He must then have known that his Gospel would carry with it blessings which this seeming disadvantage would not cancel,—blessings far surpassing the evils of division,—a peace which no jarrings of controversy could disturb,—a good-will that could triumph over the alienations of party. Were it my object, it would be easy to show that the distribution of the Christian world into sects has achieved incalculably more good than it has inflicted injury; that the rudest conflicts of a militant theology are preferable to the hollow peace of universal thraldom; that the fluctuating surface of human opinion, with all its restless lights, is a fairer object than its dark and leaden stagnation; that discussion multiplies the chances of truth, diffuses the thirst for knowledge, leads forth reason from the mist, converts prejudice into conviction, and gives to a dead faith a moral and operative power. It would be easy to show that our religion, especially since it has issued from the cloister into the light of day, has accomplished a vast amount of good, with which no controversy has been able to interfere; that it has imparted nobler sentiments of duty, given to conscience a more majestic voice, raised the depressed portions of society; that it has enabled moral refinement to keep pace with the intellectual advancement of mankind; that it has given modesty to the sublimest exercise of reason, by erecting towering and eternal truths beyond whose shadow reason cannot fly. It would be easy to anticipate the time when the benign principles of Christianity shall mellow down the ruggedness of party feeling, and extract the lingering selfishness that poisons discussion with its bitterness; when the unrestricted and disinterested love of truth shall no longer be an empty fiction; when the differences between mind and mind will be but so many converging paths by which mankind, with one heart and one speed, hasten to the same goal of certainty. But it is not my object to insist on the advantages of controversy, or to predict its future triumphs; but rather to warn against some of its dangers, and to suggest a few thoughts which may throw light on the duties of Christians in an age so controversial as ours. To me, reflecting on the principles of the Association at whose anniversary I speak, no topic seems more appropriate. Our grand uniting principle is, the rejection of all creeds and human formularies of faith, and a simple adherence to the sacred volume, as being "able," without comment or interpretation, "to make wise unto salvation." We think confessions enough have been tried, and been found wanting; that every such attempt to produce uniformity is utterly chimerical, and an impotent rebellion against the laws of the human mind. Believing then that unanimity is one of the weakest dreams of the visionary and the fanatic, we expect to see diversity of sentiment among Christians; we cannot be surprised, and ought not to be displeased, to see the religious world full of the activity of discussion. But since we agree to abandon mankind to their divergencies of opinion, it is peculiarly incumbent on us to consider what new moral aspect society assumes, when distributed into differing denominations, and what new duties arise in an age of doctrinal debate.
I. It is the duty of Christians to remember how many are their points of union.
Is our religion, my friends, a matter of the intellect only,—a mere mine of inexhaustible speculation? I grant that it is in perfect unison with the dictates of enlightened reason, and that it administers the noblest stimulus and worthiest employment to the faculties of the mind. But are not its ultimate dealings with the affections? Does it not present to us new objects of love, new scenes of hope, a new system of desires? Does it not unlock the springs of human feeling, and pour the full tide of emotion upon the soul? What else can so melt in penitence, so solemnize with awe, so prostrate in fear, so enkindle with joy? What else can impart such majestic power to human will to trample in the dust peril and anguish and temptation, to conquer the solicitations of self-love, and pursue with meek inflexibility deserted and solitary ways of duty? For the greatest triumphs of our faith we must go where it is matched with the passions of the heart, the impulses of unregulated nature, and see how it prunes their exuberance, enriches their sterility, purifies their pollutions, expands their littleness, refines their ruggedness. Now these influences are common to every form of Christianity; its appeals to the affections are not uttered in the vocabulary of sectarianism, but in the universal language of the human heart. Some may prefer to deck the form of our religion in the gorgeous colors of an imposing ritual; some may throw round it the ample folds of mystery; others may love rather the grace of its primitive simplicity; but beneath all these varieties the same living figure breathes, the same radiant features smile. Where is the system of Christianity that does not present to our affections an Infinite Being, who has shadowed forth his invisible glories in the splendors of the universe, who rolls the silent wheels of time, whose presence, felt in other worlds, is secretly shed around each human home, who traces the tear of grief and lights up the smile of peace, who has an eye on every heart, and carries on his parental discipline in scenes beyond our vision and without an end? Where is the system of Christianity which does not lead us to the Saviour as the image of the invisible God, as the bright reflection of his character, and the noblest assurance of his love,—which does not trace to Jesus innumerable moral blessings, and call us to reverence him for guidance amid the intricacies of duty, for light in the chamber of grief, for power of endurance amid the struggles of suffering nature, and prospects of attractive grandeur beyond the grave? Where is the system of Christianity which does not cast upon this state the shadow of an eternal tribunal,—which does not associate with sin the horrors of the outer darkness, and impart an infinite value to every pure tendency of the soul, by inviting virtue to a never-ending progression replete with ineffable joy? What Christian has not enshrined in his memory and his admiration the most beautiful and touching portions of the volume of our faith? Is there a Christian parent that can read the invitation of the benevolent Jesus, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not," without a heart of love to the Heavenly Teacher, without a purified conception of that kingdom which infantine docility alone can enter, without an uplifting of prayer that no rude world may ever brush from the mind of his child the morning dews of his innocence? Is there a Christian sister that has not blessed the Divine Teacher, who, himself touched by the sorrows that he quelled, restored the lost Lazarus to his weeping and defenceless home? Is there a Christian mother who has not lingered with the bereaved Mary around the cross, wondered at her awful sorrows, and thought how in the watches of the night memory would bring back upon her ear that last appeal, "Woman, behold thy son"? The tears which flow at passages like these, the admiration with which they burden the heart, the images of moral loveliness with which they fill the imagination, are not the exclusive possession of any sect; they are the unrestricted boon of God to the human soul. In private, then, we all ponder the same book, gather from it the same refreshing influence, the same impressions of duty, the same impulses to prayer. And on our Christian Sabbath, while we tread the threshold of differing temples, are they not all dedicated to Him "who dwelleth not in temples made with hands," and regardeth not their trivial distinctions? While the worshipping multitudes utter a various language and ill-harmonizing thoughts, are they not addressing a Being to whom language is but a breath, and human thought but like an infant's dream, and who looks only to that heart of love that animates them both? It is an exhilarating thought, that though on that sacred day Christians may be separated by land and seas, gathered around myriads of sanctuaries, and speaking in a thousand tongues, their praises blend like kindred fires as they rise, and burst into the courts of God, one brilliant flame of incense from the universal shrine of the human heart.
