"That depends on where the trouble comes from, perhaps," said Percivale.
"Anyhow," I answered, "it is only that which cannot be shaken that shall remain."
"Well, I will tell you what seems to me a very common-sense difficulty. How is any one to be sure of the things recorded? I cannot imagine a man of our time absolutely certain of them. If you tell me I have testimony, I answer, that the testimony itself requires testimony. I never even saw the people who bear it; have just as good reason to doubt their existence, as that of him concerning whom they bear it; have positively no means of verifying it, and indeed, have so little confidence in all that is called evidence, knowing how it can be twisted, that I should distrust any conclusion I might seem about to come to on the one side or the other. It does appear to me, that, if the thing were of God, he would have taken care that it should be possible for an honest man to place a hearty confidence in its record."
He had never talked to me so openly, and I took it as a sign that he had been thinking more of these things than hitherto. I felt it a serious matter to have to answer such words, for how could I have any better assurance of that external kind than Percivale himself? That I was in the same intellectual position, however, enabled me the better to understand him. For a short time I was silent, while he regarded me with a look of concern,—fearful, I fancied, lest he should have involved me in his own perplexity.
"Isn't it possible, Percivale," I said, "that God may not care so much for beginning at that end?"
"I don't quite understand you, Wynnie," he returned.
"A man might believe every fact recorded concerning our Lord, and yet not have the faith in him that God wishes him to have."
"Yes, certainly. But will you say the converse of that is true?"
"Explain, please."
"Will you say a man may have the faith God cares for without the faith you say he does not care for?"