Why

I Am An Agnostic

Robert Green Ingersoll
1896
I

For the most part we inherit our opinions. We are the heirs of

habits and mental customs. Our beliefs, like the fashion of our

garments, depend on where we were born. We are molded and fashioned

by our surroundings.

Environment is a sculptor — a painter.

If we had been born in Constantinople, the most of us would

have said: “There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his

prophet.” If our parents had lived on the banks of the Ganges, we

would have been worshipers of Siva, longing for the heaven of

Nirvana.

As a rule, children love their parents, believe what they

teach, and take great pride in saying that the religion of mother

is good enough for them.

Most people love peace. They do not like to differ with their
neighbors. They like company. They are social. They enjoy traveling

on the highway with the multitude. They hate to walk alone.

The Scotch are Calvinists because their fathers were. The

Irish are Catholics because their fathers were. The English are

Episcopalians because their fathers were, and the Americans are

divided in a hundred sects because their fathers were. This is the

general rule, to which there are many exceptions. Children

sometimes are superior to their parents, modify their ideas, change

their customs, and arrive at different conclusions. But this is

generally so gradual that the departure is scarcely noticed, and

those who change usually insist that they are still following the

fathers.

It is claimed by Christian historians that the religion of a

nation was sometimes suddenly changed, and that millions of Pagans

were made into Christians by the command of a king. Philosophers do

not agree with these historians. Names have been changed, altars

have been overthrown, but opinions, customs and beliefs remained

the same. A Pagan, beneath the drawn sword of a Christian, would

probably change his religious views, and a Christian, with a

scimitar above his head, might suddenly become a Mohammedan, but as

a matter of fact both would remain exactly as they were before —

except in speech.

Belief is not subject to the will. Men think as they must.

Children do not, and cannot, believe exactly as they were taught.

They are not exactly like their parents. They differ in

temperament, in experience, in capacity, in surroundings. And so

there is a continual, though almost imperceptible change. There is

development, conscious and unconscious growth, and by comparing

long periods of time we find that the old has been almost

abandoned, almost lost in the new. Men cannot remain stationary.

The mind cannot be securely anchored. If we do not advance, we go

backward. If we do not grow, we decay. If we do not develop, we

shrink and shrivel.

Like the most of you, I was raised among people who knew —

who were certain. They did not reason or investigate. They had no

doubts. They knew that they had the truth. In their creed there was

no guess — no perhaps. They had a revelation from God. They knew

the beginning of things. They knew that God commenced to create one
Monday morning, four thousand and four years before Christ. They

knew that in the eternity — back of that morning, he had done

nothing. They knew that it took him six days to make the earth —

all plants, all animals, all life, and all the globes that wheel in

space. They knew exactly what he did each day and when he rested.

They knew the origin, the cause of evil, of all crime, of all

disease and death.

They not only knew the beginning, but they knew the end. They

knew that life had one path and one road. They knew that the path,

grass-grown and narrow, filled with thorns and nettles, infested

with vipers, wet with tears, stained by bleeding feet, led to

heaven, and that the road, broad and smooth, bordered with fruits

and flowers, filled with laughter and song and all the happiness of

human love, led straight to hell. They knew that God was doing his

best to make you take the path and that the Devil used every art to

keep you in the road.

They knew that there was a perpetual battle waged between the

great Powers of good and evil for the possession of human souls.

They knew that many centuries ago God had left his throne and had
been born a babe into this poor world — that he had suffered death

for the sake of man — for the sake of saving a few. They also knew

that the human heart was utterly depraved, so that man by nature

was in love with wrong and hated God with all his might.

At the same time they knew that God created man in his own

image and was perfectly satisfied with his work. They also knew

that he had been thwarted by the Devil, who with wiles and lies had

deceived the first of human kind. They knew that in consequence of

that, God cursed the man and woman; the man with toil, the woman

with slavery and pain, and both with death; and that he cursed the

earth itself with briers and thorns, brambles and thistles. All

these blessed things they knew. They knew too all that God had done

to purify and elevate the race. They knew all about the Flood —

knew that God, with the exception of eight, drowned all his

children — the old and young — the bowed patriarch and the

dimpled babe — the young man and the merry maiden — the loving

mother and the laughing child — because his mercy endureth

forever. They knew too, that he drowned the beasts and birds —

everything that walked or crawled or flew — because his loving

kindness is over all his works. They knew that God, for the purpose
of civilizing his children, had devoured some with earthquakes,

destroyed some with storms of fire, killed some with his

lightnings, millions with famine, with pestilence, and sacrificed

countless thousands upon the fields of war. They knew that it was

necessary to believe these things and to love God. They knew that

there could be no salvation except by faith, and through the

atoning blood of Jesus Christ.

All who doubted or denied would be lost. To live a moral and

honest life — to keep your contracts, to take care of wife and

child — to make a happy home — to be a good citizen, a patriot,

a just and thoughtful man, was simply a respectable way of going to

hell.

God did not reward men for being honest, generous and brave,

but for the act of faith. Without faith, all the so-called virtues

were sins. and the men who practiced these virtues, without faith,

deserved to suffer eternal pain.

All of these comforting and reasonable things were taught by

the ministers in their pulpits — by teachers in Sunday schools and

by parents at home. The children were victims. They were assaulted

in the cradle — in their mother’s arms. Then, the schoolmaster

carried on the war against their natural sense, and all the books

they read were filled with the same impossible truths. The poor

children were helpless. The atmosphere they breathed was filled

with lies — lies that mingled with their blood.

In those days ministers depended on revivals to save souls and

reform the world.

In the winter, navigation having closed, business was mostly

suspended. There were no railways and the only means of

communication were wagons and boats. Generally the roads were so

bad that the wagons were laid up with the boats. There were no

operas, no theaters, no amusement except parties and balls. The

parties were regarded as worldly and the balls as wicked. For real

and virtuous enjoyment the good people depended on revivals.

The sermons were mostly about the pains and agonies of hell,

the joys and ecstasies of heaven, salvation by faith, and the

efficacy of the atonement. The little churches, in which the

services were held, were generally small, badly ventilated, and

exceedingly warm. The emotional sermons, the sad singing, the

hysterical amens, the hope of heaven, the fear of hell, caused many

to lose the little sense they had. They became substantially

insane. In this condition they flocked to the “mourner’s bench” —

asked for the prayers of the faithful — had strange feelings,

prayed and wept and thought they had been “born again.” Then they

would tell their experience — how wicked they had been — how evil

had been their thoughts, their desires, and how good they had

suddenly become.

They used to tell the story of an old woman who, in telling

her experience, said: — “Before I was converted, before I gave my

heart to God, I used to lie and steal, but now, thanks to the grace

and blood of Jesus Christ, I have quit ‘em both, in a great

measure.”

Of course all the people were not exactly of one mind. There

were some scoffers, and now and then some man had sense enough to

laugh at the threats of priests and make a jest of hell. Some would

tell of unbelievers who had lived and died in peace.



