Chapter XX

Is it useful to keep the people in superstition?

Such is the weakness of the human race, and such its perversity, that it is surely better for it to be subjected to every possible superstition, provided none is murderous, than to live without religion. Humanity has always needed a restraint; and although it was absurd to sacrifice to fauns, woodland gods, and naiads, it was far more reasonable and useful to worship these fanciful images of the Divinity than to surrender to atheism. An atheist given to argument, violent, and powerful would be as deadly a scourge as a bloodthirsty believer in superstition.

When people have no sound notions of the Divinity, false ideas take their place, just as in unhappy times people trade with bad money when they have none that is good. The pagan feared to commit a crime lest the false gods punish him. The inhabitant of Malabar fears punishment by his idol. Wherever an established society exists, religion is necessary: the laws watch over crimes committed, and religion over secret crimes.

But once people have come to embrace a pure and holy religion, superstition becomes not only useless but very dangerous. We should not seek to feed acorns to those whom God deigns to feed with bread.

Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy: the very foolish daughter of a very wise mother. These two daughters long held the whole earth in subjection.

When, in our centuries of barbarism, scarcely two feudal lords had a New Testament in their homes, it might have been pardonable to offer fables to the vulgar—that is, to those feudal lords, their witless wives, and the brutes who were their vassals. They were made to believe that St. Christopher had carried the child Jesus from one bank of a river to the other; they were fed stories of sorcerers and the possessed. They readily imagined that St. Genou cured gout and St. Clare cured diseased eyes. Children believed in the werewolf, and their fathers in the cord of St. Francis. Relics were beyond counting.

The rust of so many superstitions lingered among the people for some time even after religion was at last purified. It is well known that when Monsieur de Noailles, bishop of Châlons, had the supposed relic of Jesus Christ’s holy navel removed and thrown into the fire, the whole city of Châlons brought a lawsuit against him. But he had as much courage as piety, and he soon persuaded the people of Champagne that they could worship Jesus Christ in spirit and in truth without keeping his navel in a church.

Those called Jansenists contributed a great deal to gradually uprooting from the nation’s mind most of the false ideas that dishonored the Christian religion. People ceased to believe that merely reciting the thirty-day prayer to the Virgin Mary was enough to obtain whatever they wanted and to sin with impunity.

At last the townspeople began to suspect that it was not St. Geneviève who sent or stopped the rain, but God himself who governed the elements. The monks were astonished that their saints no longer worked miracles; and if the authors of the life of St. Francis Xavier returned to this world, they would not dare write that this saint raised nine dead people, that he was at sea and on land at the same time, or that when his crucifix fell into the sea, a crab brought it back to him.

The same has happened with excommunications. Our historians tell us that when King Robert was excommunicated by Pope Gregory V for marrying Princess Bertha, linked to him by godparenthood, his servants threw the food served to the king out of the windows, and Queen Bertha gave birth to a goose as punishment for this incestuous marriage. Today people doubt that the stewards of an excommunicated king of France would throw his dinner out of the window, or that the queen would bring a gosling into the world in such a case.

If there are a few convulsionaries in some corner of a suburb, theirs is a disease of lice that attacks only the lowest rabble. Every day reason makes its way into the shops of France’s merchants as into the mansions of its nobles. We must therefore cultivate the fruits of that reason, all the more because it is impossible to prevent them from developing. After France has been enlightened by the Pascals, the Nicoles, the Arnaulds, the Bossuets, the Descartes, the Gassendis, the Bayles, the Fontenelles, and others, it cannot be governed as it was in the days of the Garasses and the Menots.

If the masters of error—I mean the great masters, so long paid and honored for brutalizing the human race—were now to order people to believe that grain must rot in order to sprout, that the earth stands motionless on its foundations and does not revolve around the sun, that the tides are not a natural effect of gravitation, that the rainbow is not formed by the refraction and reflection of rays of light, and so on; and if they based their decrees on misunderstood passages of Holy Scripture, how would all educated people regard them? Would the word beasts be too strong? And if these wise masters used force and persecution to impose their insolent ignorance, would the words savage beasts be misplaced?

The more the monks’ superstitions are despised, the more bishops are respected and parish priests esteemed. They do nothing but good, while the monks’ Rome-centered superstitions would do much harm. But of all superstitions, is not the most dangerous the hatred of one’s neighbor for his opinions? And is it not clear that it would still be more reasonable to worship the holy navel, the holy foreskin, the Virgin Mary’s milk and robe, than to detest and persecute one’s brother?

