I Religious
“Who shapes his Godhead out of flesh or stone,
Knows not a God; but he who lives like one.”
Know, that seeing you, I divine your gods also. Why name them then one by one so sentimentally and so often? Being yours individually, so unmistakably in your image, surely none needs question or desire them. A thousand thanks if you will lisp never a syllable more about them. As I treat them civilly by my silence, why persist thus pertinaciously in thrusting their claims upon my attention and then questioning my piety for not christening them? O! rare respecting silence, deep is the religion that fathoms thine; speaking most reverently when deepest, and divining mysteries that none names devoutly. What if the sacred name were the silent syllable in the saint’s devotions, and he
“One of the few, who in his town
Honors all preachers, is his own?
Sermons ne’er hears, or not so many
As leaves no time to practise any?—
Hears, ponders reverently, and then
His practice preaches o’er again.
His parlor sermons rather are
Those to the eye than to the ear;
His prayers taking price and strength
Not from their loudness nor their length:
His murmurs have their music too,
Ye mighty pipes, as well as you;
Nor yields the noblest nest
Of warbling seraphim to the ears of love
A choicer lesson, than the joyful breast
Of some poor panting turtle dove.”
One sometimes thinks silence for a century were most worshipful since speech babbles so badly. Has not harlequin in bands and book played out his part the world over?—the drawl of sacred names been heard till sacred names seem profane, and it were devout to fall into silence about them more eloquent than any speeches about sanctity? If infidelity, indifference, scepticism, sweep secretly the breadth and depths of Christendom, ’tis but the binding spell of these superstitions about the name of One whom the love and admiration of all good men hold precious and will not let perish from love and remembrance.
What were Christ Jesus’ life and gospel sweet,
If not in loving hearts he fix his holy seat?
If one’s life is not worshipful, no one cares for his professions. Piety is a sentiment: the more natural it is, the wholesomer. Nor is there piety where charity is wanting. “If one love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen.” None are deceived as to the spirit of their acquaintances: the instinct of every village, every home, intimates true character. We recognize goodness wherever we find it. ’Tis the same helpful influence, beautifying the meanest as the greatest service by its manners, doing most when least conscious, as if it did it not.
“A man’s best things are nearest him,
Lie at his feet;
It is the distant and the dim
That we are sick to greet.”
Let us have unspoken creeds and these quick and operative. I wish mine to be so, for though it embosoms doctrines fit to shine in words, it seems most becoming to publish truths thus vital by example rather, sentiments so private shrinking from the frost of distrust, the heat of controversy. Personal in their traits and colored with individual hues, they court the confidences of silence, and are unspeakable.
One needs but brighten his eyes to look deep into the depths of his heart and settle all disputes. Enlarge by a thought our view, exalt it by a sentiment, we find all men of our creed; or, far better, superior to party or creed. The uprise of an idea, perception of a principle, makes many one and inseparable. The liberal mind is of no sect; it shows to sects their departures from the ideal standard, and thus maintains pure religion in the world. But there are those whose minds, like the pupil of the eye, contract as the light increases. ’Tis a poor egotism that sees only its own image reflected in its vision. “Only as thou beest it thou seest it.” How differently the different sects interpret the scriptures, each according to its light and training! I imagine our Bible is more loosely read, least understood of any book in the English tongue: conceive a fresh generation coming to its perusal as to a volume just issued in modern type from a popular bookstore and reviewed in the journals. How better acquit ourselves to the Bibles of the world than by fairly measuring our private convictions with their spirit and teachings? Let us first acquaint ourselves with these Records of Revelation before we claim for ours the merit of being the only inspired volume; ourselves the favored people—as if the Truth were a geographical resident dwelling in our neighborhood only.
When thou approachest to The One,
Self from thyself thou first must free,
Thy cloak duplicity cast clean aside,
And in the Being’s Being Be.
One does not like to disturb the faith of his neighbors, yet cannot speak truly on religious themes without touching the sensibilities of the weak, and sometimes wounding where he sought sympathy and support. It takes a good man to speak tenderly of matters of faith and practice in which good people have been bred, their hearts being prompt to feel and act without questioning the head. Precious souls, if not overwise, or strong for reform; the weak saints being as formidable impediments as the strong sinners, both blocking the ways to amendment. But temperament, inborn tendencies, predispositions, determine one’s cast of thinking or no-thinking, and go far to shape his religious opinions. Our instincts, faithfully drawn out and cherished by purity of life, lead to Theism as their flower and fruit. If swayed by the senses we are natural Pantheists, at best idolaters and unbelievers in the Personal Mind. The passions prevailing, incline us to Atheism, or some superstition ending in scepticism, and indifference to all religious considerations.
“Some whom we call virtuous, are not so
In their whole substance, but their virtues grow
But in their humors, and at seasons show.
For when through tasteless, flat humility,
In dough-baked men some harmlessness we see,
’Tis but his phlegm that’s virtuous and not he.
So is the blood sometimes: whoever ran
To danger unimportuned, he was then
No better than a sanguine, virtuous man.
So cloistered men, who, on pretence of fear
All contributions to this world forbear,
Have virtue in melancholy, and only there.
Spiritual, choleric critics, who in all
Religions find fault, and forgive no fall,
Have through their zeal virtue but in their gall.
We’re thus but parcel gilt, to gold we’re grown
When virtue is our soul’s complexion—
Who knows his virtue’s name or place has none.”