When I was a boy I heard them tell of an old farmer in

Vermont. He was dying. The minister was at his bed-side — asked

him if he was a Christian — if he was prepared to die. The old man

answered that he had made no preparation, that he was not a

Christian — that he had never done anything but work. The preacher

said that he could give him no hope unless he had faith in Christ,

and that if he had no faith his soul would certainly be lost.

The old man was not frightened. He was perfectly calm. In a

weak and broken voice he said: “Mr. Preacher, I suppose you noticed

my farm. My wife and I came here more than fifty years ago. We were

just married. It was a forest then and the land was covered with

stones. I cut down the trees, burned the logs, picked up the stones

and laid the walls. My wife spun and wove and worked every moment.

We raised and educated our children — denied ourselves. During all

these years my wife never had a good dress, or a decent bonnet. I

never had a good suit of clothes. We lived on the plainest food.

Our hands, our bodies are deformed by toil. We never had a

vacation. We loved each other and the children. That is the only

luxury we ever had. Now I am about to die and you ask me if I am

prepared. Mr. Preacher, I have no fear of the future, no terror of

any other world. There may be such a place as hell — but if there

is, you never can make me believe that it’s any worse than old

Vermont.”

So, they told of a man who compared himself with his dog. “My

dog,” he said, “just barks and plays — has all he wants to eat. He

never works — has no trouble about business. In a little while he

dies, and that is all. I work with all my strength. I have no time

to play. I have trouble every day. In a little while I will die,

and then I go to hell. I wish that I had been a dog.”

Well, while the cold weather lasted, while the snows fell, the

revival went on, but when the winter was over, when the steamboat’s

whistle was heard, when business started again, most of the

converts “backslid” and fell again into their old ways. But the

next winter they were on hand, ready to be “born again.” They

formed a kind of stock company, playing the same parts every winter

and backsliding every spring.

The ministers, who preached at these revivals, were in

earnest. They were zealous and sincere. They were not philosophers.

To them science was the name of a vague dread — a dangerous enemy.

They did not know much, but they believed a great deal. To them

hell was a burning reality — they could see the smoke and flames.

The Devil was no myth. He was an actual person. a rival of God, an

enemy of mankind. They thought that the important business of this

life was to save your soul — that all should resist and scorn the

pleasures of sense, and keep their eyes steadily fixed on the

golden gate of the New Jerusalem. They were unbalanced, emotional,

hysterical, bigoted, hateful, loving, and insane. They really

believed the Bible to be the actual word of God — a book without

mistake or contradiction. They called its cruelties, justice — its

absurdities, mysteries — its miracles, facts, and the idiotic

passages were regarded as profoundly spiritual. They dwelt on the

pangs, the regrets, the infinite agonies of the lost, and showed

how easily they could be avoided, and how cheaply heaven could be

obtained. They told their hearers to believe, to have faith, to

give their hearts to God, their sins to Christ, who would bear

their burdens and make their souls as white as snow.

All this the ministers really believed. They were absolutely

certain. In their minds the Devil had tried in vain to sow the

seeds of doubt.

I heard hundreds of these evangelical sermons — heard

hundreds of the most fearful and vivid descriptions of the tortures

inflicted in hell, of the horrible state of the lost. I supposed

that what I heard was true and yet I did not believe it. I said:

“It is,” and then I thought: “It cannot be.”

These sermons made but faint impressions on my mind. I was not

convinced.

I had no desire to be “converted,” did not want a “new heart”

and had no wish to be “born again.”

But I heard one sermon that touched my heart, that left its

mark, like a scar, on my brain.

One Sunday I went with my brother to hear a Free Will Baptist

preacher. He was a large man, dressed like a farmer, but he was an

orator. He could paint a picture with words.



He took for his text the parable of “the rich man and

Lazarus.” He described Dives, the rich man — his manner of life,

the excesses in which he indulged, his extravagance, his riotous

nights, his purple and fine linen, his feasts, his wines, and his

beautiful women.

Then he described Lazarus, his poverty, his rags and

wretchedness, his poor body eaten by disease, the crusts and crumbs

he devoured, the dogs that pitied him. He pictured his lonely life,

his friendless death.

Then, changing his tone of pity to one of triumph — leaping

from tears to the heights of exultation — from defeat to victory

— he described the glorious company of angels, who with white and

outspread wings carried the soul of the despised pauper to Paradise

— to the bosom of Abraham.

Then, changing his voice to one of scorn and loathing, he told

of the rich man’s death. He was in his palace, on his costly couch,

the air heavy with perfume, the room filled with servants and
physicians. His gold was worthless then. He could not buy another

breath. He died, and in hell he lifted up his eyes, being in

torment.

Then, assuming a dramatic attitude, putting his right hand to

his ear, he whispered, “Hark! I hear the rich man’s voice. What

does he say? Hark! ‘Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee

send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and

cool my parched tongue, for I am tormented in this flame.’”

“Oh, my hearers, he has been making that request for more than

eighteen hundred years. And millions of ages hence that wail will

cross the gulf that lies between the saved and lost and still will

be heard the cry: ‘Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee send

Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger. in water and cool my

parched tongue, for I am tormented in this flame.’”

For the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain —

appreciated “the glad tidings of great joy.” For the first time my

imagination grasped the height and depth of the Christian horror.

Then I said: “It is a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true,

I hate your God.”

From that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that

day, the flames of hell were quenched. From that day I have

passionately hated every orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good.

II

From my childhood I had heard read, and read the Bible myself.

Morning and evening the sacred volume was opened and prayers were

said. The Bible was my first history, the Jews were the first

people, and the events narrated by Moses and the other inspired

writers, and those predicted by prophets were the all important

things. In other books were found the thoughts and dreams of men,

but in the Bible were the sacred truths of God.

Yet in spite of my surroundings, of my education, I had no

love for God. He was so saving of mercy, so extravagant in murder,

so anxious to kill, so ready to assassinate, that I hated him with

all my heart. At his command, babes were butchered, women violated,

and the white hair of trembling age stained with blood. This God

visited the people with pestilence — filled the houses and covered

the streets with the dying and the dead — saw babes starving on

the empty breasts of pallid mothers, heard the sobs, saw the tears,

the sunken cheeks, the sightless eyes, the new made graves, and

remained as pitiless as the pestilence.



This God withheld the rain — caused the famine, saw the

fierce eyes of hunger — the wasted forms, the white lips, saw

mothers eating babes, and remained ferocious as famine.

It seems to me impossible for a civilized man to love or

worship, or respect the God of the Old Testament. A really

civilized man, a really civilized woman, must hold such a God in

abhorrence and contempt.

But in the old days the good people justified Jehovah in his

treatment of the heathen. The wretches who were murdered were

idolaters and therefore unfit to live.

According to the Bible, God had never revealed himself to

these people and he knew that without a revelation they could not

know that he was the true God. Whose fault was it then that they

were heathen?

The Christians said that God had the right to destroy them

because he created them. What did he create them for? He knew when
he made them that they would be food for the sword. He knew that he

would have the pleasure of seeing them murdered.

