Evolution The Disguised Friend Of Faith Arthur Peacocke
Evolution The Disguised Friend Of Faith Arthur Peacocke
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Science had pushedthe deist’s God farther and farther
away, and at the moment when it seemed as if He would
be thrust out altogether, Darwinism appeared, and, under the
disguise of a foe, did the work of a friend. It has conferred
upon philosophy and religion an inestimable benefit, by
showing us that we must choose between two alterna-
tives. Either God is everywhere present in nature, or He is
nowhere.
—Aubrey Moore,“The Christian Doctrine of
—God,” in Lux Mundi, th ed., ed. C. Gore
—(London: John Murray, ), , emphasis
—added.
Contents
%
Preface vii
A Noteon the Language xi
Part . Natural Evolution
. God’s Interaction with the World: The Implications
of Deterministic “Chaos” and Models from
“Whole-part” Constraints and Personal Agency
. Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology—
Yesterday andToday
. Chance, Potentiality, and God
. Complexity, Emergence, and Divine Creativity
Part . Humanity Evolving in the Presence of God
. Articulating God’s Presence In and To the
World Unveiled by the Sciences
. Natural Being and Becoming:The Chrysalis of
the Human
. The Nature and Purpose of Man in Science
and Christian Theology
Part .Theological Evolution—The Reshaping of Belief
. Science and the Future ofTheology: Critical Issues
. Public Truth in Religion
11.
. The Incarnationof the Informing Self-Expressive
Word of God
. DNA of Our DNA
. The Challenges and Possibilities of
WesternTheism—Christianity
Epilogue
. Wisdom in Science and Education—and
Robert Grosseteste, a Medieval Scientist-
Theologian and Educator
Notes
Index
vi Contents
12.
Preface
%
My conviction haslong been that critical religious thinking is
most vital and creative when it faces the challenge of new ideas and
new cultural settings.This has been especially true of Christian theol-
ogy. One has only to think of
•.the opening out of the Gospel from its Jewish setting into the
wider Gentile world, as recounted and exemplified in the NewTesta-
ment (the Acts of the Apostles and the various epistles, especially of
St. Paul);
•.the Patristic period when the Greek fathers met and overcame
the challenge of neo-Platonic philosophy;
•.and St. Thomas Aquinas reshaping theology when Aristotle’s
comprehensive scientific and philosophical works came to Europe via
Islam.
Today, the pervading of all our thinking and action by the sciences
constitutes the sharpest challenge to the beliefs of traditional Chris-
tianity and of other religions.This has been a preoccupation of mine
since my schooldays when my incipient and ill-informed faith en-
countered the evidence for evolution and initiated my own long trail
of integrating evolution with a transformed articulation of Chris-
tian belief.The working out of these issues has been a leitmotif under-
lying not only my own personal quest1 but also expressed in my pub-
lished books2 on the wider interactions of science and Christian the-
ology. My critical religious thinking on these themes has, as is
customary for any thinker, inevitably not been confined to these
books but has been expressed as essays, now included in this volume,
vii
13.
which were originallypresented in a wide variety of milieux and of
occasions.
The word “evolution” evokes a negative reaction in only some
Christian quarters—but mercifully and certainly, globally, not in
most. For, not very long after Darwin produced his evidence of a
plausible mechanism (natural selection) for that transformation of
species which the fossil record and his researches then indicated, lead-
ing Christian thinkers in his own country were welcoming his con-
cept of the evolution of the living world and integrating it with their
understanding both of divine creation and incarnation. It is the re-
mark, quoted after the title page, of one of these,Aubrey Moore, that
is referred to in the title of this book—the question mark indicating
that there is indeed a proper question needing honestly to be pursued
with intellectual integrity.
The essays collected here in part represent my thinking about
the theological issues raised by the now completely and scientifically
well-established evolution of living organisms in the natural world;
and, in part , about how human beings should now begin to regard
themselves and their own presence in the world in relation to the
God creating in and through evolution.As a kind of reflection in the
mirror of awareness of the created, natural processes of evolution, our
thinking about God has itself “evolved” (in the sense of “unfolded”)
concomitantly with the reconsideration of nature and humanity
stimulated by this awareness, and the essays in part are concerned
with this reshaping of belief. An epilogue recalls an earlier, medieval
figure in English theology, Robert Grosseteste, from whose wisdom
concerning education about the relation of nature, humanity, and
God we can still learn much.
This book, along with all my other writings, is based on the pre-
supposition that what the sciences tell us is true about nature cannot,
in the long run, falsify what is true about human relationships to
God. Indeed, because the world is created by God, knowledge
through science of the world must enhance and clarify and, if need
be, correct our understanding of God and of God’s relation to the
creation, including humanity.
viii Preface
14.
I warmly welcomethe opportunity now afforded by the Temple-
ton Foundation Press to bring to a wider readership these essays of
mine revolving around this theme of evolution, and I thank their
staff, especially Joanna Hill and Laura Barrett, for their patience, co-
operation, and understanding in this enterprise.
Arthur Peacocke
Preface ix
16.
A Note onthe Language
%
For much of the period during which these essays were written
and published, the conventions concerning gender-inclusive language
were different from those that prevail now in the early part of the
twenty-first century. Some of the expressions I used may be mistak-
enly interpreted by a contemporary reader as non-gender inclusive.
Nothing could have been further from my intentions over my thirty
years as an author in this field, as manifest in the strong arguments put
forward in my early major work, Creation and theWorld of Science (Ox-
ford: Clarendon Press, , –; nd ed., Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, ) for the attribution of feminine language to God to
represent God’s nature, especially in relation to divine, creative activ-
ity. I intended this as an overt correction to the use of male language
to depict God. Since that time the widespread use of neologisms such
as “Godself” has enabled one to avoid the use of male personal pro-
nouns in referring to God in some constructions, and that is my cur-
rent usage—always using “God” instead of “He/he” for the divine,
repetitive as this often turns out to be because of the limitations of
the English language.
The use of the word “man,” with or without a capital M, but cer-
tainly without the definite or indefinite article, was the customary
word in Britain for most of the twentieth century for referring to hu-
manity or “humankind,” for example, the Shorter Oxford English Dic-
tionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ) gives as the first meanings of
“man” the following: “Man .l.l. plural men .l.l. I.. A human being
.l.l. Now surviving in general or indefinite applications in the sense
“person” (e.g., with every, any, no, and in the plural with all, any, some,
xi
17.
etc). . Ingeneric sense, without article:The human creature regarded
abstractly: hence the human race or species, mankind. In Zoology:The
human creature or race viewed as a genus of animals .l.l. ”
Hence my earlier usage1 in many of my essays of “man” and “men”
was fully inclusive, as I intended it to be. But times and customs have
changed, and I can only hope that my intentions then are not now
misconstrued, because it would not have been practicable in a
reprinting to alter the texts of the accompanying essays in accordance
with contemporary usage.
xii A Note on the Language
chapte r 1
God’sInteraction with theWorld
The implications of deterministic “chaos” and
models from “whole-part” constraints and
personal agency
%
At the beginning of the seventeenth century, John Donne1 la-
mented the collapse of the medieval synthesis but, after that century,
nothing could stem the rising tide of an individualism in which the
self surveyed the world as subject over against object. This way of
viewing the world involved a process of abstraction in which the en-
tities and processes of the world were broken down into their con-
stituent units. These parts were conceived as wholes in themselves,
whose lawlike relations it was the task of the “new philosophy” to
discover. It may be depicted, somewhat over-succinctly, as the asking
of, firstly,“What’s there?”; then,“What are the relations between what
is there?”; and finally,“What are the laws describing these relations?”
To implement this aim a methodologically reductionist approach was
essential, especially when studying the complexities of matter and of
This paper was first published in The Concept of Nature in Science andTheology, Part
I, Proceedings of the Fifth European Conference on Science and Theology, Freising,
, ESSSAT Studies in Science and Theology, vol. , ed. N. H. Gregersen, M.W. S.
Parsons, and C.Wassermann (Geneva: Labor et Fides, S.A., ), –. It is a sum-
mary and (I hope) a clarification and development of some ideas elaborated more
fully in Theology for a Scientific Age (Oxford: Blackwell, ; nd enlarged ed., Lon-
don: SCM Press, ; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, )—denoted as TSA from
now on. Reprinted by permission.
21.
living organisms andthe natural world came to be described as a
world of entities involved in lawlike relations which determined the
course of events in time.
The success of these procedures has continued to the present day,
in spite of the revolution in our epistemology of the physics of the
subatomic world necessitated by the advent of quantum theory. For at
the macroscopic level that is the focus of most of the sciences from
chemistry to population genetics, the unpredictabilities of quantum
events at the subatomic level are usually either ironed out in the sta-
tistical certainties of the behavior of large populations of small entities
or can be neglected because of the size of the entities involved.2
Pre-
dictability was expected in such macroscopic systems and, by and
large, it became possible after due scientific investigation. However, it
has turned out that science, being the art of the soluble, has concen-
trated on those phenomena most amenable to such interpretations.
What I intend to point to are some developments from within the
natural sciences themselves that change this perspective on the natural
world in a number of ways which might bear significantly on how
we can conceive of God’s interaction with the world.
Whole-part constraint
(or “downward/top-down” causation)
General
The notion of causality, when applied to systems, has usually been
assumed to describe “bottom-up” causation—that is, the effect on the
properties and behavior of the system of the properties and behavior
of its constituent units. However, an influence of the state of the sys-
tem as a whole on the behavior of its components units—a constraint
exercised by the whole on its parts—has to be recognized. D. Camp-
bell3
and R.W. Sperry,4
called this “downward” (or “top-down”) cau-
sation,5
but it will usually be referred to here as “whole-part con-
straint.” For, to take the example of the Bénard phenomenon, beyond
the critical point, individual molecules in a hexagonal “cell,” over a
wide range in the fluid, move with a common component of velocity
Natural Evolution
22.
in a coordinatedway, having previously manifested only entirely ran-
dom motions with respect to each other. In such instances,6
the
changes at the micro-level, that of the constituent units, are what they
are because of their incorporation into the system as a whole, which
is exerting specific constraints on its units, making them behave oth-
erwise than they would in isolation. Using “boundary conditions”
language,7
one could say that the set of relationships between the
constituent units in the complex whole is a new set of boundary con-
ditions for those units.There is also, of course, the effects on a system
of its total environment (ultimately, the whole universe), since no sys-
tem is ever truly isolable, though the particular system effects can usu-
ally be distinguished from these.
It is important to emphasize again that recognition of the role of
such whole-part constraint in no way derogates from the continued
recognition of the effects of its components on the state of the sys-
tem as a whole (i.e., of “bottom-up” effects). But the need for recog-
nition of the former is greater since hardly anyone since the rise of
reductionist scientific methodologies doubts the significance of the
latter. Indeed, this lack of a proper recognition of whole-part con-
straint has unfortunately often inhibited the development of concepts
appropriate to the more complex levels of the hierarchy of natural
systems.
On a critical-realist view of the epistemology of the sciences,8
this
implies that the entities to which the theories and experimental laws
refer in our analyses correspond, however inadequately and provi-
sionally, to epistemologically nonreducible features of reality which
have to be taken into account when the system-as-a-whole is inter-
acting both with its parts and with other systems (including human
observers).These new features may be deemed putatively to exist at
the various levels being studied: that is, they can also have an ontolog-
ical reference, however tentative.9
It would then be legitimate to en-
visage the postulated reality which constitutes a complex system-as-
a-whole (the “top” of the “top-down” terminology) as exerting a
constraint upon its component parts, the realities postulated as exist-
ing at those lower levels—while continuing, of course, to recognize
God’s Interaction with theWorld
23.
the often provisionalnature of our attempted depictions of realities at
all levels.
Evolution
The pattern of “causal” relationships in biological evolution is in-
teresting in this connection.We are dealing with a process in which a
selective system “edits,” as it were, the products of direct physico-
chemical causation (i.e., changes in DNA) over periods of time cov-
ering several reproductive generations. D. Campbell10
gives an exam-
ple of this: the surfaces and muscle attachments of the jaws of a
worker termite are mechanically highly efficient and their operation
depends on the properties of the particular proteins of which the jaws
are made.These have been optimized by natural selection.Any partic-
ular organism is only one in a series of generations of populations of
termites, and it is the increasing efficacy of the proteins in constitut-
ing efficient jaws that is operative in selection and thereby determines
the sequences of the DNA units.Yet when one looks at the develop-
ment of a single organism, one observes only, with the molecular biol-
ogists, the biochemical processes whereby protein sequences, and so
structures, are “read out” from the DNA sequences. Hence the net-
work of relationships that constitute the temporal evolutionary devel-
opment and the behavior pattern of the whole organism is determin-
ing what particular DNA sequence is present at the controlling point
in its genetic material in the evolved organism.This is what Campbell
called “downward causation.”
It is not adequate to describe such complex interlocking networks
of events and changes operating at different levels as causally con-
nected in a sequential, constant conjunction of events.We seem rather
to have here a determination of form through a flow of information, as
distinct from a transmission of energy, where “information” is con-
ceived of in a broad enough sense11
to include the selective input
from the environment towards molecular structures—for example,
the DNA sequences in the termite jaw example. Such determinative
relations may operate between two different kinds of “level” in na-
Natural Evolution
24.
ture.The determination ofform by form requires a flow of informa-
tion, in this case, between levels.12
The brain, mental events,
and consciousness.
It is in terms such as these, relevant to our later considerations of
God’s interaction with the world, that some neuro-scientists and
philosophers have come to speak of the relation between mental
events experienced as consciousness and the physico-chemical
changes at neurons that are the triggers of observable actions in those
living organisms whose brains are sufficiently developed that it is ap-
propriate to attribute to them some kind of consciousness. As John
Searle has recently put it:
Consciousness .l.l. is a real property of the brain that can cause
things to happen. My conscious attempt to perform an action such
as raising my arm causes the movement of the arm. At the higher
level of description, the intention to raise my arm causes the move-
ment of the arm.At the lower level of description, a series of neu-
ron firings starts a chain of events that results in the contraction of
the muscles .l.l. the same sequence of events has two levels of de-
scription. Both of them are causally real, and the higher level causal
features are both caused by and realised in the structure of the
lower level elements.13
For Roger Sperry and Donald Mackay,“mental events” for human
beings are the internal descriptions we offer of an actual total state of
the brain.The total brain state acts as a constraint on what happens at
the more micro-level of the individual neurons; thus what occurs at
this micro-level is what it is because of the prevailing state of the
whole. There is, it is being suggested, operative here a whole-part
constraint of one “level” upon another, from that of the brain state as
a whole to that of the individual neurons. Descriptions of the total
brain state in purely neurological terms would be exceedingly com-
plex and, indeed, considering the complexity of the brain, may never
be forthcoming in anything other than broad terms.The causal effec-
God’s Interaction with theWorld
25.
tiveness of thewhole brain state on the actual states of its component
nerves and neurons is probably better conceived of in terms of the
transfer of information rather than of energy, in the way a program
representing a certain equation, say, controls the chips in a com-
puter—but this whole area of investigation is still very much sub ju-
dice. (For example, is there a : correlation between brain states and
mental states? Can a mental state be “realized” in a number of differ-
ent brain states?)
