{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-4:why-i-am-an-agnostic",
  "slug": "why-i-am-an-agnostic",
  "title": "Why I Am an Agnostic",
  "subtitle": "For the most part we inherit our opinions.",
  "excerpt": "Ingersoll's clearest personal statement — why, after reading, thinking, and looking honestly at the evidence, he settled on agnosticism as the only intellectually decent position for a human being.",
  "year": 1896,
  "volume": 4,
  "category": "Lecture",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/why-i-am-an-agnostic/",
  "wordCount": 12114,
  "body": "FOR the most part we inherit our opinions. We are the heirs of habits\nand mental customs. Our beliefs, like the fashion of our garments,\ndepend on where we were born. We are moulded and fashioned by our\nsurroundings.\n\nEnvironment is a sculptor—a painter.\n\nIf we had been born in Constantinople, the most of us would have said:\n\"There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.\" If our parents\nhad lived on the banks of the Ganges, we would have been worshipers of\nSiva, longing for the heaven of Nirvana.\n\nAs a rule, children love their parents, believe what they teach, and\ntake great pride in saying that the religion of mother is good enough\nfor them.\n\nMost people love peace. They do not like to differ with their neighbors.\nThey like company. They are social. They enjoy traveling on the highway\nwith the multitude. They hate to walk alone.\n\nThe Scotch are Calvinists because their fathers were. The Irish are\nCatholics because their fathers were. The English are Episcopalians\nbecause their fathers were, and the Americans are divided in a hundred\nsects because their fathers were. This is the general rule, to which\nthere are many exceptions. Children sometimes are superior to their\nparents, modify their ideas, change their customs, and arrive at\ndifferent conclusions. But this is generally so gradual that the\ndeparture is scarcely noticed, and those who change usually insist that\nthey are still following the fathers.\n\nIt is claimed by Christian historians that the religion of a nation was\nsometimes suddenly changed, and that millions of Pagans were made into\nChristians by the command of a king. Philosophers do not agree with\nthese historians. Names have been changed, altars have been overthrown,\nbut opinions, customs and beliefs remained the same. A Pagan, beneath\nthe drawn sword of a Christian, would probably change his religious\nviews, and a Christian, with a scimitar above his head, might suddenly\nbecome a Mohammedan, but as a matter of fact both would remain exactly\nas they were before—except in speech.\n\nBelief is not subject to the will. Men think as they must. Children\ndo not, and cannot, believe exactly as they were taught. They are not\nexactly like their parents. They differ in temperament, in experience,\nin capacity, in surroundings. And so there is a continual, though almost\nimperceptible change. There is development, conscious and unconscious\ngrowth, and by comparing long periods of time we find that the old\nhas been almost abandoned, almost lost in the new. Men cannot remain\nstationary. The mind cannot be securely anchored. If we do not advance,\nwe go backward. If we do not grow, we decay. If we do not develop, we\nshrink and shrivel.\n\nLike the most of you, I was raised among people who knew—who were\ncertain. They did not reason or investigate. They had no doubts. They\nknew that they had the truth. In their creed there was no guess—no\nperhaps. They had a revelation from God. They knew the beginning of\nthings. They knew that God commenced to create one Monday morning,\nfour thousand and four years before Christ. They knew that in the\neternity—back of that morning, he had done nothing. They knew that it\ntook him six days to make the earth—all plants, all animals, all life,\nand all the globes that wheel in space. They knew exactly what he did\neach day and when he rested. They knew the origin, the cause of evil, of\nall crime, of all disease and death.\n\nThey not only knew the beginning, but they knew the end. They knew that\nlife had one path and one road. They knew that the path, grass-grown and\nnarrow, filled with thorns and nettles, infested with vipers, wet with\ntears, stained by bleeding feet, led to heaven, and that the road, broad\nand smooth, bordered with fruits and flowers, filled with laughter and\nsong and all the happiness of human love, led straight to hell. They\nknew that God was doing his best to make you take the path and that the\nDevil used every art to keep you in the road.\n\nThey knew that there was a perpetual battle waged between the great\nPowers of good and evil for the possession of human souls. They knew\nthat many centuries ago God had left his throne and had been born a\nbabe into this poor world—that he had suffered death for the sake of\nman—for the sake of saving a few. They also knew that the human heart\nwas utterly depraved, so that man by nature was in love with wrong and\nhated God with all his might.\n\nAt the same time they knew that God created man in his own image and\nwas perfectly satisfied with his work. They also knew that he had been\nthwarted by the Devil, who with wiles and lies had deceived the first\nof human kind. They knew that in consequence of that, God cursed the man\nand woman; the man with toil, the woman with slavery and pain, and both\nwith death; and that he cursed the earth itself with briers and thorns,\nbrambles and thistles. All these blessed things they knew. They knew\ntoo all that God had done to purify and elevate the race. They knew all\nabout the Flood—knew that God, with the exception of eight, drowned\nall his children—the old and young—the bowed patriarch and the dimpled\nbabe—the young man and the merry maiden—the loving mother and the\nlaughing child—because his mercy endureth forever. They knew too, that\nhe drowned the beasts and birds—everything that walked or crawled or\nflew—because his loving kindness is over all his works. They knew that\nGod, for the purpose of civilizing his children, had devoured some with\nearthquakes, destroyed some with storms of fire, killed some with\nhis lightnings, millions with famine, with pestilence, and sacrificed\ncountless thousands upon the fields of war. They knew that it was\nnecessary to believe these things and to love God. They knew that there\ncould be no salvation except by faith, and through the atoning blood of\nJesus Christ.\n\nAll who doubted or denied would be lost. To live a moral and honest\nlife—to keep your contracts, to take care of wife and child—to make a\nhappy home—to be a good citizen, a patriot, a just and thoughtful man,\nwas simply a respectable way of going to hell.\n\nGod did not reward men for being honest, generous and brave, but for the\nact of faith. Without faith, all the so-called virtues were sins, and\nthe men who practiced these virtues, without faith, deserved to suffer\neternal pain.\n\nAll of these comforting and reasonable things were taught by the\nministers in their pulpits—by teachers in Sunday schools and by\nparents at home. The children were victims. They were assaulted in the\ncradle—in their mother's arms. Then, the schoolmaster carried on the\nwar against their natural sense, and all the books they read were filled\nwith the same impossible truths. The poor children were helpless. The\natmosphere they breathed was filled with lies—lies that mingled with\ntheir blood.\n\nIn those days ministers depended on revivals to save souls and reform\nthe world.\n\nIn the winter, navigation having closed, business was mostly suspended.\nThere were no railways and the only means of communication were wagons\nand boats. Generally the roads were so bad that the wagons were laid up\nwith the boats. There were no operas, no theatres, no amusement except\nparties and balls. The parties were regarded as worldly and the balls\nas wicked. For real and virtuous enjoyment the good people depended on\nrevivals.\n\nThe sermons were mostly about the pains and agonies of hell, the joys\nand ecstasies of heaven, salvation by faith, and the efficacy of the\natonement. The little churches, in which the services were held, were\ngenerally small, badly ventilated, and exceedingly warm. The emotional\nsermons, the sad singing, the hysterical amens, the hope of heaven, the\nfear of hell, caused many to lose the little sense they had. They became\nsubstantially insane. In this condition they flocked to the \"mourners\nbench\"—asked for the prayers of the faithful—had strange feelings,\nprayed and wept and thought they had been \"born again.\" Then they would\ntell their experience—how wicked they had been—how evil had been their\nthoughts, their desires, and how good they had suddenly become.