A Thanksgiving Sermon
Many ages ago our fathers were living in dens and caves.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1897)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 4.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/a-thanksgiving-sermon/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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MANY ages ago our fathers were living in dens and caves. Their bodies,
their low foreheads, were covered with hair. They were eating berries,
roots, bark and vermin. They were fond of snakes and raw fish. They
discovered fire and, probably by accident, learned how to cause it by
friction. They found how to warm themselves—to fight the frost and
storm. They fashioned clubs and rude weapons of stone with which they
killed the larger beasts and now and then each other. Slowly, painfully,
almost imperceptibly they advanced. They crawled and stumbled, staggered
and struggled toward the light. To them the world was unknown. On every
hand was the mysterious, the sinister, the hurtful. The forests were
filled with monsters, and the darkness was crowded with ghosts, devils,
and fiendish gods.

These poor wretches were the slaves of fear, the sport of dreams.

Now and then, one rose a little above his fellows—used his senses—the
little reason that he had—found something new—some better way. Then
the people killed him and afterward knelt with reverence at his grave.
Then another thinker gave his thought—was murdered—another tomb became
sacred—another step was taken in advance. And so through countless
years of ignorance and cruelty—of thought and crime—of murder and
worship, of heroism, suffering, and self-denial, the race has reached
the heights where now we stand.

Looking back over the long and devious roads that lie between the
barbarism of the past and the civilization of to-day, thinking of the
centuries that rolled like waves between these distant shores, we
can form some idea of what our fathers suffered—of the mistakes they
made—some idea of their ignorance, their stupidity—and some idea of
their sense, their goodness, their heroism.

It is a long road from the savage to the scientist—from a den to
a mansion—from leaves to clothes—from a flickering rush to the
arc-light—from a hammer of stone to the modern mill—a long distance
from the pipe of Pan to the violin—to the orchestra—from a floating
log to the steamship—from a sickle to a reaper—from a flail to a
threshing machine—-from a crooked stick to a plow—from a spinning
wheel to a spinning jenny—from a hand loom to a Jacquard—a Jacquard
that weaves fair forms and wondrous flowers beyond Arachne's utmost
dream—from a few hieroglyphics on the skins of beasts—on bricks
of clay—to a printing press, to a library—a long distance from the
messenger, traveling on foot, to the electric spark—from knives
and tools of stone to those of steel—a long distance from sand to
telescopes—from echo to the phonograph, the phonograph that buries in
indented lines and dots the sounds of living speech, and then gives
back to life the very words and voices of the dead—a long way from the
trumpet to the telephone, the telephone that transports speech as swift
as thought and drops the words, perfect as minted coins, in listening
ears—a long way from a fallen tree to the suspension bridge—from
the dried sinews of beasts to the cables of steel—from the oar to
the propeller—from the sling to the rifle—from the catapult to the
cannon—a long distance from revenge to law—from the club to the
Legislature—from slavery to freedom—from appearance to fact—from fear
to reason.

And yet the distance has been traveled by the human race. Countless
obstructions have been overcome—numberless enemies have been
conquered—thousands and thousands of victories have been won for the
right, and millions have lived, labored and died for their fellow-men.

For the blessings we enjoy—for the happiness that is ours, we ought to
be grateful. Our hearts should blossom with thankfulness.

Whom, what, should we thank?

Let us be honest—generous.

Should we thank the church?

Christianity has controlled Christendom for at least fifteen hundred
years.

During these centuries what have the orthodox churches accomplished, for
the good of man?

In this life man needs raiment and roof, food and fuel. He must be
protected from heat and cold, from snow and storm. He must take thought
for the morrow. In the summer of youth he must prepare for the winter of
age. He must know something of the causes of disease—of the conditions
of health. If possible he must conquer pain, increase happiness and
lengthen life. He must supply the wants of the body—and feed the hunger
of the mind.

What good has the church done?

Has it taught men to cultivate the earth? to build homes? to weave cloth
to cure or prevent disease? to build ships, to navigate the seas? to
conquer pain, or to lengthen life?

Did Christ or any of his apostles add to the sum of useful knowledge?
Did they say one word in favor of any science, of any art? Did they
teach their fellow-men how to make a living, how to overcome the
obstructions of nature, how to prevent sickness—how to protect
themselves from pain, from famine, from misery and rags?

Did they explain any of the phenomena of nature? any of the facts
that affect the life of man? Did they say anything in favor of
investigation—of study—of thought? Did they teach the gospel of
self-reliance, of industry—of honest effort? Can any farmer, mechanic,
or scientist find in the New Testament one useful fact? Is there
anything in the sacred book that can help the geologist, the astronomer,
the biologist, the physician, the inventor—the manufacturer of any
useful thing?

What has the church done?

From the very first it taught the vanity—the worthlessness of all
earthly things. It taught the wickedness of wealth, the blessedness of
poverty. It taught that the business of this life was to prepare
for death. It insisted that a certain belief was necessary to insure
salvation, and that all who failed to believe, or doubted in the least
would suffer eternal pain. According to the church the natural desires,
ambitions and passions of man were all wicked and depraved.

To love God, to practice self-denial, to overcome desire, to despise
wealth, to hate prosperity, to desert wife and children, to live on
roots and berries, to repeat prayers, to wear rags, to live in filth,
and drive love from the heart—these, for centuries, were the highest
and most perfect virtues, and those who practiced them were saints.

The saints did not assist their fellow-men. Their fellow-men
assisted them. They did not labor for others. They were
beggars—parasites—vermin. They were insane. They followed the
teachings of Christ. They took no thought for the morrow. They mutilated
their bodies—scarred their flesh and destroyed their minds for the
sake of happiness in another world. During the journey of life they
kept their eyes on the grave. They gathered no flowers by the way—they
walked in the dust of the road—avoided the green fields. Their moans
made all the music they wished to hear. The babble of brooks, the songs
of birds, the laughter of children, were nothing to them. Pleasure was
the child of sin, and the happy needed a change of heart. They
were sinless and miserable—but they had faith—they were pious and
wretched—but they were limping towards heaven.