It seems that, with the evolution of brains, this kind of whole-part
constraint has become more and more significant in the evolutionary
development, as the whole state and behavior of the individual or-
ganism itself plays an increasing role.This has also, as we saw, intro-
duced an element of flexibility into the evolutionary process. Fur-
thermore, since the brain-in-the-body is a dissipative system, it now
becomes possible to envisage that the actual succession of states of the
brain may prove in practice not to be describable in terms of cur-
rently available scientific concepts.This would then point to the need
for some higher-level concepts (those called “mental”?) to denotate
and explicate sequences of events in the brain and the “whole-part
constraints” operating from this level. Furthermore, as Nancey Mur-
phy has written—“We attribute freedom to the person insofar as the
states of the organism are attributable to the person as a whole, in-
volving intentions, desires, etc. So if the brain states are not pre-
dictable [I would say “describable’] when considered solely at that
[holistic] level, we have evidence that higher-level (free) processes are
the determinative factor.”14
God’s interaction with the world15
in light
of these scientific considerations
Unpredictability, open-endedness, and flexibility16
The world appears to us less and less to possess the predictability
that has been the presupposition of much theological reflection on
God’s interaction with the world since Newton.We now observe it
to possess a degree of openness and flexibility within a lawlike frame-
Natural Evolution
26.
work, so thatcertain developments are genuinely unpredictable by us
on the basis of any conceivable science.We have good reasons for say-
ing, from the relevant science and mathematics, that this unpre-
dictability will, in practice, continue.
The history of the relation between the natural sciences and the
Christian religion affords many instances of a human inability to pre-
dict being exploited by theists postulating the presence and activity of
God to fill the explanatory gap. However, as these gaps were filled by
new knowledge,“God” as an explanation became otiose. Do we now
have to take account of, as it were, permanent gaps in our ability to
predict events in the natural world? Does this imply there is a “God
of the (to us) uncloseable gaps”? There would then be no possibility of
such a God being squeezed out by increases in scientific knowledge.
This raises two theological questions: () “Does God know the out-
come of these situations/systems that are unpredictable by us?” and
() “Does God act within such situations/systems to effect the divine
will?”
Nonquantum considerations
We will first respond to these questions excluding quantum theory
considerations. With respect to (), an omniscient God may be pre-
sumed to know, not only all the relevant, deterministic laws which
apply to any system, but also all the relevant initial conditions of the
determining variables to the degree of precision required to predict
its state at any future time, however far ahead, together with the
effects of any external influences from anywhere else in the universe,
however small. So there could be no “eventual unpredictability” with
respect to such systems for an infinite, omniscient God, even though
there is such a limiting horizon for finite human beings—because of
the nature of our knowledge of real numbers and because of in-
eluctable observational limitations. To take a particularly significant
example, divine omniscience must be conceived to be such that God
would know and be able to track the minutiae of the triggering fluc-
tuations in dissipative systems, unpredictable and unobservable by us,
whose amplification leads at the macroscopic level to one particular,
God’s Interaction with theWorld
27.
macroscopic outcome (e.g.,a symmetry-breaking) rather than an-
other—consequently also unpredictable by us.
Only if we thus answered () affirmatively, could we then postulate
that God might choose to influence events in deterministic systems
in the world by changing the initial conditions so as to bring about a
macroscopic consequence conforming to the divine will and pur-
poses—that is, also to answer () affirmatively. God would then be
conceived of as acting, as it were, “within” the flexibility we find in
these (to us) unpredictable situations in a way that could never be
detected by us. Such a mode of divine action would never be incon-
sistent with our scientific knowledge of the situation. In the case
of those dissipative systems whose macro-states (often involving
symmetry-breaking) arise from the amplification of fluctuations at
the micro-level that are unpredictable and unobservable by us, God
would have to be conceived of as actually manipulating micro-events
(at the atomic, molecular, and, according to some,17
quantum levels)
in these initiating fluctuations in the natural world in order to pro-
duce the results at the macroscopic level which God wills.
But such a conception of God’s action in these, to us, unpre-
dictable situations would then be no different in principle from that
of God intervening in the order of nature with all the problems that
that evokes for a rationally coherent belief in God as the Creator of
that order. The only difference in this proposal from that of earlier
ones postulating divine intervention would be that, given our recent
recognition of the actual unpredictability, on our part, of many natu-
ral systems, God’s intervention would always be hidden from us.
Thus, although at first sight this introduction of unpredictability,
open-endedness, and flexibility into our picture of the natural world
seems to help us to suggest in new terminology how God might act
in the world in now uncloseable “gaps,” the above considerations in-
dicate that such divine action would be just as much “intervention” as
it was when postulated before we were aware of these features of the
world.This analysis has, it must be stressed, been grounded on the as-
sumption that God does know the outcome of natural situations that
Natural Evolution
28.
are unpredictable byus (i.e., on an affirmative answer to []). It as-
sumes total divine omniscience about all actual, natural events.
Quantum theory considerations
Consideration of the foregoing in the light of quantum theory
cannot avoid the continuing current disagreements concerning the
basis and significance of the quantum uncertainties which are ex-
pressed in the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (H.U.P.), which
qualifies total predictability, however interpreted.The broad possibili-
ties may be delineated as follows.
(i) There are “hidden variables”—that is, there are underlying deter-
ministic laws, unknown to us, which govern the time-course of the
precise values of the variables (momentum, position, energy, time,
etc.) appearing in the H.U.P. The uncertainties, the “fuzziness,” in our
knowledge of the values of these variables is purely an epistemological
limitation on our part, which would not also be one for an omnis-
cient God. Such a God would know both these laws and the relevant
initial conditions. Hence the conclusions about how God might in-
teract with the world which were drawn in the previous section
would still apply.
(ii) No “hidden variables”18
—that is, the epistemological limitations
expressed in the H.U.P. can never be obviated, not only in practice
but also in theory, and represent a fundamental uncertainty that in-
herently exists in the values of the variables in question—an ontolog-
ical claim that there is indeterminism with respect to these variables.
The future trajectory of any system will always inherently have that
unavoidable lack of precise predictability, given by the H.U.P. rela-
tions, with respect to these variables—it is genuinely indeterministic
in these respects (if not in all, e.g., in the statistical properties of the
ensemble). Only a probabilistic knowledge of these variables is possi-
ble for us, but this limitation is insurmountable. It represents an “in
principle” limitation.This is the majority view of physicists.
God’s Interaction with theWorld
29.
If this isso, we would have to conclude that this inherent unpre-
dictability also represents a limitation of the knowledge even an om-
niscient God could have19
of the values of these variables and so of
the future trajectory, in those respects, of the system. That is to say,
God has so made the quantum world that God has allowed God’s
own possible knowledge to be thus limited. In this regard, then, God’s
omniscience is “self-limited.”20
God’s knowledge with respect to
H.U.P. variables in future states would be the maximum it could be
compared with ours, but would nevertheless still be only probabilis-
tic. Moreover, if the future, as I and others have argued,21
has no on-
tological status—that is, does not exist in any sense—then it has no
content of events for God to know, so it logically cannot be known
even to an omniscient God, who knows all that it is possible to know.
According to this view, God knows the future definitively only by pre-
diction on the basis of God’s omniscient knowledge of all deter-
mining laws and an infinitely precise knowledge of all initial rele-
vant conditions; or probabilistically in the case of quantum-dependent
events (for God cannot predict in detail the outcome of in-principle
unpredictable situations, on the no-hidden-variables assumption).
This conclusion about the basis of God’s foreknowledge would still
apply, even if it is thought God acts in the world by altering the initial
conditions of a train of events to obtain the outcome God wills and
so must foresee.
An easily envisaged example, related to the relations expressed in
the H.U.P., is afforded by radioactive decay in which a quantum
event has an observable macroscopic outcome in the decay of the
atoms. In this case, the foregoing is arguing that God does not know
which of a million radium atoms will be the next to disintegrate in,
say, the next -3
seconds, but only (as we ourselves) what the average
number will be that will break up in that period of time.There is no
fact of the matter about which atom will decompose at a particular
future moment for God to know.The proposal of “self-limiting” om-
niscience means that God has so made the natural order that it is, in
principle, impossible, even for God, as it is for us, to predict the pre-
cise, future values of certain variables—which is what I take “in prin-
Natural Evolution
30.
ciple” to meanin this context. God’s omniscient knowledge of the
probabilities of these future values will, of course, always be maximal.
Hence, in the case of systems sensitive to initial conditions, the in-
troduction of quantum uncertainty introduces an upper limit to pre-
dictability with respect to certain parameters which cannot be
avoided.22
This limit on total predictability applies to God as well as
to ourselves, if there are no hidden variables. So the answer to the
theological question () then has to be, in the light of such quantum
considerations, that God also cannot know, beyond real limits, the
outcomes of those situations, the trajectories of those systems which
are also in principle (if no hidden variables) unpredictable for us be-
yond those same limits. God, of course, knows maximally what it is
possible to know, namely the probabilities of the outcomes of these sit-
uations, the various possible trajectories of such systems. But this does
not suffice for us to give a clear affirmative answer to question () to
the effect that God could act in such situations or systems to imple-
ment the divine will.
On this, to some no doubt revisionary view, God bestows a certain
autonomy not only on human beings, as Christian theology has long
recognized, but also on the natural order as such to develop in ways
that God chooses not to control in detail. God allows a degree of
open-endedness and flexibility to nature, and this becomes the natu-
ral, structural basis for the flexibility of conscious organisms and, in
due course and more speculatively, possibly for the freedom of the
human-brain-in-the-human-body, that is, of persons. So it does help
us to perceive the natural world as a matrix within which openness
and flexibility and, in humanity, perhaps even freedom could naturally
emerge.
Implications of “chaotic” determinism
One set of previous considerations (those concerned with the infi-
nite decimal representation of real numbers and algorithmic complex-
ity) implies only a long-rejected interventionism as the basis for God’s
interaction with the world to influence events.The other set of con-
siderations (concerned with the H.U.P. and its consequences if there
God’s Interaction with theWorld
31.
are no hiddenvariables) implies that God cannot know precisely the
future outcome of quantum-dependent situations,23
so cannot act di-
rectly to influence them to implement the divine purpose and will, as
we may be tempted to postulate. It should be noted that this does not
derogate at all from God having purposes which are being im-
plemented through the propensities (to complexity, self-organization,
information-processing, and consciousness) that load, as it were, the
dice the throws of which shape the course of natural events.
The above discussion leads us to infer that this newly won aware-
ness of the unpredictability, open-endedness, and flexibility inherent
in many natural processes and systems does not, of itself, help directly
to illuminate the “causal joint” of how God acts in the world, i.e., the
nature of the interface between God and all-that-is—much as it alters
our interpretation of the meaning of what is actually going on in the
world. Defining the problem (à la Austin Farrer) as that of the “causal
joint” between God and the world is inappropriate, for it does not do
justice to the many levels in which causality operates in a world of
complex systems interlocking in many ways at many levels. It is to
this major feature of the world as perceived by the sciences that we
must now turn.
Whole-part constraint as a model for God’s
interaction with the world
In a number of natural situations, interactions within complex sys-
tems constituted of complex subsystems at various levels of interlock-
ing organization can best be understood as a two-way process. Real
features of the total system-as-a-whole are constraints upon events
happening within the subsystems at lower levels—events, which, it
must be stressed, in themselves are describable in terms of the sciences
pertinent to that lower level. In the light of this it is suggested that we
can properly regard the world-as-a-whole as a total system so that its
general state can be a holistic constraint24
upon what goes on at the
myriad levels that comprise it. For all-that-is displays, with wide vari-
ations in the degree of coupling, a real interconnectedness and inter-
dependence at the quantum, biological, and cosmological levels and
Natural Evolution
32.
this would, ofcourse, be totally and luminously clear to God in all its
ramifications and degrees of coupling.25
I want now to explore the possibility that these new perceptions of
the way in which levels within this world-system interact with each
other (from higher to lower and vice versa) might provide a new re-
source for thinking about how God interacts with that world-as-a-
whole. In making such a suggestion I am not postulating that the
world is, as it were “God’s body,” but, although the world is not or-
ganized in the way a human body is, it is nevertheless a “system.”The
world-as-a-whole, the total world system, may be regarded as “in
God,”26
though ontologically distinct from God. For God is uniquely
present to it all, all its individual component entities, in and at all
spaces and all times (in whatever relativistic frame of reference27
) and
has an unsurpassed awareness of its interconnected and interdepend-
ent unity—even more than we can have of the unity of our own bod-
ies. If God interacts with the “world” at a supervenient level of total-
ity, then God, by affecting the state of the world-as-a-whole, could,
on the model of whole-part constraint relationships in complex sys-
tems, be envisaged as able to exercise constraints upon events in the
myriad sub-levels of existence that constitute that “world” without
abrogating the laws and regularities that specifically pertain to
them—and this without “intervening” within the unpredictabilities
we have noted.28
Particular events might occur in the world and be
what they are because God intends them to be so, without at any
point any contravention of the laws of physics, biology, psychology,
sociology, or whatever is the pertinent science for the level of de-
scription in question.
In thus speaking of God, it has not been possible to avoid talk of
God “intending,” and so using the language of personal agency. For
these ideas of whole-part constraint by God cannot be expounded
without relating them to the concept of God as, in some sense, an
agent, least misleadingly described as personal. In thus speaking, we
are focusing upon particular events, or patterns of events, as expressive
of the “purposes” (e.g., of communication) of God who is thereby
conceived of as in some sense personal. Such particular intentions of
God’s Interaction with theWorld
33.
God must bedistinguished from that perennial sustaining in existence
of the entities, structures, and dynamic processes of the world which
is an inherent component of all concepts of God as Creator.This sus-
taining is properly regarded as “continuous,” an aspect of God as sem-
per Creator with respect to the creatio continua. What is being further
suggested here is that we have to envisage God as at any time (and in
this sense only,“all the time”) being able to exert constraints upon the
world-as-a-whole, so that particular events and patterns of events can
occur, which otherwise would not have done so.This is usually re-
garded as God’s “providential” action, unhelpful as the distinction be-
tween creation and providence often proves to be.
