A Free Man's Worship

by Bertrand Russell
Published December, 190

To Dr. Faustus in his study Mephistopheles told the history of the Creation, saying: "The endless praises of the choirs of angels had begun to grow wearisome; for, after all, did he not deser e their praise! "ad he not gi en them endless #oy! $ould it not be more amusing to obtain undeser ed praise, to be worshipped by beings whom he tortured! "e smiled inwardly, and resol ed that the great drama should be performed. "For countless ages the hot nebula whirled aimlessly through space. %t length it began to ta&e shape, the central mass threw off planets, the planets cooled, boiling seas and burning mountains hea ed and tossed, from blac& masses of cloud hot sheets of rain deluged the barely solid crust. %nd now the first germ of life grew in the depths of the ocean, and de eloped rapidly in the fructifying warmth into ast forest trees, huge ferns springing from the damp mould, sea monsters breeding, fighting, de ouring, and passing away. %nd from the monsters, as the play unfolded itself, Man was born, with the power of thought, the &nowledge of good and e il, and the cruel thirst for worship. %nd Man saw that all is passing in this mad, monstrous world, that all is struggling to snatch, at any cost, a few brief moments of life before Death's ine(orable decree. %nd Man said: )There is a hidden purpose, could we but fathom it, and the purpose is good; for we must re erence something, and in the isible world there is nothing worthy of re erence.' %nd Man stood aside from the struggle, resol ing that *od intended harmony to come out of chaos by human efforts. %nd when he followed the instincts which *od had transmitted to him from his ancestry of beasts of prey, he called it +in, and as&ed *od to forgi e him. ,ut he doubted whether he could be #ustly forgi en, until he in ented a di ine -lan by which *od's wrath was to ha e been appeased. %nd seeing the present was bad, he made it yet worse, that thereby the future might be better. %nd he ga e *od than&s for the strength that enabled him to forgo e en the #oys that were possible. %nd *od smiled; and when he saw that Man had become perfect in renunciation and worship, he sent another sun through the s&y, which crashed into Man's sun; and all returned again to nebula. ").es,' he murmured, )it was a good play; / will ha e it performed again.'" +uch, in outline, but e en more purposeless, more oid of meaning, is the world which +cience presents for our belief. %mid such a world, if anywhere, our ideals henceforward must find a home. That Man is the product of causes which had no pre ision of the end

they were achie ing; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his lo es and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preser e an indi idual life beyond the gra e; that all the labours of the ages, all the de otion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to e(tinction in the ast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man's achie ement must ine itably be buried beneath the debris of a uni erse in ruins00all these things, if not 1uite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which re#ects them can hope to stand. 2nly within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built. "ow, in such an alien and inhuman world, can so powerless a creature as Man preser e his aspirations untarnished! % strange mystery it is that 3ature, omnipotent but blind, in the re olutions of her secular hurryings through the abysses of space, has brought forth at last a child, sub#ect still to her power, but gifted with sight, with &nowledge of good and e il, with the capacity of #udging all the wor&s of his unthin&ing Mother. /n spite of Death, the mar& and seal of the parental control, Man is yet free, during his brief years, to e(amine, to criticise, to &now, and in imagination to create. To him alone, in the world with which he is ac1uainted, this freedom belongs; and in this lies his superiority to the resistless forces that control his outward life. The sa age, li&e oursel es, feels the oppression of his impotence before the powers of 3ature; but ha ing in himself nothing that he respects more than -ower, he is willing to prostrate himself before his gods, without in1uiring whether they are worthy of his worship. -athetic and ery terrible is the long history of cruelty and torture, of degradation and human sacrifice, endured in the hope of placating the #ealous gods: surely, the trembling belie er thin&s, when what is most precious has been freely gi en, their lust for blood must be appeased, and more will not be re1uired. The religion of Moloch00as such creeds may be generically called00is in essence the cringing submission of the sla e, who dare not, e en in his heart, allow the thought that his master deser es no adulation. +ince the independence of ideals is not yet ac&nowledged, -ower may be freely worshipped, and recei e an unlimited respect, despite its wanton infliction of pain. ,ut gradually, as morality grows bolder, the claim of the ideal world begins to be felt; and worship, if it is not to cease, must be gi en to gods of another &ind than those created by the sa age. +ome, though they feel the demands of the ideal, will still consciously re#ect them, still urging that na&ed -ower is worthy of worship. +uch is the attitude inculcated in *od's answer to 4ob out of the whirlwind: the di ine power and &nowledge are paraded, but of the di ine goodness there is no hint. +uch also is the attitude of those who, in our own day, base their morality upon the struggle for sur i al, maintaining that the sur i ors are necessarily the fittest. ,ut others, not content with an answer so repugnant to the moral sense, will adopt the position which we ha e become accustomed to regard as specially religious, maintaining that, in some hidden manner, the world of fact is really harmonious with the world of ideals. Thus Man creates *od, all0powerful and all0good, the mystic unity of what is and what should be.

