One would suppose that this last proposal could be carried out without any special difficulty. It is true that it would involve some measure of renunciation, but one would gain, perhaps, more than one lost, and a great danger would be avoided. But people have a horror of it, as if civilization would thereby be exposed to an even greater danger. When Saint Boniface felled the tree which was venerated as sacred by the Saxons, those who stood round expected some fearful event to follow the outrage. It did not happen, and the Saxons were baptized.
It is manifestly in the interest of man’s communal existence, which would not otherwise be practicable, that civilization has laid down the commandment that one shall not kill the neighbour whom one hates, who is in one’s way, or whose property one covets. For the murderer would draw on to himself the vengeance of the murdered man’s kinsmen and the secret envy of the others who feel as much inward inclination as he did to such an act of violence. Thus he would not enjoy his revenge or his spoil for long, but would have every prospect of being killed soon himself. Even if he could defend himself against single foes by his extraordinary strength and caution, he would be bound to succumb to a combination of these weaker foes. If a combination of this sort did not take place, then murder would continue ceaselessly, and the end of it would be that men would exterminate one another. It would be the same state of affairs among individuals that still prevails in Corsica among families, but otherwise survives only among nations. Insecurity of life, an equal danger for all, now unites men into one society, which forbids the individual to kill and reserves to itself the right to kill in the name of society the man who violates this prohibition. This, then, is justice and punishment.
We do not, however, tell others of this rational basis for the murder prohibition; we declare, on the contrary, that God is its author. Thus, making bold to divine his intentions, we find that he has no wish, either, for men to exterminate each other. By acting thus we invest the cultural prohibition with a quite peculiar solemnity, but at the same time we risk making its observance dependent on belief in God. If we retract this step, no longer saddling God with our own wishes, and content ourselves with the social justification for the cultural prohibition, then we renounce, it is true, its hallowed nature, but we also avoid endangering its existence. And we gain something else as well. Through some kind of diffusion or infection the character of sanctity and inviolability, of other-worldliness, one might say, has been extended from some few important prohibitions to all other cultural institutions and laws and ordinances. And often the halo becomes these none too well; not only do they invalidate each other by making conflicting decisions according to the time and place of their origin; even apart from this they betray every sign of human inadequacy. One can easily recognize among them things which can only be the product of shortsightedness and apprehensiveness, the expression of narrow interests, or the result of inadequate hypotheses. The criticism to which one must subject them also diminishes to an unwelcome extent people’s respect for other and more justified cultural demands. As it is a delicate task to decide what God has himself ordained and what derives rather from the authority of an allpowerful parliament or a supreme judicial decision, it would be an indubitable advantage to leave God out of the question altogether, and to admit honestly the purely human origin of all cultural laws and institutions. Along with their pretensions to sanctity the rigid and immutable nature of these laws and regulations would also cease. Men would realize that these have been made, not so much to rule them, as, on the contrary, to serve their interests; they would acquire a more friendly attitude to them, and instead of aiming at their abolition they would aim only at improving them. This would be an important advance on the road which leads to reconciliation with the burden of culture.
But here our plea for a purely rational basis for cultural laws, that is to say, for deriving them from social necessity, is interrupted by a sudden doubt. We have chosen as our example the origin of the murder prohibition. But does our account of it correspond to historical truth? We fear not; it appears to be merely a rationalistic construction. With the help of psycho-analysis we have studied this very point in the history of human culture, and supported by this study we are bound to say that in reality it did not happen like this. Even in men to-day purely reasonable motives are of little avail against passionate impulses. How much weaker, then, must they have been in the primordial animal man! Perhaps even now his descendants would still kill one another without inhibition, if there had not been among those acts of murder one—the slaughter of the primal father—which evoked an irresistible emotional reaction, momentous in its consequences. From it arose the commandment: thou shalt not kill, which in totemism was confined to the father-substitute, and was later extended to others, but which even to-day is not universally observed.