Personal agents as psychosomatic unities—
God as “personal” agent?
The way in which, in the preceding, we have found ourselves
drawn towards the model of personal agency in attempting to expli-
cate God’s interaction with the world is intriguing in the contempo-
rary context—and not only because of its biblical and traditional role.
For in one particular instance of a system manifesting whole-part
constraint, the human-brain-in-the-human-body, we have an imme-
diate sense of the nonreducibility of the whole—in our “conscious-
ness,” as folk psychology calls it.29
For, over recent decades, the pres-
sure from the relevant sciences has been inexorably towards viewing
the processes that occur in the human brain and nervous system, on
the one hand, and the content of consciousness, our personal, mental
experience, on the other, as two facets or functions of one total uni-
tive process and activity.30
We have already seen that combining a
nondualist account of the human person and of the mind-body rela-
tion with the idea of whole-part constraint illuminates the way in
which states of the brain-as-a-whole could have effects at the level of
neurons and so of bodily action, and could actually also be holistic
states of the brain-as-a-whole. Such states could be legitimately re-
ferred to in nonreducible mentalist language as a real modality of the
total unitive event which is the activity of thinking that is accom-
plished by the human-brain-in-the-human-body.
Natural Evolution
34.
This invoking ofthe notion of whole-part constraints of brain
states as a whole upon the states of the “lower” level of its constituent
neurons in giving an account of human agency affords, I would sug-
gest, a new insight into the nature of human agency very pertinent to
the problem of how to model God’s interaction with the world. My
suggestion is that a combination of the recognition of the way
whole-part constraints operate in complexly interconnected and in-
terdependent systems with the recognition of the unity of the human
mind/brain/body event together provide a fruitful model for illumi-
nating how we might think of God’s interaction with the world.
According to this suggestion, the state of the totality of the world-as-
a-whole (all-that-is) would be known maximally only to the omnis-
cience of God and would be the field of the exercise of the divine
omniscience at God’s omnicompetent level of comprehensiveness
and comprehension.31
When we act as personal agents, there is a uni-
tive, unifying, centered constraint on the activity of our human bod-
ies which we experience as the content of our personal subjectivity
(the sense of being an “I”) in its mode of willing action. God is here
being conceived of as a unifying, unitive source and centered influ-
ence on events on the world.32
We are here courting the notion that the succession of the states of
the system of the world-as-a-whole is also experienced as a succes-
sion by God, who is present to it all; and that this might be modeled
after the way we presume a succession of brain states constitutes a
succession in our thoughts. God would then be regarded as exerting a
continuous holistic constraint on the world-as-a-whole in a way akin
to that whereby in our thinking we influence our bodies to imple-
ment our intentions. This suggestion is, for me at least, entirely
metaphorical, providing only a model for God’s interaction with the
world and thereby enabling us to conceive coherently and intelligibly
how God might be conceived of as interacting with the world consis-
tently with what we know of its nature and with the character of
God already inferred on other grounds. As such, therefore, it has its
limitations, indeed—as with all such attempts—an inevitably negative
aspect. For, in a human being, the “I” does not transcend the body
God’s Interaction with theWorld
35.
ontologically in theway that God transcends the world and must
therefore be an influence on the world-state from “outside” in the
sense of having a distinctively different ontological status.33
But at
least the suggested model helps us to conceive how God’s transcen-
dence and immanence might be held coherently together as a tran-
scendence-in-immanence.
This now affords a further clue to how that continuing interaction
of God with the world-as-a-whole which implements particular di-
vine purposes might best be envisaged—namely as analogous to an
input, a flow of information, rather than of energy.34
For different,
equally probable, macroscopic states of a system—and so, in the
model, of the world-as-a-whole—can possess the same energy but
differ in form and pattern, that is, in information content (cf. n. ).
Moreover, since God is properly regarded by most theists as in some
sense “personal,” this “flow of information” may more appropriately
be envisaged as a means of communication by God of divine purposes
and intentions when it is directed towards that level in the hierarchy
of complexity which is uniquely capable of perceiving and recogniz-
ing it, namely, humanity.35
Conclusion
The foregoing suggests a way in which we could think of divine
constraints (properly called “influences,” to cohere with the model of
personal agency) making a difference in the world, yet not in any way
contrary to those regularities and laws operative within the observed
universe which are explicated by the sciences applicable to their ap-
propriate levels of complexity and organization.This holistic mode of
action on and influence in the world is God’s alone and distinctive of
God. God’s interaction with the whole and the constraints God ex-
erts upon it could thereby shape and direct events at lesser levels so
that the divine purposes are not ultimately frustrated. Such interac-
tion could occur without ever abrogating at any point any of the nat-
ural relationships and inbuilt flexibilities and freedoms operative at all
Natural Evolution
36.
of the lowerlevels, and discerned by the sciences and ordinary human
experience.
Only God in the mode of transcendence is present to the totality
of all-that-is, as well as, in the mode of immanence, to the individual
entities that comprise created existence. Accordingly, God’s experi-
ence is of the world-as-a-whole as well as of individual entities and
events within it. Only God could be aware of the distinctiveness of
any state of that totality and which of its states might or might not
succeed it in time (or whatever is the appropriate dimension for re-
ferring to “succession in God”).This divine knowledge would always
be hidden from and eternally opaque to us, existing as we do at levels
at which the conceptual language will never be available for appre-
hending God’s own “inner” life.The best we can do, as we have al-
ready urged, is to stretch the language of personal experience as the
least misleading option available to us.According to this approach, we
are free to describe any particular events at our own level of existence
in the natural terms available to us (e.g., in those of the sciences ex-
plaining both the “bottom-up” and whole-part effects within the
natural order); and at the same time to regard at least some of those
events, whether private and internal to us or public and external to
all, as putatively and partially manifesting God’s intentions, God’s
providence, and so as being communications from God. For God
could have brought it about that these particular events are what they
are and not something else by that overall comprehensive constrain-
ing influence which only God can exert (but does not necessarily do
so) in a whole-part manner upon any lower-level event occurring in
the totality of existing entities in order to implement divine inten-
tions, such as communicating with humanity.
God, I am suggesting, is thus to be conceived of as all the time the
continuing supra-personal, unifying, unitive Agent acting, often selec-
tively, upon all-that-is, as God’s own self purposes. We must go on
recognizing—and this is essential to the whole proposal—that, in the
light of our earlier discussion, it is God who has chosen to allow a de-
gree of unpredictability, open-endedness, and flexibility in the world
God’s Interaction with theWorld
37.
God continues tohold in existence and through whose processes
God continues to create; and that God, so conceived, does not inter-
vene to break the causal chains that go from “bottom-up,” from the
micro- to the macro-levels.
What does this imply about the “causal joint” between God and
the world? As already mentioned (n. ), in the world we observe
through the sciences, we know of no transfers of information without
some exchange of matter and/or energy, however minimal. So to
speak of God as “informing” the world-as-a-whole without such in-
puts of matter/energy (that is, as not being “intervention”) is but to
accept the ultimate, ontological gap between the nature of God’s own
being and that of the created world, all-that-is apart from God. Hence
the present exercise could be regarded essentially as an attempt, as it
were, to ascertain where this ontological gap, across which God trans-
mits “information” (i.e., communicates), is most coherently “located,”
consistently with God’s interaction with everything else having partic-
ular effects and without abrogating those regular relationships to
which God’s own self continues to give an existence which the sci-
ences increasingly discover.
I would want to emphasize, with Kaufman36
and Wiles,37
that
God’s action is on the world-as-a-whole, but to stress more strongly
than they do that this maintaining and supporting interaction is a
continuing as well as an initial one; and can be general and particular in
its effects. The freedom of God to affect the world is indeed rein-
forced and protected in this model. For the notion of whole-part
constraint now allows us to understand how initiating divine action
on the state of the world-as-a-whole can itself have consequences for
individual events and entities within that world. Moreover, such di-
vine causative, constraining influence would never be observed by us
as a divine “intervention,” that is, as an interference with the course of
nature and as a setting aside of its natural, regular relationships.
The proposed model allows the effects of natural events, including
the unpredictable ones and the outcome of freely willed human deci-
sions, to work their way up through the hierarchy of complexity and
so to contribute to the state of the world-as-a-whole. It therefore also
Natural Evolution
38.
helps us tomodel more convincingly the interaction, dialogue even,
between human decisions and actions, on the one hand, and divine
intentions and purposes, on the other. It is in such a context that the
notion of God communicating with humanity can be developed in
which the significance of religious experience, revelation, the incar-
nation, prayer, worship, and the sacraments may be grounded.38
In conclusion, it would seem that the unpredictabilities of nonlin-
ear dynamic systems do not as such help us in the problem of articu-
lating more coherently and intelligibly how God interacts with the
world. Nevertheless recent insights of the natural sciences into the
processes of the world, especially those on whole-part constraint in
complex systems and on the unity of the human-brain-in-the-
human-body, have provided not only a new context for the debate
about how God might be conceived to interact with and influence
events in the world, but have also afforded new conceptual resources
for modeling it.
God’s Interaction with theWorld
39.
chapte r 2
BiologicalEvolution and Christian
Theology–Yesterday andToday
%
No assessment of the relation between biological evolution and
Christian theology today can be made without an adequate historical
perspective. Fortunately that perspective has been greatly enriched by
historical investigations in recent decades, as well represented by
other contributions to this volume, and these have resulted in a sig-
nificant reappraisal of the impact of Darwin and of the Darwinians
on the thought of their day. Let it suffice simply to recall that evolu-
tionary ideas, as expounded by Darwin, were widely seen as a threat
to religious belief in the mid-nineteenth century, not only by their
apparent impugning of the veracity of the Scriptures, as literally read,
but also by their undermining of traditional ideas about the nature
and origin of human beings. Instead of dwelling on this familiar con-
frontation, however, let us turn to some of the more conciliatory the-
ological responses to Darwinism in the last century. For the stage has
been occupied too often by those who want to stress the negative re-
actions of many Christians, both theologians and laypeople, to Dar-
winism in theVictorian era.The reconciling responses are worth re-
capitulating because many of them provided fruitful soil for the
From Darwinism and Divinity, ed. John Durant (Oxford: Blackwell, ), –;
originally presented at a conference organized by the British Society for the History
of Science in the rooms of the Linnean Society of London on November , , to
mark the centenary of Darwin’s death. Reprinted by permission.
40.
growth of amore coherent and constructive approach by Christian
theology to evolution. In order to face contemporary issues, it will
also be necessary to sketch in some of the broad features of current
evolutionary theory.Then we can return to the question that is im-
plicit in the title, namely “What is it to be a Christian theist in a post-
Darwinian world?”
Constructive reconciling theological
responses to Darwin
The constructive responses of those Christian theologians who, in
the phrase of Gertrude Himmelfarb,1
wished to be “reconcilers”
rather than “irreconcilers,” were not based on any mood of defeatism
or any sense of accommodation of Christian truth to a new and over-
whelming force. Rather, they were based on a conviction that has
always motivated the best and, in the long run, the most influential
theology—namely that, to be intelligible and plausible to any genera-
tion, the Christian faith must express itself in ways that are consistent
with such understanding of the nature of the world as is contem-
porarily available. For the constructive theological responses to Dar-
win’s ideas represent a better-established way of doing theology than
some of the more extreme denials that then filled the stage (and often
still fill our headlines). However, the theological questions were real
enough: How could one believe in Darwin’s hypothesis and still hold
the account of creation in Genesis to be true? How should God’s ac-
tion as creator be conceived in relation to an evolutionary formation
of new creatures? How could one continue to use the popular argu-
ment for the existence of God, namely, that the presence of design
and apparent purpose in the mechanisms of living organisms shows
them to have been fashioned by a cosmic designer of an intelligence
and power attributable only to a creator God? Moreover, if human
beings had evolved from the animals to a higher state of intellectual
and moral consciousness, how could there be any place for the sup-
posed historic Fall, as thought to be described in the early chapters of
Genesis, and much elaborated in Augustinian strands of Christianity,
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
41.
both Catholic andProtestant? If human higher capacities had evolved
by natural means from those of animals, how could we go on suppos-
ing that they had any special ultimate value or significance? So al-
though Darwin himself was careful never to debate these issues in
public, as his own Christian belief gradually and privately ebbed away,
it is not surprising that the publication of his ideas provided a new
tiltyard for those who wished to enter the lists on behalf either of
supposed Christian truth or of free scientific enquiry.
Because Darwin was an Englishman writing in England, and his
work was first published in London, it was inevitable that the first im-
pact of his ideas on Christian theology was upon the Church of Eng-
land. But let us begin by examining the fate of his evolutionary ideas
in the German and French contexts, and the response of the Roman
Catholic Church.
German readers tended to see Darwin through the spectacles of
Ernst Haeckel, who held a monistic worldview based on a strongly
mechanistic view of evolution. For him the only viable religion was
the “monistic religion of humanity,” of “truth, goodness and beauty.”2
It was such a pantheistic religion of immanence which alone could
form a bond with Wissenschaft and create a unity of God and the
world.At the same time, the recruiting of Darwinism into the strug-
gle for socialism, atheism, and free-thinking by Marx and Engels tied
evolution into a package which most theologians inevitably rejected
(see Daecke for a fuller exposition of this aspect of German thought).
Thus German theology, insofar as it did not reject all evolutionary
thought but did reject both monism and Marxism, was pushed either
towards a neo-vitalism, which had its roots in an earlier Natur-
philosophie, or towards an existentialist dualism of “belief” and
“knowledge” in the post-Kantian tradition of Albrecht Ritschl.
Those who chose the former option were deeply influenced by Hans
Driesch, who saw in evolution the working of a nonmaterial factor—
a vital agent or entelechie which could interlock with the material
processes of living organisms as understood by physics and chemistry,
and was the source of their character as living entities. Seeberg,3
for
example, saw in this a way of countering a purely mechanistic inter-
Natural Evolution
42.
pretation of evolutionarycausality and so of “saving” the creative in-
tervention of God. For him, as for Driesch, matter, life, and spirit were
transformed by the action of an inner, active, teleological principle
transcending the laws of physics and chemistry. Driesch’s vitalistic
concept of wholeness (Ganzheit) was also utilized by other theolo-
gians, such as Jacob von Uexküll,4
who regarded the organism and its
environment as parts of a concerted unity, linked together by an “im-
material factor.”ArthurTitius and Karl Heim also invoked the idea of
wholeness in order to unite causal and teleological explanations. In
his5
Das Weltbild der Zukunft (), Heim attempted to integrate the
principle of natural selection with a natural theology. For both Titius
and Heim mechanistic causality was not enough to explain evolution;
an active purposefulness (Ganzheitsfaktor) was also necessary, and the
introduction of this concept created a bond between science and reli-
gion. This emphasis on the Ganzheit principle brought both Titius
and Heim close to vitalism, which in Heim’s case sat rather uncom-
fortably with his understanding of God as personal.Titius developed
the idea of Ganzheit to interpret God as the driving force of the cos-
mos, and he saw creation and evolution as different ways of conceiv-
ing the same divine activity (see Daecke).