What has the church done?

It has denounced pride and luxury—all things that adorn and enrich
life—all the pleasures of sense—the ecstasies of love—the happiness
of the hearth—the clasp and kiss of wife and child.

And the church has done this because it regarded this life as a period
of probation—a time to prepare—to become spiritual—to overcome
the natural—to fix the affections on the invisible—to become
passionless—to subdue the flesh—to congeal the blood—to fold the
wings of fancy—to become dead to the world—so that when you appeared
before God you would be the exact opposite of what he made you.

What has the church done?

It pretended to have a revelation from God. It knew the road to eternal
joy, the way to death. It preached salvation by faith, and declared that
only orthodox believers could become angels, and all doubters would be
damned. It knew this, and so knowing it became the enemy of discussion,
of investigation, of thought. Why investigate, why discuss, why think
when you know? It sought to enslave the world. It appealed to force.
It unsheathed the sword, lighted the fagot, forged the chain, built
the dungeon, erected the scaffold, invented and used the instruments
of torture. It branded, maimed and mutilated—it imprisoned and
tortured—it blinded and burned, hanged and crucified, and utterly
destroyed millions and millions of human beings. It touched every nerve
of the body—produced every pain that can be felt, every agony that can
be endured.

And it did all this to preserve what it called the truth—to destroy
heresy and doubt, and to save, if possible, the souls of a few. It was
honest. It was necessary to prevent the development of the brain—to
arrest all progress—and to do this the church used all its power. If
men were allowed to think and express their thoughts they would fill
their minds and the minds of others with doubts. If they were allowed to
think they would investigate, and then they might contradict the creed,
dispute the words of priests and defy the church. The priests cried to
the people: "It is for us to talk. It is for you to hear. Our duty is to
preach and yours is to believe."

What has the church done?

There have been thousands of councils and synods—thousands and
thousands of occasions when the clergy have met and discussed and
quarreled—when pope and cardinals, bishops and priests have added to
or explained their creeds—and denied the rights of others. What useful
truth did they discover? What fact did they find? Did they add to
the intellectual wealth of the world? Did they increase the sum of
knowledge?

I admit that they looked over a number of Jewish books and picked out
the ones that Jehovah wrote.

Did they find the medicinal virtue that dwells in any weed or flower?

I know that they decided that the Holy Ghost was not created—not
begotten—but that he proceeded.

Did they teach us the mysteries of the metals and how to purify the ores
in furnace flames?

They shouted: "Great is the mystery of Godliness."

Did they show us how to improve our condition in this world?

They informed us that Christ had two natures and two wills.

Did they give us even a hint as to any useful thing?

They gave us predestination, foreordination and just enough "free will"
to go to hell.

Did they discover or show us how to produce anything for food?

Did they produce anything to satisfy the hunger of man?

Instead of this they discovered that a peasant girl who lived in
Palestine, was the mother of God. This they proved by a book, and to
make the book evidence they called it inspired.

Did they tell us anything about chemistry—how to combine and separate
substances—how to subtract the hurtful—how to produce the useful?

They told us that bread, by making certain motions and mumbling certain
prayers, could be changed into the flesh of God, and that in the same
way wine could be changed to his blood. And this, notwithstanding the
fact that God never had any flesh or blood, but has always been a spirit
without body, parts or passions.

What has the church done?

It gave us the history of the world—of the stars, and the beginning of
all things. It taught the geology of Moses—the astronomy of Joshua
and Elijah. It taught the fall of man and the atonement—proved that a
Jewish peasant was God—established the existence of hell, purgatory and
heaven.

It pretended to have a revelation from God—the Scriptures, in which
could be found all knowledge—everything that man could need in the
journey of life. Nothing outside of the inspired book—except legends
and prayers—could be of any value. Books that contradicted the Bible
were hurtful, those that agreed with it—useless. Nothing was of
importance except faith, credulity—belief. The church said: "Let
philosophy alone, count your beads. Ask no questions, fall upon your
knees. Shut your eyes, and save your souls."

What has the church done?

For centuries it kept the earth flat, for centuries it made all the
hosts of heaven travel around this world—for centuries it clung to
"sacred" knowledge, and fought facts with the ferocity of a fiend. For
centuries it hated the useful. It was the deadly enemy of medicine.
Disease was produced by devils and could be cured only by priests,
decaying bones, and holy water. Doctors were the rivals of priests. They
diverted the revenues.

The church opposed the study of anatomy—was against the dissection of
the dead. Man had no right to cure disease—God would do that through
his priests.

Man had no right to prevent disease—diseases were sent by God as
judgments.

The church opposed inoculation—vaccination, and the use of chloroform
and ether. It was declared to be a sin, a crime for a woman to lessen
the pangs of motherhood. The church declared that woman must bear the
curse of the merciful Jehovah.

What has the church done?

It taught that the insane were inhabited by devils. Insanity was not a
disease. It was produced by demons. It could be cured by prayers—gifts,
amulets and charms. All these had to be paid for. This enriched the
church. These ideas were honestly entertained by Protestants as well as
Catholics—by Luther, Calvin, Knox and Wesley.

What has the church done?

It taught the awful doctrine of witchcraft. It filled the darkness with
demons—the air with devils, and the world with grief and shame. It
charged men, women and children with being in league with Satan to
injure their fellows. Old women were convicted for causing storms at
sea—for preventing rain and for bringing frost. Girls were convicted
for having changed themselves into wolves, snakes and toads. These
witches were burned for causing diseases—for selling their souls and
for souring beer. All these things were done with the aid of the Devil
who sought to persecute the faithful, the lambs of God. Satan sought in
many ways to scandalize the church. He sometimes assumed the appearance
of a priest and committed crimes.