As a last answer, as a final excuse, the worshipers of Jehovah

said that all these horrible things happened under the “old

dispensation” of unyielding law, and absolute justice, but that now

under the “new dispensation,” all had been changed — the sword of

justice had been sheathed and love enthroned. In the Old Testament,

they said. God is the judge — but in the New, Christ is the

merciful. As a matter of fact, the New Testament is infinitely

worse than the Old. In the Old there is no threat of eternal pain.

Jehovah had no eternal prison — no everlasting fire. His hatred

ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his enemy was

dead.

In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning

of punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of

God is infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal.

The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his

disciples not to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when

smitten on one cheek to turn the other, and yet we are told that

this same God, with the same loving lips, uttered these heartless,

these fiendish words; “Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire,

prepared for the devil and his angels.”

These are the words of “eternal love.”

No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this

infinite horror.

All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in

pestilence and famine, in fire and flood, — all the pangs and

pains of every disease and every death — all this is as nothing

compared with the agonies to be endured by one lost soul.

This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the

justice of God — the mercy of Christ.

This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the

implacable enemy of Christianity. The truth is that this belief in

eternal pain has been the real persecutor. It founded the

Inquisition, forged the chains, and furnished the fagots. It has

darkened the lives of many millions. It made the cradle as terrible

as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed the blood of countless

thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest and the best. It

subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the heart, changed

men to fiends and banished reason from the brain.

Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in

every orthodox creed.

It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is

the one infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a

public curse. Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind.

Below this Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite

of malice, hatred, and revenge.

Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence

of its creator, God.

While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with

all my strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this

infinite lie.

Nothing gives me greater joy than to know that this belief in

eternal pain is growing weaker every day — that thousands of

ministers are ashamed of it. It gives me joy to know that

Christians are becoming merciful, so merciful that the fires of

hell are burning low — flickering, choked with ashes, destined in

a few years to die out forever.

For centuries Christendom was a madhouse. Popes, cardinals,

bishops, priests, monks and heretics were all insane.

Only a few — four or five in a century were sound in heart

and brain. Only a few, in spite of the roar and din, in spite of

the savage cries, heard reason’s voice. Only a few in the wild rage

of ignorance, fear and zeal preserved the perfect calm that wisdom

gives.

We have advanced. In a few years the Christians will become —

let us hope — humane and sensible enough to deny the dogma that

fills the endless years with pain. They ought to know now that this
dogma is utterly inconsistent with the wisdom, the justice, the

goodness of their God. They ought to know that their belief in

hell, gives to the Holy Ghost — the Dove — the beak of a vulture,

and fills the mouth of the Lamb of God with the fangs of a viper.

III

In my youth I read religious books — books about God, about

the atonement — about salvation by faith, and about the other

worlds. I became familiar with the commentators — with Adam Clark,

who thought that the serpent seduced our mother Eve, and was in

fact the father of Cain. He also believed that the animals, while

in the ark, had their natures’ changed to that degree that they

devoured straw together and enjoyed each other’s society — thus

prefiguring the blessed millennium. I read Scott, who was such a

natural theologian that he really thought the story of Phaeton —

of the wild steeds dashing across the sky — corroborated the story

of Joshua having stopped the sun and moon. So, I read Henry and

MacKnight and found that God so loved the world that he made up his

mind to damn a large majority of the human race. I read Cruden, who

made the great Concordance, and made the miracles as small and

probable as he could.

I remember that he explained the miracle of feeding the

wandering Jews with quails, by saying that even at this day immense
numbers of quails crossed the Red Sea, and that sometimes when

tired, they settled on ships that sank beneath their weight. The

fact that the explanation was as hard to believe as the miracle

made no difference to the devout Cruden.

To while away the time I read Calvin’s Institutes, a book

calculated to produce, in any natural mind, considerable respect

for the Devil.

I read Paley’s Evidences and found that the evidence of

ingenuity in producing the evil, in contriving the hurtful, was at

least equal to the evidence tending to show the use of intelligence

in the creation of what we call good.

You know the watch argument was Paley’s greatest effort. A man

finds a watch and it is so wonderful that he concludes that it must

have had a maker. He finds the maker and he is so much more

wonderful than the watch that he says he must have had a maker.

Then he finds God, the maker of the man, and he is so much more

wonderful than the man that he could not have had a maker. This is

what the lawyers call a departure in pleading.



According to Paley there can be no design without a designer

— but there can be a designer without a design. The wonder of the

watch suggested the watchmaker, and the wonder of the watchmaker,

suggested the creator, and the wonder of the creator demonstrated

that he was not created — but was uncaused and eternal.

We had Edwards on The Will, in which the reverend author shows

that necessity has no effect on accountability — and that when God

creates a human being, and at the same time determines and decrees

exactly what that being shall do and be, the human being is

responsible, and God in his justice and mercy has the right to

torture the soul of that human being forever. Yet Edwards said that

he loved God.

The fact is that if you believe in an infinite God, and also

in eternal punishment, then you must admit that Edwards and Calvin

were absolutely right. There is no escape from their conclusions if

you admit their premises. They were infinitely cruel, their

premises infinitely absurd, their God infinitely fiendish, and

their logic perfect.



And yet I have kindness and candor enough to say that Calvin

and Edwards were both insane.

We had plenty of theological literature. There was Jenkyn on

the Atonement, who demonstrated the wisdom of God in devising a way

in which the sufferings of innocence could justify the guilty. He

tried to show that children could justly be punished for the sins

of their ancestors, and that men could, if they had faith, be

justly credited with the virtues of others. Nothing could be more

devout, orthodox, and idiotic. But all of our theology was not in

prose. We had Milton with his celestial militia with his great and

blundering God, his proud and cunning Devil — his wars between

immortals, and all the sublime absurdities that religion wrought

within the blind man’s brain.

The theology taught by Milton was dear to the Puritan heart.

It was accepted by New England and it poisoned the souls and ruined

the lives of thousands. The genius of Shakespeare could not make

the theology of Milton poetic. In the literature of the world there

is nothing, outside of the “sacred books,” more perfectly absurd.



We had Young’s Night Thoughts, and I supposed that the author

was an exceedingly devout and loving follower of the Lord. Yet

Young had a great desire to be a bishop, and to accomplish that end

he electioneered with the king’s mistress. In other words, he was

a fine old hypocrite. In the “Night Thoughts” there is scarcely a

genuinely honest, natural line. It is pretence from beginning to

end. He did not write what he felt, but what he thought he ought to

feel.

We had Pollok’s Course of Time, with its worm that never dies,

its quenchless flames, its endless pangs, its leering devils, and

its gloating God. This frightful poem should have been written in

a madhouse. In it you find all the cries and groans and shrieks of

maniacs, when they tear and rend each other’s flesh. It is as

heartless, as hideous, as hellish as the thirty-second chapter of

Deuteronomy.

We all know the beautiful hymn commencing with the cheerful

line: “Hark from the tombs, a doleful sound.” Nothing could have

been more appropriate for children. It is well to put a coffin

where it can be seen from the cradle. When a mother nurses her

child, an open grave should be at her feet. This would tend to make

the babe serious, reflective, religious and miserable.