For a long period after the Second World War, German theology
(and with it much American and European, though not English, the-
ology) was dominated by the impressive writings of Karl Barth, for
whom the relation between the realms of nature and grace, between
the sphere of the corrupt human intellect and that of the pure word
of God, between the created and the creator, was simply and starkly
that of a “great gulf fixed,” with no possible traffic between them that
man could initiate. Consequently, natural theology was relegated to
the wings of the theological stage, and even a theology of nature was
not much pursued. So inevitably from the mid-s to about the
mid-s there was little active consideration in Barthian circles of
the relation between evolutionary ideas and Christian theology.To-
day, however, under the pressure of environmental problems that gen-
erate the need for a theology of nature, German theology has begun
to take a new interest in the findings of science in general, and of
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
43.
evolutionary biology inparticular. Thus we have two of Germany’s
leading theologians, Wolfhart Pannenberg and Jürgen Moltmann,
writing on these themes. Pannenberg6
has carefully worked out the
relation between theology and the natural and human sciences. In his
view, when natural science and human understanding are emanci-
pated from the specter of scientific positivism, they can regulate each
other in a unified perspective in which theology deals with the all-
embracing totality of meaning that is implicit in them both.Accord-
ing to him,7
this entails theology asking certain questions of the natu-
ral sciences, such as,“Is there any equivalent in modern biology to the
biblical notion of the Divine Spirit as origin of life that transcends
the limit of the organism?”Whether or not this is the best way to for-
mulate the question is open to debate, but it is clear that German the-
ology has now really begun to come to grips with the actual content
of evolutionary biology. Moltmann’s work8
is more confessional and
political in tone, dwelling on the practical tasks of understanding and
transformation. But he does take account of an evolutionary under-
standing of what is happening in the world. He sees the natural and
biological worlds as open systems with open futures, and examines
what this entails for human activity, including political action.
In France, biology was dominated in the early nineteenth century
by the giant figure of Georges Cuvier, a formidable opponent of the
evolutionary scheme and mechanism proposed by Jean Baptiste de
Lamarck. The reaction to Darwin in France was confused by the
French word evolution referring primarily to “individual develop-
ment,” while “evolution” in Darwin’s sense was there referred to as
transformation or transformisme. Moreover,“Ever since Ray .l.l. the def-
inition of the term ‘species’ [Fr. éspèce] had entailed that two different
species must be genealogically distinct: this being so, the theory of trans-
formisme could not be stated as a doctrine about ‘species’ at all—let
alone throw light on the origin of species.”9
This semantic stumbling
block, which worried the French more than the empirical English,
has only been properly circumvented in the mid-twentieth-century
“new taxonomy” wherein “species” are defined in a much more re-
stricted fashion that takes account of the evolutionary process.
Natural Evolution
44.
Undoubtedly, the chiefinfluence in French philosophy of evolu-
tion was Henri Bergson, who was born in the same year as the publi-
cation of The Origin of Species and who died during the SecondWorld
War. In Creative Evolution,10
Bergson invoked a vital impulse (élan vi-
tale) as the cause and coordinator of the variations that produce new
organs and new species. He postulated a dualism of life and spirit ver-
sus matter and regarded evolution as a process in which life and spirit
diverged and unfolded from matter. Bergson differed from German
neo-vitalism in that he was against “finalism,” the belief that the cos-
mos in general (including the biological world) was moving towards a
predetermined and possibly foreseeable end. For Bergson, evolution
proceeded unpredictably from the one to the many. It was not a cre-
ative unification.
French Christian theology is largely Roman Catholic, and the offi-
cial response of that church to Darwin may be fairly described as a
cautious keeping of Darwinism at arm’s length with the preserving of
belief in a distinctive act of creation for the human species through
two historical individuals (traditionally known as Adam and Eve).
Thus the Roman Catholic church virtually “bracketed off ”thewhole
question of evolution until the middle of the twentieth century,
when the posthumous publication of the French Jesuit Teilhard de
Chardin’s personal synthesis of Christian faith and evolutionary phi-
losophy stimulated a renewed debate about it.Teilhard was one of the
most widely read Roman Catholic thinkers to base his thinking on
evolution, which he used as a theological category and as a herme-
neutical principle to transpose Christian belief out of a static world-
view into one that recognized the world as being in process of be-
coming (“cosmogenesis”). For him, the Christian God was “a God of
cosmogenesis, a God of evolution.” Rejecting Bergson’s emphasis on
divergence,Teilhard reinstated the idea of evolution as creative unifi-
cation. In spite of the plethora of living organisms, the evolutionary
process had a spearhead in the human psyche and moved towards an
ultimate unification in what he called the “omega point.” For Teil-
hard, cosmogenesis had taken place in the evolution of life and spirit
and potentially it could become a “Christogenesis.” In his writings an
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
45.
emphasis on Christas redeemer is replaced by an emphasis on Christ
as evolver; and the idea of salvation is extended from that of “redemp-
tion” to embrace that of “genesis.” Christ himself “saves evolution” by
being its mover, animator, guide, coordinator, and uniter. It is not al-
ways clear in, for example, The Phenomenon of Man11
whether the
“God of evolution” and the “Christ-evolver” are vitalistic, teleological
factors, or whether they represent a conjunction of two ultimate but
fundamentally coincident consummations in human consciousness
and the evolutionary process.
AlthoughTeilhard’s ideas were rejected by the official organs of the
Roman Catholic Church, both during his lifetime and when they
were eventually published posthumously, he has been extremely in-
fluential among lay Roman Catholics (and others), and possibly even
in the deliberations of the SecondVatican Council (–). Mean-
while the official response of the Roman Catholic Church to Dar-
winism in the last few decades may be summarized in the words of
Alszeghi:12
Documents after Pius XII touch only indirectly on the problem of
evolution.Although taking account of the possibility of hominiza-
tion [presumably meaning the formation of human beings or their
creation] through evolution, they none the less affirm the necessity
of proceeding with moderation and they insist on the fact that the
question of the reconciliation of the faith with evolution cannot
yet be regarded as definitely resolved.A recent allocution of PaulVI
to a group of theologians characterizes evolution as no longer an
hypothesis but a ‘theory’, and makes no other reservation for its ap-
plication to man than the immediate creation of each and every
human soul and the decisive importance exerted on the lot of hu-
manity by the disobedience of Adam.l.l.l.The Pope observes that
polygenism has not been scientifically demonstrated and cannot be
admitted if it involves the denial of the dogma of original sin. ()
A final factor which was to attenuate the diffidence of the
Church towards evolution consisted in the deeper understanding
of the Creator’s special action in the formation of man. For, on the
one hand, it is inadmissable that the human race should spring
forth independently of the Creator; and on the other hand, the in-
Natural Evolution
46.
terpretation of thedivine intervention in a determinative man-
ner—as an action of God which is part of the same plane of sec-
ondary causes—does not fit in with an evolutionistic vision of the
world.This obstacle has been overcome by conceiving the special
action of God as one that works through all the generations of liv-
ing beings, so that everyone shares in this special but continuous
action in the great work of universal evolution. ()
Alszeghi concludes that it is not at all likely that the ecclesiastical
magisterium would “in the concrete” declare that evolution is irrec-
oncilable with the faith.
In a significant contribution to Roman Catholic thought on evo-
lution, Karl Rahner13 () has put forward a challenging interpreta-
tion of the incarnation of Christ. Rahner’s Christology forms part of
an immensely comprehensive and profound Christian theology, and
little justice can be done to it here. Rather than attempting to sum-
marize his position, I choose to present his ideas by some excerpts
from his work that, even out of context, may perhaps serve to indicate
the gist of an influential position within Roman Catholic theology
that adopts a positive and welcoming approach to evolutionary ideas.
We must, Rahner says,
take into consideration the known history of the cosmos as it has
been investigated and described by the modern natural sciences:
this history is seen more and more as one homogeneous history of
matter, life and man.This one history does not exclude differences
of nature but on the contrary includes them in its concept, since
history is precisely not the permanence of the same but rather the
becoming of something entirely new and not merely of something
other. ()
Thus Rahner assumes the current evolutionary view of the world,
emphasizing the connections between matter and spirit, natural his-
tory and the history of man, that it implies. Because all is the creation
of one and the same God, he deems it self-evident for Christian the-
ology that matter and spirit have “more things in common” than
“things dividing them.”This is shown par excellence in the unity of
matter and spirit in man himself, who is not a merely temporary
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
48.
tion, this mustnot be seen so much as something which distin-
guishes Jesus Our Lord from us, but rather as some thing which
must happen once, and once only, at the point where the world
begins to enter into its final phase in which it is to realize its final
concentration, its final climax and its radical nearness to the ab-
solute mystery called God. Seen from this viewpoint, the Incarna-
tion appears as the necessary and permanent beginning of the di-
vinization of the world as a whole. (–)
This positive treatment of a central theological theme in relation
to an evolutionary perspective by a leading orthodox Roman Cath-
olic theologian was welcome, even if somewhat delayed, coming as it
did just over a century after Darwin and Wallace announced their
theory of evolution by natural selection.
Needless to say the impact of Darwinism on Christian thought was
greatest in the England in which Darwin first propounded his views,
though naturally the controversy soon spread throughout Britain and
to the United States. Historians of the Victorian period have docu-
mented a number of particular cultural and religious features of the
Darwinian debate—for example, the dominance of the argument
from design within traditional natural theology, and the increasingly
disturbing analysis (emanating from Germany) of the Scriptures by
the criteria and methods of historical scholarship. Rather than enter
into this intriguing history, study of which is revealing a greater com-
plexity in the Christian response to Darwin and a greater flexibility
and openness on the part of orthodox Christian theologians than is
purveyed by the inherited mythology about this period,14 I wish to
pick out one thread in the debate. It is that quieter and, in the end,
more profound response of those Christian theists who did not reject
Darwin but sought seriously to incorporate the evolutionary perspec-
tive into their theological reflection.
I am referring to that part of the theological response within the
Church of England that was deeply influenced by the doctrine of the
incarnation. A stress on the doctrine of the incarnation, and on a
sacramental understanding of the world, had been revived (by the
Tractarians) in the second half of the nineteenth century. It repre-
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
49.
sented a renewalin the theology of the Church of England of an ear-
lier emphasis on the immanence of God in nature and on the sacra-
ments as an expression and reflection of that presence of God in the
world. This goes back to the very foundations of the reformed
Catholicism of the Church of England. Some indication of the flavor
of this theology is provided by the following selected quotations.
Some thirty years after the publication of the Origin, Aubrey Moore
wrote:
The scientific evidence in favour of evolution, as a theory is infi-
nitely more Christian than the theory of “special creation.” For it
implies the immanence of God in nature, and the omnipresence of
His creative power.Those who oppose the doctrine of evolution in
defence of a “continued intervention” of God, seem to have failed
to notice that a theory of occasional intervention implies as its cor-
relative a theory of ordinary absence.15
The same author also wrote in the collection Lux Mundi ():
The one absolutely impossible conception of God, in the present
day, is that which represents him as an occasional visitor. Science
has pushed the deist’s God further and further away, and at the mo-
ment when it seemed as if He would be thrust out all together,
Darwinism appeared, and, under the disguise of a foe, did the work
of a friend.l.l.l. Either God is everywhere present in nature, or He
is nowhere.16
In the same volume, in an essay entitled significantly “The Incar-
nation in Relation to Development,” J. R. Illingworth wrote:
The last few years have witnessed the gradual acceptance by Chris-
tians of the great scientific generalisation of our age, which is
briefly if somewhat vaguely described as the Theory of Evolution.
.l.l. It is an advance in our theological thinking; a definite increase
of insight; a fresher and fuller appreciation of those “many ways” in
which “God fulfills Himself.”
Illingworth saw Christ as the consummation of the evolutionary
process:
Natural Evolution
50.
[I]n scientific language,the Incarnation may be said to have intro-
duced a new species into the world—the Divine man transcending
past humanity, as humanity transcended the rest of the animal cre-
ation, and communicating His vital energy by a spiritual process to
subsequent generations of men.17
Charles Gore, the editor of that same controversial volume, later in
his Bampton Lectures affirmed that:
from the Christian point of view, this revelation of God, this un-
folding of divine qualities, reaches a climax in Christ. God has ex-
pressed in inorganic nature, His immutability, immensity, power,
wisdom; in organic nature He has shown also that He is alive; in
human nature He has given glimpses of His mind and character. In
Christ not one of these earlier revelations is abrogated; nay, they are
reaffirmed; but they reach a completion in the fuller exposition of
the divine character, the divine personality, the divine love.18
In the twentieth century one of the most positive attempts to inte-
grate evolutionary biology into Christian theology was made byTen-
nant,19 who rejected the traditional pessimism about man, as it had
been developed from the Bible by the combination of Genesis with
the Pauline epistles. Instead, Tennant appealed from the Scriptures,
understood in the light of tradition, to the evidence of the evolution-
ary process. In the original man, he argued, the moral consciousness
awakened only slowly: there was no question of some catastrophic
change for the worse in his relationship with God, nor was there, at a
later stage in man’s development, a “radical bias towards evil” because
of the Fall. It was as true to say that God was still making man as to
say that God had made him. Similarly, the origin and meaning of sin
were to be sought in the process of becoming.This emphasis on the
“process of becoming” was also a major strand in the philosophy of
Whitehead.20 The theologians Temple21 and Thornton22 were con-
temporaries of Whitehead and were deeply influenced by him; like
Tennant, they drew upon the tradition of evolutionary interpretation
that went back to Lux Mundi.
