They all believe, but their faith is imperfect, wounded. So true is this, that Voltaire himself, as all the world knows, could not rid himself entirely of his faith, all Voltaire that he was. … What! Voltaire, with all his wit, and, if you will, his genius, Voltaire, with his demon pride, his satanic hatred of Christ, his half century of blasphemies,—Voltaire, the head of the most redoubtable cohort of enemies that Christianity ever had,—even he could not wholly divest himself of his belief; and yet it is pretended that our pigmies of the nineteenth century, with their limited knowledge and petty malice, are able to stifle their faith when that giant of impiety was unable to strangle his in his eagle's clutch! …
Only a little reflection is needed to convince ourselves on this point. For what is unbelief? It is the conviction that Christianity is false. Now, how can such a conviction be arrived at against eighteen centuries of genius and virtue, against the authority of the Gospel, against Christ Himself? How can any man reasonably attain the position of being able to confront those eminent men and facts, and say:—"I am quite sure that you have deceived the world … you have lied?" It is impossible. It may be said and written in a moment of passion; but such assurance is not, cannot be attained.
We shall, therefore, be acting truly as well as wisely in not descanting so much about unbelievers. For, after all, of what use is it? For the most part, these alleged unbelievers are not present to listen to you. Neither is that the worst feature in the case. These kinds of sermons are by no means calculated to convert them. Generally speaking, they show too little regard for the amour propre of such characters; who, as is well known, do not pique themselves on their humility. If we would benefit them we must pass quickly from the mind to the heart: that is their weak point. We must not keep ourselves so much on the defensive, but carry the war into the enemy's country. Our tactics should be to do good abundantly to all men that we may save all, and then there will be no doubt about their believing in the divinity of Christianity.
All the parts of a sermon need not be equally good and powerful. Two or three more elaborate and striking passages will suffice to ensure success; but those passages should be such as effectually to overthrow prejudices and errors, and should be conclusive against all gainsayers.
There should also be intervals to break monotony—that stumbling-block of many sermons; to give the mind rest; to allow time for the hearts of the audience to be penetrated by what has been said; to introduce familiar topics which do the soul so much good; to soften the asperities of any great emotion; to bind up the wounded; in a word, intervals for the preacher to become the father after having represented the King, to attract the hearts after having gained the minds of his hearers.
It is a mistake to aim at making every part of a sermon equally powerful and equally prominent. It is an attempt against Nature. Moreover, we should not aspire to adduce every available proof in support of a particular truth. One or two will suffice, and the strongest is not always the most convincing to your audience. Select those likely to produce the greatest impression, and forbear when that end is attained. The victory is yours, retain it, and do not expose yourself to a reverse.
There are men who do not think they have proved a thing until they have brought together, pell-mell, all the known proofs in the world. The consequence is that, after listening to one of their sermons, the question discussed appears more confused to you than ever.