God hates laughter and despises mirth. To feel free,

untrammeled, irresponsible, joyous, — to forget care and death —

to be flooded with sunshine without a fear of night — to forget

the past, to have no thought of the future, no dream of God, or

heaven, or hell — to be intoxicated with the present — to be

conscious only of the clasp and kiss of the one you love — this is

the sin against the Holy Ghost.

But we had Cowper’s poems. Cowper was sincere. He was the

opposite of Young. He had an observing eye, a gentle heart and a

sense of the artistic. He sympathized with all who suffered — with

the imprisoned, the enslaved, the outcasts. He loved the beautiful.

No wonder that the belief in eternal punishment made this loving

soul insane. No wonder that the “tidings of great Joy” quenched

Hope’s great star and left his broken heart in the darkness of

despair.

We had many volumes of orthodox sermons, filled with wrath and

the terrors of the judgment to come — sermons that had been

delivered by savage saints.

We had the Book of Martyrs, showing that Christians had for

many centuries imitated the God they worshiped.

We had the history of the Waldenses — of the reformation of

the Church. We had Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Call and Butler’s

Analogy.

To use a Western phrase or saying, I found that Bishop Butler

dug up more snakes than he killed — suggested more difficulties

than he explained — more doubts than he dispelled.

Among such books my youth was passed. All the seeds of

Christianity — of superstition, were sown in my mind and

cultivated with great diligence and care.

All that time I knew nothing of any science — nothing about

the other side — nothing of the objections that had been urged
against the blessed Scriptures, or against the perfect

Congregational creed. Of course I had heard the ministers speak of

blasphemers, of infidel wretches, of scoffers who laughed at holy

things. They did not answer their arguments, but they tore their

characters into shreds and demonstrated by the fury of assertion

that they had done the Devil’s work. And yet in spite of all I

heard — of all I read. I could not quite believe. My brain and

heart said No.

For a time I left the dreams, the insanities, the illusions

and delusions, the nightmares of theology. I studied astronomy,

just a little — I examined maps of the heavens — learned the

names of some of the constellations — of some of the stars —

found something of their size and the velocity with which they

wheeled in their orbits — obtained a faint conception of

astronomical spaces — found that some of the known stars were so

far away in the depths of space that their light, traveling at the

rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles a second, required many

years to reach this little world — found that, compared with the

great stars, our earth was but a grain of sand — an atom — found

that the old belief that all the hosts of heaven had been created
for the benefit of man, was infinitely absurd.

I compared what was really known about the stars with the

account of creation as told in Genesis. I found that the writer of

the inspired book had no knowledge of astronomy — that he was as

ignorant as a Choctaw chief — as an Eskimo driver of dogs. Does

any one imagine that the author of Genesis knew anything about the

sun — its size? that he was acquainted with Sirius, the North

Star, with Capella, or that he knew anything of the clusters of

stars so far away that their light, now visiting our eyes, has been

traveling for two million years?

If he had known these facts would he have said that Jehovah

worked nearly six days to make this world, and only a part of the

afternoon of the fourth day to make the sun and moon and all the

stars?

Yet millions of people insist that the writer of Genesis was

inspired by the Creator of all worlds.

Now, intelligent men, who are not frightened, whose brains

have not been paralyzed by fear, know that the sacred story of

creation was written by an ignorant savage. The story is

inconsistent with all known facts, and every star shining in the

heavens testifies that its author was an uninspired barbarian.

I admit that this unknown writer was sincere, that he wrote

what he believed to be true — that he did the best he could. He

did not claim to be inspired — did not pretend that the story had

been told to him by Jehovah. He simply stated the “facts” as he

understood them.

After I had learned a little about the stars I concluded that

this writer, this “inspired” scribe, had been misled by myth and

legend, and that he knew no more about creation than the average

theologian of my day. In other words, that he knew absolutely

nothing.

And here, allow me to say that the ministers who are answering

me are turning their guns in the wrong direction. These reverend

gentlemen should attack the astronomers. They should malign and

vilify Kepler, Copernicus, Newton, Herschel and Laplace. These men

were the real destroyers of the sacred story. Then, after having

disposed of them, they can wage a war against the stars, and

against Jehovah himself for having furnished evidence against the

truthfulness of his book.

Then I studied geology — not much, just a little — Just

enough to find in a general way the principal facts that had been

discovered, and some of the conclusions that had been reached. I

learned something of the action of fire — of water — of the

formation of islands and continents — of the sedimentary and

igneous rocks — of the coal measures — of the chalk cliffs,

something about coral reefs — about the deposits made by rivers,

the effect of volcanoes, of glaciers, and of the all surrounding

sea — just enough to know that the Laurentian rocks were millions

of years older than the grass beneath my feet — just enough to

feel certain that this world had been pursuing its flight about the

sun, wheeling in light and shade, for hundreds of millions of years

— just enough to know that the “inspired” writer knew nothing of

the history of the earth — nothing of the great forces of nature

— of wind and wave and fire — forces that have destroyed and

built, wrecked and wrought through all the countless years.



And let me tell the ministers again that they should not waste

their time in answering me. They should attack the geologists. They

should deny the facts that have been discovered. They should launch

their curses at the blaspheming seas, and dash their heads against

the infidel rocks.

Then I studied biology — not much — just enough to know

something of animal forms, enough to know that life existed when

the Laurentian rocks were made — just enough to know that

implements of stone, implements that had been formed by human

hands, had been found mingled with the bones of extinct animals,

bones that had been split with these implements, and that these

animals had ceased to exist hundreds of thousands of years before

the manufacture of Adam and Eve.

Then I felt sure that the “inspired” record was false — that

many millions of people had been deceived and that all I had been

taught about the origin of worlds and men was utterly untrue. I

felt that I knew that the Old Testament was the work of ignorant

men — that it was a mingling of truth and mistake, of wisdom and

foolishness, of cruelty and kindness, of philosophy and absurdity

— that it contained some elevated thoughts, some poetry, — a good

deal of the solemn and commonplace, — some hysterical, some

tender, some wicked prayers, some insane predictions, some

delusions, and some chaotic dreams.

Of course the theologians fought the facts found by the

geologists, the scientists, and sought to sustain the sacred

Scriptures. They mistook the bones of the mastodon for those of

human beings, and by them proudly proved that “there were giants in

those days.” They accounted for the fossils by saying that God had

made them to try our faith, or that the Devil had imitated the

works of the Creator.

They answered the geologists by saying that the “days” in

Genesis were long periods of time, and that after all the flood

might have been local. They told the astronomers that the sun and

moon were not actually, but only apparently, stopped. And that the

appearance was produced by the reflection and refraction of light.

They excused the slavery and polygamy, the robbery and murder
upheld in the Old Testament by saying that the people were so

degraded that Jehovah was compelled to pander to their ignorance

and prejudice.

In every way the clergy sought to evade the facts, to dodge

the truth, to preserve the creed.