The last name I want to mention in this specifically Anglican tra-
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
51.
dition is thatof Charles Raven, formerly Regius Professor of Divin-
ity in the University of Cambridge, and one whom his biographer,
Dillistone23
dubbed as “naturalist, historian, theologian.” Raven’s
whole life was devoted to integrating the evolutionary perspective of
biology with his Christian theology, for he embraced evolution
wholeheartedly and believed that it could serve as the conceptual
framework for religious expression.24
He strove to enhance the place
of the life sciences in man’s understanding of the universe, then
largely dominated by physics, and pioneered in emphasizing the need
for ecologically wise policies of conservation. The living world was
for him the many-splendored sacrament of the activity and presence
of the living God. His last words from the pulpit, which I was privi-
leged to hear, expressed with characteristic eloquence his vision of
the unity of Christian insight and aspiration with a perspective on the
cosmos that was deeply informed by the natural sciences and above
all by that of evolution. Such a vision pervades this “immanentist” tra-
dition of Christian theology in Britain, and this may help to explain
why the ideas of Teilhard de Chardin and of Whiteheadian “process
theology” have been generally less significant for an indigenous tradi-
tion that was already integrating science and religion, but not under
the sway of one dominating metaphysic.
In contrast, process theology is that particular development of
American natural theology which, utilizing the metaphysical system
of Whitehead, incorporates both the idea of the natural world as “in
process of becoming” and an emphasis on organicism. The process
theologians have taken more seriously than almost any others in re-
cent decades the problem of explicating God’s action in a world for
which all is describable in terms of law-like evolutionary processes. In
process thought, God in His “primordial nature” is regarded as pro-
viding “aims” for all actual occasions, the ideals which they are striv-
ing to become, and in this aspect God is the envisager and fund of
universals—he is eternal, absolute, unchangeable. In his “consequent
nature” he is responsive love and is temporal, relative, dependent, and
constantly changing in response to new unforeseen happenings.
Process theology is closely interlocked with pan-psychism, a view of
Natural Evolution
52.
the world whichsees mental and physical aspects in all entities and
events.Although I find the postulate of pan-psychism to be flawed,25
there is no doubting the seriousness with which process theology
takes the evolutionary perspective. Process thought has had consider-
able influence, particularly as developed by Charles Hartshorne at
Chicago, and it has subsequently proliferated elsewhere, especially at
the Center for Process Studies at Claremont, California. It is still the
dominant form of natural theology in America today.
An even more complete welding of theology and evolutionary
ideas occurs in the “scientific theology” of Ralph Burhoe. Burhoe re-
garded the sciences of human nature and the increasingly accepted
role of religion in human evolution as capable of providing the major
religious traditions with the means of interpreting themselves in har-
monious relation both to science itself and to one another. He even
went so far as to claim that it makes “little difference whether we
name it [the power that created the earth and life] natural selection or
God, so long as we recognise it as that to which we must bow our
heads or adapt.”26
However, science never stands still, and there is a continuous need
to rethink our understanding of the relation of nature, man, and God
as our perceptive upon the natural world changes, so we turn to con-
sider contemporary
Biological evolution
Some features of contemporary evolutionary theory which will
have to be taken into account in formulating any viable Christian
theological response are as follows.
Evolution—“Fact” or “Theory”?
Much play has been made by “creationists” of the proposal that the
evolutionary account of biological relationships is “only a theory.”
There are a number of confusions locked up in such a view.Any sci-
entific account of the past has to be based on inferences from pres-
ent-day observations. On such reckoning the whole of historical ge-
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
53.
ology and muchof modern cosmology is “only a theory.” However,
inferences of this kind can lead to near-certainty, and then it becomes
proper to speak of these inferences as describing what actually hap-
pened.The idea of biological evolution refers principally to the past,
and, in its general form, simply affirms the existence of genetic rela-
tions between the different organisms we now see on the Earth or
know from fossils to have been there in the past.The relationship in-
ferred is that, to use Darwin’s phrase, of “descent with modification,”
by whatever mechanism.That the mechanism is natural selection is an-
other matter and must be substantiated by other means. Whatever
controversies there may be about the mechanism and speed of evolu-
tion, there is no dispute among biologists about the fact of evolution
itself.
It is true that when Darwin propounded his theory the evidence
for evolution was circumstantial rather than direct. But twentieth-
century biochemistry, notably in its phase of “molecular biology,” has
now demonstrated fundamental similarities at the molecular level be-
tween all living organisms from bacteria to man. Not only is nucleic
acid (DNA or RNA) the prime carrier of hereditary information in
all living organisms, but the code that translates this information from
base sequences in DNA, via messenger RNA, to amino acid se-
quences in proteins (and thence to their structure and function) is the
same code in all living organisms.This code is arbitrary with respect
to the relations of the molecular structures involved and its universal-
ity is explicable and comprehensible only as the result of evolution:
the code now universally operative is the one which happened to be
present in the living matter that first successfully reproduced itself fast
enough to outnumber all other rivals. Molecular biology has pro-
vided another independent and powerful confirmation of evolution-
ary relations through its ability to compare the amino acid sequences
in proteins with the same chemical function (e.g., cytochrome C) in
widely different organisms.The striking fact is that such comparisons
entirely and independently confirm (and often illuminatingly am-
plify) the evolutionary relationships previously deduced on morpho-
logical and paleontological grounds. (For example, such studies have
Natural Evolution
54.
provided direct biochemicalevidence concerning the degrees of re-
latedness between man and the other living primates.)
Again and again, the evolutionary hypothesis (if that is what we
still prefer to call it) has survived the test of consistency with observa-
tions of a kind unthinkable even four decades ago when the “modern
synthesis” of neo-Darwinism first emerged. This does not preclude
controversy about the tempo of, mode of, and constraints upon evo-
lution, but it renders it entirely reasonable for us to base our philoso-
phy and theology on what we can presume to be the “fact” of biolog-
ical evolution, including that of man, who is regarded as being
entirely within the world of nature with respect to both the biologi-
cal and molecular aspects of his existence relevant to his origins.
Cosmic evolution
Darwin himself,T. H. Huxley, and the first generation of Darwin-
ists saw biological evolution in the context of a much wider cosmic
process embracing the development of the solar system and of the
galaxy.Today we can place biological evolution in a cosmic context
that involves a continuous development of the forms of matter from
the original “hot big bang,” through atoms and molecules, to those
complex structures that could self-reproduce their pattern of organi-
zation and can be properly designated as “living.”This gives us a new
incentive to reflect on the cosmic significance of the process of evo-
lution.We now know that it is not confined simply to the develop-
ment of life, but that the potentiality of matter to develop new forms
of organization, according to the prevailing conditions, stretches back
beyond the beginning of living forms, and may well stretch on into
the future beyond their eventual demise on the surface of the Earth.
Chance, law, and the origin of life
Until the late twentieth century, chance and law (necessity, or de-
terminism) have often been regarded as alternatives for interpreting
the natural world. But the interplay between these principles is more
subtle and complex than the simple dichotomies of the past would
allow. Jacques Monod27
did indeed contrast the “chance” processes
Biological Evolution and ChristianTheology
CHAPTER XVII
THE DON—(continued)
Proctors—TheBlack Book—Personal spite
and the taking of a degree—The case of
Meadowcourt of Merton—Extract from
Black Book—The taverner and the
Proctor—Izaak Walton and the senior
Proctor—Amhurst’s character sketch of a
certain Proctor.
The Proctor and his bull-dogs (entailing sudden scuttlings down side
streets, which, if abortive, lead to the nine o’clock string outside that
gentleman’s door, and the unwilling disbursement of goodly sums—
the fine for being out of college at an unstatutable hour was 40s.!—
because forsooth, a man had the misfortune to cross his path
without being arrayed in statutable garb), loomed darkly on the
eighteenth-century skyline. Wrapped in the safe embrace of trencher
and gown it was possible to watch the great Proctors
“... march in state
With velvet sleeves and scarlet gown,
Some with white wigs so hugely grown
They seem to ape in some degree
The dome of Radcliffe’s Library.”
It was the redoubtable senior Proctor who was the guardian of the
Black Book, the register of the university, in which he recorded the
name of any person who affronted him or the university. The mere
inscription of a name in the Proctor’s book may not seem a very
fearful punishment, but it takes on a darker aspect when it is
discovered that no person so recorded might proceed to his degree
57.
till he hadgiven satisfaction to the Proctor who had put him in.
Amhurst explained that the Black Book into which the Proctors put
anybody “at whom, whether justly or not, they shall take offence ...
was at first design’d to punish refractory persons and immoral
offenders; but at present it is made use of to vent party spleen and
is fill’d up with whigs, constitutioners, and bangorians. So long as
the university has this rod in her hand, it is no wonder that high-
church triumphs over her most powerful adversaries; nor can we be
at all surpriz’d that Whiggism declines with the constitution club in
Oxford, when we behold people stigmatiz’d in the Black Book, and
excluded from their degrees for soberly rejoicing upon King George’s
birthnight, and drinking his majesty’s health.”
The question of making satisfaction to the Proctor who had inscribed
a name in that “dreadful and gloomy volume” was, in many cases at
least, a difficult and lengthy proceeding. The Merton Undergraduate,
Meadowcourt, who, as Steward of the Constitution Club, prevailed
upon the Proctor to join in drinking King George’s health, was
prevented for two years from taking his degree. The “binge” was a
quite considerable affair. Party feeling ran high, and the Charles II.
partisans gathered in their hundreds outside the tavern in which the
Constitutioners had foregathered. Amid booing and hissing, they
threw lighted squibs in at the windows. In a subsequent interview
with Mr Holt, the Proctor, Meadowcourt, having apologised, learned
that as far as Holt was concerned he had nothing further to fear, but
that Holt’s brother Proctor, Mr White of Christ Church, was vastly
incensed, and had desired that “the power of taking cognisance of,
and proceeding against all that was done that night, might be placed
in his hands.” To this Holt had agreed. Consequently Meadowcourt
found himself compelled to seek out Mr White. The interview was
short and stormy, the Proctor being in “an ungovernable passion,
insomuch that he often brandished his arm at him.”
58.
Larger Image
Merton College.
Outof the doings of that adventurous, amusing and wholly
reprehensible evening the proctor White concocted the following
charges which were duly recorded in the Black Book, in all their
pompous length:—
“June 28th, 1716.
“Let Mr Carty of university College be kept from his degree, for
which he stands next, for the space of one whole year.
“1. For prophaning, with mad intemperance, that day, on which he
ought, with sober chearfulness, to have commemorated the
restoration of King Charles the second and the royal family, nay, of
monarchy itself, and the church itself.
59.
“2. For drinkingin company with those persons, who insolently boast
of their loyalty to King George, and endeavour to render almost all
the university, besides themselves, suspected of dissaffection.
“3. For calling together a great mob of people, as if to see a shew,
and drinking impious execrations, out of the tavern window, against
several worthy persons, who are the best friends to the church and
the king; by this means provoking the beholders to return them the
same abuses; from whence followed a detestable breach of the
peace.
“4. For refusing to go home to his college after nine o’clock at night,
though he was more than once commanded to do it, by the junior
proctor, who came thither to quell the riot.
“5. For being catch’d at the same place again by the senior proctor,
and pretending, as he was admonish’d by him, to go home; but with
a design to drink again.
“Let Mr Meadowcourt of Merton College be kept back from the
degree which he stands for next, for the space of two years; nor be
admitted to supplicate for his grace, until he confesses his manifold
crimes, and asks pardon upon his knees.
“Not only for being an accomplice with Mr Carty in all his faults (or
rather crimes), but also,
“7. For being not only a companion, but likewise a remarkable
abetter of certain officers, who ran up and down the High Street
with their swords drawn, to the great terror of the townsmen and
scholars.
“8. For breaking out to that degree of impudence (when the proctor
admonish’d him to go home from the tavern at an unseasonable
hour) as to command all the company with a loud voice, to drink
King George’s health.
“Joh. W., proc-jun.”
60.
In spite ofthe many entreaties on his behalf made by several
distinguished persons (“amongst whom were a most noble duke and
a marquis”) Meadowcourt was unable to obtain the remission of his
sentence, and was compelled to wait the full two years before he
could proceed to his degree. At the end of that time both the
proctors concerned had retired, and the Merton man, upon applying
to the proctor then in office, was informed that nothing could be
done until both Holt and White had been consulted. The unfortunate
man went from one to the other for weeks. They “bandied it about,
sending Mr Meadowcourt upon sleeveless errands,” till, at last,
having jumbled their learned noddles together, they sent him a
paper containing the following articles, which they insisted should be
read by Mr Meadowcourt publicly in the Convocation House, before
he might proceed to his degree.
“1. I do acknowledge all the crimes laid to my charge in the Black
Book, and that I deserved the punishment imposed on me.
“2. I do acknowledge that the story of my being punish’d on account
of affection to King George, and his illustrious house, is unjust and
injurious, not only to the reputation of the proctor, but of the whole
university.
“3. I do profess sincerely, that I do not believe that I was punish’d
on that account.
“4. I am very thankful for the clemency of the university, in remitting
the ignominious part of the punishment, viz., begging pardon on my
knees.
“5. I beg pardon of Almighty God, of the proctor, and all the
masters, for the offences which I have committed respectively
against them; and I promise that I will, by my future behaviour,
make the best amends I can, for having offended by the worst of
examples.”
Having fought the almighty proctors thus far Meadowcourt was not,
however, the man to give in to such an absurdly overwhelming piece
61.
of indignity asthat proposed. He refused to read the paper, resolving
rather to go without his degree. He was advised, however, to plead
the Act of Grace, which he did after many further checks and delays.
He emerged finally from the unequal conflict with victory and a
degree. This case I think amply justifies Amhurst’s assertion that the
Black Book was used as a weapon with which the proctors paid off
personal insults and old scores, and the injustice and abuse of the
great power which they knew so cunningly how to wield is only too
apparent.
The proctors, naturally enough, were vastly unpopular men and,
supposedly, realising this, did not go one iota out of their way to
decrease the general dislike attaching to them, but rather consoled
themselves by piling on the pains and penalties at every opportunity.
The gownsmen were not the only people who had a rooted objection
to them on principle. Even the townees and tradesmen regarded
them with an unfriendly eye, and gave them no assistance in the
detection of Undergraduate delinquents. In illustration of the light in
which they were held by the townspeople Amhurst related an
amusing story.
“A man who liv’d just by a pound in Oxford and kept an ale house
put upon his sign these words ‘Ale sold here by the Pound,’ which
seduced a great many young students to go thither out of curiosity
to buy liquor, as they thought, by weight; hearing of which, the vice-
chancellor sent for the landlord to punish him according to statute,
which prohibits all ale house keepers to receive scholars into their
houses; but the fellow, being apprehensive what he was sent for, as
soon as he came into the vice-chancellor’s lodgings, fell a spitting
and a spawling about the room; upon which the vice-chancellor
ask’d him in an angry tone, what he meant by that?