On one occasion he personated a bishop—a bishop renowned for his
sanctity—allowed himself to be discovered and dragged from the room of
a beautiful widow. So perfectly did he counterfeit the features and form
of the bishop, that many who were well acquainted with the prelate,
were actually deceived, and the widow herself thought her lover was the
bishop. All this was done by the Devil to bring reproach upon holy men.

Hundreds of like instances could be given, as the war waged between
demons and priests was long and bitter.

These popes and priests—these clergymen, were not hypocrites. They
believed in the New Testament—in the teachings of Christ, and they knew
that the principal business of the Savior was casting out devils.

What has the church done?

It made the wife a slave—the property of the husband, and it placed
the husband as much above the wife as Christ was above the husband. It
taught that a nun is purer, nobler than a mother. It induced millions of
pure and conscientious girls to renounce the joys of life—to take the
veil woven of night and death, to wear the habiliments of the dead—made
them believe that they were the brides of Christ.

For my part, I would as soon be a widow as the bride of a man who had
been dead for eighteen hundred years.

The poor deluded girls imagined that they, in some mysterious way, were
in spiritual wedlock united with God. All worldly desires were
driven from their hearts. They filled their lives with fastings—with
prayers—with self-accusings. They forgot fathers and mothers and gave
their love to the invisible. They were the victims, the convicts of
superstition—prisoners in the penitentiaries of God. Conscientious,
good, sincere—insane.

These loving women gave their hearts to a phantom, their lives to a
dream.

A few years ago, at a revival, a fine buxom girl was "converted," "born
again." In her excitement she cried, "I'm married to Christ—I'm married
to Christ." In her delirium she threw her arms around the neck of an old
man and again cried, "I'm married to Christ." The old man, who happened
to be a kind of skeptic, gently removed her hands, saying at the same
time: "I don't know much about your husband, but I have great respect
for your father-in-law."

Priests, theologians, have taken advantage of women—of their
gentleness—their love of approbation. They have lived upon their hopes
and fears. Like vampires, they have sucked their blood. They have made
them responsible for the sins of the world. They have taught them the
slave virtues—meekness, humility—implicit obedience. They have
fed their minds with mistakes, mysteries and absurdities. They have
endeavored to weaken and shrivel their brains, until, to them, there
would be no possible connection between evidence and belief—between
fact and faith.

What has the church done?

It was the enemy of commerce—of business. It denounced the taking
of interest for money. Without taking interest for money, progress is
impossible. The steamships, the great factories, the railroads have all
been built with borrowed money, money on which interest was promised and
for the most part paid.

The church was opposed to fire insurance—to life insurance. It
denounced insurance in any form as gambling, as immoral. To insure your
life was to declare that you had no confidence in God—that you relied
on a corporation instead of divine providence. It was declared that God
would provide for your widow and your fatherless children.

To insure your life was to insult heaven.

What has the church done?

The church regarded epidemics as the messengers of the good God. The
"Black Death" was sent by the eternal Father, whose mercy spared some
and whose justice murdered the rest. To stop the scourge, they tried to
soften the heart of God by kneelings and prostrations—by processions
and prayers—by burning incense and by making vows. They did not try to
remove the cause. The cause was God. They did not ask for pure water,
but for holy water. Faith and filth lived or rather died together.
Religion and rags, piety and pollution kept company. Sanctity kept its
odor.

What has the church done?

It was the enemy of art and literature. It destroyed the marbles of
Greece and Rome. Beauty was Pagan. It destroyed so far as it could the
best literature of the world. It feared thought—but it preserved the
Scriptures, the ravings of insane saints, the falsehoods of the Fathers,
the bulls of popes, the accounts of miracles performed by shrines, by
dried blood and faded hair, by pieces of bones and wood, by rusty nails
and thorns, by handkerchiefs and rags, by water and beads and by a
finger of the Holy Ghost.

This was the literature of the church.

I admit that the priests were honest—as honest as ignorant. More could
not be said.

What has the church done?

Christianity claims, with great pride, that it established asylums for
the insane. Yes, it did. But the insane were treated as criminals. They
were regarded as the homes—as the tenement-houses of devils. They were
persecuted and tormented. They were chained and flogged, starved and
killed. The asylums were prisons, dungeons, the insane were victims and
the keepers were ignorant, conscientious, pious fiends. They were not
trying to help men, they were fighting devils—destroying demons. They
were not actuated by love—but by hate and fear.

What has the church done?

It founded schools where facts were denied, where science was denounced
and philosophy despised. Schools, where priests were made—where they
were taught to hate reason and to look upon doubts as the suggestions of
the Devil. Schools where the heart was hardened and the brain shriveled.
Schools in which lies were sacred and truths profane. Schools for the
more general diffusion of ignorance—schools to prevent thought—to
suppress knowledge. Schools for the purpose of enslaving the world.
Schools in which teachers knew less than pupils.

What has the church done?

It has used its influence with God to get rain and sunshine—to stop
flood and storm—to kill insects, rats, snakes and wild beasts—to stay
pestilence and famine—to delay frost and snow—to lengthen the lives of
kings and queens—to protect presidents—to give legislators wisdom—to
increase collections and subscriptions. In marriages it has made God the
party of the third part. It has sprinkled water on babes when they were
named. It has put oil on the dying and repeated prayers for the dead.
It has tried to protect the people from the malice of the Devil—from
ghosts and spooks, from witches and wizards and all the leering fiends
that seek to poison the souls of men. It has endeavored to protect the
sheep of God from the wolves of science—from the wild beasts of doubt
and investigation. It has tried to wean the lambs of the Lord from the
delights, the pleasures, the joys, of life. According to the philosophy
of the church, the virtuous weep and suffer, the vicious laugh and
thrive, the good carry a cross, and the wicked fly. But in the next life
this will be reversed. Then the good will be happy, and the bad will be
damned.

The church filled the world with faith and crime.

It polluted the fountains of joy. It gave us an ignorant, jealous,
revengeful and cruel God—sometimes merciful—sometimes ferocious. Now
just, now infamous—sometimes wise—generally foolish. It gave us
a Devil, cunning, malicious, almost the equal of God, not quite as
strong—but quicker—not as profound—but sharper.