But according to arguments which I need not repeat here, that primal father has been the prototype of God, the model after which later generations have formed their figure of God. Hence the religious explanation is right. God was actually concerned in the origin of that prohibition; his influence, not insight into what was necessary for society, brought it into being. And the process of attributing man’s will to God is fully justified; for men, knowing that they had brutally set aside the father, determined, in the reaction to their outrage, to respect his will in future. And so the religious doctrine does give us the historical truth, though of course in a somewhat remodelled and disguised form; our rational explanation belies it.
We now observe that the stock of religious ideas contains not only wish-fulfilments, but also important historical memories. What matchless, what abundant power this combination of past and present must give to religion! But with the help of an analogy we may perhaps feel our way towards another view of the problem. It is not a good thing to transplant ideas far away from the soil in which they grew, but we cannot resist pointing out the resemblance which forms this analogy. We know that the human child cannot well complete its development towards culture without passing through a more or less distinct phase of neurosis. This is because the child is unable to suppress by rational mental effort so many of those instinctual impulsions which cannot later be turned to account, but has to check them by acts of repression, behind which there stands as a rule an anxiety motive. Most of these child neuroses are overcome spontaneously as one grows up, and especially is this the fate of the obsessional neuroses of childhood. The remainder can be cleared up still later by psycho-analytic treatment. In just the same way one might assume that in its development through the ages mankind as a whole experiences conditions that are analogous to the neuroses, and this for the same reasons, because in the ages of its ignorance and intellectual weakness it achieved by purely affective means the instinctual renunciations, indispensable for man’s communal existence. And the residue of these repression-like processes, which took place in antiquity, has long clung on to civilization. Thus religion would be the universal obsessional neurosis of humanity. It, like the child’s, originated in the Oedipus complex, the relation to the father. According to this conception one might prophesy that the abandoning of religion must take place with the fateful inexorability of a process of growth, and that we are just now in the middle of this phase of development.
So we should form our behaviour after the model of a sensible teacher, who does not oppose the new development confronting him, but seeks to further it and to temper the force of its onset. To be sure this analogy does not exhaust the essence of religion. If on the one hand religion brings with it obsessional limitation, which can only be compared to an individual obsessional neurosis, it comprises on the other hand a system of wish-illusions, incompatible with reality, such as we find in an isolated form only in Meynert’s amentia, a state of blissful hallucinatory confusion. But these are only just comparisons, with whose help we can endeavour to understand social phenomena; individual psychology supplies us with no exact counterpart.
It has been shown repeatedly (by myself, and particularly by Theodor Reik) into what details the analogy of religion and the obsessional neurosis may be pursued, how much of the vicissitudes and peculiarities of the formation of religion may be understood in this way. And it accords well with this that the true believer is in a high degree protected against the danger of certain neurotic afflictions; by accepting the universal neurosis he is spared the task of forming a personal neurosis.
Our knowledge of the historical value of certain religious doctrines increases our respect for them, but it does not invalidate our proposal to exclude them from the motivation of cultural laws. On the contrary! This historical residue has given us the conception of religious dogmas as, so to speak, neurotic survivals, and now we may say that the time has probably come to replace the consequences of repression by the results of rational mental effort, as in the analytic treatment of neurotics. One may prophesy, but hardly regret, that this process of remodelling will not stop at dispelling the solemn air of sanctity surrounding the cultural laws, but that a general revision of these must involve the abolition of many of them. And this will go far to solve our appointed problem of reconciling men to civilization. We need not regret the loss of historical truth involved in accepting the rational motivation of cultural laws. The truths contained in religious doctrines are after all so distorted and systematically disguised that the mass of mankind cannot recognize them as truth. It is an instance of the same thing when we tell the child that new-born babies are brought by the stork. Here, too, we tell the truth in symbolic guise, for we know what that large bird signifies. But the child does not know it; he hears only the distortion, and feels that he has been deceived; and we know how often his refractoriness and his distrust of the grown-ups gets bound up with this impression. We have come to the conclusion that it is better to avoid such symbolic disguisings of the truth, and to allow the child knowledge of the real state of affairs in a way suitable for his stage of intellectual development.