“‘Sir,’ says the fellow, ‘I am come to clear myself.’
“‘Clear yourself, sirrah!’ says the vice-chancellor; ‘but I expect that
you should clear yourself in another manner; they say you sell ale by
the pound.’
62.
“‘No, indeed, MrVice-chancellor,’ replies the fellow, ‘I don’t.’
“‘Don’t you,’ says the Vice-chancellor again, ‘how do you then?’
“‘Very well,’ replies he, ‘I humbly thank you, Mr Vice-chancellor; pray
how do you, sir?’
“‘Get you gone,’ says the vice-chancellor, ‘for a rascal’; and turned
him downstairs.
“Away went the fellow and meeting with one of the proctors, told
him that the vice-chancellor desired to speak with him immediately;
the proctor in great haste went to know the vice-chancellor’s
commands, and the fellow with him, who told the vice-chancellor,
when they came before him, that here he was.
“‘Here he is!’ says the vice-chancellor, ‘who is here?’
“‘Sir,’ says the impudent alehouse-keeper, ‘you bad me go for a
Rascal; and lo! here I have brought you one.’”
The proctors had the appointment of the examiners, and once now
and again they paid a surprise visit in their official capacity to the
schools, when the examinations (such as they were) were in
progress. This was, however, a “rare and uncommon occurrence.”
When prowling the streets in search of whom they might devour
their method was to search the coffee-houses and smart
establishments and give impositions to the “Bucks in boots” upon
whom they pounced. They left the ale-houses alone, or, in Tom
Warton’s words:—
“Nor Proctor thrice with vocal Heel alarms
Our Joys secure, nor deigns the lowly Roof
Of Pot-house snug to visit: wiser he
The splendid Tavern haunts, or Coffee-house....”
Izaak Walton described the senior proctor in 1616 as one who “did
not use his power of punishing to an extremity; but did usually take
their names, and a promise to appear before him unsent for next
63.
morning: and whenthey did convinced them with such obligingness,
and reason added to it, that they parted from him with such
resolutions as the man after God’s own heart was possessed with,
when he said to God, There is mercy with thee, and therefore thou
shalt be feared (Psal. cxxx.). And by this, and a like behaviour to all
men, he was so happy as to lay down this dangerous employment,
as but few, if any have done, even without an enemy.”
The proctorship was therefore a difficult post to fill even a full
century before Amhurst was born to set down in black and white the
iniquities of his own time. Izaak Walton’s proctor was the exception;
Amhurst’s seems to have been the rule, and his character is given by
Terrae Filius as follows:—
“... of Christ Church, a tool that was form’d by nature for vile and
villainous purposes, being advanced to the proctorship, publickly
declar’d, that no constitutioner should take a degree whilst he was in
power. This corrupt and infamous magistrate had formerly been
under cure for lunacy, and was now very far relaps’d into the same
distemper. He was naturally the most proud and insolent tyrant to
his betters, who were below him in the university; but to those
above him the most mean and creeping slave. He was peevish,
passionate, and revengeful; loose and profligate in his morals,
though seemingly rigid and severe. In publick, a serious and solemn
hypocrite; in private, a ridiculous and lewd buffoon. An impudent
pretender to sanctity and conscience, which he always us’d as a
cloak for the most unjust and criminal actions. In short, he was so
worthless and despicable a fellow, and had so scandalously
overacted his part in his extravagant zeal against the constitution
club, that at the expiration of his proctorship, when he appear’d as
candidate for the professorship of history, there were not above ten
persons, besides the members of his own college who voted for
him.”
The anonymity of the blank space in front of the man’s college is not
sufficient to conceal the fact that this character sketch, a bitter and
pointed attack, was most probably meant for the Mr White who
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distinguished himself inthe Meadowcourt case. As, however, from
many instances, he appears to have been no better and no worse
than the generality of proctors during the century, there is no reason
why Amhurst’s denunciations should not be credited as descriptive of
most of the others of his kind.
Modern Oxford has reason to congratulate herself that the reins of
government are no longer in such hands. There exist to-day none of
the abuses and vices which were so striking a feature of the
eighteenth century. They have all been swept away. Oxford has
purged herself of them, and in their place are to be found honesty,
uprightness, and all the cardinal virtues. The modern Don has
nothing in common with his Georgian predecessor. He relegates self
to a discreet background, and devotes his entire energies to the
interests of those over whom he has authority; and his pupils, on
going down, harbour no feelings of contempt and ill-feeling, but look
on him instead as a man whose friendship is an honour which must
be treasured to the end.
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CHAPTER XVIII
CELEBRITIES ASOXFORD MEN
Charles James Fox—Earl of Malmesbury
—William Eden—Cards and claret—
Midnight oil—Oxford friendships
remembered afterwards—Edward Gibbon
—Delicate bookworm—Antagonism
towards Oxford—Becomes a Roman
Catholic—Subsequent apostasy—John
Wesley—Resists taking orders—Germs of
ambition—America the golden
opportunity—Oxford responsible for
Methodism.
Academic Oxford of the eighteenth century has been thrown on to
the screen in different lights and from different sides. The Don, for
the most part inert in his elbow chair, puffing at his glazed pipe, with
many bottles and tankards at his elbow in the common room or the
coffee-house; turning up his nose at the impudence of any man who
wanted to work; too lazy, and in many cases too ignorant, to put
skilful questions in the examinations; abusing his trust as an
examiner by receiving bribes, in the same manner that he set the
Undergraduates a lead in vice of all kinds outside the schools;
earnest and eager in political strife of the Vicar of Bray type; keen on
nothing but his own personal aggrandisement, either socially or
financially—in all these lights he has passed through the picture. We
have seen also the Undergraduate in all his class divisions—the
humble servitor receiving sixpence a week from each of his
gentleman patrons, doing the dirty work and odd jobs, keeping soul
and body together on the scraps that fell from the rich men’s table,
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writing out theirimpositions and scraping an education in the
meanwhile, God knows how; the gentleman commoner and the
Smart, swaggering it abroad in the glory of their purple and fine
linen, sneering at the dull regulars, cutting lectures and chapels,
doing no work, incurring enormous expenses “upon tick,” following
the example set by the Dons in drunkenness and wenching. We have
seen them amusing themselves, free from any kind of restriction, in
taverns, town and gown rows, on the river, in the cock-pit and the
prize ring, and dallying with the beauties under Merton Wall.
Looking at all these things and to the general loose living which was
the keynote of the eighteenth century, we are apt to feel with
Malmesbury that it is a matter of surprise how so many of the
Undergraduates made their way so well and so creditably in the
world. It has already been remarked that the worth of Oxford lies
not in the quality of the degree taken, but in the education which
environment and the association with better men undoubtedly gives.
The mere cramming of book knowledge would be useless were it not
accompanied by the far more important expansion of mind, the
broadening of outlook, and the formation of character brought about
by the social life of the university. This is palpably so in the case of
the eighteenth-century Undergraduate, since work was practically
non-existent, and a degree merely a matter of so much ready
money. He could not do anything else but take on the colour of the
surroundings of vice and intemperance which then reigned supreme.
How is it then that any man emerged from the Oxford of this period
and succeeded in inscribing his name on the roll of fame? The
reason is that Oxford was a mirror in which was reflected London
life. The metropolis was simply Oxford on a larger scale, so that the
Undergraduates were learning at the university to do the things
which would be expected of them in after life; and the men who
distinguished themselves at college were bound to achieve renown
later. The fame of such men as Charles Fox, the pre-eminent
statesman; Edward Gibbon, the historian; Malmesbury, the diplomat;
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John Wesley, thefounder of Methodism; Collins, the poet; and the
immortal Dr Johnson, is written down in the pages of history.
Charles James Fox, one of the greatest statesmen England has ever
seen, came up from Eton to Hertford College[30] in 1764, where he
was the leading spirit in a little coterie which included James Harris,
Earl of Malmesbury, and William Eden, Baron Auckland. By his father
he had been initiated, while still at Eton, into the vice of gaming, by
which he was very deeply bitten. A still more curious fact is that
although Fox as a young man had no inclinations towards loose
living he was taken over to Paris and laughed into it by his otherwise
doting parent. His innate force of character, however, enabled him to
resist what might have wrecked the life of another man less strong,
and although outwardly he was at Oxford an idle gamester, yet in
secret, in the small hours of the morning, he worked exceedingly
hard. Malmesbury has described this circle of friends as a non-
working, pleasure-loving body. Fox, as the leader of them, fell, of
course, under this category; but the results of his hours of private
grinding were quite extraordinary. He read “Aristotle’s ‘Ethics and
Politics,’ with an ease uncommon in those who have principally
cultivated the study of the Greek writers. His favourite authors were
Longinus and Homer, with the latter of whom he was particularly
conversant; he could discuss the works of the Ionian bard, not only
as a man of exquisite taste, and as a philosophical critic, which
might be expected from a mind like his, but also as a grammarian.
He was indeed capable of conversing with Longinus, on the beauty,
sublimity, and pathos of Homer; with Aristotle on his delineations of
man, with a pedagogue on dactyls, spondees, anapaests, and all the
arcana of language. History, ethics, politics, were, however, his
particular studies.”
Yet with all these accomplishments, which, in a period none too
famous for its learning, were all the more amazing, this
extraordinary man was swayed by his passion for gaming, and never
behindhand in expeditions of debauch with his companions. Cards
were the favourite pastime then in vogue, and it was round the
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baize-covered table thatFox cemented his friendship with
Malmesbury and Eden. These latter, both, subsequently, men of
international fame, also surrendered themselves completely to the
slackness of the time, and did their utmost to imitate with
thoroughness the London fops of whom they had some slight
experiences before coming up. While still gownsmen this triumvirate
gave signs of their future greatness. Their card parties were a centre
of attraction, not because of the high stakes for which they played,
but for the wit and brilliance of their conversation. Fox’s eloquence
was even then remarkable, and he had “no cotemporary so erudite
in knowledge, none so elegant in mirth.” The enormous possibilities
of this Undergraduate were fully appreciated by the college
authorities. He was allowed to make trips to London, where, in the
company of his father, he went to the Houses of Parliament, and was
a keen listener at many of the great debates. When a proposal was
on foot for Fox to cross to Paris and make a stay of some months
there, the Head of Hertford granted him leave immediately with the
unusual remark that such application as his necessitated “some
intermission; and you are the only person with whom I have ever
had connexion to whom I could say this.”
With characteristic thoroughness Fox outdid the most complete
Smart in the elegance of his dress. He made a special journey from
Paris to Lyons for the purchasing of waistcoats, and on his return to
England was seen in the Mall “in a suit of Paris-cut velvet, most
fancifully embroidered, and bedecked with a large bouquet; a
headdress cemented into every variety of shape; a little silk hat,
curiously ornamented; and a pair of French shoes with red heels; for
the latter article of which he considered it of no mean consequence
that he was indebted to his own exclusive importation!”
He had a great fondness for literature and poetry and, following the
customs of the times, he used occasionally to dash off an indiscreet
sonnet, or a more sound criticism of the current publications. Italian,
he declared, contained as a language more good poetry in it than
any with which he was conversant. The essential quality in any
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subject was thatit should be “entertaining.” Without this, Fox
refused to consider it. The exact meaning which he read into the
word is, however, somewhat difficult to gather, for, writing to his
friend Macarthey, he stated that he was fond of mathematics and
would concentrate upon it because it promised to be entertaining.
Oxford remained dear to Fox and the friendships he formed over the
card-table, and the various “rags” in which he took part were never
forgotten by him. When the triumvirate went down, their ways at
first lay separate. Eden’s time was occupied first in getting called to
the Bar, and then, through the patronage of the Duke of
Marlborough, to Parliament as member for Woodstock. Malmesbury,
an incipient diplomatist while still at Winchester, left England and
joined the British Embassy at Madrid. Fox left Oxford before the age
of twenty-one, and was immediately returned to Parliament for
Midhurst. For some twenty years the tide of life kept the three apart,
each striving in his own quarter. Then in 1782 Fox, who had climbed
higher up the ladder of fame than either of the other two, was
reminded of the old friendships of his Undergraduate days.
Malmesbury, then Sir James Harris, Knight of the Bath, was invalided
home from the Embassy at St Petersburg, and was instantly
appointed by Fox to be Minister at the Hague. The year after this,
Eden, whose political career under the banner of Lord North was a
distinguished one, came again into touch with Fox, and exerted
himself to bring about a coalition between his own chief and his old
Oxford friend. It is practically certain that the touch of sentiment
roused by the remembrance of the old days, when Eden and he
played cards and drank claret beneath the spires of Oxford, was the
only reason why the coalition was brought about by Eden, for Fox
afterwards publicly avowed in the House of Commons, when the
rupture between North and himself was final, that “the greatest folly
of his life was in having supported Lord North.”
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“To the Universityof Oxford,” wrote Gibbon in after years, “I
acknowledge no obligation; and she will as cheerfully renounce me
for a son as I am willing to disclaim her for a mother. I spent
fourteen months at Magdalen College; they proved the fourteen
months the most idle and unprofitable of my whole life.”
A boy of sixteen, thin and delicate, who from his earliest infancy had
fallen from one illness into another, possessed of an abnormal brain,
and for these two reasons shunning, and shunned by, his school-
fellows both in playground and classroom, and therefore compelled
joyfully to fall back upon books, with which he ate, drank, and slept
—conceive such a boy, and one sees Gibbon at Magdalen. Add to
this the facts concerning the debauch, the lack of “bookish fellows,”
the gross and inert Dons, all of which characterised the times, and it
is easy to appreciate the reasons why a man like Gibbon, a high-
strung, dreamy creature to whom any crowd of human beings
inspired positive fear, and whose interests were entirely removed
from wenching, drinking, and gaming, received no benefit from
Oxford. He went up intent on nothing but the pursuit of knowledge.
In the course of his dealings with his various tutors—which have
already been set forth in a previous chapter—he found that
knowledge was to be obtained neither in the lecture rooms nor the
common rooms. To these latter, being a gentleman commoner, he
received invitations and went high in the expectation of learned
conversations and brilliant dialogue. He found instead no subjects
under discussion save horses, drink, and political preferment. This
beardless boy, practically self-educated and big with ideas upon the
important subjects of life, turned with disgust from the society of the
“port bibbing” and stagnant Fellows. With no definite course of
studies to occupy his attentions, and unchecked by any authority,
the unaccustomed feeling of liberty swept him into the infringement
of rules and statutes. To his tutor he gave casual excuses for non-
attendance at lectures, and disappeared from Oxford for days at a
time. The unscholarly condition of the university, and his own
physical inability to join in any athletic pursuits, united in preventing
Oxford from making any impression upon him. Her history, her
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architecture, her traditions,seem to have held no interest for him,
and he was more interested in making expeditions to London and
places in the surrounding country than in remaining in the university
and studying Undergraduate life. Even the beauty of Oxford’s old
walls, tree-bordered lawns and walks, and winding river, made no
appeal to him. He was in sympathy with no single thing. It was a
mistake on his parents’ part ever to have sent him up. A man of
Gibbon’s peculiar temperament was entirely out of place in any
university; more particularly Oxford, in the state in which she then
was.