These, my fellow-Christians, are thoughts which we should cherish, to convince us how much, amid all our diversities, we have in common; to show us that the best, the living portion of our faith, is others' as well as our own; and to soften those strange animosities that embitter our weak tempers, and enfeeble the heavenly ties that encircle the whole family of God. If there be any truth in the remark of a philosopher, that the essence of friendship is to have the same desires and aversions, how much ground have all Christians for mutual love! Widely as their speculations may diverge, the great concern of all is with God, the Infinite Father; with Christ, the commissioned prophet, the merciful redeemer, the inspired teacher, the perfect model, the heavenly guide; with eternity, the seat of our deepest and most permanent interests, the receptacle of our lost friends, the grave of virtuous sorrow, the home of the tossed and faithful spirit. No one can live habitually under the influence of these grand and affecting objects, and turn from them to condescend to the littleness of a polemical temper. They will impart their own greatness to his soul, and give him that best of powers,—the power over himself. Such a one may use the pen of controversy without fear.
II. But I confess that the contemplation of these points of union would impart little peace to our minds, or serenity to our tempers, if at the same time we believed that the differences of our faith would follow us into the eternal future, and determine our condition there. I therefore observe, in the second place, that, amid all our controversies, it is of moment that we should remember the moral innocence of mental error. This principle, my friends, seems to me to be intimately connected with our right of private judgment. We might claim for men the privilege of free investigation, and affix no temporal rewards or punishments to any system; yet this would be but a worthless boon, if we upheld over any creed the penal menace of eternity. We should thus only transfer the bribe from men's interests to their fears; we should push our exclusion from earth, only to give it a vaster theatre in heaven. As many Christians, not otherwise disposed to be narrow in their spirit, have some lingering doubts respecting this primary principle of Christian charity, suffer me to say a few words with a view to establish the perfect innocence of mental error. The exclusionist rests the burden of his argument on one text, which, unhappily for Christian love, has been left somewhat elliptical in its expression. "He that believeth and is baptized, shall be saved; he that believeth not, shall be damned." Believeth what? Transubstantiation, says the Catholic; miraculous conversion, says the Wesleyan; the vicarious atonement, replies the Calvinist; the Trinity, says the Athanasian Creed. Every one has an anathema for the opponent of his favorite tenet; and the still, small voice of charity is swept away by the conflicting winds of controversy, and dies unheard. Let us see whether our Heavenly Father will not permit us to open those gates of mercy which others have so sternly closed.
It is not necessary for our present purpose to inquire what are the salvation and condemnation of which the passage in question speaks. It may be conceded without injury to our argument, that they have reference to the destinies of a future world. Every reader of Scripture will acknowledge that the unbelief which our Saviour menaces, is unbelief in his Gospel, as preached by his Apostles, and confirmed by visible miracles;—it is a rejection of Christianity. From this it would seem clear, that no form under which the religion of Christ is professed, however erroneous it may be, can be comprised within the sentence of condemnation. But the argument of the exclusionist is this:—My own system is, in my view, the only one that is identical with the Gospel; therefore I must believe that those who reject my system are exposed to the penalties annexed to the rejection of the Gospel. It is surprising that so many should fail to detect the fallacy of this reasoning. Compare the case which our Saviour is supposing with that of the man who, in preferring one profession of Christianity, rejects all others; and you will find that there are two most momentous points of distinction,—the motive of the rejecter is different, and the thing rejected is different.
What can be more obvious, than that our Saviour refers to the hearer's intentional rejection of the Gospel,—a rejection of his own Christianity, not of his neighbor's. When punishment is held forth as the consequence of any act, is it not always implied that the act must be intentional? Is it not an understood principle of every law, human and divine, that a deed of accident and inadvertence is exempted from the penalties which, were it designed, it would deserve? To condemn for murder the man who through mistake should administer a poisonous draught for a restorative, would be as just as to put the erring believer and the wilful unbeliever on the same level. To charge this enormous immorality on God, would be the height of impiety. Widely as the professing Christian may err, remote as his faith may be from the truth as it is in Jesus, his intent is to believe; he yields his assent, no less heartily than his wiser brother, to the evidence which God has placed before him; he only mistakes what it is which that evidence proves; he reverences, no less than others, the authority which Jesus claims; but he does not discern all the truths which that authority establishes. Strange would it be, brethren, if God, who in all other cases looketh at the heart, should in this look at the understanding only.