# Twelve Years in a Monastery/Chapter XIII

CHAPTER XIII
THE CHURCH OF ROME
There is, at the present time, a profound struggle in progress over fundamental religious questions. During three centuries Europe has resounded with the din, and even been watered with the blood, of conflicting sects; at length other and deeper notes have been struck, and we now find the great sections of Christendom eager to unite under a common banner against a common foe—anti-sacerdotalism, if not a yet more revolutionary force which has been called naturalism. If literature is a faithful mirror of the thoughts and tendencies of its age, no one who is at all familiar with modern literature can ignore that struggle, or affect an attitude of indifference to it. During this and the preceding century the number of most powerful writers and thinkers from—Hume to Huxley, from Voltaire to Renan, from Kant to Wellhausen—who have withstood traditional authority in England, France, and Germany is deeply significant. In our own days, though there is a comparative lull in the storm of controversy and a comparative dearth of eminent thinkers on both sides, the struggle is still conspicuous ​in every page of every branch of literature. A great number of influential writers are well-known champions of one or other form of naturalism; it is hardly too much to say that the greater number of eminent exponents of literature, science, and art depart in some measure from the orthodox path. It is usually said that women are the more reliable support of clericalism: we have at the present day in England an unusual number of brilliant women writers, but, though few of them (for reasons which may be left to the psycho-physiologist) profess extreme naturalism, few of them adhere strictly to the orthodox sacerdotal institutions. The issue of the struggle is, therefore, the object of much anxious speculation.
The place which the Church of Rome is destined to occupy in this struggle is a matter of much interest, and it is usually conceded that it will be a very prominent position. The Church itself, of course, with that buoyant confidence which is one of the undeniable symptoms of its ‘perennial youth,’ predicts the ultimate absorption of all other forms of Christianity into itself, and proclaims that the final conflict will be between Rome and Rationalism. And Roman Catholics boast, with much truth, that their prediction is confirmed by many independent observers; Macaulay’s vision of the undying glory of the Papacy rising through the mists of future ages over the ruins of England (and, presumably, Anglicanism) finds many sympathisers.
​But it is not usually noticed that there is a vast difference in the basis of the prediction in the two cases. Rome prides herself on the intellectual value of her credentials, and thinks that time is sure to bring about their universal acceptance. On the other hand, those non-Catholic writers who talk of an ultimate struggle between Rome and Rationalism are under the impression that Rome does not appeal to the intellect at all: they divide mankind into two categories—rational and extra-rational—and think that the ultimate trial of strength will be between reason and authority, which they identify with Rome. There is a curious misunderstanding on both sides; Roman theologians perversely represent Rationalists as men who reject mysteries, miracles, &c., on the mere ground that they are supra-rational, and without reference to their credentials; whereas many Rationalists are under the impression that the Church of Rome professes an irrational method, rebukes and demands the blind submission of reason, instead of offering it satisfactory evidence, and preaches authority from first to last. Under that impression it is not surprising that the Church of Rome is singled out as the ‘fittest to survive’ of the Christian sects; but the impression is erroneous.
Just as the Rationalist does not reject supra-rational theorems if they are not contra-rational, and if there is satisfactory evidence in their favour, so neither does the theologian reject the demands of ​reason for logical satisfaction. The Catholic scheme claims to be pre-eminently logical, and does precisely appeal to the intellect of the inquirer: indeed, it is taught that the ‘convert’ from Rationalism must have a natural rational certitude, more than what is called a moral certitude, before he can receive the ‘light of faith.’ The system has been described in an earlier chapter, but the process would be of this character. The inquirer (if beginning from scepticism) would be offered rational evidence of the existence and personality of God, and (usually, though not necessarily) of the immortality of the soul; if that evidence did not satisfy him there would be no further progress. If convinced on those points he would be offered evidence, still of a purely rational character, of the divinity of Christ and Christianity, and of the authenticity of the Scriptures. Then he would be led, on historical grounds, to accept the divine institution of the Church of Rome, its infallible magisterium and its indispensable ministerium, and the prerogatives of its supreme pastor. He is now prepared to accept statements, logically, on authority, and the rest of the dogmas are, consequently, proved from Scripture, tradition, and the authority of the Church.