\n\nThey used to tell the story of an old woman who, in telling her\nexperience, said:—\"Before I was converted, before I gave my heart to\nGod, I used to lie and steal, but now, thanks to the grace and blood of\nJesus Christ, I have quit 'em both, in a great measure.\"\n\nOf course all the people were not exactly of one mind. There were some\nscoffers, and now and then some man had sense enough to laugh at\nthe threats of priests and make a jest of hell. Some would tell of\nunbelievers who had lived and died in peace.\n\nWhen I was a boy I heard them tell of an old farmer in Vermont. He was\ndying. The minister was at his bedside—asked him if he was a Christian\n—if he was prepared to die. The old man answered that he had made\nno preparation, that he was not a Christian—that he had never done\nanything but work. The preacher said that he could give him no hope\nunless he had faith in Christ, and that if he had no faith his soul\nwould certainly be lost.\n\nThe old man was not frightened. He was perfectly calm. In a weak and\nbroken voice he said: \"Mr. Preacher, I suppose you noticed my farm. My\nwife and I came here more than fifty years ago. We were just married. It\nwas a forest then and the land was covered with stones. I cut down the\ntrees, burned the logs, picked up the stones and laid the walls. My\nwife spun and wove and worked every moment. We raised and educated our\nchildren—denied ourselves. During all these years my wife never had a\ngood dress, or a decent bonnet. I never had a good suit of clothes. We\nlived on the plainest food. Our hands, our bodies are deformed by toil.\nWe never had a vacation. We loved each other and the children. That is\nthe only luxury we ever had. Now I am about to die and you ask me if I\nam prepared. Mr. Preacher, I have no fear of the future, no terror of\nany other world. There may be such a place as hell—but if there is, you\nnever can make me believe that it's any worse than old Vermont.\"\n\nSo, they told of a man who compared himself with his dog. \"My dog,\"\nhe said, \"just barks and plays—has all he wants to eat. He never\nworks—has no trouble about business. In a little while he dies, and\nthat is all. I work with all my strength. I have no time to play. I have\ntrouble every day. In a little while I will die, and then I go to hell.\nI wish that I had been a dog.\"\n\nWell, while the cold weather lasted, while the snows fell, the revival\nwent on, but when the winter was over, when the steamboat's whistle was\nheard, when business started again, most of the converts \"backslid\" and\nfell again into their old ways. But the next winter they were on hand,\nready to be \"born again.\" They formed a kind of stock company, playing\nthe same parts every winter and backsliding every spring.\n\nThe ministers, who preached at these revivals, were in earnest. They\nwere zealous and sincere. They were not philosophers. To them science\nwas the name of a vague dread—a dangerous enemy. They did not know\nmuch, but they believed a great deal. To them hell was a burning\nreality—they could see the smoke and flames. The Devil was no myth. He\nwas an actual person, a rival of God, an enemy of mankind. They thought\nthat the important business of this life was to save your soul—that\nall should resist and scorn the pleasures of sense, and keep their\neyes steadily fixed on the golden gate of the New Jerusalem. They were\nunbalanced, emotional, hysterical, bigoted, hateful, loving, and insane.\nThey really believed the Bible to be the actual word of God—a\nbook without mistake or contradiction. They called its cruelties,\njustice—its absurdities, mysteries—its miracles, facts, and the\nidiotic passages were regarded as profoundly spiritual. They dwelt on\nthe pangs, the regrets, the infinite agonies of the lost, and showed how\neasily they could be avoided, and how cheaply heaven could be obtained.\nThey told their hearers to believe, to have faith, to give their hearts\nto God, their sins to Christ, who would bear their burdens and make\ntheir souls as white as snow.\n\nAll this the ministers really believed. They were absolutely certain. In\ntheir minds the Devil had tried in vain to sow the seeds of doubt.\n\nI heard hundreds of these evangelical sermons—heard hundreds of the\nmost fearful and vivid descriptions of the tortures inflicted in hell,\nof the horrible state of the lost. I supposed that what I heard was true\nand yet I did not believe it. I said: \"It is,\" and then I thought: \"It\ncannot be.\"\n\nThese sermons made but faint impressions on my mind. I was not\nconvinced.\n\nI had no desire to be \"converted,\" did not want a \"new heart\" and had no\nwish to be \"born again.\"\n\nBut I heard one sermon that touched my heart, that left its mark, like a\nscar, on my brain.\n\nOne Sunday I went with my brother to hear a Free Will Baptist preacher.\nHe was a large man, dressed like a farmer, but he was an orator. He\ncould paint a picture with words.\n\nHe took for his text the parable of \"the rich man and Lazarus.\" He\ndescribed Dives, the rich man—his manner of life, the excesses in which\nhe indulged, his extravagance, his riotous nights, his purple and fine\nlinen, his feasts, his wines, and his beautiful women.\n\nThen he described Lazarus, his poverty, his rags and wretchedness, his\npoor body eaten by disease, the crusts and crumbs he devoured, the dogs\nthat pitied him. He pictured his lonely life, his friendless death.\n\nThen, changing his tone of pity to one of triumph—leaping from tears\nto the heights of exultation—from defeat to victory—he described the\nglorious company of angels, who with white and outspread wings carried\nthe soul of the despised pauper to Paradise—to the bosom of Abraham.\n\nThen, changing his voice to one of scorn and loathing, he told of the\nrich man's death. He was in his palace, on his costly couch, the air\nheavy with perfume, the room filled with servants and physicians. His\ngold was worthless then. He could not buy another breath. He died, and\nin hell he lifted up his eyes, being in torment.\n\nThen, assuming a dramatic attitude, putting his right hand to his ear,\nhe whispered, \"Hark! I hear the rich man's voice. What does he say?\nHark! 'Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee send Lazarus that he\nmay dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my parched tongue, for I\nam tormented in this flame.'\"\n\n\"Oh, my hearers, he has been making that request for more than eighteen\nhundred years. And millions of ages hence that wail will cross the gulf\nthat lies between the saved and lost and still will be heard the cry:\n'Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee send Lazarus that he may\ndip the tip of his finger in water and cool my parched tongue, for I am\ntormented in this flame.'\"\n\nFor the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain—appreciated\n\"the glad tidings of great joy.\" For the first time my imagination\ngrasped the height and depth of the Christian horror. Then I said: \"It\nis a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true, I hate your God.\"\n\nFrom that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that day, the\nflames of hell were quenched. From that day I have passionately hated\nevery orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good.\n\nII.\n\nFROM my childhood I had heard read and read the Bible. Morning and\nevening the sacred volume was opened and prayers were said. The Bible\nwas my first history, the Jews were the first people, and the events\nnarrated by Moses and the other inspired writers, and those predicted\nby prophets were the all important things. In other books were found the\nthoughts and dreams of men, but in the Bible were the sacred truths of\nGod.\n\nYet in spite of my surroundings, of my education, I had no love for God.\nHe was so saving of mercy, so extravagant in murder, so anxious to kill,\nso ready to assassinate, that I hated him with all my heart. At his\ncommand, babes were butchered, women violated, and the white hair of\ntrembling age stained with blood. This God visited the people with\npestilence—filled the houses and covered the streets with the dying\nand the dead—saw babes starving on the empty breasts of pallid mothers,\nheard the sobs, saw the tears, the sunken cheeks, the sightless eyes,\nthe new made graves, and remained as pitiless as the pestilence.\n\nThis God withheld the rain—caused the famine—saw the fierce eyes of\nhunger—the wasted forms, the white lips, saw mothers eating babes, and\nremained ferocious as famine.\n\nIt seems to me impossible for a civilized man to love or worship, or\nrespect the God of the Old Testament. A really civilized man, a really\ncivilized woman, must hold such a God in abhorrence and contempt.\n\nBut in the old days the good people justified Jehovah in his treatment\nof the heathen. The wretches who were murdered were idolaters and\ntherefore unfit to live.