At first they flatly denied the facts — then they belittled

them — then they harmonized them — then they denied that they had

denied them. Then they changed the meaning of the “inspired” book

to fit the facts. At first they said that if the facts, as claimed,

were true, the Bible was false and Christianity itself a

superstition. Afterward they said the facts, as claimed, were true

and that they established beyond all doubt the inspiration of the

Bible and the divine origin of orthodox religion.

Anything they could not dodge, they swallowed and anything

they could not swallow, they dodged.

I gave up the Old Testament on account of its mistakes, its

absurdities, its ignorance and its cruelty. I gave up the New

because it vouched for the truth of the Old. I gave it up on

account of its miracles, its contradictions, because Christ and his

disciples believe in the existence of devils — talked and made

bargains with them. expelled them from people and animals.

This, of itself, is enough. We know, if we know anything, that

devils do not exist — that Christ never cast them out, and that if

he pretended to, he was either ignorant, dishonest or insane.

These stories about devils demonstrate the human, the ignorant

origin of the New Testament. I gave up the New Testament because it

rewards credulity, and curses brave and honest men, and because it

teaches the infinite horror of eternal pain.

Having spent my youth in reading books about religion — about

the “new birth” — the disobedience of our first parents, the

atonement, salvation by faith, the wickedness of pleasure, the

degrading consequences of love, and the impossibility of getting to

heaven by being honest and generous, and having become somewhat

weary of the frayed and raveled thoughts, you can imagine my

surprise, my delight when I read the poems of Robert Burns.

I was familiar with the writings of the devout and insincere,

the pious and petrified, the pure and heartless. Here was a natural

honest man. I knew the works of those who regarded all nature as

depraved, and looked upon love as the legacy and perpetual witness

of original sin. Here was a man who plucked joy from the mire, made

goddesses of peasant girls, and enthroned the honest man. One whose

sympathy, with loving arms, embraced all forms of suffering life,

who hated slavery of every kind, who was as natural as heaven’s

blue, with humor kindly as an autumn day, with wit as sharp as

Ithuriel’s spear, and scorn that blasted like the simoon’s breath.
A man who loved this world, this life, the things of every day, and

placed above all else the thrilling ecstasies of human love.

I read and read again with rapture, tears and smiles, feeling

that a great heart was throbbing in the lines.

The religious, the lugubrious, the artificial, the spiritual

poets were forgotten or remained only as the fragments, the half

remembered horrors of monstrous and distorted dreams.

I had found at last a natural man, one who despised his

country’s cruel creed, and was brave and sensible enough to say:

“All religions are auld wives’ fables, but an honest man has

nothing to fear, either in this world or the world to come.”

One who had the genius to write Holy Willie’s Prayer — a poem

that crucified Calvinism and through its bloodless heart thrust the

spear of common sense — a poem that made every orthodox creed the

food of scorn — of inextinguishable laughter.

Burns had his faults, his frailties. He was intensely human.

Still, I would rather appear at the “Judgment Seat” drunk, and be

able to say that I was the author of “A man’s a man for ‘a that,”

than to be perfectly sober and admit that I had lived and died a

Scotch Presbyterian.

I read Byron — read his Cain, in which, as in Paradise Lost,

the Devil seems to be the better god — read his beautiful, sublime

and bitter lines — read his prisoner of Chillon — his best — a

poem that filled my heart with tenderness, with pity, and with an

eternal hatred of tyranny.

I read Shelley’s Queen Mab — a poem filled with beauty,

courage, thought, sympathy, tears and scorn, in which a brave soul

tears down the prison walls and floods the cells with light. I read

his Skylark — a winged flame — passionate as blood — tender as

tears — pure as light.

I read Keats, “whose name was writ in water” — read St. Agnes

Eve, a story told with such an artless art that this poor common

world is changed to fairy land — the Grecian Urn, that fills the

soul with ever eager love, with all the rapture of imagined song —
the Nightingale — a melody in which there is the memory of morn —

a melody that dies away in dusk and tears, paining the senses with

its perfectness.

And then I read Shakespeare, the plays, the sonnets, the poems

— read all. I beheld a new heaven and a new earth; Shakespeare,

who knew the brain and heart of man — the hopes and fears, the

loves and hatreds, the vices and the virtues of the human race:

whose imagination read the tear-blurred records, the blood-stained

pages of all the past, and saw falling athwart the outspread scroll

the light of hope and love; Shakespeare, who sounded every depth —

while on the loftiest peak there fell the shadow of his wings.

I compared the Plays with the “inspired” books — Romeo and

Juliet with the Song of Solomon, Lear with Job, and the Sonnets

with the Psalms, and I found that Jehovah did not understand the

art of speech. I compared Shakespeare’s women — his perfect women

— with the women of the Bible. I found that Jehovah was not a

sculptor, not a painter — not an artist — that he lacked the

power that changes clay to flesh — the art, the plastic touch,

that molds the perfect form — the breath that gives it free and
joyous life — the genius that creates the faultless.

The sacred books of all the world are worthless dross and

common stones compared with Shakespeare’s glittering gold and

gleaming gems.

VI

Up to this time I had read nothing against our blessed

religion except what I had found in Burns, Byron and Shelley. By

some accident I read Volney, who shows that all religions are, and

have been, established in the same way — that all had their

Christs, their apostles, miracles and sacred books, and then asked

how it is possible to decide which is the true one. A question that

is still waiting for an answer.

I read Gibbon, the greatest of historians, who marshaled his

facts as skillfully as Caesar did his legions, and I learned that

Christianity is only a name for Paganism — for the old religion,

shorn of its beauty — that some absurdities had been exchanged for

others — that some gods had been killed — a vast multitude of

devils created, and that hell had been enlarged.

And then I read the Age of Reason, by Thomas Paine. Let me

tell you something about this sublime and slandered man. He came to

this country just before the Revolution. He brought a letter of

introduction from Benjamin Franklin, at that time the greatest

American.

In Philadelphia, Paine was employed to write for the

Pennsylvania Magazine. We know that he wrote at least five

articles. The first was against slavery, the second against

duelling, the third on the treatment of prisoners — showing that

the object should be to reform, not to punish and degrade — the

fourth on the rights of woman, and the fifth in favor of forming

societies for the prevention of cruelty to children and animals.

From this you see that he suggested the great reforms of our

century.

The truth is that he labored all his life for the good of his

fellow-men, and did as much to found the Great Republic as any man

who ever stood beneath our flag.

He gave his thoughts about religion — bout the blessed

Scriptures, about the superstitions of his time. He was perfectly

sincere and what he said was kind and fair.



The Age of Reason filled with hatred the hearts of those who

loved their enemies, and the occupant of every orthodox pulpit

became, and still is, a passionate malinger of Thomas Paine.

No one has answered — no one will answer, his argument

against the dogma of inspiration — his objections to the Bible.

He did not rise above all the superstitions of his day. While

he hated Jehovah, he praised the God of Nature, the creator and

preserver of all. In this he was wrong, because, as Watson said in

his Reply to Paine, the God of Nature is as heartless, as cruel as

the God of the Bible.