But even here reason is not abandoned: not only is it continually sought to confirm statements by rational and historical analogies, but it is admitted as a principle that every dogma must stand the negative test of reason. If any dogma contains a single ​proposition which offends against reason the whole system must be rejected. Hence much ingenuity is shown in averting the Rationalistic criticism of such thorny dogmas as the Trinity and the Eucharist; it is claimed that the accusation of absurdity is disproved, and therefore reason may confidently take them on authority. And again, when it is said that there is a living infallible magisterium in the Church, that must be accepted in a very narrow sense. The vast majority of bulls, decrees, encyclicals, &c., have only a disciplinary effect: it is piously believed by many that Providence takes a minor interest in them, but most priests take little notice of them, and the doctrine of infallibility has been carefully drawn up not to include them. The great dogma simply amounts to this, that the Pope (or the Church) can teach no new doctrine, but he has special guidance in his solemn declarations (which are few and far between) that certain doctrines are contained in the deposit of revelation. There have only been two such definitions in this century: Leo XIII. has not given any. Hence it will be understood how great an error those Protestants make who go over to Rome for the sake of its infallible voice (as if they were to have an infallible ‘Times’ at breakfast every morning), and also how untrue it is that Rome is the antithesis, the professed opponent, of reason, and only preaches submission.
No, the Church of Rome does not profess to be the refuge of the timid and the sentimental in a subversive ​age: whatever peculiar strength it may have must be sought in its characteristic methods and institutions, not in a clear antithetic position which would make it the centre of all forces opposed to Rationalism. Those methods and institutions have been noticed in the course of the preceding narrative. In the first place, it has an organisation which is eminently superior to that of any other Christian sect, or of any religion whatever. Its constitution embodies all the several advantages of an elective monarchy and an oligarchy, indeed, it is a moot question amongst canonists whether it is to be called monarchic or oligarchic; and at the same time it avoids the instability of democratic action by theoretically dissevering its power from civil power and appealing to a higher source. Its hierarchy lends a rigid unity to its 200,000,000 of abject adherents, of which the keystone is a figure on whom a vague supernatural halo is cast, and who is now always a commanding and venerable personage. Rome, the heir of the tact, ambition, and vigour of the Cæsars, the richest treasury of art, and a veritable hive of lawyers and diplomatists, controls and utilises the talent, the ambition, and the jealousy of its great sacerdotal army, and with easy confidence commands the attention of the civilised world.
Then the completeness, the unity, and the plausibility of its theological system must be considered. From the days of St. John Damascene until the sixteenth century almost all the talent of the civilised ​world has contributed to the formation of that system; it is a truism to say that it is plausible. Enduring almost unchanged through ten centuries, and eliciting the veneration of almost the entire intellectual world, it presents a majestic contrast to the theologies of more recent growth. Moreover, even in recent times it has been accepted by many great writers who have left the impress of their genius upon it, and accommodated it to minds of every cast.
And side by side with the elaboration of its own system must be classed an instrument which it uses very adroitly for the same purpose, the Index Expurgatorius, or list of condemned books. In England there is little explicit mention of the Index, for economical reasons, but every Catholic is given very clearly to understand the depravity of reading books ‘against faith or morals’; the restriction is cleverly represented to be a moral, not a disciplinary prescription, and thus the end of the Index is practically achieved without mentioning the odious word. Non-Catholics are gravely reminded that it is ethically imperative to study both sides of every religious question. Catholics are told in the same breath that it is sinful for them to read the works of opponents, because, naturally, they are already in possession of the truth and must not endanger its possession.