\n\nAccording to the Bible, God had never revealed himself to these people\nand he knew that without a revelation they could not know that he was\nthe true God. Whose fault was it then that they were heathen?\n\nThe Christians said that God had the right to destroy them because he\ncreated them. What did he create them for? He knew when he made them\nthat they would be food for the sword. He knew that he would have the\npleasure of seeing them murdered.\n\nAs a last answer, as a final excuse, the worshipers of Jehovah said\nthat all these horrible things happened under the \"old dispensation\"\nof unyielding law, and absolute justice, but that now under the \"new\ndispensation,\" all had been changed—the sword of justice had been\nsheathed and love enthroned. In the Old Testament, they said, God is the\njudge—but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the\nNew Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no\nthreat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison—no everlasting\nfire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his\nenemy was dead.\n\nIn the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of\npunishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is\ninfinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal.\n\nThe orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his disciples not\nto resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to\nturn the other, and yet we are told that this same God, with the same\nloving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words: \"Depart ye\ncursed into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.\"\n\nThese are the words of \"eternal love.\"\n\nNo human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite\nhorror.\n\nAll that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and\nfamine, in fire and flood,—all the pangs and pains of every disease\nand every death—all this is as nothing compared with the agonies to be\nendured by one lost soul.\n\nThis is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice\nof God—the mercy of Christ.\n\nThis frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of\nChristianity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been\nthe real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, and\nfurnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It\nmade the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed\nthe blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest\nand the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the\nheart, changed men to fiends and banished reason from the brain.\n\nLike a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox\ncreed.\n\nIt makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one\ninfinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse.\nEvery preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this\nChristian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice,\nhatred, and revenge.\n\nNothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its\ncreator, God.\n\nWhile I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my\nstrength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie.\n\nNothing gives me greater joy than to know that this belief in eternal\npain is growing weaker every day—that thousands of ministers are\nashamed of it. It gives me joy to know that Christians are\nbecoming merciful, so merciful that the fires of hell are burning\nlow—flickering, choked with ashes, destined in a few years to die out\nforever.\n\nFor centuries Christendom was a madhouse. Popes, cardinals, bishops,\npriests, monks and heretics were all insane.\n\nOnly a few—four or five in a century were sound in heart and brain.\nOnly a few, in spite of the roar and din, in spite of the savage cries,\nheard reason's voice. Only a few in the wild rage of ignorance, fear and\nzeal preserved the perfect calm that wisdom gives.\n\nWe have advanced. In a few years the Christians will become—let us\nhope—humane and sensible enough to deny the dogma that fills the\nendless years with pain. They ought to know now that this dogma is\nutterly inconsistent with the wisdom, the justice, the goodness of their\nGod. They ought to know that their belief in hell, gives to the Holy\nGhost—the Dove—the beak of a vulture, and fills the mouth of the Lamb\nof God with the fangs of a viper.\n\nIii\n\nIN my youth I read religious books—books about God, about the\natonement—about salvation by faith, and about the other worlds. I\nbecame familiar with the commentators—with Adam Clark, who thought that\nthe serpent seduced our mother Eve, and was in fact the father of Cain.\nHe also believed that the animals, while in the ark, had their natures'\nchanged to that degree that they devoured straw together and enjoyed\neach other's society—thus prefiguring the blessed millennium. I read\nScott, who was such a natural theologian that he really thought\nthe story of Phaeton—of the wild steeds dashing across the\nsky—corroborated the story of Joshua having stopped the sun and moon.\nSo, I read Henry and MacKnight and found that God so loved the world\nthat he made up his mind to damn a large majority of the human race. I\nread Cruden, who made the great Concordance, and made the miracles as\nsmall and probable as he could.\n\nI remember that he explained the miracle of feeding the wandering Jews\nwith quails, by saying that even at this day immense numbers of quails\ncrossed the Red Sea, and that sometimes when tired, they settled on\nships that sank beneath their weight. The fact that the explanation\nwas as hard to believe as the miracle made no difference to the devout\nCruden.\n\nTo while away the time I read Calvin's Institutes, a book calculated to\nproduce, in any natural mind, considerable respect for the Devil.\n\nI read Paley's Evidences and found that the evidence of ingenuity in\nproducing the evil, in contriving the hurtful, was at least equal to the\nevidence tending to show the use of intelligence in the creation of what\nwe call good.\n\nYou know the watch argument was Paley's greatest effort. A man finds a\nwatch and it is so wonderful that he concludes that it must have had\na maker. He finds the maker and he is so much more wonderful than the\nwatch that he says he must have had a maker. Then he finds God, the\nmaker of the man, and he is so much more wonderful than the man that he\ncould not have had a maker. This is what the lawyers call a departure\nin pleading.\n\nAccording to Paley there can be no design without a designer—but there\ncan be a designer without a design. The wonder of the watch suggested\nthe watchmaker, and the wonder of the watchmaker, suggested the creator,\nand the wonder of the creator demonstrated that he was not created—but\nwas uncaused and eternal.\n\nWe had Edwards on The Will, in which the reverend author shows that\nnecessity has no effect on accountability—and that when God creates a\nhuman being, and at the same time determines and decrees exactly what\nthat being shall do and be, the human being is responsible, and God in\nhis justice and mercy has the right to torture the soul of that human\nbeing forever. Yet Edwards said that he loved God.\n\nThe fact is that if you believe in an infinite God, and also in eternal\npunishment, then you must admit that Edwards and Calvin were absolutely\nright. There is no escape from their conclusions if you admit their\npremises. They were infinitely cruel, their premises infinitely absurd,\ntheir God infinitely fiendish, and their logic perfect.\n\nAnd yet I have kindness and candor enough to say that Calvin and Edwards\nwere both insane.\n\nWe had plenty of theological literature. There was Jenkyn on the\nAtonement, who demonstrated the wisdom of God in devising a way in which\nthe sufferings of innocence could justify the guilty. He tried to show\nthat children could justly be punished for the sins of their ancestors,\nand that men could, if they had faith, be justly credited with the\nvirtues of others. Nothing could be more devout, orthodox, and idiotic.\nBut all of our theology was not in prose. We had Milton with his\ncelestial militia—with his great and blundering God, his proud\nand cunning Devil—his wars between immortals, and all the sublime\nabsurdities that religion wrought within the blind man's brain.\n\nThe theology taught by Milton was dear to the Puritan heart. It was\naccepted by New England, and it poisoned the souls and ruined the lives\nof thousands. The genius of Shakespeare could not make the theology of\nMilton poetic. In the literature of the world there is nothing, outside\nof the \"sacred books,\" more perfectly absurd.\n\nWe had Young's Night Thoughts, and I supposed that the author was an\nexceedingly devout and loving follower of the Lord. Yet Young had a\ngreat desire to be a bishop, and to accomplish that end he electioneered\nwith the king's mistress. In other words, he was a fine old hypocrite.