But Paine was one of the pioneers — one of the Titans, one of

the heroes, who gladly gave his life, his every thought and act, to

free and civilize mankind.

I read Voltaire — Voltaire, the greatest man of his century,

and who did more for liberty of thought and speech than any other

being, human or “divine.” Voltaire, who tore the mask from

hypocrisy and found behind the painted smile the fangs of hate.

Voltaire, who attacked the savagery of the law, the cruel decisions

of venal courts, and rescued victims from the wheel and rack.

Voltaire, who waged war against the tyranny of thrones, the greed

and heartlessness of power. Voltaire, who filled the flesh of

priests with the barbed and poisoned arrows of his wit and made the

pious jugglers, who cursed him in public, laugh at themselves in

private. Voltaire, who sided with the oppressed, rescued the

unfortunate, championed the obscure and weak, civilized judges,

repealed laws and abolished torture in his native land.

In every direction this tireless man fought the absurd, the

miraculous, the supernatural, the idiotic, the unjust. He had no

reverence for the ancient. He was not awed by pageantry and pomp,

by crowned Crime or mitered Pretence. Beneath the crown he saw the

criminal, under the miter, the hypocrite.

To the bar of his conscience, his reason, he summoned the

barbarism and the barbarians of his time. He pronounced judgment

against them all, and that judgment has been affirmed by the

intelligent world. Voltaire lighted a torch and gave to others the

sacred flame. The light still shines and will as long as man loves

liberty and seeks for truth.

I read Zeno, the man who said, centuries before our Christ was

born, that man could not own his fellow-man.

“No matter whether you claim a slave by purchase or capture,

the title is bad. They who claim to own their fellow-men, look down

into the pit and forget the justice that should rule the world.”

I became acquainted with Epicurus, who taught the religion of

usefulness, of temperance, of courage and wisdom, and who said:

“Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is. I am

not. Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?”

I read about Socrates, who when on trial for his life, said,

among other things, to his judges, these wondrous words: “I have

not sought during my life to amass wealth and to adorn my body, but

I have sought to adorn my soul with the jewels of wisdom, patience,

and above all with a love of liberty.”

So, I read about Diogenes, the philosopher who hated the

superfluous — the enemy of waste and greed, and who one day

entered the temple, reverently approached the altar, crushed a

louse between the nails of his thumbs, and solemnly said: “The

sacrifice of Diogenes to all the gods.” This parodied the worship

of the world — satirized all creeds, and in one act put the

essence of religion.

Diogenes must have know of this “inspired” passage — “Without

the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.”

I compared Zeno, Epicures and Socrates, three heathen wretches

who had never heard of the Old Testament or the Ten Commandments,

with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, three favorites of Jehovah, and I

was depraved enough to think that the Pagans were superior to the

Patriarchs — and to Jehovah himself.

VII

My attention was turned to other religions, to the sacred

books, the creeds and ceremonies of other lands — of India, Egypt,

Assyria, Persia, of the dead and dying nations.

I concluded that all religions had the same foundation — a

belief in the supernatural — a power above nature that man could

influence by worship — by sacrifice and prayer.

I found that all religions rested on a mistaken conception of

nature — that the religion of a people was the science of that

people, that is to say, their explanation of the world — of life

and death — of origin and destiny.

I concluded that all religions had substantially the same

origin, and that in fact there has never been but one religion in

the world. The twigs and leaves may differ, but the trunk is the

same.

The poor African that pours out his heart to deity of stone is

on an exact religious level with the robed priest who supplicates

his God. The same mistake, the same superstition, bends the knees

and shuts the eyes of both. Both ask for supernatural aid, and

neither has the slightest thought of the absolute uniformity of

nature.

It seems probable to me that the first organized ceremonial

religion was the worship of the sun. The sun was the “Sky Father,”

the “All Seeing,” the source of life — the fireside of the world.

The sun was regarded as a god who fought the darkness, the power of

evil, the enemy of man.

There have been many sun-gods, and they seem to have been the

chief deities in the ancient religions. They have been worshiped in

many lands, by many nations that have passed to death and dust.

Apollo was a sun-god and he fought and conquered the serpent

of night. Baldur was a sun-god. He was in love with the Dawn — a

maiden. Chrishna was a sun-god. At his birth the Ganges was

thrilled from its source to the sea, and all the trees, the dead as
well as the living, burst into leaf and bud and flower. Hercules

was a sun-god and so was Samson, whose strength was in his hair —

that is to say, in his beams. He was shorn of his strength by

Delilah, the shadow — the darkness. Osiris, Bacchus, and Mithra,

Hermes, Buddha, and Quetzalcoatl, Prometheus, Zoroaster, and

Perseus, Cadom, Lao-tsze, Fo-hi, Horus and Rameses, were all sun-gods.

All of these gods had gods for fathers and their mothers were

virgins. The births of nearly all were announced by stars,

celebrated by celestial music, and voices declared that a blessing

had come to the poor world. All of these gods were born in humble

places — in caves, under trees, in common inns, and tyrants sought

to kill them all when they were babes. All of these sun-gods were

born at the winter solstice — on Christmas. Nearly all were

worshiped by “wise men.” All of them fasted for forty days — all

of them taught in parables — all of them wrought miracles — all

met with a violent death, and all rose from the dead.

The history of these gods is the exact history of our Christ.

This is not a coincidence — an accident. Christ was a sun-god. Christ was a new
name for an old biography — a survival —

the last of the sun-gods. Christ was not a man, but a myth — not

a life, but a legend.

I found that we had not only borrowed our Christ — but that

all our sacraments, symbols and ceremonies were legacies that we

received from the buried past. There is nothing original in

Christianity.

The cross was a symbol thousands of years before our era. It

was a symbol of life, of immortality — of the god Agni, and it was

chiseled upon tombs many ages before a line of our Bible was

written.

Baptism is far older than Christianity — than Judaism. The

Hindus, Egyptians, Greeks and Romans had Holy Water long before a

Catholic lived. The eucharist was borrowed from the Pagans. Ceres

was the goddess of the fields — Bacchus of the vine. At the

harvest festival they made cakes of wheat and said: “This is the

flesh of the goddess.” They drank wine and cried: “This is the

blood of our god.”



The Egyptians had a Trinity. They worshiped Osiris, Isis and

Horus, thousands of years before the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

were known.

The Tree of Life grew in India, in China, and among the

Aztecs, long before the Garden of Eden was planted.

Long before our Bible was known, other nations had their

sacred books.

The dogmas of the Fall of Man, the Atonement and Salvation by

Faith, are far older than our religion.

In our blessed gospel, — in our “divine scheme,” — there is

nothing new — nothing original. All old — all borrowed, pieced

and patched.

Then I concluded that all religions had been naturally

produced, and that all were variation, modifications of one, —

then I felt that I knew that all were the work of man.

VIII

THE theologians had always insisted that their God was the

creator of all living things — that the forms, parts, functions,

colors and varieties of animals were the expressions of his fancy,

taste and wisdom — that he made them all precisely as they are

to-day — that he invented fins and legs and wings — that he

furnished them with the weapons of attack, the shields of defence

— that he formed them with reference to food and climate, taking

into consideration all facts affecting life.

