Crumbling Creeds
On the quiet collapse of orthodoxy.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1893)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 11.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/crumbling-creeds/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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THERE is a desire in each brain to harmonize the knowledge that it has.
If a man knows, or thinks he knows, a few facts, he will naturally use
those facts for the purpose of determining the accuracy of his opinions
on other subjects. This is simply an effort to establish or prove the
unknown by the known—a process that is constantly going on in the minds
of all intelligent people.

It is natural for a man not governed by fear, to use what he knows
in one department of human inquiry, in every other department that he
investigates. The average of intelligence has in the last few years
greatly increased. Man may have as much credulity as he ever had, on
some subjects, but certainly on the old subjects he has less. There
is not as great difference to-day between the members of the learned
professions and the common people. Man is governed less and less by
authority. He cares but little for the conclusions of the universities.
He does not feel bound by the actions of synods or ecumenical
councils—neither does he bow to the decisions of the highest tribunals,
unless the reasons given for the decision satisfy his intellect. One
reason for this is, that the so-called "learned" do not agree among
themselves—that the universities dispute each other—that the synod
attacks the ecumenical council—that the parson snaps his fingers at the
priest, and even the Protestant bishop holds the pope in contempt. If
the learned cau thus disagree, there is no reason why the common people
should hold to one opinion. They are at least called upon to decide as
between the universities or synods; and in order to decide, they must
examine both sides, and having examined both sides, they generally have
an opinion of their own.

There was a time when the average man knew nothing of medicine—he
simply opened his mouth and took the dose. If he died, it was simply a
dispensation of Providence—if he got well, it was a triumph of science.
Now this average man not only asks the doctor what is the matter with
him—not only asks what medicine will be good for him,—but insists
on knowing the philosophy of the cure—asks the doctor why he gives
it—what result he expects—and, as a rule, has a judgment of his own.

So in law. The average business man has an exceedingly good idea of the
law affecting his business. There is nothing now mysterious about what
goes on in courts or in the decisions of judges—they are published in
every direction, and all intelligent people who happen to read these
opinions have their ideas as to whether the opinions are right or wrong.
They are no longer the victims of doctors, or of lawyers, or of courts.

The same is true in the world of art and literature. The average man has
an opinion of his own. He is no longer a parrot repeating what somebody
else says. He not only has opinions, but he has the courage to express
them. In literature the old models fail to satisfy him. He has the
courage to say that Milton is tiresome—that Dante is prolix—that they
deal with subjects having no human interest. He laughs at Young's "Night
Thoughts" and Pollok's "Course of Time"—knowing that both are filled
with hypocrisies and absurdities. He no longer falls upon his knees
before the mechanical poetry of Mr. Pope. He chooses—and stands by his
own opinion. I do not mean that he is entirely independent, but that he
is going in that direction.

The same is true of pictures. He prefers the modern to the old masters.
He prefers Corot to Raphael. He gets more real pleasure from Millet and
Troyon than from all the pictures of all the saints and donkeys of the
Middle Ages.

In other words, the days of authority are passing away.

The same is true in music. The old no longer satisfies, and there is a
breadth, color, wealth, in the new that makes the old poor and barren in
comparison.

To a far greater extent this advance, this individual independence, is
seen in the religious world. The religion of our day—that is to say,
the creeds—at the time they were made, were in perfect harmony with the
knowledge, or rather with the ignorance, of man in all other departments
of human inquiry. All orthodox creeds agreed with the sciences of
their day—with the astronomy and geology and biology and political
conceptions of the Middle Ages. These creeds were declared to be the
absolute and eternal truth. They could not be changed without abandoning
the claim that made them authority. The priests, through a kind of
unconscious self-defence, clung to every word. They denied the truth of
all discovery. They measured every assertion in every other
department by their creeds. At last the facts against them became
so numerous—their congregations became so intelligent—that it
was necessary to give new meanings to the old words. The cruel was
softened—the absurd was partially explained, and they kept these old
words, although the original meanings had fallen out. They became empty
purses, but they retained them still.