At the same time Catholics are indulged to some extent in their wayward anxiety to know what opponents are saying by having the objections formulated ​for them in their own apologetical literature—with satisfactory solutions appended. Here again the peculiarity of the Catholic controversial method tells in its immediate favour. As one would expect, most of the objections which are formulated have been carefully prepared for the express purpose of refutation; no Catholic writer ever gives an accurate version of hostile criticism. Newman is usually said to be the most satisfactory in this respect; in fact, it is claimed that he formulates the opinion of an adversary more lucidly than the adversary himself. But take for instance the exposition of Gibbon’s five causes of the spread of Christianity in the appendix to the ‘Grammar of Assent,’ and compare it with the classical chapter of Gibbon; it is utterly inaccurate and unworthy. And not only are critics’ opinions garbled and mutilated, but their personal characters are equally perverted. Anglicans are allowed some hope of ultimate salvation, although even here there is grave anxiety; Archbishops of Canterbury, &c., are, of course, case-hardened, men like Gladstone are fully expected to make a death-bed repentance, and so on. But when we come to greater sceptics the credit of bona fides is stopped: they are one and all represented to be in bad faith. Thus every Catholic believes that the Emperor Julian (the atheist, they are pleased to call him) died in a fit of rage, crying ‘Galilæus vicit’; that Voltaire died raving for a priest to confess; that Döllinger and Lamennais were pride ​incarnate; that G. Eliot, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, &c. &c., were beyond all plea of invincible ignorance. If a modern 'Inferno' were written it would describe a brilliant literary circle.
So also the results of philosophical, historical, and scientific research are accommodated to pious purposes. For several years geology and palæontology suffered great torture at the hands of Genesiac interpreters; history and archæology and philology then achieved marvellously convenient results; ethnology was racked to support a Biblical chronology, now abandoned; even chemistry, embryology, psycho-physics, and a host of innocent sciences were pressed into service and pressed out of shape in the process.
Of another institution which the Church formerly used for the same high purpose of guarding its flock against intellectual wolves—the Inquisition—little need be said. If it were truly a dead and discarded proceeding, like persecution on the Protestant side, it would not merit notice; it seems unprofitable to continually reproach the Church of Rome with its many and dark sins of the past of which it has really repented. However, it is not at all clear that the Church has repented of this particular outrage upon morals and humanity. The principles on which the Inquisition was founded are still part of the Church's teaching; and if it were possible to conceive a return of the ecclesiastical supremacy of former days, there is little doubt that the same policy would be urged. ​Happily for many of us, civil governments are becoming more and more disinclined to be guided by ecclesiastical principles and wishes in the discharge of their function to the community. Such logical and undiplomatic writers as Dr. Ward frankly admit the inference; it is said that he found Dr. Huxley once examining his premises, and was asked by him, 'where he kept his stake for heretics?'
A second great source of strength to the Roman Church is its impressive use of æsthetic influence. The subject has been treated already, and is too conspicuous to need development. Every sense is appealed to and finds gratification in a Roman ceremony; every art is pressed into its service. In Protestant countries, where the ancient reaction against Roman corruption has reduced ceremonies to a state of spiritual nudity, this influence is found to be most potent. Indeed, a comparison of the percentage of 'converts' in different parishes with the sensuous attractiveness of their services would yield interesting results.
Other forces which are peculiarly at work in the Church of Rome can only be briefly mentioned. Its vast and powerful diplomatic body of legates, &c., and its incessant political intrigue have no parallel in any other religion; neither has the vast wealth which is contributed annually by an organised collection throughout the entire world. Owing to its profound antiquity and its comprehensive range it can enumerate ​a long series of humanitarian works which have been achieved by men who happened to be ecclesiastics; these become an imposing record of the Church’s wondrous benefits to humanity in art, science, sociology, and philanthropy. So even in ethics the Church of Rome professes a more effective promotion of the welfare of humanity than other Churches, though in this department its claim of special power does not seem difficult to impugn.