It gave us angels with wings—cherubim and seraphim and a heaven with
harps and hallelujahs—with streets of gold and gates of pearl.

It gave us fiends and imps with wings like bats. It gave us ghosts
and goblins, spooks and sprites, and little devils that swarmed in the
bodies of men, and it gave us hell where the souls of men will roast in
eternal flames. Shall we thank the church? Shall we thank the orthodox
churches?

Shall we thank them for the hell they made here? Shall we thank them for
the hell of the future?

II.

WE must remember that the church was founded and has been protected by
God, that all the popes, and cardinals, all the bishops, priests and
monks, all the ministers and exhorters were selected and set apart—all
sanctified and enlightened by the infinite God—that the Holy Scriptures
were inspired by the same Being, and that all the orthodox creeds were
really made by him.

We know what these men—filled with the Holy Ghost—have done. We know
the part they have played. We know the souls they have saved and the
bodies they have destroyed. We know the consolation they have given and
the pain they have inflicted—the lies they have defended—the truths
they have denied. We know that they convinced millions that celibacy is
the greatest of all virtues—that women are perpetual temptations,
the enemies of true holiness—that monks and priests are nobler than
fathers, that nuns are purer than mothers. We know that they taught the
blessed absurdity of the Trinity—that God once worked at the trade
of a carpenter in Palestine. We know that they divided knowledge into
sacred and profane—taught that Revelation was sacred—that Reason was
blasphemous—that faith was holy and facts false. That the sin of Adam
and Eve brought disease and pain, vice and death into the world. We know
that they have taught the dogma of special providence—that all
events are ordered and regulated by God—that he crowns and uncrowns
kings—preserves and destroys—guards and kills—that it is the duty of
man to submit to the divine will, and that no matter how much evil
there may be—no matter how much suffering—how much pain and death, man
should pour out-his heart in thankfulness that it is no worse.

Let me be understood. I do not say and I do not think that the church
was dishonest, that the clergy were insincere. I admit that all
religions, all creeds, all priests, have been naturally produced. I
admit, and cheerfully admit, that the believers in the supernatural have
done some good—not because they believed in gods and devils—but in
spite of it.

I know that thousands and thousands of clergymen are honest,
self-denying and humane—that they are doing what they believe to be
their duty—doing what they can to induce men and women to live pure and
noble lives. This is not the result of their creeds—it is because they
are human.

What I say is that every honest teacher of the supernatural has been and
is an unconscious enemy of the human race.

What is the philosophy of the church—of those who believe in the
supernatural?

Back of all that is—back of all events—Christians put an infinite
Juggler who with a wish creates, preserves, destroys. The world is his
stage and mankind his puppets. He fills them with wants and desires,
with appetites and ambitions—with hopes and fears—with love and hate.
He touches the springs. He pulls the strings—baits the hooks, sets the
traps and digs the pits.

The play is a continuous performance.

He watches these puppets as they struggle and fail. Sees them outwit
each other and themselves—leads them to every crime, watches the
births and deaths—hears lullabies at cradles and the fall of
clods on coffins. He has no pity. He enjoys the tragedies—the
desperation—the despair—the suicides. He smiles at the murders, the
assassinations,—the seductions, the desertions—the abandoned babes of
shame. He sees the weak enslaved—mothers robbed of babes—the innocent
in dungeons—on scaffolds. He sees crime crowned and hypocrisy robed.

He withholds the rain and his puppets starve. He opens the earth and
they are devoured. He sends the flood and they are drowned. He empties
the volcano and they perish in fire. He sends the cyclone and they are
torn and mangled. With quick lightnings they are dashed to death.
He fills the air and water with the invisible enemies of life—the
messengers of pain, and watches the puppets as they breathe and
drink. He creates cancers to feed upon their flesh—their quivering
nerves—serpents, to fill their veins with venom,—beasts to crunch
their bones—to lap their blood.

Some of the poor puppets he makes insane—makes them struggle in the
darkness with imagined monsters with glaring eyes and dripping jaws, and
some are made without the flame of thought, to drool and drivel through
the darkened days. He sees all the agony, the injustice, the rags
of poverty, the withered hands of want—the motherless babes—the
deformed—the maimed—the leprous, knows the tears that flow—hears
the sobs and moans—sees the gleam of swords, hears the roar of the
guns—sees the fields reddened with blood—the white faces of the dead.
But he mocks when their fear cometh, and at their calamity he fills the
heavens with laughter. And the poor puppets who are left alive, fall on
their knees and thank the Juggler with all their hearts.

But after all, the gods have not supported the children of men, men have
supported the gods. They have built the temples. They have sacrificed
their babes, their lambs, their cattle. They have drenched the altars
with blood. They have given their silver, their gold, their gems. They
have fed and clothed their priests—but the gods have given nothing in
return. Hidden in the shadows they have answered no prayer—heard
no cry—given no sign—extended no hand—uttered no word. Unseen and
unheard they have sat on their thrones, deaf and dumb—paralyzed and
blind. In vain the steeples rise—in vain the prayers ascend.

And think what man has done to please the gods. He has renounced his
reason—extinguished the torch of his brain, he has believed without
evidence and against evidence. He has slandered and maligned himself.
He has fasted and starved. He has mutilated his body—scarred his
flesh—given his blood to vermin. He has persecuted, imprisoned and
destroyed his fellows. He has deserted wife and child. He has lived
alone in the desert. He has swung-censers and burned incense, counted
beads and sprinkled himself with holy water—shut his eyes, clasped his
hands—fallen upon his knees and groveled in the dust—but the gods have
been silent—silent as stones.

Have these cringings and crawlings—these cruelties and
absurdities—this faith and foolishness pleased the gods?

We do not know.

Has any disaster been averted—any blessing obtained? We do not know.

Shall we thank these gods?

