisely that which the philosopher is occupied with or which he has managed to resolve in broad strokes; hence, in this instance, the task of justifying positive philosophy as the definitive form of human knowledge and justifying positive politics, which, as a system, is also prepared; from here, the undertaking will consist in realizing the latter in practice. Thus, once more, the world process traverses the brain of the philosopher—though not without affecting him in the slightest; Comte, in his later years, felt himself the high priest of humanity, weighing and directing its fates while holding the past in his left hand and the future in his right. Perhaps the pretense of making the human brain the focal point of world movement is something that the brain cannot endure.

Materialism fundamentally rejects any interpretation of the world that derives from its inherent meaning. In the world, there is no meaning, and if something meaningful arises, it does so only accidentally and incidentally. By chance and incidentally, molecules in the brain combine in such a way that the result is, for instance, a poetic work or philosophy. Yet, even it is not devoid of moments of faith. Materialist philosophers also emerge as prophets, possessing great knowledge of the past and future. Thus, L. Feuerbach interprets history to his believers in the following manner: "What has been traversed so far, the so-called modern era, is the Protestant Middle Ages, during which we preserved the Roman Church, Roman law, the torturous penal code, universities of the old type, and so forth, albeit with half-hearted denials and reservations. With the destruction of Protestant Christianity, as the defining spirit of religious force and truth, we entered into the modern era. The spirit of the present or future is the spirit of realism. Unbelief has taken the place of faith, reason has supplanted the Bible, politics has replaced religion and the church, the earth has taken the place of heaven, work has substituted for prayer, material need has taken the place of hell, and man has taken the place of the Christian." This gives rise to the necessity for a new philosophy, as every era requires its own philosophy. "The denial of Christianity was until now unconscious; only now does it become conscious and willful, all the more so as Christianity has merged with obstacles that constrain the essential aspirations of contemporary humanity—political freedom. Conscious denial substantiates the modern era, necessitating a new, open philosophy that is no longer Christian, but decisively anti-Christian." And it is this new philosophy, demanded by the times, that Feuerbach offers—a realistic, atheistic, and democratic philosophy; undoubtedly, it will victoriously conquer the world and show it the way to salvation. Thus, even unbelief becomes a new faith.

As can be seen, philosophy here results not solely from reason but from the entirety of the individual; the will, an insurrection against the wretched present, lends it direction and fervor.

It would not be difficult to demonstrate how the same phenomenon occurs among newer philosophers of this tradition, such as Eugen Dühring and the socialists. Just as anger and indignation once inspired Juvenal to his verses, so they continue to inspire thought today. What convinces believers in materialism is not so much the foundational premises or the scientific and metaphysical proofs, but rather a vague consciousness that materialism resolutely fights against the worldview they perceive as the basis of existing relations, a foundation of a world rife with falsehood, deceit, and violence. Philosophy of history and interpretation of the future lie at the heart of philosophy here as well, and at the core of this heart are the ideas of rights, freedom, and well-being, the realization of which in the new order of human society constitutes the task of the present and the content of the future. Thus, the founder of the "materialist conception of history," Karl Marx, constructs the development of economic life as a movement toward the goal of a socialist society: after the expropriation of workers, which marked the inception of society, follows now the expropriation of the expropriators, the transformation of private property into collective ownership, achieving thereby the goal of a complete and comprehensive organization of economic life; commencing with the organization of production, it will culminate in the organization of distribution. Similarly, Friedrich Engels, bolstering old thoughts with the latest theories of anthropology, interprets history as a uniform process, which, starting from a primitive societal structure rooted in matriarchy and collectivist economy, and traversing a period of coercion and statehood marked by patriarchy and private property, ultimately leads back to a free social order based on collective ownership and voluntary unions in families.