Such would seem to be the peculiar strength of the Church of Rome in the religious struggle, as distinguished from all other Christian sects. The influences at work for its extension and consolidation are undoubtedly effective, but side by side with them it has many characteristic weaknesses which seem to give less security to its fabled immortality. In the first place, seeing that it does not shrink from and repudiate the rational criterion which the new-born age is applying to every existing institution, its very vastness is a source of danger; it presents a broader front to the keen rationalistic attack. If the mysterious dogmas which are common to all Christian sects invite criticism, nothing is gained in point of security by adding to them that microcosm of miracles — Transubstantiation — or the seven sacraments, or the vaguely floating tradition of an Immaculate Conception. Then, too, the Church of Rome is so dogmatic in its teaching, and has so frequently to abandon very positive positions. In other sects the privilege of ​private judgment and the absence of any adequate magisterium gives greater elasticity before hostile pressure.
Again the ideal of a higher life which the Church of Rome advocates brings it into collision with all modern ways of thinking. Self-torment will never again be recognised by the world at large as the supreme virtue, yet the ‘saints’ of the Roman calendar are honoured principally for that practice. One of the most recent models whom the Church has raised up for the veneration of humanity, Benedict Joseph Labre, shows the exemplary record of having avoided labour and lived by mendicancy, and having deliberately cultivated the most filthy habits of life. Usefulness to humanity is the principle virtue in the eyes of the modern world, and the Church pays little heed to that in canonisation. In fact, the very essence of its ethical teaching is entirely at variance with modern views; it teaches conformity with an external standard (about which there are innumerable controversies), and this for the sake of conciliating a Supreme Being and escaping His presumed vindictiveness. There is a growing tendency to regard actions which spring from such motives as non-ethical.
So, also, its insistence upon the possibility of vicarious atonement and merit is a vulnerable point; every Christian sect must, of course, admit it, but no others carry the doctrine to such length as is done in the Church of Rome. Its sacerdotal system, ​like that of the Jewish religion, is largely dependent on that idea; and the modern mind is diverging more and more from that attitude.
In fine, the very methods from which its strength ie now derived will one day prove grievous sources of offence; for the simple reason that they are inconsistent with its real function as a purely religious organism. Diplomatic intrigue and the exercise of a purely temporal power may serve to extend and strengthen its influence in less spiritual quarters; but it is an agency of very questionable character in the hands of a spiritual body, and has more than once been the basis of an effective protest against Rome. The sensuous character of its services—a result, not of Christ’s direction, but of later Roman policy—is another force of equivocal value. Any earnest thinker would scorn to be influenced by such a consideration, either as regards entering or remaining in the Church of Rome; there seems to be, even in the Church itself, a growing tendency to demand a greater purity of the religious duty. And, finally, it need hardly be said that its literary exclusiveness, its Index, its tyranny, its wilful calumniation of the character of great opponents and distortion of their criticisms, are a very vulnerable part of its system. As yet they are effective methods of preserving the integrity of the Church; but laymen are now taking the polemical work on their own shoulders, and interpreting the strictures of theologians at their own discretion—the result will be ​an impatient rejection of the literary restrictions which have so long insulted their intelligence and moral courage.
Such, then, are the strength and the weakness respectively of the Church of Rome in the present stage of its conflict. During its protracted existence it has encountered and triumphed over many kinds of opposition. It emerged brilliantly victorious from its secular struggle with polytheistic Rome and then with the destructive neo-Hellenism of Alexandria; it met confidently and rose upon the flood of barbarism that poured out over Southern Europe; it guided its fortunes safely through the age of iron that followed, and then controlled the fierce intellectual activity of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; it subdued and repressed the Renaissance and almost compensated its losses in the great Reformation. But the Church has never had so varied and so powerful a host of adversaries to encounter as it has at the present day. Apart altogether from the rival Christian sects—and in point of fact these seem more disposed to friendly alliance with it than to a continued conflict—the number of opposing forces of every character, intellectual, ethical, political, and æsthetical, is a matter of grave consideration.