Shall we thank the church's God?

Who and what is he?

They say that he is the creator and preserver of all that has been—of
all that is—of all that will be—that he is the father of angels and
devils, the architect of heaven and hell—that he made the earth—a
man and woman—that he made the serpent who tempted them, made his
own rival—gave victory to his enemy—that he repented of what he had
done—that he sent a flood and destroyed all of the children of men with
the exception of eight persons—that he tried to civilize the survivors
and their children—tried to do this with earthquakes and fiery serpents
—with pestilence and famine. But he failed. He intended to fail. Then
he was born into the world, preached for three years, and allowed some
savages to kill him. Then he rose from the dead and went back to heaven.

He knew that he would fail, knew that he would be killed. In fact he
arranged everything himself and brought everything to pass just as he
had predestined it an eternity before the world was. All who believe
these things will be saved and they who doubt or deny will be lost.

Has this God good sense?

Not always. He creates his own enemies and plots against himself.
Nothing lives, except in accordance with his will, and yet the devils do
not die.

What is the matter with this God? Well, sometimes he is
foolish—sometimes he is cruel and sometimes he is insane.

Does this God exist? Is there any intelligence back of Nature? Is there
any being anywhere among the stars who pities the suffering children of
men?

We do not know.

Shall we thank Nature?

Does Nature care for us more than for leaves, or grass, or flies?

Does Nature know that we exist? We do not know.

But we do know that Nature is going to murder us all.

Why should we thank Nature? If we thank God or Nature for the sunshine
and rain, for health and happiness, whom shall we curse for famine and
pestilence, for earthquake and cyclone—for disease and death?

Iii

IF we cannot thank the orthodox churches—if we cannot thank the
unknown, the incomprehensible, the supernatural—if we cannot thank
Nature—if we can not kneel to a Guess, or prostrate ourselves before a
Perhaps—whom shall we thank?

Let us see what the worldly have done—what has been accomplished by
those not "called," not "set apart," not "inspired," not filled with the
Holy Ghost—by those who were neglected by all the Gods.

Passing over the Hindus, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans, their
poets, philosophers and metaphysicians—we will come to modern times.

In the 10th century after Christ the Saracens—governors of a vast
empire—"established colleges in Mongolia, Tartary, Persia, Mesopotamia,
Syria, Egypt, North Africa, Morocco, Fez and in Spain." The region owned
by the Saracens was greater than the Roman Empire. They had not only
colleges—but observatories. The sciences were taught. They introduced
the ten numerals—taught algebra and trigonometry—understood cubic
equations—knew the art of surveying—they made catalogues and maps
of the stars—gave the great stars the names they still bear—they
ascertained the size of the earth—determined the obliquity of the
ecliptic and fixed the length of the year. They calculated eclipses,
equinoxes, solstices, conjunctions of planets and occultations of stars.
They constructed astronomical instruments. They made clocks of
various kinds and were the inventors of the pendulum. They originated
chemistry—discovered sulphuric and nitric acid and alcohol.

"They were the first to publish pharmacopoeias and dispensatories.

"In mechanics they determined the laws of falling bodies. They
understood the mechanical powers, and the attraction of gravitation.

"They taught hydrostatics and determined the specific gravities of
bodies.

"In optics they discovered that a ray of light did not proceed from the
eye to an object—but from the object to the eye."

"They were manufacturers of cotton, leather, paper and steel.

"They gave us the game of chess.

"They produced romances and novels and essays on many subjects.

"In their schools they taught the modern doctrines of evolution and
development." They anticipated Darwin and Spencer.

These people were not Christians. They were the followers, for the most
part, of an impostor—of a pretended prophet of a false God. And yet
while the true Christians, the men selected by the true God and filled
with the Holy Ghost were tearing out the tongues of heretics, these
wretches were irreverently tracing the orbits of the stars. While the
true believers were flaying philosophers and extinguishing the eyes of
thinkers, these godless followers of Mohammed were founding colleges,
collecting manuscripts, investigating the facts of nature and giving
their attention to science. Afterward the followers of Mohammed became
the enemies of science and hated facts as intensely and honestly as
Christians. Whoever has a revelation from God will defend it with all
his strength—will abhor reason and deny facts.

But it is well to know that we are indebted to the Moors—to the
followers of Mohammed—for having laid the foundations of modern
science. It is well to know that we are not indebted to the church, to
Christianity, for any useful fact.

It is well to know that the seeds of thought were sown in our minds by
the Greeks and Romans, and that our literature came from those seeds.
The great literature of our language is Pagan in its thought—Pagan
in its beauty—Pagan in its perfection. It is well to know that when
Mohammedans were the friends of science, Christians were its enemies.
How consoling it is to think that the friends of science—the men who
educated their fellows—are now in hell, and that the men who persecuted
and killed philosophers are now in heaven! Such is the justice of God.

The Christians of the Middle Ages, the men who were filled with the Holy
Ghost, knew all about the worlds beyond the grave, but nothing about
the world in which they lived. They thought the earth was flat—a little
dishing if anything—that it was about five thousand years old, and that
the stars were little sparkles made to beautify the night.

The fact is that Christianity was in existence for fifteen hundred years
before there was an astronomer in Christendom. No follower of Christ
knew the shape of the earth.

The earth was demonstrated to be a globe, not by a pope or cardinal—not
by a collection of clergymen—not by the "called" or the "set apart,"
but by a sailor. Magellan left Seville, Spain, August 10th, 1519, sailed
west and kept sailing west, and the ship reached Seville, the port it
left, on Sept. 7th, 1522.

The world had been circumnavigated. The earth was known to be round.
There had been a dispute between the Scriptures and a sailor. The fact
took the sailor's side.

In 1543 Copernicus published his book, "On the Revolutions of the
Heavenly Bodies."

He had some idea of the vastness of the stars—of the astronomical
spaces—of the insignificance of this world.