Thus, the ideal of the future serves everywhere as a firm point from which the interpretation of history emanates. From this standpoint, the significant points of the past are defined, and through these points, the curve traced by the course of historical life is drawn. Therefore, every new formation immediately begins a "revaluation" of historical values; it requires this for its philosophy of history. Recall the Renaissance, the Reformation, the French Revolution, national unity, and the new German Empire on Prussian soil: each new formation, by reevaluating historical values, assures itself of its own inner necessity. Thus, socialism now gains confidence in itself. What once appeared great and significant to people—the theses of Luther, the Leipzig or Sedan day—when considered from a new perspective, is reduced to a completely ordinary, mundane event. Conversely, some event barely noticed by others—the Communist Manifesto by Marx, the establishment of the General Union of Workers by Lassalle, etc.—gains significance as an epoch-making event in world history. The old ambition of every new party to create its own chronology, a new calendar with new saints, re-emerges before us here.

As absurd as this new evaluation may seem to the believers of the old order, it appears reassuringly credible to its own adherents; only one thing they refuse to believe: namely, that what underpins their view of things is faith, not knowledge. For they say, we see quite clearly that history is moving towards this goal; "science" is the third word of the social democracy. Of course, you stand at the goal: how could it not seem that history is also moving in your direction? But what has brought us to this point is not science, but love and hatred, desire and aversion—not reason, but will. Those who do not share your love and your hatred, your hopes and ideals, you cannot prove the truth of your viewpoint to them. You can only refer to the future, and therein lies the crux: the future is open only to faith, not to knowledge. It is possible that five centuries hence, when the new order of things is realized, the seeds of the great upheaval will be understood by everyone in their significance. Just as now the seeds of Christianity are visible to all in their historical significance, and even for the obstinate, our chronology imprints its significance. But if someone, 1,800 years ago, had told a Greek philosopher or a Roman historian that from the birth of a poor child in a Jewish land, which occurred a few decades ago, the entire European world would someday reckon its chronology, the listener would likely have doubted the sanity of this prophet and, in any case, would have shied away from examining the possibility or probability of such a view. To me, it seems that the recent change in chronology is not markedly different.

This does not diminish the significance of the matter; miracles are wrought not by knowledge, but by faith; certainly not every faith, but only true faith, which with prophetic intuition anticipates what is to come. "Ideas," says Hegel, "are the active forces of history." Indeed; for the ideas of what is to come constitute the driving forces in the aspirations and thoughts of people. This will remain so as long as people live not in the enjoyment of the present, but in the hope of the future. Until then, faith will continue to play its role in humanity.

In this sense, faith is thus an element, indeed a true formative principle of every philosophy. Faith in the future shapes the understanding of historical life, and philosophy of history shapes the worldview of man. It is not astronomy that forms the worldview—it merely provides a general scheme of reality; it is not physics that determines the understanding of the essence of the actual—it offers only the necessary guidance for the technical processing of things; it is not biology that defines the understanding of life—it only provides a few basic strokes to delineate the general position of man in reality: regarding the significance of life, the essence of the actual, the foundations and goals of the world, about all this each person ultimately draws information from history, as the closest and truest medium of the spirit. The construction and interpretation of spiritual-historical life do not emerge from the science of the past, but from the idea of the perfect, which each carries within. It tells him where the movement is heading and how soon he will know it; he discovers from whence it originates; and once he knows what history signifies, he soon understands what nature and the world, in general, signify. The important for me is what is essential in the world—by this scheme, the human spirit has drawn conclusions throughout all times and is unlikely ever to cease doing so, unless the head and heart, the mind and will become entirely separate domains. As long as they live together in the old way, this will remain as it has been: what does not stir the will, what bears no relation to its goals and tasks, to its ideals, cannot awaken its attention; it is overlooked and, consequently, lost for the formation of an understanding of reality. Thus, what is important necessarily becomes essential, and the essential is the only real. Just as a snail builds its shell in accordance with its body, so does the will construct its worldview, from which it gazes upon things and acts upon them.