Is It Useful to Keep the People Superstitious?

Human beings are so weak and so perverse that they are surely better off under the rule of every possible superstition, provided none is murderous, than living without religion. People have always needed restraint. Though it was ridiculous to sacrifice to fauns, woodland gods, and water nymphs, worshiping these imaginary pictures of the divine was far more reasonable and useful than giving way to atheism. An atheist who was argumentative, violent, and powerful would be as destructive a scourge as a bloodthirsty believer in superstition.

When people have no sound ideas about God, false ideas take their place, just as in bad times people trade with bad money when they have no good money. The pagan feared committing a crime because he feared punishment by false gods. The Malabari fears punishment by his idol. Wherever an established society exists, a religion is necessary. Laws watch over crimes that have been committed; religion watches over secret crimes.

But once people have come to accept a pure and holy religion, superstition becomes not only useless but very dangerous. We should not try to feed acorns to those whom God is pleased to feed bread.

Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy: the very foolish daughter of a very wise mother. These two daughters ruled the whole earth for a long time.

In our barbarous centuries, when scarcely two feudal lords had a New Testament at home, it may have been forgivable to offer fables to the common herd—that is, to those feudal lords, their foolish wives, and their brutish vassals. They were made to believe that St. Christopher had carried the child Jesus from one riverbank to the other. They were fed stories about sorcerers and people possessed by demons. They readily imagined that St. Genou cured gout and St. Clare cured bad eyes. The children believed in werewolves, and their fathers in St. Francis's cord. The number of relics was beyond counting.

The rust left by so many superstitions remained among the people for some time, even after religion was finally purified. We know that when de Noailles, Bishop of Châlons, had the supposed relic of Jesus Christ's holy navel removed and thrown into the fire, the whole town of Châlons brought a lawsuit against him. But he had as much courage as devotion. He soon managed to persuade the people of Champagne that they could worship Jesus Christ in spirit and in truth without having his navel in a church.

Those called Jansenists did a great deal to remove, little by little, most of the false ideas that disgraced the Christian religion from the nation's mind. People stopped believing that merely reciting the thirty-day prayer to the Virgin Mary was enough to obtain anything they wanted and to sin without punishment.

At last, the middle class began to suspect that it was not St. Geneviève who brought or stopped the rain, but God himself who controlled the elements. The monks were astonished that their saints no longer worked miracles. If the writers of the life of St. Francis Xavier returned to the world, they would not dare to write that this saint raised nine dead people, that he was at sea and on land at the same time, and that when his crucifix fell into the sea, a crab brought it back to him.

The same has happened with excommunications. Our historians tell us that when King Robert was excommunicated by Pope Gregory V for marrying Princess Bertha, who was related to him through godparenthood, his servants threw the food served to the king out of the windows, and Queen Bertha gave birth to a goose as punishment for this incestuous marriage. Today we doubt that an excommunicated king of France's stewards would throw his dinner out the window, or that the queen would give birth to a gosling in such a case.

If a few people go into religious convulsions in some corner of a suburb, it is like an infestation of lice, affecting only the lowest rabble. Every day reason makes its way into French merchants' shops as well as noblemen's mansions. We must therefore cultivate the fruits of reason, all the more because we cannot stop them from developing. After France has been enlightened by the Pascals, the Nicoles, the Arnaulds, the Bossuets, the Descartes, the Gassendis, the Bayles, the Fontenelles, and others, we cannot govern it as it was governed in the days of the Garasses and the Menots.

Suppose the teachers of error—I mean the great teachers, so long paid and honored for making the human race stupid—ordered us today to believe that grain must rot before it can sprout; that the earth rests motionless on its foundations and does not move around the sun; that the tides are not a natural effect of gravity; that the rainbow is not formed by the refraction and reflection of light rays; and so on. Suppose they based these orders on misunderstood passages of Holy Scripture. How would all educated people regard them? Would beasts be too strong a word? And if these wise teachers used force and persecution to establish the rule of their arrogant ignorance, would wild beasts be out of place?

The more the monks' superstitions are despised, the more the bishops are respected and the parish priests valued. They do nothing but good, while the monastic superstitions coming from beyond the Alps would do great harm. But of all superstitions, is not the most dangerous the one that makes us hate our neighbor for his opinions? And is it not obvious that worshiping the holy navel, the holy foreskin, the Virgin Mary's milk and dress would still be more reasonable than hating and persecuting our brother?