,ut the world of fact, after all, is not good; and, in submitting our #udgment to it, there is an element of sla ishness from which our thoughts must be purged. For in all things it is well to e(alt the dignity of Man, by freeing him as far as possible from the tyranny of non0human -ower. $hen we ha e realised that -ower is largely bad, that man, with his &nowledge of good and e il, is but a helpless atom in a world which has no such &nowledge, the choice is again presented to us: +hall we worship Force, or shall we worship *oodness! +hall our *od e(ist and be e il, or shall he be recognised as the creation of our own conscience! The answer to this 1uestion is ery momentous, and affects profoundly our whole morality. The worship of Force, to which Carlyle and 3iet5sche and the creed of Militarism ha e accustomed us, is the result of failure to maintain our own ideals against a hostile uni erse: it is itself a prostrate submission to e il, a sacrifice of our best to Moloch. /f strength indeed is to be respected, let us respect rather the strength of those who refuse that false "recognition of facts" which fails to recognise that facts are often bad. 6et us admit that, in the world we &now, there are many things that would be better otherwise, and that the ideals to which we do and must adhere are not realised in the realm of matter. 6et us preser e our respect for truth, for beauty, for the ideal of perfection which life does not permit us to attain, though none of these things meet with the appro al of the unconscious uni erse. /f -ower is bad, as it seems to be, let us re#ect it from our hearts. /n this lies Man's true freedom: in determination to worship only the *od created by our own lo e of the good, to respect only the hea en which inspires the insight of our best moments. /n action, in desire, we must submit perpetually to the tyranny of outside forces; but in thought, in aspiration, we are free, free from our fellow0men, free from the petty planet on which our bodies impotently crawl, free e en, while we li e, from the tyranny of death. 6et us learn, then, that energy of faith which enables us to li e constantly in the ision of the good; and let us descend, in action, into the world of fact, with that ision always before us. $hen first the opposition of fact and ideal grows fully isible, a spirit of fiery re olt, of fierce hatred of the gods, seems necessary to the assertion of freedom. To defy with -romethean constancy a hostile uni erse, to &eep its e il always in iew, always acti ely hated, to refuse no pain that the malice of -ower can in ent, appears to be the duty of all who will not bow before the ine itable. ,ut indignation is still a bondage, for it compels our thoughts to be occupied with an e il world; and in the fierceness of desire from which rebellion springs there is a &ind of self0assertion which it is necessary for the wise to o ercome. /ndignation is a submission of our thoughts, but not of our desires; the +toic freedom in which wisdom consists is found in the submission of our desires, but not of our thoughts. From the submission of our desires springs the irtue of resignation; from the freedom of our thoughts springs the whole world of art and philosophy, and the ision of beauty by which, at last, we half recon1uer the reluctant world. ,ut the ision of beauty is possible only to unfettered contemplation, to thoughts not weighted by the load of eager wishes; and thus Freedom comes only to those who no longer as& of life that it shall yield them any of those personal goods that are sub#ect to the mutations of Time.