The thought just presented forms, as has been previously shown, the true pivot of Kantian philosophy. The deepest and most decisive impulses for worldview are not derived from reason—they arise from the volitional aspect, from practical reason. Faith in the possibility of our ultimate goals, in the reality of the highest good, serves as the true point of support in the formation of worldview. In his doctrine of postulates and the primacy of practical reason, Kant articulated this thought in the language of his formulas. We would now say: we are not dealing here with a demand that imposes faith upon anyone’s conscience, but with a fact; no one believes and is capable of believing that reality is completely indifferent or even hostile to that which constitutes his ultimate goal and highest good. Even if someone fundamentally denies the justice of believing that reality aligns with our values, he nonetheless implicitly assumes their agreement. The same goes for the materialist, who believes in the triumph of good deeds, in the preeminence of reason, truth, and justice—thereby believing in a moral order of the world. And the pessimist ultimately believes in the victory of the better, as far as he believes in redemption from evil: non-existence, which follows, is indeed preferable in comparison to existence. Thus, we find faith even among those who fundamentally reject all faith and wish to acknowledge only knowledge. They do not draw the consequences of their fundamental position or, conversely, deny the legitimacy of what they themselves nevertheless do: namely, transcending knowledge through faith in the future.

Thus, Kant's enterprise is precisely aimed at establishing the legitimacy of this virtually universal mode of action, in opposition to its principled denial. He seeks to justify the belief in the "kingdom of ends" against its systematic negation in dogmatic atheism. Yet he does not pursue this through theoretical proof. This approach is an old tactic; once, metaphysics, teleology, and theodicy were employed to argue that goodness is indeed the dominating force in reality. Kant discards this method as untenable; objective proof that compels the intellect is impossible by its very nature; every proof can be countered with an equally compelling argument against it. Here, too, we find dialectics with antinomies. The resolution of this dialectical antinomy lies in the same shift by which Kant resolves the cosmological antinomies: the dispute is settled by transferring it to another ground. Space and time, causality and necessity exist solely within the subject; with this realization, the dialectical antinomies, which stem from the assumption that these are definitions of things in themselves, vanish. Similarly, values exist only for the subject; but—this is the crucial point—only for the will, for "practical reason."

Thus, the analogy propels him further; nature, according to the Critique of Pure Reason, is nothing other than a system of phenomena ordered by the lawful function of our intellect; therefore, the forms of our intellect bear the significance and force of universal and necessary definitions of our knowledge of nature, and hence of nature itself. In the same manner, as Critique of Practical Reason later adds, the definitions pertaining to the volitional aspect of our essence possess the significance and force of universal and necessary definitions of our worldview. Just as the rational law of causality forms the basis of our faith in the order of nature, so too does the moral law provide the foundation for our belief in the moral order of the world. To the extent that the moral law is recognized and possesses authority as the identical expression of legislative reason, so too does the belief in the kingdom of ends, whose legislator is precisely this moral law.

One might find grounds for contention in the manner by which Kant introduces and conducts this thought; however, the central idea is wholly justified. For an entity devoid of will and entirely composed of reason, it would be utterly impossible to prove the significance or even the mere meaning of the kingdom of ends and the moral order of the world, as its intrinsic regularity. Yet for a human endowed with a will directed by higher aims of humanity, the belief in the moral order of the world is both natural and necessary. This faith thus becomes the cornerstone of his entire worldview. Inevitably, our philosophy will reflect both the traits of our intellect and the characteristics of our will. We have no more reason to view this as a falsification of our worldview than we do for the spatial-temporal causal form of our cognition. Our philosophy is a human philosophy; as human beings, we cannot possess or tolerate any other.

Against this view, negative dogmatism would counter: this means elevating a natural deficiency of our thinking to a principle. This is indeed the case; we are inclined to believe in that which we desire. However, the task of philosophy and science is precisely to liberate knowledge from the influence of the will. Initially, the will dominates everything and entirely shapes our understanding of things; thus arose the myriad superstitions narrated by anthropology and history. Gradually, in science, reason has triumphed to the point that biased interpretations have been replaced by diligent observation and spontaneous acknowledgment of facts. Science now demonstrates everywhere that the natural order of things not only does not cater to our will or bend itself to our whims, as childish imagination might paint it, but rather follows its own course, remaining utterly indifferent to human intentions and obeying only eternal, grand laws. Therefore, what purpose is served in deceiving oneself or in contemplating nonexistent entities? To accept things as they are—this is both wisdom and, at the same time, courage. What benefit could possibly arise from indulging in false notions?