Toward the close of the sixteenth century, Bruno, one of the greatest
men this world has produced, gave his thoughts to his fellow-men. He
taught the plurality of worlds. He was a Pantheist, an Atheist, an
honest man. He called the Catholic Church the "Triumphant Beast." He
was imprisoned for many years, tried, convicted, and on the 16th day of
February, 1600, burned in Rome by men filled with the Holy Ghost,
burned on the spot where now his monument rises. Bruno, the noblest, the
greatest of all the martyrs. The only one who suffered death for what he
believed to be the truth. The only martyr who had no heaven to gain, no
hell to shun, no God to please. He was nobler than inspired men,
grander than prophets, greater and purer than apostles. Above all the
theologians of the world, above the makers of creeds, above the founders
of religions rose this serene, unselfish and intrepid man.

Yet Christians, followers of Christ, murdered this incomparable man.
These Christians were true to their creed. They believed that faith
would be rewarded with eternal joy, and doubt punished with eternal
pain. They were logical. They were pious and pitiless—devout and
devilish—meek and malicious—religious and revengeful—Christ-like and
cruel—loving with their mouths and hating with their hearts. And yet,
honest victims of ignorance and fear.

What have the wordly done?

In 1608, Lippersheim, a Hollander, so arranged lenses that objects were
exaggerated.

He invented the telescope.

He gave countless worlds to our eyes, and made us citizens of the
Universe.

In 1610, on the night of January 7th, Galileo demonstrated the truth of
the Copernican system, and in 1632, published his work on "The System of
the World."

What did the church do?

Galileo was arrested, imprisoned, forced to fall upon his knees, put his
hand on the Bible, and recant. For ten years he was kept in prison—for
ten years until released by the pity of death. Then the church—men
filled with the Holy Ghost—denied his body burial in consecrated
ground. It was feared that his dust might corrupt the bodies of those
who had persecuted him.

In 1609, Kepler published his book "Motions of the Planet Mars."
He, too, knew of the attraction of gravitation and that it acted in
proportion to mass and distance. Kepler announced his Three Laws. He
found and mathematically expressed the relation of distance, mass, and
motion. Nothing greater has been accomplished by the human mind.

Astronomy became a science and Christianity a superstition.

Then came Newton, Herscheland Laplace. The astronomy of Joshua and
Elijah faded from the minds of intelligent men, and Jehovah became an
ignorant tribal god.

Men began to see that the operations of Nature were not subject to
interference. That eclipses were not caused by the wrath of God—that
comets had nothing to do with the destruction of empires or the death
of kings, that the stars wheeled in their orbits without regard to the
actions of men. In the sacred East the dawn appeared.

What have the wordly done?

A few years ago a few men became wicked enough to use their senses. They
began to look and listen. They began to really see and then they began
to reason. They forgot heaven and hell long enough to take some interest
in this world. They began to examine soils and rocks. They noticed what
had been done by rivers and seas. They found out something about the
crust of the earth. They found that most of the rocks had been deposited
and stratified in the water—rocks 70,000 feet in thickness. They found
that the coal was once vegetable matter. They made the best calculations
they could of the time required to make the coal, and concluded that it
must have taken at least six or seven millions of years. They examined
the chalk cliffs, found that they were composed of the microscopic
shells of minute organisms, that is to say, the dust of these shells.
This dust settled over areas as large as Europe and in some places the
chalk is a mile in depth. This must have required many millions of
years.

Lyell, the highest authority on the subject, says that it must have
required, to cause the changes that we know, at least two hundred
million years. Think of these vast deposits caused by the slow falling
of infinitesimal atoms of impalpable dust through the silent depths of
ancient seas! Think of the microscopical forms of life, constructing
their minute houses of lime, giving life to others, leaving their
mansions beneath the waves, and so through countless generations
building the foundations of continents and islands.

Go back of all life that we now know—back of all the flying lizards,
the armored monsters, the hissing serpents, the winged and fanged
horrors—back to the Laurentian rocks—to the eozoon, the first of
living things that we have found—back of all mountains, seas and
rivers—back to the first incrustation of the molten world—back of wave
of fire and robe of flame—back to the time when all the substance of
the earth blazed in the glowing sun with all the stars that wheel about
the central fire.

Think of the days and nights that lie between!—think of the centuries,
the withered leaves of time, that strew the desert of the past!

Nature does not hurry. Time cannot be wasted—cannot be lost. The
future remains eternal and all the past is as though it had not been—as
though it were to be. The infinite knows neither loss nor gain.

We know something of the history of the world—something of the human
race; and we know that man has lived and struggled through want and war,
through pestilence and famine, through ignorance and crime, through fear
and hope, on the old earth for millions and millions of years.

At last we know that infallible popes, and countless priests and
clergymen, who had been "called," filled with the Holy Ghost, and
presidents of colleges, kings, emperors and executives of nations had
mistaken the blundering guesses of ignorant savages for the wisdom of an
infinite God.

At last we know that the story of creation, of the beginning of things,
as told in the "sacred book," is not only untrue, but utterly absurd and
idiotic. Now we know that the inspired writers did not know and that the
God who inspired them did not know.

We are no longer misled by myths and legends. We rely upon facts. The
world is our witness and the stars testify for us.

What have the worldly done?

They have investigated the religions of the world—have read the sacred
books, the prophecies, the commandments, the rules of conduct. They have
studied the symbols, the ceremonies, the prayers and sacrifices. And
they have shown that all religions are substantially the same—produced
by the same causes—that all rest on a misconception of the facts in
nature—that all are founded on ignorance and fear, on mistake and
mystery.

They have found that Christianity is like the rest—that it was not a
revelation, but a natural growth—that its gods and devils, its heavens
and hells, were borrowed—that its ceremonies and sacraments were
souvenirs of other religions—that no part of it came from heaven, but
that it was all made by savage man. They found that Jehovah was a tribal
god and that his ancestors had lived on the banks of the Euphrates, the
Tigris, the Ganges and the Nile, and these ancestors were traced back to
still more savage forms.