Slowly but surely came the time when this course could not longer be
pursued. The words must be thrown away—the creeds must be changed—they
were no longer believed—only occasionally were they preached. The
ministers became a little ashamed—they began to apologize. Apology is
the prelude to retreat.

Of all the creeds, the Presbyterian, the old Congregational, were the
most explicit, and for that reason the most absurd. When these creeds
were written, those who wrote them had perfect confidence in their
truth. They did not shrink because of their cruelty. They cared nothing
for what others called absurdity. They failed not to declare what they
believed to be "the whole counsel of God."

At that time, cruel punishments were inflicted by all governments.
People were torn asunder, mutilated, burned. Every atrocity was
perpetrated in the name of justice, and the limit of pain was the limit
of endurance. These people imagined that God would do as they would do.
If they had had it in their power to keep the victim alive for years in
the flames, they would most cheerfully have supplied the fagots.
They believed that God could keep the victim alive forever, and that
therefore his punishment would be eternal. As man becomes civilized he
becomes merciful, and the time came when civilized Presbyterians and
Congregationalists read their own creeds with horror.

I am not saying that the Presbyterian creed is any worse than the
Catholic. It is only a little more specific. Neither am I saying that it
is more horrible than the Episcopal. It is not. All orthodox creeds are
alike infamous. All of them have good things, and all of them have bad
things. You will find in every creed the blossom of mercy and the oak of
justice, but under the one and around the other are coiled the serpents
of infinite cruelty.

The time came when orthodox Christians began dimly to perceive that
God ought at least to be as good as they were. They felt that they
were incapable of inflicting eternal pain, and they began to doubt the
propriety of saying that God would do that which a civilized Christian
would be incapable of.

We have improved in all directions for the same reasons. We have better
laws now because we have a better sense of justice. We are believing
more and more in the government of the people. Consequently we are
believing more and more in the education of the people, and from that
naturally results greater individuality and a greater desire to hear the
honest opinions of all.

The moment the expression of opinion is allowed in any department,
progress begins. We are using our knowledge in every direction. The
tendency is to test all opinions by the facts we know. All claims are
put in the crucible of investigation—the object being to separate the
true from the false. He who objects to having his opinions thus tested
is regarded as a bigot.

If the professors of all the sciences had claimed that the knowledge
they had was given by inspiration—that it was absolutely true, and that
there was no necessity of examining further, not only, but that it was
a kind of blasphemy to doubt—all the sciences would have remained
as stationary as religion has. Just to the extent that the Bible was
appealed to in matters of science, science was retarded; and just to
the extent that science has been appealed to in matters of religion,
religion has advanced—so that now the object of intelligent
religionists is to adopt a creed that will bear the test and criticism
of science.

Another thing may be alluded to in this connection. All the countries
of the world are now, and have been for years, open to us. The ideas
of other people—their theories, their religions—are now known; and we
have ascertained that the religions of all people have exactly the
same foundation as our own—that they all arose in the same way, were
substantiated in the same way, were maintained by the same means, having
precisely the same objects in view.

For many years, the learned of the religious world were examining the
religions of other countries, and in that work they established certain
rules of criticism—pursued certain lines of argument—by which they
overturned the claims of those religions to supernatural origin. After
this had been successfully done, others, using the same methods on our
religion, pursuing the same line of argument, succeeded in overturning
ours. We have found that all miracles rest on the same basis—that all
wonders were born of substantially the same ignorance and the same fear.

The intelligence of the world is far better distributed than ever
before. The historical outlines of all countries are well known.
The arguments for and against all systems of religion are generally
understood. The average of intelligence is far higher than ever before.
All discoveries become almost immediately the property of the whole
civilized world, and all thoughts are distributed by the telegraph and
press with such rapidity, that provincialism is almost unknown. The
egotism of ignorance and seclusion is passing away. The prejudice of
race and religion is growing feebler, and everywhere, to a greater
extent than ever before, the light is welcome.