\nIn the \"Night Thoughts\" there is scarcely a genuinely honest, natural\nline. It is pretence from beginning to end. He did not write what he\nfelt, but what he thought he ought to feel.\n\nWe had Pollok's Course of Time, with its worm that never dies, its\nquenchless flames, its endless pangs, its leering devils, and its\ngloating God. This frightful poem should have been written in a\nmadhouse. In it you find all the cries and groans and shrieks of\nmaniacs, when they tear and rend each other's flesh. It is as heartless,\nas hideous, as hellish as the thirty-second chapter of Deuteronomy.\n\nWe all know the beautiful hymn commencing with the cheerful line:\n\"Hark from the tombs, a doleful sound.\" Nothing could have been more\nappropriate for children. It is well to put a coffin where it can be\nseen from the cradle. When a mother nurses her child, an open grave\nshould be at her feet. This would tend to make the babe serious,\nreflective, religious and miserable.\n\nGod hates laughter and despises mirth. To feel free, untrammeled,\nirresponsible, joyous,—to forget care and death—to be flooded with\nsunshine without a fear of night—to forget the past, to have no thought\nof the future, no dream of God, or heaven, or hell—to be intoxicated\nwith the present—to be conscious only of the clasp and kiss of the one\nyou love—this is the sin against the Holy Ghost.\n\nBut we had Cowper's poems. Cowper was sincere. He was the opposite\nof Young. He had an observing eye, a gentle heart and a sense of the\nartistic. He sympathized with all who suffered—with the imprisoned,\nthe enslaved, the outcasts. He loved the beautiful. No wonder that the\nbelief in eternal punishment made this loving soul insane. No wonder\nthat the \"tidings of great joy\" quenched Hope's great star and left his\nbroken heart in the darkness of despair.\n\nWe had many volumes of orthodox sermons, filled with wrath and the\nterrors of the judgment to come—sermons that had been delivered by\nsavage saints.\n\nWe had the Book of Martyrs, showing that Christians had for many\ncenturies imitated the God they worshiped.\n\nW|e had the history of the Waldenses—of the Reformation of the Church.\nWe had Pilgrim's Progress, Baxter's Call and Butler's Analogy.\n\nTo use a Western phrase or saying, I found that Bishop Butler dug\nup more snakes than he killed—suggested more difficulties than he\nexplained—more doubts than he dispelled.\n\nIV.\n\nAMONG such books my youth was passed. All the seeds of Christianity—of\nsuperstition, were sown in my mind and cultivated with great diligence\nand care.\n\nAll that time I knew nothing of any science—nothing about the other\nside—nothing of the objections that had been urged against the blessed\nScriptures, or against the perfect Congregational creed. Of course I\nhad heard the ministers speak of blasphemers, of infidel wretches,\nof scoffers who laughed at holy things. They did not answer their\narguments, but they tore their characters into shreds and demonstrated\nby the fury of assertion that they had done the Devil's work. And yet in\nspite of all I heard—of all I read, I could not quite believe. My brain\nand heart said No.\n\nFor a time I left the dreams, the insanities, the illusions and\ndelusions, the nightmares of theology. I studied astronomy, just a\nlittle—I examined maps of the heavens—learned the names of some of the\nconstellations—of some of the stars—found something of their size and\nthe velocity with which they wheeled in their orbits—obtained a faint\nconception of astronomical spaces—found that some of the known stars\nwere so far away in the depths of space that their light, traveling at\nthe rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles a second, required many\nyears to reach this little world—found that, compared with the great\nstars, our earth was but a grain of sand—an atom—found that the old\nbelief that all the hosts of heaven had been created for the benefit of\nman, was infinitely absurd.\n\nI compared what was really known about the stars with the account of\ncreation as told in Genesis. I found that the writer of the inspired\nbook had no knowledge of astronomy—that he was as ignorant as a Choctaw\nchief—as an Eskimo driver of dogs. Does any one imagine that the author\nof Genesis knew anything about the sun—its size? that he was acquainted\nwith Sirius, the North Star, with Capella, or that he knew anything of\nthe clusters of stars so far away that their light, now visiting our\neyes, has been traveling for two million years?\n\nIf he had known these facts would he have said that Jehovah worked\nnearly six days to make this world, and only a part of the afternoon of\nthe fourth day to make the sun and moon and all the stars?\n\nYet millions of people insist that the writer of Genesis was inspired by\nthe Creator of all worlds.\n\nNow, intelligent men, who are not frightened, whose brains have not been\nparalyzed by fear, know that the sacred story of creation was written by\nan ignorant savage. The story is inconsistent with all known facts,\nand every star shining in the heavens testifies that its author was an\nuninspired barbarian.\n\nI admit that this unknown writer was sincere, that he wrote what he\nbelieved to be true—that he did the best he could. He did not claim\nto be inspired—did not pretend that the story had been told to him by\nJehovah. He simply stated the \"facts\" as he understood them.\n\nAfter I had learned a little about the stars I concluded that this\nwriter, this \"inspired\" scribe, had been misled by myth and legend, and\nthat he knew no more about creation than the average theologian of my\nday. In other words, that he knew absolutely nothing.\n\nAnd here, allow me to say that the ministers who are answering me are\nturning their guns in the wrong direction. These reverend gentlemen\nshould attack the astronomers. They should malign and vilify Kepler,\nCopernicus, Newton, Herschel and Laplace. These men were the real\ndestroyers of the sacred story. Then, after having disposed of them,\nthey can wage a war against the stars, and against Jehovah himself for\nhaving furnished evidence against the truthfulness of his book.\n\nThen I studied geology—not much, just a little—just enough to find in\na general way the principal facts that had been discovered, and some of\nthe conclusions that had been reached. I learned something of the action\nof fire—of water—of the formation of islands and continents—of\nthe sedimentary and igneous rocks—of the coal measures—of the chalk\ncliffs, something about coral reefs—about the deposits made by rivers,\nthe effect of volcanoes, of glaciers, and of the all surrounding\nsea—just enough to know that the Laurentian rocks were millions of ages\nolder than the grass beneath my feet—just enough to feel certain that\nthis world had been pursuing its flight about the sun, wheeling in light\nand shade, for hundreds of millions of years—just enough to know that\nthe \"inspired\" writer knew nothing of the history of the earth—nothing\nof the great forces of nature—of wind and wave and fire—forces that\nhave destroyed and built, wrecked and wrought through all the countless\nyears.\n\nAnd let me tell the ministers again that they should not waste their\ntime in answering me. They should attack the geologists. They should\ndeny the facts that have been discovered. They should launch their\ncurses at the blaspheming seas, and dash their heads against the infidel\nrocks.\n\nThen I studied biology—not much—just enough to know something of\nanimal forms, enough to know that life existed when the Laurentian rocks\nwere made—just enough to know that implements of stone, implements that\nhad been formed by human hands, had been found mingled with the bones\nof extinct animals, bones that had been split with these implements, and\nthat these animals had ceased to exist hundreds of thousands of years\nbefore the manufacture of Adam and Eve.\n\nThen I felt sure that the \"inspired\" record was false—that many\nmillions of people had been deceived and that all I had been taught\nabout the origin of worlds and men was utterly untrue. I felt that I\nknew that the Old Testament was the work of ignorant men—that it was a\nmingling of truth and mistake, of wisdom and foolishness, of cruelty and\nkindness, of philosophy and absurdity—that it contained some\nelevated thoughts, some poetry,—-a good deal of the solemn and\ncommonplace,—some hysterical, some tender, some wicked prayers, some\ninsane predictions, some delusions, and some chaotic dreams.\n\nOf course the theologians fought the facts found by the geologists, the\nscientists, and sought to sustain the sacred Scriptures. They mistook\nthe bones of the mastodon for those of human beings, and by them proudly\nproved that \"there were giants in those days.