Theism and Humanism Being the Gifford Lectures Delivered at the University of Glasgow, 1914 — Reading Notes
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ing an amateur. No one, while human faculty remains unchanged, is likely to imitate his ambitions. More and more does the division and subdivision of labour become necessary for knowledge, as for industry. More and more have men to choose whether they shall be dabblers in many subjects or specialists in one. More and more does it become clear that, while each class has its characteristic defects, both are required in the republic of knowledge.
So far as specialists are concerned, this last proposition is self-evident. Specialists are a necessity. And it may well be that those who have successfully pressed forward the conquering forces of discovery along some narrow front, careless how the struggle towards enlightenment fared elsewhere, may be deemed by the historian to have been not only the happiest, but the most useful thinkers of their generation. Their achievements are definite. Their contributions to knowledge can be named and catalogued. The memory of them will remain when contemporary efforts to reach some general point of view will seem to posterity strangely ill-directed, worthless to all but the antiquarian explorers of half-forgotten speculation.
Yet such efforts can never be abandoned, nor can they be confined to philosophers. There are for all men moments when the need for some general point of view becomes insistent; when neither labour, nor care, nor pleasure, nor idleness, nor habit will stop a man from asking how he is to regard the universe of reality, how he is to think of it as a whole, how he is to think of his own relation to it.
Now I have no wish to overpraise these moments of reflection. They are not among the greatest. They do not of necessity involve strenuous action, or deep emotion, or concentrated thought. Often they are periods of relaxation rather than of tension, moods that pass and leave no trace. Yet it is not always so; and when the pressure of these ancient problems becomes oppressive, then those who, from taste or necessity, have lived only from hour to hour, seek aid from those who have had leisure and inclination to give them a more prolonged consideration.
Of these there is no lack; some speaking in the name of science, some in the name of religion, some in the name of philosophy. The founder of these lectures regarded philosophy, and (if I mistake not) philosophy in its most metaphysical aspect, as the surest guide to the truths of which he was in search. And certainly I am the last to criticise such a view. It is clearly the business of metaphysicians, if they have any business at all, to provide us with a universal system. They cannot lose themselves in concrete details, as may happen to men of science. They are neither aided, nor trammelled, as all working organisations, whether in Church or State, are necessarily aided and trammelled, by institutional traditions and practical necessities. They exist to supply answers to the very questions of which I have been speaking. Yet metaphysics does not appeal, and has never appealed, to the world at large. For one man who climbs to his chosen point of view by a metaphysical pathway, a thousand use some other road; and if we ask ourselves how many persons there are at this moment in existence whose views of the universe have been consciously modified by the great metaphysical systems (except in so far as these have been turned to account by theologians), we must admit that the number is insignificant.
Arthur James Balfour, a former British Prime Minister and philosopher, delivered these Gifford Lectures at the University of Glasgow in 1914. The preface reveals that the lectures were spoken from brief notes, not read, and later rewritten for publication—a process Balfour describes as "laborious and slow." He warns readers that the argument's basis is wide but its conclusion narrow, and he explicitly denies acquiescing to imperfectly rationalized belief systems, challenging opponents to produce a better, more logical account of human knowledge.
The Author's Stance on Rational Belief
Balfour positions himself against what he calls "empirical agnosticism," which he dismisses as a "blind alley." He insists that a sufficient belief system must include an account of itself as a product of natural causes and must be logical enough to explain why non-rational causes have produced rational outcomes. This self-referential demand is a distinctive feature of his argument: he wants a philosophy that can justify its own origin.
He does not claim to have achieved this ideal. Instead, his aim is "far more modest": to place common-sense beliefs and science in a setting that preserves their intellectual value. The tone is combative yet measured, as he invites anyone who disagrees to "show me a better way."
Perception and Common Sense
In Lecture VI, Balfour examines the ordinary beliefs of "the plain man" about the material world. He notes that common sense distinguishes appearance from reality—things change appearance with a change of the observer's position, but the thing itself remains unchanged. Yet common sense does not infer that perception is indirect; it holds that we perceive external things directly, not as mental copies.
Balfour emphasizes that common sense never supposes that "esse and percipi are identical"—that is, to be is not the same as to be perceived. He argues that this naive realism, though difficult to justify, is the working creed of everyday life and science. His analysis is precise, focusing on how common sense handles the gap between appearance and reality without falling into idealism.
The Challenge of Justifying Beliefs
Balfour acknowledges that our stock of beliefs about the world may be "difficult to justify" but insists they are not impossible to describe. He points out that common sense treats material things as extended in space and time, and that observation does not alter the object perceived. This leads to a tension: common sense is compelled to distinguish appearance from reality, yet it denies that perception is mediated by mental representations.
He does not resolve this tension in the excerpts. Instead, he sets up the problem for his larger argument: if common sense and science are to be trusted, they need a metaphysical grounding that explains why our cognitive faculties are reliable. Theism, he suggests, provides that grounding by ensuring that the causes of our beliefs are also reasons for their truth.
The Rhetoric of the Lectures
Balfour's prose is formal but not dry; he uses rhetorical questions and direct challenges to engage his audience. For example, he writes, "Let him that thinks otherwise show me a better way." The lectures were delivered orally, and the written version retains a sense of spoken argument, with phrases like "I say this, however, not as an excuse for poor workmanship, but only as an explanation of long delay."
He also employs metaphor, calling empirical agnosticism a "blind alley" and describing the ideal system as one that is "living, logical, and sufficient." The tone is that of a public intellectual addressing a university audience—confident, slightly combative, and aware of the limitations of his own project.
Readers should approach this volume as a philosophical argument that proceeds by negative critique as much as by positive construction. Balfour is more concerned with exposing the inadequacies of naturalism than with fully developing a theistic alternative. The excerpts show a thinker who values clarity and intellectual honesty, even when admitting the difficulty of his task. Those interested in early twentieth-century philosophy of religion, or in the intersection of politics and philosophy, will find this a distinctive voice.
Reading Balfour’s careful defense of theism, I felt the quiet ache of a world already slipping away—1914, after all. It reminded me, oddly, of old notes on The Spirit Land, where the unseen was taken so gently for granted. Both speak to a longing I half-recognize. At times, I The Spirit Land — Reading Companion just to feel that hush again, before the certainties broke.
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