Certainly none. And the daily, repeated experience undoubtedly reveals that the natural order of things often runs counter to our intentions and even destroys what we cherish and hold dear. But does this already resolve that reality is indifferent not only in particulars but in general, not only to isolated, arbitrary intentions but to our ultimate and highest goals, and that thus the belief in a "moral order of the world" is merely a pleasant self-deception?

I do not intend to delve into the old questions regarding the nature and significance of evil, or the possibility of theodicy. I will simply pose a question: what must the world be like for this faith to be admissible, at least as a possibility? Should the natural order be obedient to every desire or even preempt it? Would we then have reason to believe that the natural course of events is governed by Providence for our benefit? A. Büchner (in Kraft und Stoff, p. 236) opines: "It would be madness to seriously assert that the earth is arranged by a wise and all-good Providence as a suitable dwelling for it. Only extreme exertion of both physical and spiritual powers makes it possible for a human being to exist on it amidst the constant threat of thousands of dangers." Therefore, should we only have the right to believe in Providence if nature allowed us to live without straining our faculties? If there were no labor and no failures, no diseases and death, if the earth were a land of idlers, then—and only then—might we believe it to be the creation of a benevolent God?

Certainly, all of us dream at least once in our lives of a land devoid of work and anxieties, of harm and evil—we envision desired dreams of paradise. However, in our waking state, we see clearly that this paradise would not be for us—so long as we remain what we are. We are suited for the earth, not for paradise. A world devoid of obstacles and hindrances, failures and evil, would not be a world for us; where then would there be space for strong will and courageous action, for serious struggle and glorious victory? A beneficial environment is one that presents tasks corresponding to my strengths. A good world for a nation, good for humanity, is one that, through its obstacles, calls forth and cultivates its strengths and abilities. Without obstacles, both natural and moral, there would be no tasks or work, no life or history whatsoever. Whoever desires life and history, human life, desires obstacles, desires harm and evil—not for their own sake, but as conditions for exercising human will, and work, as material for developing strengths and virtues. The world is destined to serve as a means for exercising strengths, not for passive enjoyment.

Thus, anyone wishing to prove that the world is bad must demonstrate that it is unsuitable for this purpose, that it does not present individuals and society with appropriate tasks, that humanity requires a different world for the development of its natural faculties. Or at the very least, they must show that a differently ordered world would better fulfill these ultimate aims than the one that, unfortunately, exists. However, until this is accomplished, until a better world is presented to us—not better by the absence of certain inconveniences and obstacles, but better in general for the complete development of human potential—we will allow ourselves to maintain the belief that, for our nature as it is, the world as it is corresponds appropriately, indeed is the best world. We do not claim to see this clearly or to prove it; we lack alternative possible worlds and other conceivable human natures for comparison; but we assert the following: there is no evidence that counters the belief that this world, as it is, is suitable for us and good, that the paths taken by humanity, traveled by each of us, are good paths, paths of God. Theodicy does not exist as a science; but neither does scientific anti-theodicy exist. Reason relates indifferently to the question of whether the world is good or evil.

One might add that if he indeed leans towards either viewpoint, it is certainly not in favor of the notion that reality is bad, evil, and unsuitable for humankind. Those who adhere to the new biological theory are more likely to arrive at a different perspective. If humanity is not placed upon the earth from without, but rather emerged and grew alongside it, then, it seems, a priori, there must be an agreement between human nature and the environment surrounding it: in such a case, one is entirely adapted to this environment; in any other world, one would feel out of place. All of one’s strengths and abilities, even the essence of one’s will, one’s feelings, and even reason itself, are fashioned for the earth and the life conditions it presents—how, then, could it possibly be unsuitable or unwholesome for this being? Was it not a good mother to him? Indeed, it has imparted many harsh lessons. But perhaps these were precisely what he needed. Or do you know better? Thus, we return to the demand: construct from the infinite realm of possibilities a world that would be better for the nurturing of humanity and would achieve more.