In the first place there is Rationalism—taking the term in its broad sense so as to include not only 'naturalism,' but also that attenuated theism which rejects orthodox Christianity in virtue of the results ​of the Higher Criticism. In that sense the term, of course, does not designate a single and homogeneous system, but a vast collection of distinct and militant bodies: materialism, agnosticism, positivism, pantheism, secularism, theism, and unitarianism—for these cannot be called Christian in any clear sense of the word which would not include, for instance, John Stuart Mill or Renan. They may be all safely grouped under the banner of anti-sacerdotalism, and described as a vast modern intellectual movement directed against orthodox Christianity in general and particularly against the Church of Rome, the most dogmatic, conservative, and unyielding section of Christianity and the most powerful and most skilfully organised priesthood the world has ever seen. Non-Catholic sects have no stereotyped profession, they yield and adapt themselves to pressure with curious elasticity, as is so well illustrated in ‘The New Republic’ of Mr. Mallock; the revolutionary movement finds its chief antagonist in the Church of Rome, which wages with it a guerre à outrance. How extensive that movement is, embracing all who accept the results of philosophical, scientific, and Biblical criticism, and how powerfully represented in every branch of literature, even (and conspicuously) in fiction, is too well known and too frequently pointed out by sacerdotalists themselves to be commented upon.
Then there is a distinctively modern force of an ethical character which militates against the authority ​of the Church. In the United States, England, and Germany, especially, a number of ethical societies have been founded and propagated with much zeal. Frequently they do not profess hostility to ecclesiastical institutions, but the mere fact that they advocate the transference of ethical life to a non-theological basis marks them out as enemies. The Church of Rome, in particular, regards herself as the only effective guardian of morality, and the ethical function of its priests is their most prominent service. It will never submit to the transfer of ethical interests to a secular institution; otherwise it would be reduced to the condition of the Greek or Roman priesthood—a condition which would not last long in modern times. Yet the ethical societies are rapidly growing in importance.
In the political world the Church has met with harsh treatment from time immemorial, and its own diplomatic power has grown keen in the long contest. But the political anti-clerical movement of modern times is in a very different position from the violent movements of that character which are dispersed throughout history. Until the last century the anticlerical politician or diplomatist had no great anti-theological system to fall back upon. Now, the large body who are ever ready to spring up in reaction to the Church’s political encroachments have a powerful philosophy to appeal to. Formerly the Church’s troubles generally came from a few semi-sceptical ​individuals; now they spring from large political bodies, such as the Liberals of Spain and Belgium, the Libres-Penseurs of France, and the Freemasons of Italy. To the same great force must be added (from the present point of view) a new and anxiously regarded power—Socialism. The Church is very sensible of approaching danger from this quarter, and therefore, instead of its traditional practice of fierce opposition to every new movement, we find it attempting a compromise by patronising ‘Christian Socialism.’ This sociological force is not in direct intellectual opposition, and does not spend much time in discussing the Church’s credentials; the thinkers of the modern world, it says, are fairly divided about the religious problem, and that problem has assumed most portentous dimensions—hence we busy people must be content with a mild scepticism, and if the Church crosses our path in reforming this world, so much the worse for it.
A fourth influence of a less tangible and definable character, but infinitely more dangerous in tendency and more rapid in growth, may be set down under the name of Erotism. It may be thought that this is no new danger, but the world-old revolt of human nature against that moral law whose enforcement was boldly undertaken by Christianity. But there are two considerations which make that influence, old as it is, present rather a new aspect. The first is the decay of superstition and the enfeeblement of popular faith ​in the supernatural. The fourteenth, fifteenth, and eighteenth centuries are marked by great outbreaks of that influence, or by the spread of public immorality; but a keen faith still lurked in the popular mind, and the Church could successfully appeal to it. A Savonarola could meet and stem a veritable tide of Hellenism. In the present division of the world of thought and the imposing opposition to ecclesiastical teaching, that simple faith must be, and is, deeply affected; and erotism gains proportionately in power and stability. The second consideration is that this erotism, or revolt against traditional ethics, has become speculative and ratiocinative, and seeks to organise its votaries and systematise its protest. The decadence is, perhaps, midway between practical and organised immorality; however, it is a great literary power, very widespread in France, and on the increase in England and Germany. The free-love movement has also assumed important proportions, and counts some eminent literary exponents. Most important of all, there is an æsthetic and Hellenistic school which will prove a serious adversary of traditional ethics. In practice, by a kind of economia, it adheres to a severe Puritanism; in theory it is revolutionary. It cherishes the higher Greek ideal of love (as found in Plato); venerates the writings of Whitman, Nietzsche, and Carpenter; has all the fervour of youth and the fanaticism of ascetics.