And yet in spite of the incompatibility between Gibbon and Oxford,
his university career was marked by an all-important incident in the
development of the great historian. By education and training he
was a Protestant, but, as was his habit with every subject to which
he turned his attention, he did not merely read books and swallow
their contents as indisputable facts. Everything he read was deeply
pondered, made to pass under his own criticism, and then compared
with other authors on the opposite side of the case. Consequently
the subject of his own creed underwent deep thought, and after
reading Middleton’s “Free Enquiry into the Miraculous Powers which
are Supposed to have Subsisted in the Christian Church,” Gibbon’s
religious beliefs were shaken. He decided that Protestantism was
inconsistent; he was dissatisfied with it. Filled with the restlessness
engendered by uncertainty, Gibbon read many works, including
Bossuet’s “Variations of Protestantism” and “Exposition of Catholic
Doctrine,” and the writings of the Jesuit priest, Father Parsons.
“These works,” he said, “achieved my conversion”—the arguments in
favour of Roman Catholicism put forward by the Jesuit priest being
the real turning point in the scale.
Having arrived at the conclusion that the Protestant religion paled
into insignificance before the Roman Catholic one, the Magdalen
man felt that he would know no happiness until he himself should
join the ranks of the “Papists.” For once his thoroughness deserted
him. He did not consider the question—and the question of a man’s
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entirely changing hisreligious beliefs is a very vital one—with his
usual exhaustiveness. Like a baby with a new toy, Gibbon, the great
and wonderful man of brain, world famous and immortal, made a
complete fool of himself. He rushed off to London without more ado,
and there, under the influence of a “momentary glow of
enthusiasm,” “privately abjured the heresies” of his childhood before
a certain Father Baker, also a Jesuit, and became a Roman Catholic.
For the moment his belief was red hot, and he wrote a burningly
defiant letter to his father announcing his change of creed. The elder
Gibbon at once provided an excuse for his being sent down (a
circumstance which very probably would have come about on the
Magdalen Dons’ own initiative without any excuse being offered to
them), and packed him off to the care of the Calvanistic minister at
Lausanne, M. Pavilliard. The scattering of the hastily-swallowed,
undigested arguments which had brought about Gibbon’s precipitate
action, was a matter of a few months to M. Pavilliard, and in less
than two years he was once more a fully convinced Protestant. The
ex-Magdalen man’s amour propre is fully demonstrated by the
unblushing assertion that although the Calvinist minister had “a
handsome share in his re-conversion,” yet it was principally brought
about “by his own solitary reflections.” Doubtless when he wrote
those statements he fully realised the extent and powers of his own
brain, and refused to admit that any ordinarily clever man could
have, or ever did have, any influence in swaying him from one point
of view to another. One is fully justified in assuming that had he not
gone to a Calvinist minister, but, instead, continued under the roof of
a Jesuit priest, none of the “philosophical arguments,” to which he
refers so glibly, would have availed him, and Edward Gibbon,
historian, would have remained a Roman Catholic to the end of his
days.
“Lord, let me not live to be useless!” was the constant prayer of John
Wesley, and it was the keynote of his character. The founder of the
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Methodists, famous throughoutthe civilised world, and a man whose
personal magnetism and great brain were bound to bring him to the
fore in whatever profession he might have chosen, was actuated by
a consuming dread of being considered useless. A desire to achieve
great things was fostered during his Undergraduate days at Christ
Church. He went there with a sound knowledge of Hebrew, and
began to achieve some note for his skill in logic. This was the
beginning of the growth of ambition, and the fact that he was
“noticed for his attainments” brought him great pleasure, for at all
times he bubbled over with humour and good spirits in full
realisation of his college notoriety. In consequence of this his
reluctance at taking orders, when proposed by his family, was
marked. He argued the question with himself fully while pacing his
rooms at night, and he wrote to his father and explained his
reluctance. It is conceivable that the life as led by gentleman
commoners, with its wine parties, wild escapades, and general moral
carelessness may have been the reason of Wesley’s hesitation. For
this clever, amusing lad was popular in his college, and invited to
take part in all the jollifications. Be that as it may, the question of
devoting his life to religion was a difficult one. Wesley’s self-
examination, assisted by his father’s scorn of becoming a “callow
clergyman,” was doubtless attended by silent questionings as to
what was his speciality. The atmosphere and traditions of Oxford had
laid hold of him. The names of great men, sons of Alma mater, filled
him with the desire to emulate them, to excel them even. Their
names were spoken in awe and admiration. Why should not his be
also? He was brilliantly clever, of a clever family, and already had
tasted the joys of fame in however humble a manner. Why should he
have to follow his father’s lead and enter the Church? Could he not
do better for himself outside? Undoubtedly, for there was more
scope, less subjection to rules and orders, more individual power.
But, on the other hand, these speculations and desires to break
away were held in check by filial respect and love. His father and
mother were keenly desirous of his embracing a clerical life, and his
mother especially was of opinion that the sooner he entered into
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deacon’s orders thebetter, as it would be an additional inducement
to “greater application in the study of practical divinity.”
Larger Image
Staircase, Christ Church.
Wesley, therefore, looked facts in the face and concentrated his
whole mind upon the study of theology. Since he could not be Prime
Minister, he would be a great religious man. He began by
disagreeing with “The Imitation of Christ,” and held views on the
question of humility which lead one to believe that by this time the
seeds of his ambition had grown to trees. Jeremy Taylor’s tenet, that
we ought, “in some sense or other, to think ourselves the worst in
every company where we come,” was flatly contradicted by Wesley,
who, although admitting absolute humility to God, reserved the right
to consider himself a better man than many another; for when he
was elected a Fellow of Lincoln, after he had been ordained, he
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practically showed thedoor to all those of his visitors whom he
thought would do him no good, by reason of their not loving or
fearing God. Then an incident happened which had a lasting effect
upon Wesley; which changed his whole life. He travelled over to see
what was called “a serious man.” Who this man was is unknown, but
he was a student of psychology and a man of keen intuition. He
summed up John Wesley, and gave forth the remark which had so
great an influence upon him. “Sir,” he said, “you wish to serve God
and go to Heaven. Remember, you cannot serve Him alone; you
must, therefore, find companions or make them: the Bible knows
nothing of solitary religion.”
Wesley never forgot these words. They were the turning-point in his
career. His vast brain and desire to become the greatest of God’s
servants would not allow him to be merely a curate in the
Established Church, thus to serve God humbly. Even the chance of
his eventually emerging as Archbishop was not sufficiently big.
Neither was the Roman Church large enough, though from his
characteristics it is conceivable that he was in sympathy with the
love of power which, in olden times, is said to have marked out the
Jesuits. The words of this “serious man” gave him furiously to think.
He would make companions, followers, disciples. He, himself, would
become greater than any of the men discussed by his fellow
Undergraduates by taking over the leadership of a band of religious
and ascetic men, who should occupy themselves solely in carrying
out the commands of God.
Already his piety and zeal were much discussed in Oxford, for he led
the way to George Whitefield in attending the Sacrament daily and
doing charitable works. His younger brother, Charles, had formed the
nucleus of a religious order by meeting weekly with two or three
serious-minded friends and discussing religion. When John Wesley
returned to Lincoln after an absence of some two years, during
which he had had time to think out matters while filling a country
curacy, these lads put themselves under his leadership. It was the
first taste of power and individual authority. He ruled the little band
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sternly, put theirpractices into order and method, and secured an
“accession of members.” He submitted himself to rigorous fasts, and
cultivated an eccentric appearance by letting his hair grow. Even his
brother, Samuel, himself really religious, perceived that he “excited
injurious prejudices against himself, by affecting singularity in things
which were of no importance.” His mother suggested cutting his hair
off, but the money could not be spared from Wesley’s charities. His
brother put forward that it should be merely reduced in length. This
Wesley agreed to, and it is recorded that “this was the only instance
in which he condescended, in any degree, to the opinions of others.”
The culminating instance of his egoism lies in his absolute refusal, in
spite of his father’s earnest entreaty, to take on his cure at the
latter’s death. He considered the proposal “not so much with
reference to his utility, as to his own well-being in spiritual things.”
The question, as it appeared to him, was not whether he could do
more good to others there or at Oxford, but whether he could do
more good to himself, seeing that wherever he could be most holy
himself, there he could most promote holiness. He decided that he
could improve himself more at Oxford than at any other place, and
at Oxford, therefore, he determined to remain. His father wrote to
him, “if you are not indifferent whether the labours of an aged
father, for above forty years in God’s vineyard, be lost, and the
fences of it trodden down and destroyed; if you consider that Mr M.
must in all probability succeed me if you do not, and that in prospect
of that mighty Nimrod’s coming hither shocks my soul, and is in a
fair way of bringing down my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave; if
you have any care for our family, which must be dismally shattered
as soon as I am dropt; if you reflect on the dear love and longing
which this poor people has for you, whereby you will be enabled to
do God the more service, and the plenteousness of the harvest,
consisting of near two thousand souls, whereas you have not many
more souls in the university—you may, perhaps, alter your mind and
bend your will to His, who has promised if in all our ways we
acknowledge Him, He will direct our paths.”
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In the faceof this stirring appeal from an aged father what did
Wesley reply? He refused absolutely to entertain the matter. His self-
centredness, the while he directed the religious beliefs and
operations of the small body of disciples at Oxford, made him forget
all considerations of filial duty and love and of God’s commands to
obedience. His parents had been the reason of his entering the
Church. He would make no further sacrifice for them now that he
saw his way clear. His father, mother, the thousands of poor people—
nobody and nothing mattered except that he should make himself
more holy! The petty duties, worries, and cares, the continual small
demands of trifling points entailed by such a curacy were too small
for this striving, all-conquering spirit. What mattered it that he
should send his father’s grey hairs down in sorrow to the grave?
All this while, he was most certainly turning over the saying of the
“serious man”—to make followers. On his father’s death it was
proposed that he should go to America. Here was his great chance.
Oxford had taught him that to expect to make English people, in
their then blind and vicious state, see the truth of the gospel of
Christ, was futile and childish. He was a prophet in his own country.
But America, with all its unsophisticated, raw children, its ripeness
for a strong man to come with the gift of oratory and sweep the
country from end to end—there was his chance! And afterwards, on
the crest of his fame and success, then would he convert England.
His glory would have preceded him, and he would return as one
already great, to whom they would lend a more willing ear. But with
the astuteness of a really clever man, he peremptorily refused the
offer to send him out there. As a natural result the proposers of the
scheme argued. By degrees he allowed his willingness to be seen,
though he piously pointed out that as he was his mother’s support,
the staff of her age, he could not go without her consent. This she
immediately gave, as he well knew she would. Accordingly, filled
with exultation, buoyed up by a feeling of certainty as to his ultimate
success, John Wesley left Oxford and England for the new country
on which he intended to stamp his personality, and by whose
conquest he was determined to hand down his name to posterity in
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the profession towhich he had reconciled himself at the age of some
nineteen years while still an Undergraduate of Christ Church.
Had Wesley not gone up to Oxford, his name might never have been
added to the list of England’s famous men. It was Oxford which first
showed him the narrowness of a small curacy, Oxford which set him
contemplating greatness, Oxford which actually started him in
command of disciples. Therefore it is to Oxford that must be
attributed the foundation, growth, and fame of Methodism, the
means by which John Wesley attained his ends, power, and celebrity.
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CHAPTER XIX
CELEBRITIES ASOXFORD MEN—(continued)
William Collins—Joins the Smarts—
Forgets how to work—Oxford kills his
will-power—Loses his reason—Samuel
Johnson at Pembroke—A lonely freshman
—Translates Pope’s Messiah—Suffers
horribly from poverty—Dr Adam, his
tutor—Readiness and physical pluck—
Love of showing off—His love of
Pembroke.
William Collins has been claimed as the greatest lyric poet of the
eighteenth century. But, as is so often the case with famous men,
his genius during his life time received no recognition. It was only
when the world learned of his death, after he has been removed
from a madhouse, that his few works began to come in for the
notice which they deserved. Perhaps one of the reasons that life
brought him no triumphant successes was the fact that he knew not
how to work; and the blame of this undoubtedly falls upon Oxford.
Whilst at school Collins worked steadfastly both in the matter of
examinations and independent poems. It was at Winchester that he
wrote his Persian Eclogues, and in proof of his capacity for study he
headed the list for nomination to an Oxford college, which included
Warton and Whitehead. Oxford caused him to dwindle into a mere
dilettante, a Smart, although he was accused falsely of bringing with
him from school “a sovereign contempt for all academic studies and
discipline.” The beginning of his Undergraduate life was marked by
his strutting about in fine clothes with a feather in his cap, and
running up heavy bills at the booksellers and tailors. The steady
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reading which hemust have got through to enable him to head the
school list was now laughed at. No one else did any work. Why
should he? The Dons at Magdelen did not enforce the college
exercises, and those which Collins condescended to put in showed
signs of great genius and great indolence. The atmosphere of
slacking, and card and wine parties which prevailed in the university
seized hold of Collins, and he indulged himself to the full.
From time to time the poetry that was in him overflowed in an ode
or two, but he was delighted to be interrupted by some genial friend
in the middle of his work, and there the poem would be left. He
frequented parties daily, entering thoroughly into the spirit of
flippancy which characterised all his smart friends. He loved to be
the centre of attraction, to talk and laugh and jest with a circle of
admirers. Those who did not think as he did were dubbed “damned
dull fellows.” The complete liberty enjoyed by him as a gownsman
killed the habit of work so forcibly inculcated at his school. No
sooner did he sit down in his rooms to read than the thought of a
call that he must pay brought him to his feet again. His entire
freedom was his ruin. Had he been compelled to work during certain
hours every day, it is certain that Collins would have been less of a
butterfly, and probable that he would not have lost his reason. As it
was, the lax authority bred in him a desire to partake of the
dissipation and gaiety of London, and caused him to relegate work
and poetry to a secondary and quite unimportant consideration. He
became content merely to draw up the outline of vast schemes for
future work. That which he did complete was short and unsatisfying.