\" They accounted for the\nfossils by saying that God had made them to try our faith, or that the\nDevil had imitated the works of the Creator.\n\nThey answered the geologists by saying that the \"days\" in Genesis were\nlong periods of time, and that after all the flood might have been\nlocal. They told the astronomers that the sun and moon were not\nactually, but only apparently, stopped. And that the appearance was\nproduced by the reflection and refraction of light.\n\nThey excused the slavery and polygamy, the robbery and murder upheld\nin the Old Testament by saying that the people were so degraded that\nJehovah was compelled to pander to their ignorance and prejudice.\n\nIn every way the clergy sought to evade the facts, to dodge the truth,\nto preserve the creed.\n\nAt first they flatly denied the facts—then they belittled them—then\nthey harmonized them—then they denied that they had denied them. Then\nthey changed the meaning of the \"inspired\" book to fit the facts.\n\nAt first they said that if the facts, as claimed, were true, the Bible\nwas false and Christianity itself a superstition. Afterward they said\nthe facts, as claimed, were true and that they established beyond all\ndoubt the inspiration of the Bible and the divine origin of orthodox\nreligion.\n\nAnything they could not dodge, they swallowed, and anything they could\nnot swallow, they dodged.\n\nI gave up the Old Testament on account of its mistakes, its absurdities,\nits ignorance and its cruelty. I gave up the New because it vouched\nfor the truth of the Old. I gave it up on account of its miracles,\nits contradictions, because Christ and his disciples believed in the\nexistence of devils—talked and made bargains with them, expelled them\nfrom people and animals.\n\nThis, of itself, is enough. We know, if we know anything, that devils do\nnot exist—that Christ never cast them out, and that if he pretended to,\nhe was either ignorant, dishonest or insane. These stories about devils\ndemonstrate the human, the ignorant origin of the New Testament. I gave\nup the New Testament because it rewards credulity, and curses brave and\nhonest men, and because it teaches the infinite horror of eternal pain.\n\nV.\n\nHAVING spent my youth in reading books about religion—about the \"new\nbirth\"—the disobedience of our first parents, the atonement, salvation\nby faith, the wickedness of pleasure, the degrading consequences of\nlove, and the impossibility of getting to heaven by being honest and\ngenerous, and having become somewhat weary of the frayed and raveled\nthoughts, you can imagine my surprise, my delight when I read the poems\nof Robert Burns.\n\nI was familiar with the writings of the devout and insincere, the pious\nand petrified, the pure and heartless. Here was a natural honest man. I\nknew the works of those who regarded all nature as depraved, and looked\nupon love as the legacy and perpetual witness of original sin. Here was\na man who plucked joy from the mire, made goddesses of peasant girls,\nand enthroned the honest man. One whose sympathy, with loving arms,\nembraced all forms of suffering life, who hated slavery of every kind,\nwho was as natural as heaven's blue, with humor kindly as an autumn day,\nwith wit as sharp as Ithuriel's spear, and scorn that blasted like the\nsimoon's breath. A man who loved this world, this life, the things of\nevery day, and placed above all else the thrilling ecstasies of human\nlove.\n\nI read and read again with rapture, tears and smiles, feeling that a\ngreat heart was throbbing in the lines.\n\nThe religious, the lugubrious, the artificial, the spiritual poets were\nforgotten or remained only as the fragments, the half remembered horrors\nof monstrous and distorted dreams.\n\nI had found at last a natural man, one who despised his country's cruel\ncreed, and was brave and sensible enough to say: \"All religions are auld\nwives' fables, but an honest man has nothing to fear, either in this\nworld or the world to come.\"\n\nOne who had the genius to write Holy Willie's Prayer—a poem that\ncrucified Calvinism and through its bloodless heart thrust the spear\nof common sense—a poem that made every orthodox creed the food of\nscorn—of inextinguishable laughter.\n\nBurns had his faults, his frailties. He was intensely human. Still, I\nwould rather appear at the \"Judgment Seat\" drunk, and be able to\nsay that I was the author of \"A man's a man for 'a that,\" than to\nbe perfectly sober and admit that I had lived and died a Scotch\nPresbyterian.\n\nI read Byron—read his Cain, in which, as in Paradise Lost, the Devil\nseems to be the better god—read his beautiful, sublime and bitter\nlines—read his Prisoner of Chillon—his best—a poem that filled my\nheart with tenderness, with pity, and with an eternal hatred of tyranny.\n\nI read Shelley's Queen Mab—a poem filled with beauty, courage, thought,\nsympathy, tears and scorn, in which a brave soul tears down the prison\nwalls and floods the cells with light. I read his Skylark—a winged\nflame—passionate as blood—tender as tears—pure as light.\n\nI read Keats, \"whose name was writ in water\"—read St. Agnes Eve, a\nstory told with such an artless art that this poor common world is\nchanged to fairy land—the Grecian Urn, that fills the soul with ever\neager love, with all the rapture of imagined song—the Nightingale—a\nmelody in which there is the memory of morn—a melody that dies away in\ndusk and tears, paining the senses with its perfectness.\n\nAnd then I read Shakespeare, the plays, the sonnets, the poems—read\nall. I beheld a new heaven and a new earth; Shakespeare, who knew the\nbrain and heart of man—the hopes and fears, the loves and hatreds,\nthe vices and the virtues of the human race; whose imagination read the\ntear-blurred records, the blood-stained pages of all the past, and\nsaw falling athwart the outspread scroll the light of hope and love;\nShakespeare, who sounded every depth—while on the loftiest peak there\nfell the shadow of his wings.\n\nI compared the Plays with the \"inspired\" books—Romeo and Juliet with\nthe Song of Solomon, Lear with Job, and the Sonnets with the Psalms, and\nI found that Jehovah did not understand the art of speech. I compared\nShakespeare's women—his perfect women—with the women of the Bible.\nI found that Jehovah was not a sculptor, not a painter—not an\nartist—that he lacked the power that changes clay to flesh—the art,\nthe plastic touch, that moulds the perfect form—the breath that gives\nit free and joyous life—the genius that creates the faultless.\n\nThe sacred books of all the world are worthless dross and common stones\ncompared with Shakespeare's glittering gold and gleaming gems.\n\nVI.\n\nUP to this time I had read nothing against our blessed religion except\nwhat I had found in Burns, Byron and Shelley. By some accident I read\nVolney, who shows that all religions are, and have been, established in\nthe same way—that all had their Christs, their apostles, miracles and\nsacred books, and then asked how it is possible to decide which is the\ntrue one. A question that is still waiting for an answer.\n\nI read Gibbon, the greatest of historians, who marshaled his facts as\nskillfully as Caesar did his legions, and I learned that Christianity\nis only a name for Paganism—for the old religion, shorn of its\nbeauty—that some absurdities had been exchanged for others—that some\ngods had been killed—a vast multitude of devils created, and that hell\nhad been enlarged.\n\nAnd then I read the Age of Reason, by Thomas Paine. Let me tell you\nsomething about this sublime and slandered man. He came to this country\njust before the Revolution. He brought a letter of introduction from\nBenjamin Franklin, at that time the greatest American.\n\nIn Philadelphia, Paine was employed to write for the _Pennsylvania\nMagazine_. We know that he wrote at least five articles. The first was\nagainst slavery, the second against duelling, the third on the treatment\nof prisoners—showing that the object should be to reform, not to punish\nand degrade—the fourth on the rights of woman, and the fifth in favor\nof forming societies for the prevention of cruelty to children and\nanimals.\n\nFrom this you see that he suggested the great reforms of our century.\n\nThe truth is that he labored all his life for the good of his\nfellow-men, and did as much to found the Great Republic as any man who\never stood beneath our flag.\n\nHe gave his thoughts about religion—about the blessed Scriptures, about\nthe superstitions of his time. He was perfectly sincere and what he said\nwas kind and fair.\n\nThe Age of Reason filled with hatred the hearts of those who loved their\nenemies, and the occupant of every orthodox pulpit became, and still is,\na passionate maligner of Thomas Paine.\n\nNo one has answered—no one will answer, his argument against the dogma\nof inspiration—his objections to the Bible.