They found that all the sacred books were filled with inspired mistake
and sacred absurdity.

But, say the Christians, we have the only inspired book. We have the
Old Testament and the New. Where did you get the Old Testament? From the
Jews?—Yes.

Let me tell you about it.

After the Jews returned from Babylon, about 400 years before Christ,
Ezra commenced making the Bible. You will find an account of this in the
Bible.

We know that Genesis was written after the Captivity—because it was
from the Babylonians that the Jews got the story of the creation—of
Adam and Eve, of the Garden—of the serpent, and the tree of life—of
the flood—and from them they learned about the Sabbath.

You find nothing about that holy day in Judges, Joshua, Samuel, Kings
or Chronicles—nothing in Job, the Psalms, in Esther, Solomon's Song
or Ecclesiastes. Only in books written by Ezra after the return from
Babylon.

When Ezra finished the inspired book, he placed it in the temple. It was
written on the skins of beasts, and, so far as we know, there was but
one.

What became of this Bible?

Jerusalem was taken by Titus about 70 years after Christ. The temple was
destroyed and, at the request of Josephus, the Holy Bible was sent to
Vespasian the Emperor, at Rome.

And this Holy Bible has never been seen or heard of since. So much for
that.

Then there was a copy, or rather a translation, called the Septuagint.

How was that made?

It is said that Ptolemy Soter and his son Ptolemy Philadelphus obtained
a translation of the Jewish Bible. This translation was made by seventy
persons.

At that time the Jewish Bible did not contain Daniel, Ecclesiastes, but
few of the Psalms and only a part of Isaiah.

What became of this translation known as the Septuagint?

It was burned in the Bruchium Library forty-seven years before Christ.

Then there was another so-called copy of part of the Bible, known as the
Samaritan Roll of the Pentateuch.

But this is not considered of any value.

Have we a true copy of the Bible that was in the temple at
Jerusalem—the one sent to Vespasian?

Nobody knows.

Have we a true copy of the Septuagint?

Nobody knows.

What is the oldest manuscript of the Bible we have in Hebrew?

The oldest manuscript we have in Hebrew was written in the 10th century
after Christ. The oldest pretended copy we have of the Septuagint
written in Greek was made in the 5th century after Christ.

If the Bible was divinely inspired, if it was the actual word of God, we
have no authenticated copy. The original has been lost and we are left
in the darkness of Nature.

It is impossible for us to show that our Bible is correct. We have no
standard. Many of the books in our Bible contradict each other. Many
chapters appear to be incomplete and parts of different books are
written in the same words, showing that both could not have been
original. The 19th and 20th chapters of 2nd Kings and the 37th and
38th chapters of Isaiah are exactly the same. So is the 36th chapter of
Isaiah from the 2nd verse the same as the 18th chapter of 2nd Kings from
the 2nd verse.

So, it is perfectly apparent that there could have been no possible
propriety in inspiring the writers of Kings and the writers of
Chronicles. The books are substantially the same, differing in a
few mistakes—in a few falsehoods. The same is true of Leviticus and
Numbers. The books do not agree either in facts or philosophy. They
differ as the men differed who wrote them.

What have the worldly done?

They have investigated the phenomena of nature. They have invented ways
to use the forces of the world, the weight of falling water—of moving
air. They have changed water to steam, invented engines—the tireless
giants that work for man. They have made lightning a messenger and
slave. They invented movable type, taught us the art of printing and
made it possible to save and transmit the intellectual wealth of the
world. They connected continents with cables, cities and towns with
the telegraph—brought the world into one family—made intelligence
independent of distance. They taught us how to build homes, to obtain
food, to weave cloth. They covered the seas with iron ships and the
land with roads and steeds of steel. They gave us the tools of all the
trades—the implements of labor. They chiseled statues, painted pictures
and "witched the world" with form and color. They have found the cause
of and the cure for many maladies that afflict the flesh and minds of
men. They have given us the instruments of music and the great composers
and performers have changed the common air to tones and harmonies that
intoxicate, exalt and purify the soul.

They have rescued us from the prisons of fear, and snatched our souls
from the fangs and claws of superstition's loathsome, crawling, flying
beasts. They have given us the liberty to think and the courage to
express our thoughts. They have changed the frightened, the enslaved,
the kneeling, the prostrate into men and women—clothed them in their
right minds and made them truly free. They have uncrowned the phantoms,
wrested the scepters from the ghosts and given this world to the
children of men. They have driven from the heart the fiends of fear and
extinguished the flames of hell.

They have read a few leaves of the great volume—deciphered some of the
records written on stone by the tireless hands of time in the dim past.
They have told us something of what has been done by wind and wave, by
fire and frost, by life and death, the ceaseless workers, the pauseless
forces of the world.

They have enlarged the horizon of the known, changed the glittering
specks that shine above us to wheeling worlds, and filled all space with
countless suns.

They have found the qualities of substances, the nature of things—how
to analyze, separate and combine, and have enabled us to use the good
and avoid the hurtful.

They have given us mathematics in the higher forms, by means of which we
measure the astronomical spaces, the distances to stars, the velocity at
which the heavenly bodies move, their density and weight, and by which
the mariner navigates the waste and trackless seas. They have given us
all we have of knowledge, of literature and art. They have made life
worth living. They have filled the world with conveniences, comforts and
luxuries.

All this has been done by the worldly—by those, who were not "called"
or "set apart" or filled with the Holy Ghost or had the slightest claim
to "apostolic succession." The men who accomplished these things were
not "inspired." They had no revelation—no supernatural aid. They were
not clad in sacred vestments, and tiaras were not upon their brows. They
were not even ordained. They used their senses, observed and recorded
facts. They had confidence in reason. They were patient searchers for
the truth. They turned their attention to the affairs of this
world. They were not saints. They were sensible men. They worked for
themselves, for wife and child and for the benefit of all.