Let it be permitted to remind you, however, that by the unanimous experience of peoples, what morality regards as good and honorable is perceived in reality as preserving and encouraging, whereas evil, on the contrary, is seen as constraining and destructive in the lives of individuals and nations. For a moment, this may seem otherwise: falsehood and deceit often revel in triumph; but “the end determines the matter,” as wisdom from countless proverbs states. In their historical recollection, they find confirmation of this. Indeed, the great and good have often remained unrecognized and suppressed in the present, while the insignificant, the pretentious, and the vile enjoyed prominence and respect. But history alters their roles; it reveals to the entire world that the insignificant, however ostentatious it may seem, is ultimately worthless, whereas the good, no matter how simple and unseen it may initially appear, proves to be real and significant. The wicked may have their day, yet the true and the good possess eternity. This is first and foremost the profound teaching of Christianity: through suffering and death lies the path to salvation and glory. In its triumph, Christian faith asks: O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory? The wicked and evil hold no power over those who are in the hand of God. They may strike at them from the outside, but they cannot overcome them internally; thus, they serve only to glorify in them the name of God.

In conclusion, I once again caution against the misunderstanding that such reflections are sufficient to provide a proof that compels reason, or that through them one can and should establish a religion of belief. They hold solely the significance of liberating judgment from the negative dogmatism of a purely physical worldview. Religion does not arise from thought, but from inner experience. This applies both to individuals and to nations. Life and death are the great preachers of religion; and as long as they preach, religion shall not perish from the earth.

In three sentiments, religion primarily finds its eternally living roots; life and death continually evoke them in the hearts of men: fear, the joy of wonder, and disillusionment. Only when these sentiments fade will religion die; only then will the day come for pure knowledge.

Fear and need constitute the first root of religion; it is they who have taught humanity the magic we previously identified as the primordial form of relationship to the supersensible. The fear for one’s life and the dread of death still serve as powerful motivations that bring humanity to its knees, compelling them to seek refuge from nature in something that transcends it. Most potent is the fear of death, whether for one’s own life or for that of a beloved. In the face of annihilation, the soul clings to the eternal and that which lies beyond the tangible, something imperishable.

Joy and wonder form the second root of religion. Youthful vigor and health, vibrant activity filled with hope and joyful fortune, generate a cheerful disposition striving to blossom into gratitude. The pure contemplation of nature inspires reverence, perceiving nature as a sign of something higher, of which it is both a product and manifestation. A thoughtful immersion in the works of the spirit, in the creations of art and poetry, in the lives of the great, the glorious, the courageous, and the holy, fills the heart with a sense of the beautiful and the sublime, with feelings of awe and respect; these sentiments also possess the quality of directing the soul upwards, towards the All-Good and the All-Perfect, of which all that is beautiful and good on earth is but a reflection. Such is the religion of Goethe:

In the purity of our hearts stirs a yearning
To willingly and gratefully surrender
To the higher, the purer, the unknown,
Seeking to comprehend that which can never be named.
Thus is the meaning of being devout.

The third root of religion stems from disappointment and fatigue with the world. This aspect clearly and forcefully emerges in the religions of redemption. Life and light have not delivered what they promised to the hopeful youth; bitter disappointment and sorrowful remorse gnaw at the heart, and the latter seeks salvation from despair and aversion to life by fleeing this world for a better one; escaping from the cruelty and tyranny, the mediocrity and deceit of humankind, it hurls itself into the bosom of God. In every idealistic philosophy, there exists something akin to this sensation. It resonates in Plato, in Fichte.