%lthough the necessity of renunciation is e idence of the e(istence of e il, yet Christianity, in preaching it, has shown a wisdom e(ceeding that of the -romethean philosophy of rebellion. /t must be admitted that, of the things we desire, some, though they pro e impossible, are yet real goods; others, howe er, as ardently longed for, do not form part of a fully purified ideal. The belief that what must be renounced is bad, though sometimes false, is far less often false than untamed passion supposes; and the creed of religion, by pro iding a reason for pro ing that it is ne er false, has been the means of purifying our hopes by the disco ery of many austere truths. ,ut there is in resignation a further good element: e en real goods, when they are unattainable, ought not to be fretfully desired. To e ery man comes, sooner or later, the great renunciation. For the young, there is nothing unattainable; a good thing desired with the whole force of a passionate will, and yet impossible, is to them not credible. .et, by death, by illness, by po erty, or by the oice of duty, we must learn, each one of us, that the world was not made for us, and that, howe er beautiful may be the things we cra e, Fate may ne ertheless forbid them. /t is the part of courage, when misfortune comes, to bear without repining the ruin of our hopes, to turn away our thoughts from ain regrets. This degree of submission to -ower is not only #ust and right: it is the ery gate of wisdom. ,ut passi e renunciation is not the whole of wisdom; for not by renunciation alone can we build a temple for the worship of our own ideals. "aunting foreshadowings of the temple appear in the realm of imagination, in music, in architecture, in the untroubled &ingdom of reason, and in the golden sunset magic of lyrics, where beauty shines and glows, remote from the touch of sorrow, remote from the fear of change, remote from the failures and disenchantments of the world of fact. /n the contemplation of these things the ision of hea en will shape itself in our hearts, gi ing at once a touchstone to #udge the world about us, and an inspiration by which to fashion to our needs whate er is not incapable of ser ing as a stone in the sacred temple. 7(cept for those rare spirits that are born without sin, there is a ca ern of dar&ness to be tra ersed before that temple can be entered. The gate of the ca ern is despair, and its floor is pa ed with the gra estones of abandoned hopes. There +elf must die; there the eagerness, the greed of untamed desire must be slain, for only so can the soul be freed from the empire of Fate. ,ut out of the ca ern the *ate of 8enunciation leads again to the daylight of wisdom, by whose radiance a new insight, a new #oy, a new tenderness, shine forth to gladden the pilgrim's heart. $hen, without the bitterness of impotent rebellion, we ha e learnt both to resign oursel es to the outward rules of Fate and to recognise that the non0human world is unworthy of our worship, it becomes possible at last so to transform and refashion the unconscious uni erse, so to transmute it in the crucible of imagination, that a new image of shining gold replaces the old idol of clay. /n all the multiform facts of the world00in the isual shapes of trees and mountains and clouds, in the e ents of the life of man, e en in the ery omnipotence of Death00the insight of creati e idealism can find the reflection of a beauty which its own thoughts first made. /n this way mind asserts its subtle mastery

o er the thoughtless forces of 3ature. The more e il the material with which it deals, the more thwarting to untrained desire, the greater is its achie ement in inducing the reluctant roc& to yield up its hidden treasures, the prouder its ictory in compelling the opposing forces to swell the pageant of its triumph. 2f all the arts, Tragedy is the proudest, the most triumphant; for it builds its shining citadel in the ery centre of the enemy's country, on the ery summit of his highest mountain; from its impregnable watchtowers, his camps and arsenals, his columns and forts, are all re ealed; within its walls the free life continues, while the legions of Death and -ain and Despair, and all the ser ile captains of tyrant Fate, afford the burghers of that dauntless city new spectacles of beauty. "appy those sacred ramparts, thrice happy the dwellers on that all0seeing eminence. "onour to those bra e warriors who, through countless ages of warfare, ha e preser ed for us the priceless heritage of liberty, and ha e &ept undefiled by sacrilegious in aders the home of the unsubdued. ,ut the beauty of Tragedy does but ma&e isible a 1uality which, in more or less ob ious shapes, is present always and e erywhere in life. /n the spectacle of Death, in the endurance of intolerable pain, and in the irre ocableness of a anished past, there is a sacredness, an o erpowering awe, a feeling of the astness, the depth, the ine(haustible mystery of e(istence, in which, as by some strange marriage of pain, the sufferer is bound to the world by bonds of sorrow. /n these moments of insight, we lose all eagerness of temporary desire, all struggling and stri ing for petty ends, all care for the little tri ial things that, to a superficial iew, ma&e up the common life of day by day; we see, surrounding the narrow raft illumined by the flic&ering light of human comradeship, the dar& ocean on whose rolling wa es we toss for a brief hour; from the great night without, a chill blast brea&s in upon our refuge; all the loneliness of humanity amid hostile forces is concentrated upon the indi idual soul, which must struggle alone, with what of courage it can command, against the whole weight of a uni erse that cares nothing for its hopes and fears. 9ictory, in this struggle with the powers of dar&ness, is the true baptism into the glorious company of heroes, the true initiation into the o ermastering beauty of human e(istence. From that awful encounter of the soul with the outer world, enunciation, wisdom, and charity are born; and with their birth a new life begins. To ta&e into the inmost shrine of the soul the irresistible forces whose puppets we seem to be00 Death and change, the irre ocableness of the past, and the powerlessness of Man before the blind hurry of the uni erse from anity to anity00to feel these things and &now them is to con1uer them. This is the reason why the -ast has such magical power. The beauty of its motionless and silent pictures is li&e the enchanted purity of late autumn, when the lea es, though one breath would ma&e them fall, still glow against the s&y in golden glory. The -ast does not change or stri e; li&e Duncan, after life's fitful fe er it sleeps well; what was eager and grasping, what was petty and transitory, has faded away, the things that were beautiful and eternal shine out of it li&e stars in the night. /ts beauty, to a soul not worthy of it, is unendurable; but to a soul which has con1uered Fate it is the &ey of religion. The life of Man, iewed outwardly, is but a small thing in comparison with the forces of 3ature. The sla e is doomed to worship Time and Fate and Death, because they are