\n\nHe did not rise above all the superstitions of his day. While he hated\nJehovah, he praised the God of Nature, the creator and preserver of all.\nIn this he was wrong, because, as Watson said in his Reply to Paine, the\nGod of Nature is as heartless, as cruel as the God of the Bible.\n\nBut Paine was one of the pioneers—one of the Titans, one of the\nheroes, who gladly gave his life, his every thought and act, to free and\ncivilize mankind.\n\nI read Voltaire—Voltaire, the greatest man of his century, and who did\nmore for liberty of thought and speech than any other being, human or\n\"divine.\" Voltaire, who tore the mask from hypocrisy and found behind\nthe painted smile the fangs of hate. Voltaire, who attacked the savagery\nof the law, the cruel decisions of venal courts, and rescued victims\nfrom the wheel and rack. Voltaire, who waged war against the tyranny of\nthrones, the greed and heartlessness of power. Voltaire, who filled the\nflesh of priests with the barbed and poisoned arrows of his wit and made\nthe pious jugglers, who cursed him in public, laugh at themselves\nin private. Voltaire, who sided with the oppressed, rescued the\nunfortunate, championed the obscure and weak, civilized judges, repealed\nlaws and abolished torture in his native land.\n\nIn every direction this tireless man fought the absurd, the miraculous,\nthe supernatural, the idiotic, the unjust. He had no reverence for the\nancient. He was not awed by pageantry and pomp, by crowned Crime or\nmitered Pretence. Beneath the crown he saw the criminal, under the\nmiter, the hypocrite.\n\nTo the bar of his conscience, his reason, he summoned the barbarism and\nthe barbarians of his time. He pronounced judgment against them all,\nand that judgment has been affirmed by the intelligent world. Voltaire\nlighted a torch and gave to others the sacred flame. The light still\nshines and will as long as man loves liberty and seeks for truth.\n\nI read Zeno, the man who said, centuries before our Christ was born,\nthat man could not own his fellow-man.\n\n\"No matter whether you claim a slave by purchase or capture, the title\nis bad. They who claim to own their fellow-men, look down into the pit\nand forget the justice that should rule the world.\"\n\nI became acquainted with Epicurus, who taught the religion of\nusefulness, of temperance, of courage and wisdom, and who said: \"Why\nshould I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why\nshould I fear that which cannot exist when I do?\"\n\nI read about Socrates, who when on trial for his life, said, among other\nthings, to his judges, these wondrous words: \"I have not sought during\nmy life to amass wealth and to adorn my body, but I have sought to adorn\nmy soul with the jewels of wisdom, patience, and above all with a love\nof liberty.\"\n\nSo, I read about Diogenes, the philosopher who hated the\nsuperfluous—the enemy of waste and greed, and who one day entered the\ntemple, reverently approached the altar, crushed a louse between the\nnails of his thumbs, and solemnly said: \"The sacrifice of Diogenes to\nall the gods.\" This parodied the worship of the world—satirized all\ncreeds, and in one act put the essence of religion.\n\nDiogenes must have know of this \"inspired\" passage—\"Without the\nshedding of blood there is no remission of sins.\"\n\nI compared Zeno, Epicurus and Socrates, three heathen wretches who had\nnever heard of the Old Testament or the Ten Commandments, with Abraham,\nIsaac and Jacob, three favorites of Jehovah, and I was depraved enough\nto think that the Pagans were superior to the Patriarchs—and to Jehovah\nhimself.\n\nVii\n\nMY attention was turned to other religions, to the sacred books, the\ncreeds and ceremonies of other lands—of India, Egypt, Assyria, Persia,\nof the dead and dying nations.\n\nI concluded that all religions had the same foundation—a belief in\nthe supernatural—a power above nature that man could influence by\nworship—by sacrifice and prayer.\n\nI found that all religions rested on a mistaken conception of\nnature—that the religion of a people was the science of that people,\nthat is to say, their explanation of the world—of life and death—of\norigin and destiny.\n\nI concluded that all religions had substantially the same origin, and\nthat in fact there has never been but one religion in the world. The\ntwigs and leaves may differ, but the trunk is the same.\n\nThe poor African that pours out his heart to his deity of stone is on an\nexact religious level with the robed priest who supplicates his God. The\nsame mistake, the same superstition, bends the knees and shuts the eyes\nof both. Both ask for supernatural aid, and neither has the slightest\nthought of the absolute uniformity of nature.\n\nIt seems probable to me that the first organized ceremonial religion was\nthe worship of the sun. The sun was the \"Sky Father,\" the \"All Seeing,\"\nthe source of life—the fireside of the world. The sun was regarded as a\ngod who fought the darkness, the power of evil, the enemy of man.\n\nThere have been many sun-gods, and they seem to have been the chief\ndeities in the ancient religions. They have been worshiped in many\nlands—by many nations that have passed to death and dust.\n\nApollo was a sun-god and he fought and conquered the serpent of night.\nBaldur was a sun-god. He was in love with the Dawn—a maiden. Chrishna\nwas a sun-god. At his birth the Ganges was thrilled from its source to\nthe sea, and all the trees, the dead as well as the living, burst into\nleaf and bud and flower. Hercules was a sun-god and so was Samson, whose\nstrength was in his hair—that is to say, in his beams. He was shorn of\nhis strength by Delilah, the shadow—the darkness. Osiris, Bacchus, and\nMithra, Hermes, Buddha, and Quetzalcoatl, Prometheus, Zoroaster, and\nPerseus, Cadom, Lao-tsze, Fo-hi, Horus and Rameses, were all sun-gods.\n\nAll of these gods had gods for fathers and their mothers were virgins.\nThe births of nearly all were announced by stars, celebrated by\ncelestial music, and voices declared that a blessing had come to the\npoor world. All of these gods were born in humble places—in caves,\nunder trees, in common inns, and tyrants sought to kill them all\nwhen they were babes. All of these sun-gods were born at the winter\nsolstice—on Christmas. Nearly all were worshiped by \"wise men.\" All of\nthem fasted for forty days—all of them taught in parables—all of them\nwrought miracles—all met with a violent death, and all rose from the\ndead.\n\nThe history of these gods is the exact history of our Christ.\n\nThis is not a coincidence—an accident. Christ was a sun-god. Christ was\na new name for an old biography—a survival—the last of the sun-gods.\nChrist was not a man, but a myth—not a life, but a legend.\n\nI found that we had not only borrowed our Christ—but that all our\nsacraments, symbols and ceremonies were legacies that we received from\nthe buried past. There is nothing original in Christianity.\n\nThe cross was a symbol thousands of years before our era. It was a\nsymbol of life, of immortality—of the god Agni, and it was chiseled\nupon tombs many ages before a line of our Bible was written.\n\nBaptism is far older than Christianity—than Judaism. The Hindus,\nEgyptians, Greeks and Romans had Holy Water long before a Catholic\nlived. The eucharist was borrowed from the Pagans. Ceres was the goddess\nof the fields—Bacchus of the vine. At the harvest festival they made\ncakes of wheat and said: \"This is the flesh of the goddess.\" They drank\nwine and cried: \"This is the blood of our god.\"\n\nThe Egyptians had a Trinity. They worshiped Osiris, Isis and Horus,\nthousands of years before the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost were known.\n\nThe Tree of Life grew in India, in China, and among the Aztecs, long\nbefore the Garden of Eden was planted.\n\nLong before our Bible was known, other nations had their sacred books.\n\nThe dogmas of the Fall of Man, the Atonement and Salvation by Faith, are\nfar older than our religion.\n\nIn our blessed gospel,—in our \"divine scheme,\"—there is nothing\nnew—nothing original. All old—all borrowed, pieced and patched.\n\nThen I concluded that all religions had been naturally produced, and\nthat all were variations, modifications of one,—then I felt that I knew\nthat all were the work of man.\n\nViii\n\nTHE theologians had always insisted that their God was the creator\nof all living things—that the forms, parts, functions, colors and\nvarieties of animals were the expressions of his fancy, taste and\nwisdom—that he made them all precisely as they are to-day—that he\ninvented fins and legs and wings—that he furnished them with the\nweapons of attack, the shields of defence—that he formed them with\nreference to food and climate, taking into consideration all facts\naffecting life.