​Such are the forces which the Church of Rome, as the most prominent of the Christian churches, finds opposed to it at the threshold of the twentieth century. What the issue of the struggle will be it were presumptuous to explore; it is even a delicate task to estimate the actual condition of the Church of Rome. We have spoken in detail of the state of Catholicism in London: there it is certainly not making progress. We have had a glimpse also of its condition in the provinces, which was equally dispiriting; the immense tract of territory represented by the diocese of Northampton only contains enough Catholics to form one good congregation. Other parts of England give similar results. Take the Fylde—a long strip of the Lancashire coast—which curiously retained the old faith until modern times; I was informed by a priest who has been stationed in it for many years, at Blackpool, that Catholicism is actually decaying in the old families. On the whole, Catholicism in England seems to be stationary for the last twenty years, and promises to remain so for many years to come.
Of Catholicism abroad we can form an opinion from the religious condition of Belgium, described in the seventh chapter. The religious condition of France is well known to be highly unsatisfactory. Tested by the safe criterion of fidelity to grave obligations—such as weekly attendance at Mass and annual confession—French people seem to be fast losing their traditional faith. It is usually said, and observation ​of French churches seems to confirm the statement, that French women remain faithful. There is another test of fidelity which raises a serious doubt on that point. The Church of Rome is known by all its votaries to condemn neo-Malthusian practices under pain of mortal sin; they are universally and habitually employed by French women. The unusual state of its population, and the curious fact that there are in France only some 200,000 women with more than six children, throws much light on the Catholicism of France. In Germany, Rome is making progress; so also in the United States, to some extent. In Spain and Italy its influence is a mere ghost of its former power; Socialism, Liberalism, and Freemasonry, careless scepticism and erotic licence, as in France, are daily enfeebling it.
In former ages it compensated home losses by missionary conquests; its actual paltry missionary profits are little more than financial transactions. I have spoken with missionaries from every one of the great fields, and they all confirm the opinion. On public platforms, of course, they deliver set speeches, at the end of which a collection is made; but in the genial atmosphere of the sitting-room afterwards they unbend, and unequivocally represent ‘conversions’ of natives as money matters.
The future we leave to more acute observers and more experienced speculators. The Church of Rome, ​after nineteen centuries of proud unquestioned dominion, comes to the tribunal of a keenly critical, ratiocinative, utilitarian generation. In an age of universal disillusion, its venerable antiquity gives no immunity from criticism; tradition has blundered almost in every portion of its theory of human life, its religious belief must be carefully tested. The vague and shadowy forms of religion which are now so widely accepted, and which do but embody the fundamental religious instinct and tradition in one meagre and purely speculative formula, will be confident enough of acquiescence. But the Church of Rome bears the luxuriant overgrowth in dogma, and ethics, and ritual, and polity, and discipline of 2,000 years of freedom; it practically denies the activity of a purely human element in its growth, and attributes its whole intricate scheme to a divinely-guided unfolding of a divine revelation, in the face of Buddhism and other analogous growths. It appeals, too, with logic and history, not with fire and sword, or sentiment, or practical utility. And the great human consciousness that lives on and treasures up the scattered leaves of experience under the ebb and flow of endless generations, and that has at length awakened to the fact that many beliefs have been lightly imposed upon and accepted by it, will continue the struggle of its systematised thoughts through ages yet to come. But one result is even now detaching itself from the solemn struggle; a feeling ​of tolerance, a diminution of selfishness, a mutual trust and sympathy, a recognition that all are earnestly interpreting to the best of their power that shadow of a higher world that has somehow been cast upon the life of man.
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