He began other things and never completed them. In momentary
bursts of enthusiasm he would dash off the commencement of some
perfect lyric with inspiration and genius. But his powers of
concentration had been sapped. He had not the strength to go on
working. The call to a tea-party, any outside matter of no
importance, was sufficient to make him throw his work into the fire
and rush off to enjoy himself. He even went so far as to receive
money on the scenario of a work on condition of promising the
completion by a certain date. For some days he was steadied. His
81.
usual haunts sawhim not. Behind sported oak he sat and toiled,
striving to conquer the distracting thoughts aroused by the chime of
a bell, the street cries which drifted up to his window, the rustle of a
branch in the trees outside, the tramp of footsteps on his staircase,
the shouts from a distant quad. The effort was too much for him.
Oxford had completely stifled whatever will-power he had ever
possessed. He was beaten by her, robbed of the faculty of using the
gifts which God had given him. He emerged from the struggle with
several pages of scenario, and nothing more was ever attempted.
The praise of his friends round the Oxford tea-tables turned him into
a consistent prevaricator. “To-morrow I will write! To-morrow shall
see my epoch-making poem. To-morrow!” But to-morrow came and
was passed in equal idleness and futilities. “Wait till I get to London.
Ah, then!” He was convinced that he had but to arrive in the
metropolis to be the centre of a storm of praise and admiration. The
praise and adulation poured upon him by his fellow Undergraduates
convinced him that his wit and genius would make a brilliant success
in London, and win him a fortune. But it was not to be. His
weakness and lack of resolve and initiative had triumphed. He
became an habitué of coffee-houses, and formed acquaintances with
actors, wasting his time at stage doors. He soon dissipated his
money, and became badly in debt. The schemes for work by which
to win fame and retrieve his fortunes died at their birth, and nothing
was carried through.
There cannot be definitely laid at Oxford’s door the accusation of
being the root of the insanity which subsequently developed in him.
But it was undoubtedly the fault of Oxford that he lost so soon the
power over his will which he possessed before his Undergraduate
days. Such a man as Collins needed the control of a guiding hand,
some strong man whose influence would have acted as a spur, and
whose example would have led to regular hours and serious work.
Oxford, however, provided no such man. The appointed tutor, who
must have been a person gross in mind and body, took no trouble
with his charge, exercised no care, left him, indeed, to his own
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resources. With himlies the blame for Collins’ madness. By leaving
him to follow the loose example of the Undergraduates of the time,
who acted upon the caprice of the moment whether for good or evil,
that tutor withheld, however unconsciously, the support for which
the fragile mind of Collins craved. Consequently, under the evil
influence of eighteenth-century Oxford, the holds upon his will which
kept Collins within the bounds of sanity were gradually loosened,
until at length, a few years after his going down, his reason entirely
left him, and he who should have been one of the world’s greatest
poets was lost.
In a room on the second floor over the gateway at Pembroke Dr
Johnson lived during his Undergraduate career. A large-browed,
unusual looking lad, whose clothes were even then ill-fitting and
badly cut, he came up at the age of nineteen under the protecting
wing of his father; was duly introduced to his tutor, and moved in,
reverently and tenderly, the only household gods that he possessed
—his books.
Of a melancholic and somewhat bitter disposition already, he was, if
possible, even more lonely and unsought than the average
freshman. This condition of things caused him no regret. All his
friends he brought with him to line the bookshelves, and, sporting
his oak against an unrealising and unappreciative world, he revelled
in the poets and the classics with uninterrupted bliss. But the vitality
of youth does not long remain daunted, and Johnson soon threw off
his melancholia and sallied forth into the cobbled streets in search of
amusement or adventure. Through the bare-armed trees of the
Broad Walk he made his way and joined in the sliding in the frozen
Christ Church meadows. Work was forgotten in the biting, frosty,
invigorating air, and for four days his tutor saw him not. Ice does not
come every year, and Johnson made the most of it while it lasted.
83.
The college exerciseswere child’s play to him. Unlike the majority of
Undergraduates of the time, who read nothing but what was put into
their hands by their tutor, Johnson brought with him to the university
such a wide acquaintance with books, both of classics and poetry,
that the Master of Pembroke said in all sincerity that he was better
qualified for the university than any man during his time. With such
knowledge and with the impetuousness that was always one of his
chief characteristics, it is not to be wondered at that Johnson dashed
off his exercises at top speed, and with a brilliance that created awe
in the minds of the Dons. In one case, for instance, being requested
to translate Pope’s Messiah into Latin verse, Johnson retired to his
chamber and there, behind closed doors, wrote feverishly on a
corner of his book-strewn table. The results of his rapid labours were
twofold. He established a great reputation not only in his college but
in the entire university, and, more than that, earned Pope’s highest
praise, and brought about his statement that in later days it would
be a question whether his own or Johnson’s version would be
considered the original. One of his favourite haunts was Pembroke
gate. There he lounged away his mornings, doing no work,
attending no lectures, and preventing a crowd of listening
Undergraduates from doing work or attending lectures. Like a king
surrounded by his court, Johnson, unkempt of hair and ragged of
clothes, with shoes down at heel and fit only for the rubbish heap,
let fly his wit and satire upon every topic. The shouts of laughter
which he provoked from his compeers bound them to him as though
he had been a Pied Piper, and it was to empty benches that the
Dons delivered their empty discourses. Against the tutors and
Fellows also he turned his tongue, and his satire and humour at their
expense allied the Undergraduates still more closely to him. But
these merry meetings in the Pembroke gateway were only a pose on
Johnson’s part. He wished to convey a certain impression, and he
succeeded. The Master of Pembroke told Boswell that he “was
caressed and loved by all about him, was a gay and frolicksome
fellow, and passed there the happiest part of his life.”
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This was indeeda proof of the success of his pose; for in reality he
was neither gay nor happy. His poverty, the bareness of his rooms,
the shabbiness of his dress, the consequent inability to go anywhere,
even into Christ Church, or do any of the things that the other men
did who had money, ground into his soul. He was bitterly sensitive of
these things, and the least reference to them, however delicate or
well-meaning, either aroused a torrent of hot words, or caused him
to retreat clam-like into his shell. The man who in a spirit of discreet
friendship crept up to his rooms, left a new pair of shoes outside his
door and stole unseen away, was only rewarded for his good-nature
by learning that Johnson had thrown them out of the window in a
burst of fury against the creation that had left him penniless. It was
only the fact that scornful eyes (or at any rate Johnson’s touchiness
interpreted scorn into them) were turned upon his shoes, through
which his feet peered frankly out, that Johnson ceased going to
Christ Church to obtain, second hand, the lectures of Bateman from
his friend Taylor. He conceived poverty to be an awful and dangerous
state. After his father had died, leaving practically nothing for his
mother and himself, Johnson wrote in one of his little diaries:
“Meanwhile let me take care that the powers of my mind may not be
debilitated by poverty, and that indigence do not force me into
criminal act.” By force of having no money, and not receiving any
remittances from his father, by whom every penny had to be made
to go the distance of two, he naturally incurred debts at Oxford. As
he knew, however, that it would be only with difficulty that his
expenses would be met at all, his debts were not large, and any
incipient extravagance that may have been in him was crushed out
very early. His one great craving was to replenish his library, and as
this was impossible he took every opportunity of visiting the well-
stocked libraries of other people. These gave him intense joy, and
his first move was always to cross to the bookshelves and there,
oblivious of his host and the whole world, to pour over the beloved
volumes.
His faculty for poetical and prose writings was already strongly
developed when first he came up to Oxford, and the original points
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of view fromwhich he wrote his themes were a subject of great
comment. The rest of the Undergraduates were as children when
compared to one of his mental abilities. Even his tutor admitted that
his position was farcical, and that Johnson was far above him in
brain capacity, for he said on one occasion that “I was his nominal
tutor but he was above my mark.” And the lad was then but some
nineteen years of age! Merely to perform college exercises was
absurd and irritating to one of his hasty dispositions. Having rattled
them off, he used to read by himself, but with such a varied and
impetuous taste that his knowledge seemed to include every subject
of which anything had ever been written. Boswell says that “he told
me, that from his earliest years he loved to read poetry, but hardly
ever read any poem to an end; that he read Shakespeare at a period
so early, that the speech of the ghost in Hamlet terrified him when
he was alone; that Horace’s Odes were the composition in which he
took most delight, and it was not long before he liked his Epistles
and Satires.... What he read most solidly at Oxford was Greek; not
the Grecian historians, but Homer and Euripides, and now and then
a little epigram; that the study of which he was most fond was
Metaphysicks.” But for all his brilliance Johnson went down without
taking a degree. His father’s death rendered it impossible for him to
remain at Oxford for the full course, and he never went in for the
schools.
While at the university he did not form many great friendships. His
was not the temperament. A highly sensitive man, surrounded for
the most part by men of some wealth who were ever ready to incur
expenses, he was always on the look-out for an objectionable glance
of pity or sympathy, than which there was to him nothing worse or
more heinous. With his wonderful talents it was rather for him to
look down upon the vacuous moneyed men than permit himself to
be patronised by them. Consequently, fully realising the almost
insurmountable handicap of comparative penury, Johnson preferred
to make his way by force of brain power or not at all, rather than
bow down to the man with a fat purse. As he himself said in after
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life, “I thoughtto fight my way by my literature and my wit; so I
disregarded all authority.”
As a man of readiness and physical pluck he was without rival. In
the summer the thought of sunshine and the wonderful green
colourings of the trees called him from his books, and collecting a
companion on the way, he was used to saunter through the parks to
enjoy a bathe. His pulses tingling with the delight of being alive and
young on a glorious day, with the softly waving branches rustling
overhead, and the quiet river gliding at his feet, Johnson’s flow of
fancies kept his companion entranced until they had thrown off their
clothes and were ready for the first cool splash. There existed
apparently a certain deep hole in the river bed in one of the places
where they used to bathe, and Johnson’s friend warned him of the
danger. Immediately, with the uncaring folly of youth, Johnson
plunged into the very spot to his friend’s horror and anxiety. In a few
moments he emerged, blowing like a healthy grampus, and poured
ridicule upon his well-meaning if timid friend. He was, indeed,
foolhardy to the point of braggadocio. A very sure proof of this is
afforded by an incident which occurred when he was staying at Mr
Beauclerk’s house in the country. The guests were outside the house
one day on the lawn discussing the merits of their guns, when one
of them pointed out that if a gun were loaded with many balls there
was a danger of its bursting. Johnson promptly slipped in some
seven or eight and fired his gun against the wall of the house.
Instead of rating him soundly for his egregiously childish love of
showing off, Boswell, in his blind idolatry, praises this up as being
“resolution.”
At Oxford, and in fact afterwards, it was Johnson’s habit to sally
forth at night time for solitary walks. His great affection for Oxford
was doubtless stimulated by these lonely prowls through the moonlit
streets, and his entire disregard for the consequences of his actions
helped him in his climbs back into college. One can picture him
dropping out of Pembroke after careful glances to right and left to
see that all was clear, and marching along with his hands behind his
87.
back, safe fromthe scornful eyes of Smarts, which made his mean
clothes infinitely more uncomfortable, his eyes drinking in the
beauties of the wonderful skyline of the City of Spires, his mind
occupied perhaps in thinking out Rasselas as he made his way
through the narrow, deserted streets. On one of these expeditions
four roughs sprang out upon him suddenly from the shadow of a
gateway, intent on relieving him of the purse and jewellery which
they supposed him to have. Their mistake was twofold, for, in
addition to lighting upon a poor man, they had also caught a tartar.
Johnson, young and active, struck out lustily and with skill, and,
setting his back to the wall, battered the scoundrels right royally.
Savage at being resisted, the men renewed their attack with the idea
of vengeance, but Johnson, with no other aid than his fists, kept
them at bay until the quick tramp of feet hurrying round the corner
announced the presence of the watch, and both the attackers and
their would-be victim were carried off to the round-house.
At a later period in his career when, one would have thought, his
quick temper should have been entirely under control, he had an
amusing adventure in the playhouse at Lichfield which showed,
plainly enough, both that he could still lose his temper and that he
had sufficient strength to carry things through. A chair had been
placed for Johnson’s express use between the side scenes. Wishing,
however, to speak with some one in another part of the building, he
left it for a moment. Some gentleman promptly took possession, and
Johnson, finding on his return that his place was occupied, civilly
demanded his seat. The gentleman rudely refused to give it up. In a
flash Johnson laid hold of him and tossed both man and chair into
the pit.
In spite of the fact that Johnson at Pembroke suffered tortures from
being poor, and that his gay and frolicsome habits were merely a
cloak to hide his bitterness, yet he contracted a love for his college
which endured to his death. It was a matter of pride to him to run
over the list of names of the celebrated men educated at the same
college: such names as Spenser, Shenstone, Blackstone, and others.
88.
In the “Memoirsof the Life and Correspondence of Hannah Moore”
is found the following passage illustrative of his love for the old
college. “Who do you think is my present cicerone at Oxford? Only
Dr Johnson! and we do so gallant it about! You cannot imagine with
what delight he showed me every part of his own college.... Dr
Adams, the Master of Pembroke, had contrived a very pretty piece of
gallantry. We spent the day and evening at his house. After dinner
Johnson begged to conduct me to see the college, he would let no
one else show it me but himself. ‘This was my room; this
Shenstone’s.’ Then after pointing out all the rooms of the poets who
had been of his college, ‘In short,’ said he, ‘we were a nest of
singing birds. Here we walked, there played cricket.’ He ran over
with pleasure the history of the juvenile days he passed there.... But
alas! Johnson looks very ill indeed—spiritless and wan. However he
made an effort to be cheerful....”
As a last token of his love for Pembroke he sent the college a
present of all his works. This was done just before his death, and
Boswell tells us that he was most anxious to bequeath his house at
Lichfield to the college as well. His friends, however, “very properly
dissuaded him from it.”
And now reluctantly I lay down my pen. It would be possible to
continue for ever with such a subject as Oxford. Oxford, filled with
the mystic echoes of the past, and the life and movement of the
present, where a man passes four of the best years of his life,
making livelong friendships, feeling things, doing things, and seeing
things which remain indelibly engraved in his mind. Memories of
Oxford have moved singers and poets to ecstasies of emotional
utterance, inspired great writers with beautiful thoughts, and have
been the one ray of comforting light in dark and miserable lives. Is
there, or has there ever been, a man who, having known the
protection of the old city’s walls, and explored the tree-shaded
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