They insisted that man was a special creation, not related in

any way to the animals below him. They also asserted that all the

forms of vegetation, from mosses to forests, were just the same

to-day as the moment they were made.

Men of genius, who were for the most part free from religious

prejudice, were examining these things — were looking for facts.

They were examining the fossils of animals and plants — studying

the forms of animals — their bones and muscles — the effect of

climate and food — the strange modifications through which they

had passed.

Humboldt had published his lectures — filled with great

thoughts — with splendid generalizations — with suggestions that

stimulated the spirit of investigation, and with conclusions that

satisfied the mind. He demonstrated the uniformity of Nature — the

kinship of all that lives and grows — that breathes and thinks.

Darwin, with his Origin of Species, his theories about Natural

Selection, the Survival of the Fittest, and the influence of

environment, shed a flood of light upon the great problems of plant

and animal life.

These things had been guessed, prophesied, asserted, hinted by

many others, but Darwin, with infinite patience, with perfect care

and candor, found the facts, fulfilled the prophecies, and

demonstrated the truth of the guesses, hints and assertions. He

was, in my judgment, the keenest observer, the best judge of the

meaning and value of a fact, the greatest Naturalist the world has

produced.


The theological view began to look small and mean.

Spencer gave his theory of evolution and sustained it by

countless facts. He stood at a great height, and with the eyes of

a philosopher, a profound thinker, surveyed the world. He has

influenced the thought of the wisest.

Theology looked more absurd than ever.

Huxley entered the lists for Darwin. No man ever had a sharper

sword — a better shield. He challenged the world. The great

theologians and the small scientists — those who had more courage

than sense, accepted the challenge. Their poor bodies were carried

away by their friends.

Huxley had intelligence, industry, genius, and the courage to

express his thought. He was absolutely loyal to what he thought was

truth. Without prejudice and without fear, he followed the

footsteps of life from the lowest to the highest forms.

Theology looked smaller still.

Haeckel began at the simplest cell, went from change to change

— from form to form — followed the line of development, the path

of life, until he reached the human race. It was all natural. There

had been no interference from without.

I read the works of these great men — of many others — and

became convinced that they were right, and that all the theologians

— all the believers in “special creation” were absolutely wrong.

The Garden of Eden faded away, Adam and Eve fell back to dust,

the snake crawled into the grass, and Jehovah became a miserable

myth.

IX

I took another step. What is matter — substance? Can it be

destroyed — annihilated? Is it possible to conceive of the

destruction of the smallest atom of substance? It can be ground to

powder — changed from a solid to a liquid — from a liquid to a

gas — but it all remains. Nothing is lost — nothing destroyed.

Let an infinite God, if there be one, attack a grain of sand

— attack it with infinite power. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot

surrender. It defies all force. Substance cannot be destroyed.

Then I took another step.

If matter cannot be destroyed, cannot be annihilated, it could

not have been created.

The indestructible must be uncreateable.

And then I asked myself: What is force?



We cannot conceive of the creation of force, or of its

destruction. Force may be changed from one form to another — from

motion to heat — but it cannot be destroyed — annihilated.

If force cannot be destroyed it could not have been created.

It is eternal.

Another thing — matter cannot exist apart from force. Force

cannot exist apart from matter. Matter could not have existed

before force. Force could not have existed before matter. Matter

and force can only be conceived of together. This has been shown by

several scientists, but most clearly, most forcibly by Buchner.

Thought is a form of force, consequently it could not have

caused or created matter. Intelligence is a form of force and could

not have existed without or apart from matter. Without substance

there could have been no mind, no will, no force in any form, and

there could have been no substance without force.

Matter and force were not created. They have existed from
eternity. They cannot be destroyed.

There was, there is, no creator. Then came the question; Is

there a God? Is there a being of infinite intelligence, power and

goodness, who governs the world?

There can he goodness without much intelligence — but it

seems to me that perfect intelligence and perfect goodness must go

together.

In nature I see, or seem to see, good and evil — intelligence

and ignorance — goodness and cruelty — care and carelessness —

economy and waste. I see means that do not accomplish the ends —

designs that seem to fail.

To me it seems infinitely cruel for life to feed on life — to

create animals that devour others.

The teeth and beaks, the claws and fangs, that tear and rend,

fill me with horror. What can be more frightful than a world at

war? Every leaf a battle-field — every flower a Golgotha — in

every drop of water pursuit, capture and death. Under every piece

of bark, life lying in wait for life. On every blade of grass,

something that kills, — something that suffers. Everywhere the

strong living on the weak — the superior on the inferior.

Everywhere the weak, the insignificant, living on the strong — the

inferior on the superior — the highest food for the lowest — man

sacrificed for the sake of microbes.

Murder universal. Everywhere pain, disease and death — death

that does not wait for bent forms and gray hairs, but clutches

babes and happy youths. Death that takes the mother from her

helpless, dimpled child — death that fills the world with grief

and tears.

How can the orthodox Christian explain these things?

I know that life is good. I remember the sunshine and rain.

Then I think of the earthquake and flood. I do not forget health

and harvest, home and love — but what of pestilence and famine? I

cannot harmonize all these contradictions — these blessings and

agonies — with the existence of an infinitely good, wise and

powerful God.

The theologian says that what we call evil is for our benefit

— that we are placed in this world of sin and sorrow to develop

character. If this is true I ask why the infant dies? Millions and

millions draw a few breaths and fade away in the arms of their

mothers. They are not allowed to develop character.

The theologian says that serpents were given fangs to protect

themselves from their enemies. Why did the God who made them, make

enemies? Why is it that many species of serpents have no fangs?

The theologian says that God armored the hippopotamus, covered

his body, except the under part, with scales and plates, that other

animals could not pierce with tooth or tusk. But the same God made

the rhinoceros and supplied him with a horn on his nose, with which

he disembowels the hippopotamus.

The same God made the eagle, the vulture, the hawk, and their

helpless prey.

On every hand there seems to be design to defeat design.

If God created man — if he is the father of us all, why did

he make the criminals, the insane, the deformed and idiotic?

Should the inferior man thank God? Should the mother, who

clasps to her breast an idiot child, thank God? Should the slave

thank God?

The theologian says that God governs the wind, the rain, the

lightning. How then can we account for the cyclone, the flood, the

drought, the glittering bolt that kills?

Suppose we had a man in this country who could control the

wind, the rain and lightning, and suppose we elected him to govern

these things, and suppose that he allowed whole States to dry and

wither, and at the same time wasted the rain in the sea. Suppose

that he allowed the winds to destroy cities and to crush to

shapelessness thousands of men and women, and allowed the

lightnings to strike the life out of mothers and babes. What would

we say? What would we think of such a savage?



And yet, according to the theologians, this is exactly the

course pursued by God.

What do we think of a man, who will not, when he has the

power, protect his friends? Yet the Christian’s God allowed his

enemies to torture and burn his friends, his worshipers.

Who has ingenuity enough to explain this?