Indignation toward the world and humanity as they are provokes the assertion: this world is not a genuine world; it cannot be one, for it is far too insignificant for such a status; there exists, or must exist, a purer, higher realm beyond this misty sphere of sensory experience. Who remains entirely foreign to this sentiment? A certain degree of contempt for the world, contemptus mundi, so strongly emphasized in Christianity, is likely felt by every nobly attuned heart. Humanity is not what childhood trust had imagined; behind the beautiful façade they skillfully present lies base ambitions and lowly thoughts. They lack a serious relationship with the beautiful and the good; petty aims and ignoble intentions guide both themselves and are projected onto others; the great and the sublime evoke envy in them, serious and lofty aspirations stir distrust and hatred within them, and a heartless judgment is rendered upon those who refuse to join them in naming the trivial as grand, the false as authentic, the illusory as truth. In this moment, the heart, burdened with sadness and indignation, turns away from the judgment of humanity and directs itself toward a higher, more just judge; relying on God rather than on vain and mercenary beings, not resting upon a deceitful creature, creatura fallax, becomes the law of its life. Nothing great has ever occurred on this earth where a measure of such sentiment did not reside. And whose life has remained ignorant of this other disappointment: you have chased after the things of this world—money and wealth, honors and status, pleasures and contentment—and here you find yourself repeating the same experience, one already traversed a thousand times: none of these can satisfy the heart. You have soared with grand ambitions, believing you would attain the beautiful and the true, and now, having traveled a winding path, you find yourself lost in darkness. You once engaged in the struggle for justice and freedom, yet you have grown weary and become compliant, making peace with this world. This disappointment also serves as a prompting to seek something higher, becoming a passionate yearning for redemption from this sensuously ephemeral existence. For a soul wearied by life, all earthly matters seem empty and desolate, and it echoes the poet who, proclaiming that nothing human remains foreign to him, laments:

Ah, I am weary of wandering;
What are all joys and sorrows!
Sweet world,
Descend, descend into my heart!

These feelings give rise to a longing for religion within the human heart. As long as they are not entirely displaced by the complacent tranquility of satiation and the vanity of culture, self-adulation, and “Byzantinism,” this longing will continually resurface. This longing finds satisfaction only in a given, historical religion, not in fanciful thoughts and images concocted by individuals. That which is self-invented is arbitrary, something to be preserved or set aside. From religion, however, one demands that it elevates him above himself and his own whims, placing him upon a firm and reliable foundation. This foundation is granted solely by historical religion, a faith in which the ancestors lived and died. When the need for religion begins to be felt, the great symbols, which once conveyed the meaning of the world to the child, revive in consciousness; they now appear to the soul as steadfast and eternal, as the only reliable truths amid the fluctuations of opinion. The constructions of philosophers, the theories of scientists, and the systems of theologians pass by like clouds appearing in the evening and vanishing by morning; while the great symbols remain like stars in the sky, even though for a moment they may be concealed from view by passing clouds.

When a wanderer returns from the mountains to the plain, the peaks are initially obscured by the nearest foothills; yet, as he moves away, the foothills lower, and at last, the solitary snow-capped summits rise above the distant plain. Such is the experience of humanity with religion. At first, the mass of new impressions made by the world and life upon the emerging youth in the light pushes the initial grand impressions of youth to the background, rendering them nearly imperceptible; but when the time comes to look back, when the parental generation begins to die off, and the new youthful life strives to stand on its own feet, memories of youth and homeland begin to assert themselves with strength; along with them arises the memory of the spiritual homeland, of the realm of images and contemplations in which the child's consciousness once thrived. And as the soul, enriched by diverse life experiences, now uncovers the great significance of these matters, a concurrent desire emerges to transmit them, and through the tradition of great mysteriously revealed truths, to bind future generations to the life of their ancestors. Thus, the seed of religion spreads from generation to generation; life brings it to fruition in uneven ways; some seeds may not germinate at all, but generatio aequivoca does not occur here, as in the rest of the organic and historical world.