\n\nThey insisted that man was a special creation, not related in any way\nto the animals below him. They also asserted that all the forms of\nvegetation, from mosses to forests, were just the same to-day as the\nmoment they were made.\n\nMen of genius, who were for the most part free from religious prejudice,\nwere examining these things—were looking for facts. They were\nexamining the fossils of animals and plants—studying the forms of\nanimals—their bones and muscles—the effect of climate and food—the\nstrange modifications through which they had passed.\n\nHumboldt had published his lectures—filled with great thoughts—with\nsplendid generalizations—with suggestions that stimulated the spirit\nof investigation, and with conclusions that satisfied the mind. He\ndemonstrated the uniformity of Nature—the kinship of all that lives and\ngrows—that breathes and thinks.\n\nDarwin, with his Origin of Species, his theories about Natural\nSelection, the Survival of the Fittest, and the influence of\nenvironment, shed a flood of light upon the great problems of plant and\nanimal life.\n\nThese things had been guessed, prophesied, asserted, hinted by many\nothers, but Darwin, with infinite patience, with perfect care and\ncandor, found the facts, fulfilled the prophecies, and demonstrated the\ntruth of the guesses, hints and assertions. He was, in my judgment, the\nkeenest observer, the best judge of the meaning and value of a fact, the\ngreatest Naturalist the world has produced.\n\nThe theological view began to look small and mean.\n\nSpencer gave his theory of evolution and sustained it by countless\nfacts. He stood at a great height, and with the eyes of a philosopher,\na profound thinker, surveyed the world. He has influenced the thought of\nthe wisest.\n\nTheology looked more absurd than ever.\n\nHuxley entered the lists for Darwin. No man ever had a sharper sword—a\nbetter shield. He challenged the world. The great theologians and the\nsmall scientists—those who had more courage than sense, accepted the\nchallenge. Their poor bodies were carried away by their friends.\n\nHuxley had intelligence, industry, genius, and the courage to express\nhis thought. He was absolutely loyal to what he thought was truth.\nWithout prejudice and without fear, he followed the footsteps of life\nfrom the lowest to the highest forms.\n\nTheology looked smaller still.\n\nHaeckel began at the simplest cell, went from change to change—from\nform to form—followed the line of development, the path of life,\nuntil he reached the human race. It was all natural. There had been no\ninterference from without.\n\nI read the works of these great men—of many others—and became\nconvinced that they were right, and that all the theologians—all the\nbelievers in \"special creation\" were absolutely wrong.\n\nThe Garden of Eden faded away, Adam and Eve fell back to dust, the snake\ncrawled into the grass, and Jehovah became a miserable myth.\n\nIX.\n\nI TOOK another step. What is matter—substance? Can it be\ndestroyed—annihilated? Is it possible to conceive of the destruction of\nthe smallest atom of substance? It can be ground to powder—changed from\na solid to a liquid—from a liquid to a gas—but it all remains. Nothing\nis lost—nothing destroyed.\n\nLet an infinite God, if there be one, attack a grain of sand—attack\nit with infinite power. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot surrender. It\ndefies all force. Substance cannot be destroyed.\n\nThen I took another step.\n\nIf matter cannot be destroyed, cannot be annihilated, it could not have\nbeen created.\n\nThe indestructible must be uncreateable.\n\nAnd then I asked myself: What is force?\n\nWe cannot conceive of the creation of force, or of its destruction.\nForce may be changed from one form to another—from motion to heat—but\nit cannot be destroyed—annihilated.\n\nIf force cannot be destroyed it could not have been created. It is\neternal.\n\nAnother thing—matter cannot exist apart from force. Force cannot exist\napart from matter. Matter could not have existed before force. Force\ncould not have existed before matter. Matter and force can only be\nconceived of together. This has been shown by several scientists, but\nmost clearly, most forcibly by Buechner.\n\nThought is a form of force, consequently it could not have caused or\ncreated matter. Intelligence is a form of force and could not have\nexisted without or apart from matter. Without substance there could have\nbeen no mind, no will, no force in any form, and there could have been\nno substance without force.\n\nMatter and force were not created. They have existed from eternity. They\ncannot be destroyed.\n\nThere was, there is, no creator. Then came the question: Is there a\nGod? Is there a being of infinite intelligence, power and goodness, who\ngoverns the world?\n\nThere can be goodness without much intelligence—but it seems to me\nthat perfect intelligence and perfect goodness must go together.\n\nIn nature I see, or seem to see, good and evil—intelligence and\nignorance—goodness and cruelty—care and carelessness—economy and\nwaste. I see means that do not accomplish the ends—designs that seem to\nfail.\n\nTo me it seems infinitely cruel for life to feed on life—to create\nanimals that devour others.\n\nThe teeth and beaks, the claws and fangs, that tear and rend, fill me\nwith horror. What can be more frightful than a world at-war? Every leaf\na battle-field—every flower a Golgotha—in every drop of water pursuit,\ncapture and death. Under every piece of bark, life lying in wait for\nlife. On every blade of grass, something that kills,—something that\nsuffers. Everywhere the strong living on the weak—the superior on\nthe inferior. Everywhere the weak, the insignificant, living on\nthe strong—the inferior on the superior—the highest food for the\nlowest—man sacrificed for the sake of microbes. Murder universal.\nEverywhere pain, disease and death—death that does not wait for bent\nforms and gray hairs, but clutches babes and happy youths. Death that\ntakes the mother from her helpless, dimpled child—death that fills the\nworld with grief and tears.\n\nHow can the orthodox Christian explain these things?\n\nI know that life is good. I remember the sunshine and rain. Then I think\nof the earthquake and flood. I do not forget health and harvest, home\nand love—but what of pestilence and famine? I cannot harmonize all\nthese contradictions—these blessings and agonies—with the existence of\nan infinitely good, wise and powerful God.\n\nThe theologian says that what we call evil is for our benefit—that we\nare placed in this world of sin and sorrow to develop character. If\nthis is true I ask why the infant dies? Millions and millions draw a few\nbreaths and fade away in the arms of their mothers. They are not allowed\nto develop character.\n\nThe theologian says that serpents were given fangs to protect themselves\nfrom their enemies. Why did the God who made them, make enemies? Why is\nit that many species of serpents have no fangs?\n\nThe theologian says that God armored the hippopotamus, covered his body,\nexcept the under part, with scales and plates, that other animals could\nnot pierce with tooth or tusk. But the same God made the rhinoceros\nand supplied him with a horn on his nose, with which he disembowels the\nhippopotamus.\n\nThe same God made the eagle, the vulture, the hawk, and their helpless\nprey.\n\nOn every hand there seems to be design to defeat design.\n\nIf God created man—if he is the father of us all, why did he make the\ncriminals, the insane, the deformed and idiotic?\n\nShould the inferior man thank God? Should the mother, who clasps to her\nbreast an idiot child, thank God? Should the slave thank God?\n\nThe theologian says that God governs the wind, the rain, the lightning.\nHow then can we account for the cyclone, the flood, the drought, the\nglittering bolt that kills?\n\nSuppose we had a man in this country who could control the wind, the\nrain and lightning, and suppose we elected him to govern these things,\nand suppose that he allowed whole States to dry and wither, and at the\nsame time wasted the rain in the sea. Suppose that he allowed the winds\nto destroy cities and to crush to shapelessness thousands of men and\nwomen, and allowed the lightnings to strike the life out of mothers and\nbabes. What would we say? What would we think of such a savage?\n\nAnd yet, according to the theologians, this is exactly the course\npursued by God.\n\nWhat do we think of a man, who will not, when he has the power, protect\nhis friends? Yet the Christian's God allowed his enemies to torture and\nburn his friends, his worshipers.\n\nWho has ingenuity enough to explain this?\n\nWhat good man, having the power to prevent it, would allow the innocent\nto be imprisoned, chained in dungeons, and sigh against the dripping\nwalls their weary lives away?