What good man, having the power to prevent it, would allow the

innocent to be imprisoned, chained in dungeons, and sigh against

the dripping walls their weary lives away?

If God governs the world, why is innocence not a perfect

shield? Why does injustice triumph?

Who can answer these questions?

In answer, the intelligent, honest man must say: I do not

know.

X

This God must be, if he exists, a person — a conscious being.

Who can imagine an infinite personality? This God must have force,

and we cannot conceive of force apart from matter. This God must be

material. He must have the means by which he changes force to what

we call thought. When he thinks he uses force, force that must be

replaced. Yet we are told that he is infinitely wise. If he is, he

does not think. Thought is a ladder — a process by which we reach

a conclusion. He who knows all conclusions cannot think. He cannot

hope or fear. When knowledge is perfect there can be no passion, no

emotion. If God is infinite he does not want. He has all. He who

does not want does not act. The infinite must dwell in eternal

calm.

It is as impossible to conceive of such a being as to imagine

a square triangle, or to think of a circle without a diameter.

Yet we are told that it is our duty to love this God. Can we

love the unknown, the inconceivable? Can it be our duty to love

anybody? It is our duty to act justly, honestly, but it cannot be

our duty to love. We cannot be under obligation to admire a

painting — to be charmed with a poem — or thrilled with music.

Admiration cannot be controlled. Taste and love are not the

servants of the will. Love is, and must be free. It rises from the

heart like perfume from a flower.

For thousands of ages men and women have been trying to love

the gods — trying to soften their hearts — trying to get their

aid.

I see them all. The panorama passes before me. I see them with

outstretched hands — with reverently closed eyes — worshiping the

sun. I see them bowing, in their fear and need, to meteoric stones

— imploring serpents, beasts and sacred trees — praying to idols

wrought of wood and stone. I see them building altars to the unseen

powers, staining them with blood of child and beast. I see the

countless priests and hear their solemn chants. I see the dying

victims, the smoking altars, the swinging censers, and the rising

clouds. I see the half-god men — the mournful Christs, in many

lands. I see the common things of life change to miracles as they

speed from mouth to mouth. I see the insane prophets reading the

secret book of fate by signs and dreams. I see them all — the

Assyrians chanting the praises of Asshur and Ishtar — the Hindus

worshiping Brahma, Vishnu and Draupadi, the whitearmed — the

Chaldeans sacrificing to Bel and Hea — the Egyptians bowing to

Ptah and Fta, Osiris and Isis — the Medes placating the storm,

worshiping the fire — the Babylonians supplicating Bel and

Murodach — I see them all by the Euphrates, the Tigris, the Ganges

and the Nile. I see the Greeks building temples for Zeus, Neptune

and Venus. I see the Romans kneeling to a hundred gods. I see

others spurning idols and pouring out their hopes and fears to a

vague image in the mind. I see the multitudes, with open mouths,

receive as truths the myths and fables of the vanished years. I see

them give their toil, their wealth to robe the priests, to build

the vaulted roofs, the spacious aisles, the glittering domes. I see

them clad in rags, huddled in dens and huts, devouring crusts and

scraps, that they may give the more to ghosts and gods. I see them

make their cruel creeds and fill the world with hatred, war, and

death. I see them with their faces in the dust in the dark days of

plague and sudden death, when cheeks are wan and lips are white for

lack of bread. I hear their prayers, their sighs, their sobs. I see
them kiss the unconscious lips as their hot tears fall on the

pallid faces of the dead. I see the nations as they fade and fail.

I see them captured and enslaved. I see their altars mingle with

the common earth, their temples crumble slowly back to dust. I see

their gods grow old and weak, infirm and faint. I see them fall

from vague and misty thrones, helpless and dead. The worshipers

receive no help. Injustice triumphs. Toilers are paid with the

lash, — babes are sold, — the innocent stand on scaffolds, and

the heroic perish in flames. I see the earthquakes devour, the

volcanoes overwhelm, the cyclones wreck, the floods destroy, and

the lightnings kill.

The nations perished. The gods died. The toil and wealth were

lost. The temples were built in vain, and all the prayers died

unanswered in the heedless air.

Then I asked myself the question: Is there a supernatural

power — an arbitrary mind — an enthroned God — a supreme will

that sways the tides and currents of the world — to which all

causes bow?

I do not deny. I do not know — but I do not believe. I

believe that the natural is supreme — that from the infinite chain

no link can be lost or broken — that there is no supernatural

power that can answer prayer — no power that worship can persuade

or change — no power that cares for man.

I believe that with infinite arms Nature embraces the all —

that there is no interference — no chance — that behind every

event are the necessary and countless causes, and that beyond every

event will be and must be the necessary and countless effects.

Man must protect himself. He cannot depend upon the

supernatural — upon an imaginary father in the skies. He must

protect himself by finding the facts in Nature, by developing his

brain, to the end that he may overcome the obstructions and take

advantage of the forces of Nature.

Is there a God?

I do not know.

Is man immortal?

I do not know.

One thing I do know, and that is, that neither hope, nor fear,

belief, nor denial, can change the fact. It is as it is, and it

will be as it must be.

We wait and hope.

XI

When I became convinced that the Universe is natural — that

all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain,

into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling,

the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the

dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and

manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave.

There was for me no master in all the wide world — not even in

infinite space. I was free — free to think, to express my thoughts

— free to live to my own ideal — free to live for myself and

those I loved — free to use all my faculties, all my senses —

free to spread imagination’s wings — free to investigate, to guess

and dream and hope — free to judge and determine for myself —

free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the “inspired”

books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of

the past — free from popes and priests — free from all the

“called” and “set apart” — free from sanctified mistakes and holy

lies — free from the fear of eternal pain — free from the winged

monsters of the night — free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the
first time I was free. There were no prohibited places in all the

realms of thought — no air, no space, where fancy could not spread

her painted wings — no chains for my limbs — no lashes for my

back — no fires for my flesh — no master’s frown or threat — no

following another’s steps — no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl,

or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly,

joyously, faced all worlds.

And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with

thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers

who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain — for the

freedom of labor and thought — to those who fell on the fierce

fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains —

to those who proudly mounted scaffold’s stairs — to those whose

bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn — to those by

fire consumed — to all the wise, the good, the brave of every

land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of

men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and

hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.

Let us be true to ourselves — true to the facts we know, and

let us, above all things, preserve the veracity of our souls.

If there be gods we cannot help them, but we can assist our

fellow-men. We cannot love the inconceivable, but we can love wife

and child and friend.

We can be as honest as we are ignorant. If we are, when asked

what is beyond the horizon of the known, we must say that we do not

know. We can tell the truth, and we can enjoy the blessed freedom

that the brave have won. We can destroy the monsters of

superstition, the hissing snakes of ignorance and fear. We can

drive from our minds the frightful things that tear and wound with

beak and fang. We can civilize our fellow-men. We can fill our

lives with generous deeds, with loving words, with art and song,

and all the ecstasies of love. We can flood our years with sunshine

— with the divine climate of kindness, and we can drain to the

last drop the golden cup of joy.