Religion exists and can exist only in the form of popular religions, historically derived and concretely expressed in symbols and sacred rites. Abstract religion, as sought under the name of rational or natural religion, is impossible; if there occurs anything of the sort among individual thinkers, it is merely a remnant, the last reflection of a complete, concretely valid religion. Renan eloquently expresses this in his thought-rich treatise on metaphysics and its future (Fragments philosophiques, p. 327): “The clarity of deism will always hinder it from becoming religion. A religion that would be as clear as geometry would evoke neither love nor hatred. The bond between individuals is created only by what encompasses free and personal choice: the more evident the truth, the less it is valued; passion is stirred only by that which is obscure, for clarity excludes individual choice.” The critical philosopher will therefore not seek to “deprive religion of its particular articles of faith; he does not believe that through the analysis of various religions one can find the truth at the bottom of a melting pot. Such an attempt would yield only nothingness and emptiness; every entity has its worth only in its own unique, characteristic form. He accepts every symbol for what it is, as a peculiar expression of a feeling that does not deceive. Hence, the truth of a symbol is not directly proportional to its simplicity. In the eyes of the deist, Islam would have to be regarded as the best religion; yet in the eyes of the critical philosopher, Islam is a very meager religion, having brought more evil than good to humanity. Let us allow religions to speak of God and be cautious not to destroy them in the intention of simplification. Let us not boast of our superiority; their formulas are hardly more mythical than ours, and they have greater advantages that we shall never achieve. A formula is a boundary and subject to dispute; a hymn, a harmony is not, as they contain no logic and have nothing disputable within them. The dogmas of Catholics repel us; their ancient churches are objects of our admiration. The confessions of Protestants are indifferent to us, while their service's austere poetry greatly attracts us. Judaism speaks little to us, yet its ancient psalms still resonate with our hearts.”

Those who strive to fabricate a new religion through philosophy should not forget this. Religion consists not of abstract formulas, but of concrete symbols; and symbols cannot be artificially created; they can only arise through historical growth. Religion can absorb new elements; the old trunk can produce new shoots, but it does not arise through generatio aequivoca. Thus, Christianity, in every aspect, both in faith and in worship, has preserved a connection with the religion of Israel. It seems to me that anyone with even the slightest sensitivity to the poetry of history should be engulfed by an infinite weariness, accompanied by yawning and nervous trembling, when comparing genuine historical religion with attempts at artificial reconstruction, such as Kant's religion of humanity with its concepts and formulas, symbols and worship.

The founders of new religions should not forget that without the transcendent, no religion can exist. To erase the relationship with the transcendent is to dismantle religion itself. We can love and respect a living person or a historical figure; however, religious reverence can only be felt towards a metaphysical, superactual being. Every actual entity has its limits; only the ideal is devoid of negation. A historical being can become an object of religious veneration only by being elevated from the empirical world and transferred into the realm of poetry, ideals, and symbols. If, instead of the four Gospels, we possessed a four-volume biography of Jesus that detailed everything He did and said, the impression upon the soul would be infinitely less significant. The biography would present to us a man with all his conditioned realities, while the Gospels present a few great and exalted traits, with the minor aspects of everyday humanity absent or only lightly sketched; thus, we see in Jesus the image of God, the Superactual, the Super-formed, the Infinite. In this lies the right and necessity of deifying Jesus within the faith of the Church: the object of our religious reverence is not the empirical man but God, who has revealed Himself to us in this man and shows the path to life and bliss.