greater than anything he finds in himself, and because all his thoughts are of things which they de our. ,ut, great as they are, to thin& of them greatly, to feel their passionless splendour, is greater still. %nd such thought ma&es us free men; we no longer bow before the ine itable in 2riental sub#ection, but we absorb it, and ma&e it a part of oursel es. To abandon the struggle for pri ate happiness, to e(pel all eagerness of temporary desire, to burn with passion for eternal things00this is emancipation, and this is the free man's worship. %nd this liberation is effected by a contemplation of Fate; for Fate itself is subdued by the mind which lea es nothing to be purged by the purifying fire of Time. :nited with his fellow0men by the strongest of all ties, the tie of a common doom, the free man finds that a new ision is with him always, shedding o er e ery daily tas& the light of lo e. The life of Man is a long march through the night, surrounded by in isible foes, tortured by weariness and pain, towards a goal that few can hope to reach, and where none may tarry long. 2ne by one, as they march, our comrades anish from our sight, sei5ed by the silent orders of omnipotent Death. 9ery brief is the time in which we can help them, in which their happiness or misery is decided. ,e it ours to shed sunshine on their path, to lighten their sorrows by the balm of sympathy, to gi e them the pure #oy of a ne er0tiring affection, to strengthen failing courage, to instil faith in hours of despair. 6et us not weigh in grudging scales their merits and demerits, but let us thin& only of their need00of the sorrows, the difficulties, perhaps the blindnesses, that ma&e the misery of their li es; let us remember that they are fellow0sufferers in the same dar&ness, actors in the same tragedy as oursel es. %nd so, when their day is o er, when their good and their e il ha e become eternal by the immortality of the past, be it ours to feel that, where they suffered, where they failed, no deed of ours was the cause; but where er a spar& of the di ine fire &indled in their hearts, we were ready with encouragement, with sympathy, with bra e words in which high courage glowed. ,rief and powerless is Man's life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dar&. ,lind to good and e il, rec&less of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for Man, condemned to0day to lose his dearest, to0morrow himself to pass through the gate of dar&ness, it remains only to cherish, ere yet the blow falls, the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day; disdaining the coward terrors of the sla e of Fate, to worship at the shrine that his own hands ha e built; undismayed by the empire of chance, to preser e a mind free from the wanton tyranny that rules his outward life; proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his &nowledge and his condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding %tlas, the world that his own ideals ha e fashioned despite the trampling march of unconscious power. A brief introduction: "% Free Man's $orship" ;first published as "The Free Man's $orship" in Dec. <=>?@ is perhaps ,ertrand 8ussell's best &nown and most reprinted essay. /ts mood and language ha e often been e(plained, e en by 8ussell himself, as reflecting a particular time in his life; "it depend;s@," he wrote in <=A=, "upon a metaphysic which is more platonic than that which / now belie e in." .et the essay sounds many characteristic 8ussellian themes and preoccupations and deser es consideration00and further serious study00as an historical landmar& of early0twentieth0 century 7uropean thought. For a scholarly edition with some documentation, see 9olume

<A of The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell, entitled Contemplation and Action, 1902-1 ;6ondon, <=BC; now published by 8outledge@. !lectronic colophon: This electronic te(t was typed for the ,ertrand 8ussell +ociety "ome -age in 4uly, <==D by 4ohn 8. 6en5 from the <=A= :.+. edition ;pp. ED0CF@ of "#sticism and $o%ic ;orig. 6ondon, <=<B@. / used a copy of this boo& signed by ,8 himself. !ome