\n\nIf God governs the world, why is innocence not a perfect shield? Why\ndoes injustice triumph?\n\nWho can answer these questions?\n\nIn answer, the intelligent, honest man must say: I do not know.\n\nX.\n\nTHIS God must be, if he exists, a person—a conscious being. Who can\nimagine an infinite personality? This God must have force, and we cannot\nconceive of force apart from matter. This God must be material. He must\nhave the means by which he changes force to what we call thought. When\nhe thinks he uses force, force that must be replaced. Yet we are told\nthat he is infinitely wise. If he is, he does not think. Thought is\na ladder—a process by which we reach a conclusion. He who knows all\nconclusions cannot think. He cannot hope or fear. When knowledge is\nperfect there can be no passion, no emotion. If God is infinite he does\nnot want. He has all. He who does not want does not act. The infinite\nmust dwell in eternal calm.\n\nIt is as impossible to conceive of such a being as to imagine a square\ntriangle, or to think of a circle without a diameter.\n\nYet we are told that it is our duty to love this God. Can we love the\nunknown, the inconceivable? Can it be our duty to love anybody? It is\nour duty to act justly, honestly, but it cannot be our duty to love. We\ncannot be under obligation to admire a painting—to be charmed with a\npoem—or thrilled with music. Admiration cannot be controlled. Taste\nand love are not the servants of the will. Love is, and must be free. It\nrises from the heart like perfume from a flower.\n\nFor thousands of ages men and women have been trying to love the\ngods—trying to soften their hearts—trying to get their aid.\n\nI see them all. The panorama passes before me. I see them with\noutstretched hands—with reverently closed eyes—worshiping the sun. I\nsee them bowing, in their fear and need, to meteoric stones—imploring\nserpents, beasts and sacred trees—praying to idols wrought of wood and\nstone. I see them building altars to the unseen powers, staining them\nwith blood of child and beast. I see the countless priests and hear\ntheir solemn chants. I see the dying victims, the smoking altars, the\nswinging censers, and the rising clouds. I see the half-god men—the\nmournful Christs, in many lands. I see the common things of life change\nto miracles as they speed from mouth to mouth. I see the insane prophets\nreading the secret book of fate by signs and dreams. I see them\nall—the Assyrians chanting the praises of Asshur and Ishtar—the Hindus\nworshiping Brahma, Vishnu and Draupadi, the whitearmed—the Chaldeans\nsacrificing to Bel and Hea—the Egyptians bowing to Ptah and Ra, Osiris\nand Isis—the Medes placating the storm, worshiping the fire—the\nBabylonians supplicating Bel and Morodach—I see them all by the\nEuphrates, the Tigris, the Ganges and the Nile. I see the Greeks\nbuilding temples for Zeus, Neptune and Venus. I see the Romans kneeling\nto a hundred gods. I see others spurning idols and pouring out their\nhopes and fears to a vague image in the mind. I see the multitudes,\nwith open mouths, receive as truths the myths and fables of the vanished\nyears. I see them give their toil, their wealth to robe the priests, to\nbuild the vaulted roofs, the spacious aisles, the glittering domes. I\nsee them clad in rags, huddled in dens and huts, devouring crusts and\nscraps, that they may give the more to ghosts and gods. I see them make\ntheir cruel creeds and fill the world with hatred, war, and death. I see\nthem with their faces in the dust in the dark days of plague and sudden\ndeath, when cheeks are wan and lips are white for lack of bread. I hear\ntheir prayers, their sighs, their sobs. I see them kiss the unconscious\nlips as their hot tears fall on the pallid faces of the dead. I see the\nnations as they fade and fail. I see them captured and enslaved. I see\ntheir altars mingle with the common earth, their temples crumble slowly\nback to dust. I see their gods grow old and weak, infirm and faint.\nI see them fall from vague and misty thrones, helpless and dead. The\nworshipers receive no help. Injustice triumphs. Toilers are paid with\nthe lash,—babes are sold,—the innocent stand on scaffolds, and the\nheroic perish in flames. I see the earthquakes devour, the volcanoes\noverwhelm, the cyclones wreck, the floods destroy, and the lightnings\nkill.\n\nThe nations perished. The gods died. The toil and wealth were lost. The\ntemples were built in vain, and all the prayers died unanswered in the\nheedless air.\n\nThen I asked myself the question: Is there a supernatural power—an\narbitrary mind—an enthroned God—a supreme will that sways the tides\nand currents of the world—to which all causes bow?\n\nI do not deny. I do not know—but I do not believe. I believe that the\nnatural is supreme—that from the infinite chain no link can be lost or\nbroken—that there is no supernatural power that can answer prayer—no\npower that worship can persuade or change—no power that cares for man.\n\nI believe that with infinite arms Nature embraces the all—that there\nis no interference—no chance—that behind every event are the necessary\nand countless causes, and that beyond every event will be and must be\nthe necessary and countless effects.\n\nMan must protect himself. He cannot depend upon the supernatural—upon\nan imaginary father in the skies. He must protect himself by finding\nthe facts in Nature, by developing his brain, to the end that he may\novercome the obstructions and take advantage of the forces of Nature.\n\nIs there a God?\n\nI do not know.\n\nIs man immortal?\n\nI do not know.\n\nOne thing I do know, and that is, that neither hope, nor fear, belief,\nnor denial, can change the fact. It is as it is, and it will be as it\nmust be.\n\nWe wait and hope.\n\nXI.\n\nWHEN I became convinced that the Universe is natural—that all the\nghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul,\ninto every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom.\nThe walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with\nlight and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no\nlonger a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all\nthe wide world—not even in infinite space. I was free—free to think,\nto express my thoughts—free to live to my own ideal—free to live\nfor myself and those I loved—free to use all my faculties, all my\nsenses—free to spread imagination's wings—free to investigate, to\nguess and dream and hope—free to judge and determine for myself—free\nto reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the \"inspired\" books that\nsavages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past—free\nfrom popes and priests—free from all the \"called\" and \"set apart\"—free\nfrom sanctified mistakes and holy lies—free from the fear of eternal\npain—free from the winged monsters of the night—free from devils,\nghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited\nplaces in all the realms of thought—no air, no space, where fancy could\nnot spread her painted wings—no chains for my limbs—no lashes for my\nback—no fires for my flesh—no master's frown or threat—no following\nanother's steps—no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying\nwords. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all\nworlds.\n\nAnd then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went\nout in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for\nthe liberty of hand and brain—for the freedom of labor and thought—to\nthose who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in\ndungeons bound with chains—to those who proudly mounted scaffold's\nstairs—to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and\ntorn—to those by fire consumed—to all the wise, the good, the brave of\nevery land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of\nmen. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it\nhigh, that light might conquer darkness still.\n\nLet us be true to ourselves—true to the facts we know, and let us,\nabove all things, preserve the veracity of our souls.\n\nIf there be gods we cannot help them, but we can assist our fellow-men.\nWe cannot love the inconceivable, but we can love wife and child and\nfriend.\n\nWe can be as honest as we are ignorant. If we are, when asked what is\nbeyond the horizon of the known, we must say that we do not know. We can\ntell the truth, and we can enjoy the blessed freedom that the brave have\nwon. We can destroy the monsters of superstition, the hissing snakes\nof ignorance and fear. We can drive from our minds the frightful things\nthat tear and wound with beak and fang. We can civilize our fellow-men.\nWe can fill our lives with generous deeds, with loving words, with art\nand song, and all the ecstasies of love. We can flood our years with\nsunshine—with the divine climate of kindness, and we can drain to the\nlast drop the golden cup of joy.\n"
}