Positivism believes that humanity is ready to erase the yearning for the infinite and the transcendent, which has characterized religion until now. I consider this a misunderstanding. The drive beyond the actual, manifesting as an undefined desire for the infinite and the all-good, is innate to humanity and is never lost. In the goods and images of this earth—this experience-bound reality—one finds no complete satisfaction; at least, there come moments when all earthly and transient things seem insignificant and small, when the desire for the eternal and the unchanging envelops them. Not only for the soul, but even for the mind, the given reality becomes too confining: if you truly grasped every science, if you had answers to all the questions that historians and natural scientists tirelessly ponder, what would be so great about that? The actual and the perfect lie beyond the realm of the knowable, the representable, the expressible in words. Such sentiments assail the modern individual less frequently than in the times of Faust, speculative philosophy, and romanticism; the contentment with the immediate and the small is characteristic of our contemporary spirit. The same was true in the Age of Enlightenment; clarity and utility were its joys. However, the swing of the pendulum of historical life has brought forth turbulent yearnings, romanticism, and mysticism. Perhaps the pendulum has now reached its extreme point and is ready to swing back? At the very least, it seems that the exaggerated belief in scientific inquiry and its results may have passed its zenith; likewise, the veneration of realpolitik seems to noticeably wane. Judging by certain signs, in the peoples of the West, a yearning for new, richer, freer, and more spiritual content in life appears to be stirring again: a longing for guiding ideas, a yearning for religion. At times, it may seem that the spirit entirely vanishes in the transitory and temporal; a time will come when it tires of all those things it has pursued breathlessly, when, satiated by national wealth and lavish enjoyment, fame, and universal education, it will come to itself and remember the eternal.

It is innate to everyone
That their spirit strives upward and onward,
When above us, lost in the blue expanse,
The lark sings its clear song,
When above the sharp peaks of pines
The eagle soars, spreading its wings,

And across the plains, across the seas
The crane strives toward its homeland.

In this sense, religion is compatible with philosophy; faith with the freest thought. Religion does not demand that we conceive what cannot be thought, but rather that we believe in that which resonates with the soul and will, without contradicting thought.
But whence arises that yawning chasm between faith and science, between actual convictions and religious confession, which constitutes the grave malady of our time? It is evident that this stems from the fact that a spurious scientific system has been constructed in the name of religion, requiring unconditional recognition of its formulas. In opposition to submission to such dogmas, crafted by human hands, the sense of freedom and the more sensitive theoretical conscience of the modern age rise in rebellion. Old sayings attribute disbelief to a malign will that supposedly refuses to submit to beneficial upbringing. Perhaps something of that sort does exist. Yet it would be naïve self-deception to lay all estrangement from the Church and resistance to faith upon this cause. Beyond the narrow circle in which such sayings are traditionally repeated, long has no one truly believed that only wicked individuals are non-believers in the ecclesiastical sense; the entire world knows that nearly all those whom our people revere as their spiritual leaders and as renowned, truthful, and courageous compatriots—Goethe and Schiller, Kant and Fichte—and even the names one might dare to mention here—must be counted among those non-believers in the ecclesiastical sense.

Thus, the cause of the widespread aversion to religion and the Church does not lie here; it rests in the fact that, in the name of religion, submission is demanded not to God's command but to human decrees; confession becomes a yoke for the testing of obedience, a path to praemium servitutis, to positions and advancement. This provokes hatred. For Sacred Scripture should be appealing and comforting to anyone endowed with a sense for the simple and truthful, for the great and exalted. What renders it indifferent or even loathsome to some is that it is not offered to them for the free assimilation of what is suitable to them but is thrust upon them with the demand to see in it inspired, literally true teachings about natural and historical facts. Consider the plight of many thousands of teachers who daily endure the agony of being obliged to teach what they do not believe and are forbidden to express what they think. For ancient symbolic rites, sanctified by the reverence of millennia, should be respected and deemed sacred by anyone possessing even a modicum of sense for historical life; yet, due to police coercion and incessant prescriptions regarding what one must or must not think and feel during such rites, they have become unbearable. A religious confession, as a free declaration that one wishes to belong to that great, morally enduring community of life which sees in Jesus the bearer of salvation—that one wishes to live in it and die within it—would arise from the souls of thousands who now regard it with distrust and aversion because three dogmas have long become repugnant to them, learned by rote as children, memorized as boys, and publicly confessed out of compulsion as youths.

Faith, by its very nature, is the most necessary, most free, and most intimate manifestation of life. It withers where coercion, fear of humanity, and politics intervene. This is the most evident of all truths taught by the history of the Western European peoples—a truth that political people find difficult to digest. What, then, shall we do to preserve religion among the people? I truly do not know how to answer that; except to say that in the question of preserving religion, one must think first and foremost of oneself.