To these men we are indebted for all we are, for all we know, for all
we have. They were the creators of civilization—the founders of free
states—the saviors of liberty—the destroyers of superstition and the
great captains in the army of progress.

IV.

WHOM shall we thank? Standing here at the close of the 19th
century—amid the trophies of thought—the triumphs of genius—here
under the flag of the Great Republic—knowing something of the history
of man—here on this day that has been set apart for thanksgiving, I
most reverently thank the good men, the good women of the past, I thank
the kind fathers, the loving mothers of the savage days. I thank the
father who spoke the first gentle word, the mother who first smiled upon
her babe. I thank the first true friend. I thank the savages who hunted
and fished that they and their babes might live. I thank those who
cultivated the ground and changed the forests into farms—those who
built rude homes and watched the faces of their happy children in the
glow of fireside flames—those who domesticated horses, cattle and
sheep—those who invented wheels and looms and taught us to spin and
weave—those who by cultivation changed wild grasses into wheat and
corn, changed bitter things to fruit, and worthless weeds to flowers,
that sowed within our souls the seeds of art. I thank the poets of the
dawn—the tellers of legends—the makers of myths—the singers of joy
and grief, of hope and love. I thank the artists who chiseled forms
in stone and wrought with light and shade the face of man. I thank the
philosophers, the thinkers, who taught us how to use our minds in
the great search for truth. I thank the astronomers who explored
the heavens, told us the secrets of the stars, the glories of the
constellations—the geologists who found the story of the world in
fossil forms, in memoranda kept in ancient rocks, in lines written by
waves, by frost and fire—the anatomists who sought in muscle, nerve and
bone for all the mysteries of life—the chemists who unraveled Nature's
work that they might learn her art—the physicians who have laid
the hand of science on the brow of pain, the hand whose magic touch
restores—the surgeons who have defeated Nature's self and forced her to
preserve the lives of those she labored to destroy.

I thank the discoverers of chloroform and ether, the two angels who give
to their beloved sleep, and wrap the throbbing brain in the soft robes
of dreams. I thank the great inventors—those who gave us movable type
and the press, by means of which great thoughts and all discovered facts
are made immortal—the inventors of engines, of the great ships, of the
railways, the cables and telegraphs. I thank the great mechanics, the
workers in iron and steel, in wood and stone. I thank the inventors and
makers of the numberless things of use and luxury.

I thank the industrious men, the loving mothers, the useful women. They
are the benefactors of our race.

The inventor of pins did a thousand times more good than all the popes
and cardinals, the bishops and priests—than all the clergymen and
parsons, exhorters and theologians that ever lived.

The inventor of matches did more for the comfort and convenience
of mankind than all the founders of religions and the makers of all
creeds—than all malicious monks and selfish saints.

I thank the honest men and women who have expressed their sincere
thoughts, who have been true to themselves and have preserved the
veracity of their souls.

I thank the thinkers of Greece and Rome, Zeno and Epicurus, Cicero and
Lucretius. I thank Bruno, the bravest, and Spinoza, the subtlest of men.

I thank Voltaire, whose thought lighted a flame in the brain of man,
unlocked the doors of superstition's cells and gave liberty to
many millions of his fellow-men. Voltaire—a name that sheds light.
Voltaire—a star that superstition's darkness cannot quench.

I thank the great poets—the dramatists. I thank Homer and Aeschylus,
and I thank Shakespeare above them all. I thank Burns for the
heart-throbs he changed into songs, for his lyrics of flame. I thank
Shelley for his Skylark, Keats for his Grecian Urn and Byron for his
Prisoner of Chillon. I thank the great novelists. I thank the great
sculptors. I thank the unknown man who moulded and chiseled the Venus de
Milo. I thank the great painters. I thank Rembrandt and Corot. I thank
all who have adorned, enriched and ennobled life—all who have created
the great, the noble, the heroic and artistic ideals.

I thank the statesmen who have preserved the rights of man. I thank
Paine whose genius sowed the seeds of independence in the hearts of '76.
I thank Jefferson whose mighty words for liberty have made the circuit
of the globe. I thank the founders, the defenders, the saviors of the
Republic. I thank Ericsson, the greatest mechanic of his century, for
the monitor. I thank Lincoln for the Proclamation. I thank Grant for his
victories and the vast host that fought for the right,—for the freedom
of man. I thank them all—the living and the dead.

I thank the great scientists—those who have reached the foundation,
the bed-rock—who have built upon facts—the great scientists, in whose
presence theologians look silly and feel malicious.

The scientists never persecuted, never imprisoned their fellow-men. They
forged no chains, built no dungeons, erected no scaffolds—tore no flesh
with red hot pincers—dislocated no joints on racks—crushed no bones
in iron boots—extinguished no eyes—tore out no tongues and lighted
no fagots. They did not pretend to be inspired—did not claim to
be prophets or saints or to have been born again. They were only
intelligent and honest men. They did not appeal to force or fear. They
did not regard men as slaves to be ruled by torture, by lash and chain,
nor as children to be cheated with illusions, rocked in the cradle of an
idiot creed and soothed by a lullaby of lies.

They did not wound—they healed. They did not kill—they lengthened
life. They did not enslave—they broke the chains and made men free.
They sowed the seeds of knowledge, and many millions have reaped, are
reaping, and will reap the harvest of joy.

I thank Humboldt and Helmholtz and Haeckel and Buechner. I thank Lamarck
and Darwin—Darwin who revolutionized the thought of the intellectual
world. I thank Huxley and Spencer. I thank the scientists one and all.

I thank the heroes, the destroyers of prejudice and fear—the dethroners
of savage gods—the extinguishers of hate's eternal fire—the heroes,
the breakers of chains—the founders of free states—the makers of just
laws—the heroes who fought and fell on countless fields—the heroes
whose dungeons became shrines—the heroes whose blood made scaffolds
sacred—the heroes, the apostles of reason, the disciples of truth, the
soldiers of freedom—the heroes who held high the holy torch and filled
the world with light.

With all my heart I thank them all.