These are a few of the reasons why creeds are crumbling, and why such a
change has taken place in the religious world.

Only a few years ago the pulpit was an intellectual power. The pews
listened with wonder, and accepted without question. There was something
sacred about the preacher. He was different from other mortals. He had
bread to eat which they knew not of. He was oracular, solemn, dignified,
stupid.

The pulpit has lost its position. It speaks no longer with authority.
The pews determine what shall be preached. They pay only for that which
they wish to buy—for that which they wish to hear. Of course in every
church there is an advance guard and a conservative party, and nearly
every minister is obliged to preach a little for both. He now and then
says a radical thing for one part of his congregation, and takes it
mostly back on the next Sabbath, for the sake of the others. Most of
them ride two horses, and their time is taken up in urging one forward
and in holding the other back.

The great reason why the orthodox creeds have become unpopular is, that
all teach the dogma of eternal pain.

In old times, when men were nearly wild beasts, it was natural enough
for them to suppose that God would do as they would do in his place, and
so they attributed to this God infinite cruelty, infinite revenge. This
revenge, this cruelty, wore the mask of justice. They took the ground
that God, having made man, had the right to do with him as he pleased.
At that time they were not civilized to the extent of seeing that a God
would not have the right to make a failure, and that a being of infinite
wisdom and power would be under obligation to do the right, and that
he would have no right to create any being whose life would not be a
blessing. The very fact that he made man, would put him under obligation
to see to it that life should not be a curse.

The doctrine of eternal punishment is in perfect harmony with the
savagery of the men who made the orthodox creeds. It is in harmony with
torture, with flaying alive and with burnings. The men who burned
their fellow-men for a moment, believed that God would burn his enemies
forever.

No civilized men ever believed in this dogma. The belief in eternal
punishment has driven millions from the church. It was easy enough for
people to imagine that the children of others had gone to hell; that
foreigners had been doomed to eternal pain; but when it was brought
home—when fathers and mothers bent above their dead who had died in
their sins—when wives shed their tears on the faces of husbands who had
been born but once—love suggested doubts and love fought the dogma of
eternal revenge.

This doctrine is as cruel as the hunger of hyenas, and is infamous
beyond the power of any language to express—yet a creed with this
doctrine has been called "the glad tidings of great joy"—a consolation
to the weeping world. It is a source of great pleasure to me to know
that all intelligent people are ashamed to admit that they believe
it—that no intelligent clergyman now preaches it, except with a preface
to the effect that it is probably untrue.

I have been blamed for taking this consolation from the world—for
putting out, or trying to put out, the fires of hell; and many orthodox
people have wondered how I could be so wicked as to deprive the world of
this hope.

The church clung to the doctrine because it seemed a necessary excuse
for the existence of the church. The ministers said: "No hell, no
atonement; no atonement, no fall of man; no fall of man, no inspired
book; no inspired book, no preachers; no preachers, no salary; no hell,
no missionaries; no sulphur, no salvation."

At last, the people are becoming enlightened enough to ask for a better
philosophy. The doctrine of hell is now only for the poor, the ragged,
the ignorant. Well-dressed people won't have it. Nobody goes to hell
in a carriage—they foot it. Hell is for strangers and tramps. No soul
leaves a brown-stone front for hell—they start from the tenements, from
jails and reformatories. In other words, hell is for the poor. It is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a poor man
to get into heaven, or for a rich man to get into hell. The ministers
stand by their supporters. Their salaries are paid by the well-to-do,
and they can hardly afford to send the subscribers to hell. Every creed
in which is the dogma of eternal pain is doomed. Every church teaching
the infinite lie must fall, and the sooner the better.—The Twentieth
Century, N, Y., April 21,1890.
